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

[redintheledger]

She snorts at that, her mouth twisting cynically for a moment. Then it's all pleasant neutrality as they walk in, as she requests a table, as she's offered murmured condolences as they are seated at one of the very few tables left.

She says, "Thank you," and her knuckles are briefly white as she curls her hand around the cutlery. Then, slowly, she forces her hand to relax.

The table is against a wall, near the kitchen, and the room is loud, hot, too many people and she knows half of them, and it's hard to breathe, and-

"Any new plays in Moscow?"

[nerves_of_ice]

It's been eight years since he's seen her, long enough to have forgotten any number of things, and yet he finds that the time they spent training together was enough.

He sees the brief tension in her grip, the way she's holding herself, and realizes what she's really asking.

"None that I've seen, sorry," he replies. "But there was a movie I saw, while traveling. You'd have liked it, I think."

[redintheledger]

"Really? We don't often get movies here.


Could you tell me about it?"

[nerves_of_ice]

"Of course."

He smiles at her.

"Although I must warn you, it was an American film, so don't expect too much. For one thing, it involved a bunch of men in a submarine, chasing a sea monster."

He knows perfectly well that the sheer spectacle of such a ridiculous thing will likely help to distract and hopefully entertain her.

[redintheledger]

"That sounds rather like they were copying Jules Vernon..."

Pause.

"Did they? Was it a movie version of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea?




With a Captain Nemo?"

[nerves_of_ice]

"The very same."

[redintheledger]

It's not exactly a smile, but something in her face brightens.

"Once we've ordered? Tell me everything."

[nerves_of_ice]

Something about her expression is balm; for all that he's brought trouble on her, he can do this, too.

He settles a little deeper in his seat, relaxing as much as he ever does, and prepares to follow orders.





Regaling her with the full tale of Hollywood's 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea takes some time, and there are other films after that to discuss. Dinner goes smoothly, with light conversation; nothing of import, nothing that reveals them to any listening ears or watching eyes to be anything but old friends chance-met once more.

[redintheledger]

It's the kind of dinner conversation she hasn't had since she left Moscow's university set, and she's missed it.

(She also drinks a bit too much, but in the manner of someone who wishes it'd do anything rather than actually ending up tipsy)

Outside, the rain has settled in, but aside from a muttered curse, she ignores it. Outside, she can breathe easier, and no one is watching them.

"I'll have to go back to Moscow now," she says, lightly, as they set off back to her apartment. "They'll all assume we're having a raging affair, and the gossip might actually drive me to drastic measures."

[nerves_of_ice]

He glances sideways at her face.

"Perhaps they won't," he says, just as lightly. "I didn't bring flowers, after all."

[redintheledger]

She huffs a laugh.

"No, you didn't. But I know them.

And...I might have pissed some of them off in recent months. Nothing gossips as much as a provincial military town."

[nerves_of_ice]

"You had reason."

They walk a few more steps in silence, and then:

"You loved him. Shostakova."

[redintheledger]

"I hate him.




He spends years fighting Nazis in flying pieces of shit, and they finally give him a new plane, and he crashes in the motherfucking Pacific Ocean. He-"

She stops, presses her hand against her mouth, trying to bite it all back.

[nerves_of_ice]

He casts a quick glance up and down the street, but thanks to the rain and the lateness of the hour, no one's around to see it when he puts his hand gently on her shoulder.


"I'm sorry, Natasha."

[redintheledger]

She shrugs him off, the movement angry enough to be almost violent. She's good at biting everything down, swallowing it and not screaming about it anymore.

But it's Alex. Alex, whom she thought dead. Alex who came back, and he had to say, I'm sorry, Natasha.

I'm sorry.

She stumbles back towards him, clinging to his overcoat.

"I can't," she starts, but the rest of her words are swallowed by sudden, harsh sobs.

[nerves_of_ice]

His left hand goes to her waist; his right arm goes around her, drawing her in, sheltering her as best he can from the rain, from the night, from the all-too-cruel world they both know.

He doesn't tell her not to cry; he doesn't reassure her with worthless platitudes. He murmurs quiet, meaningless sounds into the subdued fire of her hair, and stays as he is, holding her while she grieves.

[redintheledger]

It's like flash storm; a whirl of violent weeping, and then nothing but still shaking shoulders and an uneven breath. And Alex, standing steady and not making one comment about the rain.

"I can't...talk about Lyosha. Not yet. I just want to get the fuck out of this damn place."

[nerves_of_ice]

"Okay," he murmurs.

"That, I think we can manage."

[redintheledger]

"Good."

She pulls away, and then offers him a rueful smile.

"If you ever wanted to get drunk, Alex, I have to warn you, that...whatever they did to us? Getting drunk doesn't work so well."

[nerves_of_ice]

He smiles back.

"And here I thought I just had a high tolerance."

[redintheledger]

"Well, you can keep thinking that if it makes you feel better," she says, and starts to walk again.

"I did offer you tea, didn't I."

[nerves_of_ice]

"You did," he agrees, keeping pace.

"I wouldn't mind a towel, either, if you've got one to spare."

The rain still hasn't let up, after all.

[redintheledger]

"...I think I've got a spare towel," she says, after a pause.

"Clothes I can't help you with, but if I'll beg from Daria Baroslavonva if I have to for a towel. She should still be awake."

[nerves_of_ice]

"Or I could drip dry over the tea."

He keeps his tone light.

"I'm adaptable."

[redintheledger]

"What kind of hostess do you think I am?"

Her tone is light, but there is a sharpness there.

Honestly, Alex.