Natasha Romanoff (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
redintheledger) wrote2014-02-10 08:34 pm
redintheledger) wrote2014-02-10 08:34 pm
Entry tags:
OOM: back to Moscow
after this:
Natasha packs instead of sleeps. She trusts that Alex intends to help her in the morning, that they will go and tell her superior officer that she's being recalled on Monday, and yet it'd be sensible to have at least a bag packed tonight. One bag of all that she holds dear, so she can carry it if need be.
It doesn't take her long, and she soon finds herself at a loss at what to do. Continuing to pack would cause too much noise, and thinking is far too dangerous.
So, Natasha sits her desk, pulls out the report Alex had given her, and starts to write out translations.
French, as requested.
German, also as requested
And Latin as a bonus for reasons she doesn't care to go into.
– –
Alex knocks on her apartment door exactly at ten. She decides to give him the courtesy of pretending that she hadn't seen him at the markets an hour earlier, and hands over the neatly folded reports.
He pauses at the last one.
“Latin?”
“It was an interesting linguistic exercise,” she says serenely, and glances up just in time to see him smile.
– –
Most of her belongings are still in boxes from her last move, but her books are numerous. The furniture she is leaving, but her books?
Moscow can go to hell on that front.
They pack her books, and it is beyond strange to have him in her room. Communist ideology aside, it's her space. Alex is careful not to impose, not to be too casual, but they fall into a steady, almost comfortable rhythm.
It's a good thing, she thinks. She's under no illusions for what role she'd play as his spy-partner out in the world – the options for men and women to live together are somewhat limited – and every lived-in lie needs a basis.
Alex says, voice careful, “I found this in a book,” and hands over a photograph of a group of people on a boat. She remembers that day. Some of the pilots from Lyosha's squadron had taken their wives and girls out, hired a boat that'd ended up leaking. She had come home with a bad case of sunburn, but it had been worth it. The photograph has caught Lyosha in a rare moment of openness, and he grins up at her from two years in the past, arm slung around a far more mischievous looking her.
Natasha folds the photograph in two and shoves it into her address book. She doesn't want to fake anything with anyone; she wants her actual husband back.
The State, of course, doesn't particularly give a damn what she wants, and she just continues putting her collection of Jules Verne in a crate.
– –
The next morning, Tokarev reads the letter Alex has from Bruskin, and fails to look impressed.
“Orders from Moscow, huh,” he says, flatly, but he keeps his irritation in check. No matter he thinks of Moscow interfering with his nicely run office, he knows better than to say anything. “So, when are you running away, Shostakova?”
“Today, Comrade Colonel,” she says smoothly. Alex remains bland and solid by her side, reassuringly there. But much like she can see Tokarev is doing, what she really wants to say, she keeps to herself.
No sense in burning bridges, even if one's now recently ex-boss was a chauvinistic ass.
“Get out of my office,” Tokarev says, but now he just sounds tired.
They get out.
– –
At the train station, her uniform ensures that their boarding progresses as smooth as it could be. Alex, apparently a fan of remaining in the shadows, had looked faintly sceptical when she'd arrived at their rendezvous earlier that morning in her field uniform, and she'd just stared at him back. She entirely fails to see the point of not enjoying the perks of her career every once and a while, and she's not sure she can be bothered explaining.
Besides, her skin is crawling with the crowds and stress; if a little healthy fear in the general population means that people take care to step out of her way, then everyone is just going to be a little better off. Including herself.
“I'm assuming,” Natasha says, once the train is moving, “you know how to play cards.” It is perhaps, a little early to hunt for distraction, but she's leaving behind Alexei Andreyevitch's (empty) grave and if she thinks too much on that...
“You know what they say about assumptions,” Alex counters.
She hums an affirmative, and pulls a pack out of her carry-on luggage anyway. “It's a long trip back to Moscow,” she says. “But I'll be kind to you.”
His face lights up at the challenge in her words, and he leans forward. “You're on, Ro-Shostakova.”
She pretends not to notice his slip, and starts shuffling.
