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]

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..."

[redintheledger]

She glances at him, and waits for him to pick up his sentence again.

No prompting is uttered, nothing except for a silence that is asking to be filled.

[nerves_of_ice]

He checks again, automatically; no one's in earshot.

"For the first couple of years I couldn't. Orders. After that..."

It's hard for him to remember why, come to think of it. All the missions run together, and he finds that he sometimes has difficulty keeping track as the days and weeks blur into months and years.

"There was some doubt as to whether or not they'd bring anyone back in. And rumor was you were happy."

[redintheledger]

She stops in the street, and stares at him.







"Happy?"

She doesn't actually gesture at him (she has her satchel, and her hands tucked into the cuffs of her coat), but there is the overwhelming sense of agitated movement nonetheless.

"You didn't...write to me, because you thought I was happy? You were a friend. And I've been out here with only one person I trusted."

She has no one now, she doesn't say. She doesn't have to. She's wearing widow black, her wedding ring on the wrong hand.

"Alex, I thought I got you killed. Trust me, a letter would have been...perfectly fine."

[nerves_of_ice]

Shock spreads over his features.

"You -- what? No!"

He turns to face her and takes a step closer. Lower, his tone urgent, he insists,

"Natasha, no, I never, I never -- you didn't get the book, then? If I'd known you thought, thought that, I don't care what orders they gave, I'd have--"

[redintheledger]

She stares at him, eyes flicking this way and that as she takes in his expression.

"I received the book," she says, softly. "I still have it." Through exile, and moving across the entire country, through changes at Milliways and a damn zombie horde...she's kept the book.

"I didn't know if it was last request, or if they were just trying to make sure I didn't know you were-"

Fuck it.

She steps in, reaches out with a gloved hand to brush over his right arm, then grab his hand.

[nerves_of_ice]

He squeezes her fingers, and then simply holds on.

"I didn't know. I swear it, Natasha, I swear to you I didn't realize. I'm sorry."

He makes himself take a deep breath, trying to get control. It's harder than he'd thought.

"... looks like we've got a lot to catch up on."

[redintheledger]

"We do," she says softly, voice mostly even. She suspects that, maybe, she should pull away. But it's been so long since anyone's held her hand, so long since someone's touched her without it being a claustrophobic hug of socially obliged sympathy, that she doesn't.

"If...if I don't take up your offer. Do you think this time could you write, sometimes?"

[nerves_of_ice]

"Of course. I'll even dare that train trip again to visit."

A slight smile appears.

"Don't think that means I won't try to convince you to come back with me, though. But if you don't want to, I'll understand."

[redintheledger]

Something eases around her ribs, which makes her smile at him, just a little.

(It also makes her want to cry, but she shoves that down.)

"Of course. Thank you.




Although, you do realize you're going to have to actually tell me what you want me for?" Her tone is wry, but more teasing than frustrated.

[nerves_of_ice]

"That's true."

The small smile is still playing at the corners of his mouth, but the look in his eyes is serious.

"How much did you know about what I do - when I'm not training precocious red-haired students, that is?"

[redintheledger]

"Oh, I'm precocious?"

She tugs her hand free, but starts them walking again. It's safer to have this conversation on the move.

"Are you asking what I was told, or what I surmised?"

[nerves_of_ice]

"Aren't you?"

He falls in step beside her, and tucks his hands in the pockets of his coat.

"I'm asking what you know."