Natasha Romanoff (
redintheledger) wrote2013-10-26 08:36 pm
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OOM: Khabarovsk, Siberia, USSR, 1955

(He'd wanted her to do it; she had stared at him coolly, taping a letter-opener casually against her fingers until the agent backed off.)
Mostly, the office is nearly silent. Izmaylov is typing up a report at the other end, Natasha is sorting through (and fixing) the filing system, and occasionally Chigrakov the guard pokes his head in from the foyer.
It's much, much better than being in her apartment.
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Long enough to put the time to good use; long enough to get a sense of her routine, her habits, the pulse of her days -- early to rise, early to work, late leaving, and late nights as well, if the lamplight from her apartment window at all hours is any indication. He's certain it is.
He's thought about how (and when, and where) to approach her, as well; after all, it's been a while, and a lot has happened between then and now.
In the end, he decides on a semi-public place, and a cover premise that should pass any scrutiny. It gets him past the guard, to start with; what happens next remains to be seen.
"Excuse me."
Fully aware that the guard is watching for any sign of trouble, he raps on the doorframe and politely announces himself from the entry.
"I have a report that needs translating, and heard there might be someone here who could help."
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Natasha stands facing one of the filing cabinets, and tries not let her hands shake. If she drops the folder, she's going to have to sort it all over again, which will be a bitch and a half, and...
And.
Alex?
"Are we pretending we're not here?" Izmaylov calls out from the back, and Natasha slams shut the drawer.
"No!" she manages, and starts to walk towards the door. She stretches out her hand and closes it again as she moves, and she's far, far too pleased that it only takes on go to unlock the door.
He looks the same. Exactly the same, and even through the shock, she files that away.
"Depends on which languages," Lieutenant Shostakova says, as if she'd never seen him before in her life.
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The red hair is the same, though, and at the thought a small, rueful smile quirks one corner of his mouth.
"French, and if possible... German?"
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"Well," she says, "you're in luck. Follow me."
Despite being warm, the office is mostly dark - only enough lights so that the two occupants can see what they are doing. She leads him over to her desk, picking up a chair along the way so he has somewhere to sit.
Izmaylov doesn't call out any more questions, and soon resumes his typing once the pair are settled.
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"My thanks."
Quietly said, but not so quietly that it sounds like he's trying not to be overheard. It's a fine balance to strike, but he's had practice.
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Part of her - a large part - wants to reach out, make sure he's real. People don't come back. They don't.
(Her ring should be on her right hand, not her left, but it's not like Lyosha had come back.)
"Is there a report, Comrade Winter? Or are you here for something else?"
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He reaches inside his coat and pulls out a few folded sheets of paper, close-written in his own handwriting.
"But I'm here because of you, as well. How are you, Natasha?"
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How are you, Natasha?
I can't sleep, I hate everyone, and I still want to burn down the world. How are you, Alex? I notice a distinct lack of bullet-holes, so clearly you weren't dragged off for a firing squad after our little adventure...
Her lips twitch.
"I'm fine. Just. Fine. I've nearly got the filing system back in order. How are you?"
If she says 'Alex', she rather suspects she's going to start crying.
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"Filing, hm?"
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Beat.
"Why are you here."
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His gaze meets hers, steady and direct.
"I came to see if you're interested in another assignment."
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"Really."
She taps the desk once, and then stills.
"They sent you for that." Then, a little lower, "Does this mean I actually have a choice?"
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"I'm more reliable than the post."
Among other reasons, of course, but he doesn't intend to discuss those here.
"As for choice, as far as I'm concerned, you do. If you don't want to come back ..."
He shrugs.
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She has a choice.
Natasha regards him for a long moment, and then nods.
"Very well. Have you eaten yet?"
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She isn't quite sure if she has enough in her section of the kitchen for herself, let alone someone else.
"There are a couple restaurants here," is what she ends up with. "Shall we go see if one has a table free?"
The idea of going out makes her rib-cage tighten (people, people, people and their damn sympathy), but if given a choice between that, and admitting she cannot be a proper hostess, well.
No one ever accused Nataliya Alianovna of lacking in pride.
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Dryness is in his words, and a teasing sparkle in his eyes, although his expression remains professional.
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"Do you want it done quickly or well, Alex?"
Her voice doesn't crack on his name. She's proud of that, given she spent the better part of eight years thinking she'd gotten him killed.
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"I can't have both?"
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"The question is how urgently do you need it done, and would you like to eat at a reasonable hour?"
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"Not urgently at all. It's the cover I used to find a way to speak with you. I wrote up a description of all the shipping I observed on the way here."
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"Shipping. I should be grateful it wasn't the weather," she finishes, tone a touch tart as she stands up.
"Shall we?"
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He rises as well, and politely gestures for her to lead the way.
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The walk won't hurt them, even with the chilled rain threatening to descend upon them. And she needs to talk to him without prying ears.
Where have you been?
How are you? Non-cryptic answer, this time.
"What kind of assignment would have you tracking me down out here, Alex?"
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"It's a long way."
Keeping an eye on their surroundings is second nature to him now, which makes it easier for him to observe her, too, as they walk.
"And it's been a long time, I know."
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