– –
It's a long journey back to Moscow.
– –
“Comrade Alex, if you want to borrow a book, you can just ask.”
“I don't want to impose. And the countryside is very interesting.”
“You are an incredibly shitty liar. Here. It has dinosaurs.”
“...dinosaurs,” Alex repeats, and he's torn between disbelieving and delighted.
– –
She reads, mostly, and takes walks at every stop along the way. Dressed as a civilian with a kerchief over her hair (although she keeps her uniform boots on; far more practical than heels, and far warmer), she would be the talk of the entire train if she were to break out into a run.
(Well. Most of the train, those who hadn't seen her dressed as a KGB lieutenant and had only heard rumours of an officer on board.)
But every train-station from Khabarovsk to Moscow, she has to restrain herself. She wants to stretch her limbs, feel nothing but the earth under her feet and wind tugging at her hair. She misses running. She's missed running for years. She's going to be completely dreadful at it when they test her again, and she's never been good at being bad at things.
Yet, respectable widows do not run. And while she's never been good at respectable, she's been studying unnoticeable since she can remember.
She walks, and gets back on the train at the first whistle.
– –
If ever she needed a re-education in just how big her country is, she's getting it.
(She didn't need one.)
– –
“Would you mind us speaking in English today?” she asks, and he looks at her from where he'd been studying the rain outside their window.
“Not at all.”
“Good,” she says, in English. Rusty English – she can hear how much her accent has deteriorated just on that word. “I need, uh, practice.” She's missing a word for her speech to sound clearer, she knows she is.
Alex's smile is a little wry, although lacking in mockery. “I need the practice.”
“I need the practice,” she repeats, mimicking his American accent almost perfectly. “I am not fond of speaking English.”
“It's not so bad, once you get used to it.”
She has her doubts.
– –
The rocking of the train, the cramped bunks, her inability to drive herself into dreamless exhaustion – they all catch up with her.
She wakes gasping, face wet and lungs aching with terror.
Just a dream.
She's not actually drowning. She's on a train, far inland. She's not lost at sea, where no one can find her.
Just a dream.
And yet, she lies awake on her bunk, waiting for the sun to show grass and farms outside her window instead of rolling waves.
– –
(This she doesn't tell him: there is a bar at the end of the universe, and she's been going there for years. She finds a door on the train, and slips out more than once to have some space, and some decent tea.
Alex never notices but, then, that's the beauty of Milliways, isn't it?)
– –
They're in the Urals when the train comes to a stop rough enough that Alex has to grab the edge of the bunk to stop himself from being pitched across their cabin. The wood protests, but the damage isn't too noticeable. She herself gets smacked into the door-frame, jarring her wrist as she brought her hands.
It does not improve her mood when they are informed that the track will take hours to clear. She is sick of the train, sick of the cabin, sick of Alex and their push-pull of trust and caution, familiarity and ignorance. When a group of passengers decide to walk the ten minutes back to the last town, she joins them. She has an old university-friend who teaches there, but even if she didn't...
She needs the distance a walk will bring.
(How Alex chooses to amuse himself is, she thinks, entirely up to him.)
– –
“Evening, comrade!” Natasha says when she returns to the train. She cannot be affected by the alcoholic properties of the wine Sonya offered, but she still feels the warmth of it. She's entirely full of good cheer and love for all humankind. Even the snow starting to fall doesn't bother her.
Alex looks at her, a smile haunting his mouth. “Good evening, comrade lieutenant,” he says. Then he cocks his head as he looks down at her, offering her a hand as she climbs back onto the train. “If I didn't know better, I'd say you were tipsy.”
“I am drunk on friendship, good food, and the best academic argument I've had in years,” she says, primly, and hears him laugh softly as she waltzes past.
– –
Moscow is louder than she remembered. The smell stronger, more people shouting, moving, running, existing. For a moment, she's drowning in the sensory onslaught.
Then Alex is there, hand on her elbow, a solid presence just behind her.
“Ready?” he asks, quietly.
