OOM: Moscow, USSR, January 1947

[redintheledger]

Natasha should be in her room, studying. Unlike her fellow students at the Moscow State University, her semester breaks are spent back at the Red Room, where she has little time for her textbooks. Today is the first day she's been back in Moscow in (once she added up the hours) four days.

Four days spent in the nearest approximation to wilderness that geography had to offer near Moscow, which in the middle of winter was no joke. She is glad to be back in the warm and dry, with hot water and no need to try and melt the ice from her eyelashes. Not to mention the ability to wear a civilian girl's clothes, instead of a soldier's layers.

But after four days with the company of Comrade Winter, her room with a bed just for her seems too much like a cell for her to be comfortable in it.

So Natasha is in the common room, newly outfitted with amenities such as some sofas, tables, and a wireless. There is also a piano, old like the sofas but kept in good condition. Despite herself, she gravitates towards it, and walks her fingers across the keys. It reminds her of Papa, and today isn't a very good day for that.

Natasha sits down, and tries to play anyway. She can't remember any of the music Papa taught her, but she can stumble her way through some chords. It's better than sitting in her room and wallowing.

Comments

[nerves_of_ice]

He pauses in the door and leans against the frame, watching her.

A slight smile touches his lips.

"A musician, are you?"

[redintheledger]

Natasha pauses, and turns around on her chair with a rueful expression.

"I think if my father heard my playing, he'd be...not very impressed," she says, mouth curling up into a half-smile. "The piano and I have never gotten along." She tilts her head, and then arches her eyebrows, deliberately playful. "Possibly it was always aware that I favoured the cello."

[nerves_of_ice]

This time, he laughs.

"Too bad we have no cello here."

[redintheledger]

Her smile brightens for a moment, and then she huffs a laugh.

"Maybe it's a good thing, I'd have no time to catch up. Do you play anything, comrade?"

[nerves_of_ice]

He shakes his head.

"Never learned."

[redintheledger]

She turns fully on the stool to face him, expression speculative.

"Sing? Dance?"

[nerves_of_ice]

An odd expression flickers across his face, just for a moment.

"Does this mean you'd be good with me asking Agent Carter to go dancing?"

"You're welcome to ask."

"Hey, you know me."

"Dance, sure," he says. "I'm not much of a singer, though."

[redintheledger]

She doesn't trust him enough for the jazz-clubs Sonya told her about, Natasha thinks, noting the odd shift on his face.

Maybe one day.

Maybe never.

Which is a shame, she feels like dancing.

Instead she ducks her head a little, and peers up at him with an entertained smile, crossing her legs at the knee to tap a beat in the air with her foot.

"Do you do anything for fun, comrade?"

[nerves_of_ice]

"Dancing's fun," he argues, smiling back. "A good workout, too, when it's done right."

"Why? Did you have something in mind?"

[redintheledger]

Natasha's expression turns just obviously solemn that it's clear that she's playing.

"Depends on if you regard fun as an important part of why we are fighting for a better life, or something far more...frivolous."

It is, despite her actor's play, a question with a serious subtext: how far can I trust you?

[nerves_of_ice]

His smile fades as his own expression turns more serious, mirroring hers.

"We fight so that we can live well, do we not? Fun is part of that. To live well, life must be worth the living."

[redintheledger]

She just nods, and watches him for a moment longer.

Then her foot stills.

"Have you been the circus here? Or the cinema? They must have you so busy, you don't get much of a chance to...enjoy what Moscow has to offer to her citizens."

(She has, idly and very occasionally, wondered why she is the one who has been allowed to go to university and live most of the year with civilians, while Winter has not.

Very occasionally, because curiosity can be...dangerous.)

[nerves_of_ice]

"I haven't, no."

Try though he does - a thin hint of frustration leaks into the edges of even those few words.

"But like you said, I've been ... busy."

[redintheledger]

Her foot taps slightly to the beat of a popular dance-tune.

"Do you want to?"

[nerves_of_ice]

He blinks, once.

If there's a trap here -- and there very well could be, he knows -- it's not readily apparent.

And it takes all of another half-second's quick consideration for him to realize that right now, he doesn't really care.

"Sure, why not?"

The quick grin that flashes once again gives the lie to the casual tone. He means for it to.

[redintheledger]

She grins back and springs lightly up to her feet.

"I'll go get my coat."

(And her boots. And her scarf, and her gloves, and her hat, because it is the middle of winter.)

"If...you want to go now?" The question is awkward, a belated attempt at something sensible. Of course, given her poise is made up almost entirely of her restraining her desire to run and have fun, 'sensible' is relative.

[nerves_of_ice]

He laughs, just a little, and the sound is low and fond.

"Might as well seize the chance while we have it. I'll meet you back here?"

[redintheledger]

She nods quickly.

"Don't be late," Natasha says, and darts off to the door. By the time she goes through the doorway, though, her gait is measured and the excitement has been firmly pulled back under her skin.

It doesn't take her that long to come back, wearing clothes sturdy enough to withstand the cold and snow. But if her distinctive dark red curls are mostly hidden underneath her fur-hat, her lips are now red as any other girl going out, with a dash of colour over her eyelids.

It makes her look her age, rather than the fresh-faced kid she normally appears.

[nerves_of_ice]

He's not late.

He's leaning against the wall by the door when she returns, black coat pulled close around him, spinning his hat in circles around one gloved finger.

He straightens when she enters, and a flicker of appreciation is clear in his glance as he takes in her appearance.

"Very nice," he approves.

[redintheledger]

She inclines her head at the compliment but instead of a demure blush, when she straightens her head, she looks him straight in the eyes.

"Thank you. You don't clean bad, yourself. So-o-o-o, where am I taking you, and what is our cover?"

[nerves_of_ice]

"Why don't you take me somewhere you'd like to go?" he suggests.

"As for our cover, sometimes the simplest is the best."

He gives her a short, abbreviated bow, laughter in his eyes and his smile, and offers her an arm.

[redintheledger]

"How true, darling," she says, her laughter low. She had been thinking older brother, cousin, but she has no objections to playing his sweetheart for the evening.

"To the Circus on Tsvetnoy Boulevard. If we are quick, we should be in time for the evening show."

And she knows someone to trade-off on a favour to get in if the line is too long.

[nerves_of_ice]

"Sounds like fun."

He grins down at her, quick and bright.

"Which was the point, right?"

The corridor to one of the side doors is currently unoccupied, and he nods toward it.

[redintheledger]

"Not to mention that we can't possibly have you without having been to the circus. Particularly not when it's the Moscow State Circus of the Order of Lenin. Everyone should see it."

And should they get caught, she's already preparing the arguments.

The trick with being a spy as opposed to a scout, Natasha is learning, is that 'sneaking' is only one option. The other option is to just walk as if it's the most natural thing in the world for you to be going where you are headed.

Still, she has long since learned how to walk fast while appearing not to, and there is no point in dwadling. While she's making plans, she'd much rather they didn't get caught.

[nerves_of_ice]

The back of his neck itches, as does the spot between his shoulder blades.

He knows it's only due to being aware of how exposed they are until they round the corner.

(He also knows just how easy it would be to take a shot from any number of windows, any number of corners or angles or ledges --

-- but as long as no one's looking, they're safe. Or safe enough, anyway.

Probably.)

"And we can't have me looking like a 'country cousin' or being so uncultured. Of course."

He looks as amused as he sounds, but his glance skips from place to place, checking for any signs of pursuit.