OOM: Khabarovsk, Siberia, USSR, 1955

[redintheledger]

Outside the KGB field office in Khabarovsk, the September weather is turning towards winter with a vengeance. Inside, well. Given it's after six on a Saturday, Natasha doesn't quite care what the temperature is doing. The oven's heat will last until she feels up to go back to her apartment. But Izmaylov is back from China, and had stomped around pointedly until she let him fire up the oven.

(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.

Comments

[nerves_of_ice]

She's older -- well, of course she is, they both are, and yet he finds that he hadn't been fully prepared for the change from the precocious young student to the woman who stands in the doorway.

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?"

[redintheledger]

She blinks at him, once, and then the very corner of her mouth tilts up.

"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.

[nerves_of_ice]

His glance flicks toward Izmaylov, then toward the door and around the room before he looks back at her.

"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.

[redintheledger]

She inclines her head slightly as she settles in her chair. Tries to settle. She leans back, and then moves forward again, crossing her hands on the desk and unable keep her thumb from brushing over her wedding ring.

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?"

[nerves_of_ice]

"There is, of course."

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?"

[redintheledger]

Her eyebrows arch a little in surprise, but she accepts the sheets of paper readily enough.

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.

[nerves_of_ice]

"I'm here," he says, simply.


"Filing, hm?"

[redintheledger]

"Filing. Someone has to file away all of those reports so they are actually useful."

Beat.

"Why are you here."

[nerves_of_ice]

"They're fortunate to have you."

His gaze meets hers, steady and direct.

"I came to see if you're interested in another assignment."

[redintheledger]

Despite how her emotions are roiling inside her mind, she keeps his gaze and doesn't look away.

"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?"

[nerves_of_ice]

The flash of his smile is quick and wryly amused.

"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.

[redintheledger]

In other words, yes.

She has a choice.

Natasha regards him for a long moment, and then nods.

"Very well. Have you eaten yet?"

[nerves_of_ice]

He shakes his head.

[redintheledger]

She starts to smile, small but sincere, and offer to cook him dinner...and then her expression flickers back into neutral stillness.

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.

[nerves_of_ice]

"Whenever you're ready," he answers. "Unless we want to finish with that report first."

Dryness is in his words, and a teasing sparkle in his eyes, although his expression remains professional.

[redintheledger]

There is the faintest twitch of her eyebrow, seen but nothing that could be held her against her.

"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.

[nerves_of_ice]

He smiles, at that; he can't help it. She's the only one in their world who knows him by that name, after all.

"I can't have both?"

[redintheledger]

"Oh, I can do both," she says, with the calm self-assurance of a linguistic genius who knows it.

"The question is how urgently do you need it done, and would you like to eat at a reasonable hour?"

[nerves_of_ice]

He leans forward just a little, as if confiding a secret.

"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."

[redintheledger]

That it's a cover surprises her not at all. The subject matter, however....



"Shipping. I should be grateful it wasn't the weather," she finishes, tone a touch tart as she stands up.

"Shall we?"

[nerves_of_ice]

"Least I could do."

He rises as well, and politely gestures for her to lead the way.

[redintheledger]

There are rituals to going outside - pulling on gloves, scarfs, coats, changing shoes from inside to outside ones. She's efficient, though, and it's not much time before they are out in the street. She could catch a tram, but...

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?"

[nerves_of_ice]

He doesn't answer directly, not at first.

"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."

[redintheledger]

There are games played in this world of theirs - no matter if she's translator and secretary and office-girl, she's still a part of the same world they were trained for.

Direct answers are few on the ground, but she doesn't show any impatience at his continued dodging.

(Maybe, if he's looking, her mouth tilts a little with disappointment. Maybe.)

"Eight years. Approaching nine, if you think about it."

[nerves_of_ice]

"A long time," he repeats.







"I would have come before, but..."