She straightens her jacket, and readjusts her hat. Then Lieutenant Shostakova nods once, and starts to make her way back to Department X's headquarters, the Winter Soldier by her side.
Natasha packs instead of sleeps. She trusts that Alex intends to help her in the morning, that they will go and tell her superior officer that she's being recalled on Monday, and yet it'd be sensible to have at least a bag packed tonight. One bag of all that she holds dear, so she can carry it if need be.
It doesn't take her long, and she soon finds herself at a loss at what to do. Continuing to pack would cause too much noise, and thinking is far too dangerous.
So, Natasha sits her desk, pulls out the report Alex had given her, and starts to write out translations.
French, as requested.
German, also as requested
And Latin as a bonus for reasons she doesn't care to go into.
– –
Alex knocks on her apartment door exactly at ten. She decides to give him the courtesy of pretending that she hadn't seen him at the markets an hour earlier, and hands over the neatly folded reports.
He pauses at the last one.
“Latin?”
“It was an interesting linguistic exercise,” she says serenely, and glances up just in time to see him smile.
– –
Most of her belongings are still in boxes from her last move, but her books are numerous. The furniture she is leaving, but her books?
Moscow can go to hell on that front.
They pack her books, and it is beyond strange to have him in her room. Communist ideology aside, it's her space. Alex is careful not to impose, not to be too casual, but they fall into a steady, almost comfortable rhythm.
It's a good thing, she thinks. She's under no illusions for what role she'd play as his spy-partner out in the world – the options for men and women to live together are somewhat limited – and every lived-in lie needs a basis.
Alex says, voice careful, “I found this in a book,” and hands over a photograph of a group of people on a boat. She remembers that day. Some of the pilots from Lyosha's squadron had taken their wives and girls out, hired a boat that'd ended up leaking. She had come home with a bad case of sunburn, but it had been worth it. The photograph has caught Lyosha in a rare moment of openness, and he grins up at her from two years in the past, arm slung around a far more mischievous looking her.
Natasha folds the photograph in two and shoves it into her address book. She doesn't want to fake anything with anyone; she wants her actual husband back.
The State, of course, doesn't particularly give a damn what she wants, and she just continues putting her collection of Jules Verne in a crate.
– –
The next morning, Tokarev reads the letter Alex has from Bruskin, and fails to look impressed.
“Orders from Moscow, huh,” he says, flatly, but he keeps his irritation in check. No matter he thinks of Moscow interfering with his nicely run office, he knows better than to say anything. “So, when are you running away, Shostakova?”
“Today, Comrade Colonel,” she says smoothly. Alex remains bland and solid by her side, reassuringly there. But much like she can see Tokarev is doing, what she really wants to say, she keeps to herself.
No sense in burning bridges, even if one's now recently ex-boss was a chauvinistic ass.
“Get out of my office,” Tokarev says, but now he just sounds tired.
They get out.
– –
At the train station, her uniform ensures that their boarding progresses as smooth as it could be. Alex, apparently a fan of remaining in the shadows, had looked faintly sceptical when she'd arrived at their rendezvous earlier that morning in her field uniform, and she'd just stared at him back. She entirely fails to see the point of not enjoying the perks of her career every once and a while, and she's not sure she can be bothered explaining.
Besides, her skin is crawling with the crowds and stress; if a little healthy fear in the general population means that people take care to step out of her way, then everyone is just going to be a little better off. Including herself.
“I'm assuming,” Natasha says, once the train is moving, “you know how to play cards.” It is perhaps, a little early to hunt for distraction, but she's leaving behind Alexei Andreyevitch's (empty) grave and if she thinks too much on that...
“You know what they say about assumptions,” Alex counters.
She hums an affirmative, and pulls a pack out of her carry-on luggage anyway. “It's a long trip back to Moscow,” she says. “But I'll be kind to you.”
His face lights up at the challenge in her words, and he leans forward. “You're on, Ro-Shostakova.”
She pretends not to notice his slip, and starts shuffling.
– –
It's a long journey back to Moscow.
– –
“Comrade Alex, if you want to borrow a book, you can just ask.”
“I don't want to impose. And the countryside is very interesting.”
“You are an incredibly shitty liar. Here. It has dinosaurs.”
“...dinosaurs,” Alex repeats, and he's torn between disbelieving and delighted.
– –
She reads, mostly, and takes walks at every stop along the way. Dressed as a civilian with a kerchief over her hair (although she keeps her uniform boots on; far more practical than heels, and far warmer), she would be the talk of the entire train if she were to break out into a run.
(Well. Most of the train, those who hadn't seen her dressed as a KGB lieutenant and had only heard rumours of an officer on board.)
But every train-station from Khabarovsk to Moscow, she has to restrain herself. She wants to stretch her limbs, feel nothing but the earth under her feet and wind tugging at her hair. She misses running. She's missed running for years. She's going to be completely dreadful at it when they test her again, and she's never been good at being bad at things.
Yet, respectable widows do not run. And while she's never been good at respectable, she's been studying unnoticeable since she can remember.
She walks, and gets back on the train at the first whistle.
– –
If ever she needed a re-education in just how big her country is, she's getting it.
(She didn't need one.)
– –
“Would you mind us speaking in English today?” she asks, and he looks at her from where he'd been studying the rain outside their window.
“Not at all.”
“Good,” she says, in English. Rusty English – she can hear how much her accent has deteriorated just on that word. “I need, uh, practice.” She's missing a word for her speech to sound clearer, she knows she is.
Alex's smile is a little wry, although lacking in mockery. “I need the practice.”
“I need the practice,” she repeats, mimicking his American accent almost perfectly. “I am not fond of speaking English.”
“It's not so bad, once you get used to it.”
She has her doubts.
– –
The rocking of the train, the cramped bunks, her inability to drive herself into dreamless exhaustion – they all catch up with her.
She wakes gasping, face wet and lungs aching with terror.
Just a dream.
She's not actually drowning. She's on a train, far inland. She's not lost at sea, where no one can find her.
Just a dream.
And yet, she lies awake on her bunk, waiting for the sun to show grass and farms outside her window instead of rolling waves.
– –
(This she doesn't tell him: there is a bar at the end of the universe, and she's been going there for years. She finds a door on the train, and slips out more than once to have some space, and some decent tea.
Alex never notices but, then, that's the beauty of Milliways, isn't it?)
– –
They're in the Urals when the train comes to a stop rough enough that Alex has to grab the edge of the bunk to stop himself from being pitched across their cabin. The wood protests, but the damage isn't too noticeable. She herself gets smacked into the door-frame, jarring her wrist as she brought her hands.
It does not improve her mood when they are informed that the track will take hours to clear. She is sick of the train, sick of the cabin, sick of Alex and their push-pull of trust and caution, familiarity and ignorance. When a group of passengers decide to walk the ten minutes back to the last town, she joins them. She has an old university-friend who teaches there, but even if she didn't...
She needs the distance a walk will bring.
(How Alex chooses to amuse himself is, she thinks, entirely up to him.)
– –
“Evening, comrade!” Natasha says when she returns to the train. She cannot be affected by the alcoholic properties of the wine Sonya offered, but she still feels the warmth of it. She's entirely full of good cheer and love for all humankind. Even the snow starting to fall doesn't bother her.
Alex looks at her, a smile haunting his mouth. “Good evening, comrade lieutenant,” he says. Then he cocks his head as he looks down at her, offering her a hand as she climbs back onto the train. “If I didn't know better, I'd say you were tipsy.”
“I am drunk on friendship, good food, and the best academic argument I've had in years,” she says, primly, and hears him laugh softly as she waltzes past.
– –
Moscow is louder than she remembered. The smell stronger, more people shouting, moving, running, existing. For a moment, she's drowning in the sensory onslaught.
Then Alex is there, hand on her elbow, a solid presence just behind her.
“Ready?” he asks, quietly.
She straightens her jacket, and readjusts her hat. Then Lieutenant Shostakova nods once, and starts to make her way back to Department X's headquarters, the Winter Soldier by her side.