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]

Firmly stamping on her urge to lend him a comb, she shrugs a little.

"Getting there," she says, sitting at another one of the tables, her posture perhaps overly proper.

"So, are you telling my boss the good news of my new assignment? Or am I doing it."

[nerves_of_ice]

"Which would you prefer?"

[redintheledger]

She smiles, and the edge of it isn't particularly nice.

"Now that depends on how much time I have to pack. I should say you, but...I might admit to a part of me feeling very petty, and wanting to see his face myself.


We could tell him together on Monday? I need to pick up some things from my desk anyway."

[nerves_of_ice]

"Monday it is. We can head back to Moscow after," he suggests.

[redintheledger]

"Monday," she repeats.



"How much am I allowed to take back? My books?"

[nerves_of_ice]

"I wouldn't go packing your furniture or anything, but something like that... yes," he decides. "Take the most important with you, and box the rest. I can help carry, if you want."

[redintheledger]

Cautiously, she smiles. Not for very long, and it's not an obvious expression...

But it's there.

"I appreciate that. Thank you."

Beat.

"Would you mind helping me tomorrow, or are you...busy?"

[nerves_of_ice]

He smiles back.

"You're welcome. And I'd be glad to help."

[redintheledger]

"I might even have lunch for you by tomorrow," she says, a little wry, as she gets up to grab the kettle to pour them their tea.

"Oh, Alex?

You're carrying my sewing machine."

[nerves_of_ice]

"So I'm your beast of burden, is that it?" he teases.

"I remember you always did like fashionable clothes."

[redintheledger]

"Now, now, there is no task too great nor too small for a true soldier," she teases back.

"And I only ever tried to look like the ideal Soviet Woman."

(This is also known as 'using ideology as justification after the fact', or 'a lie'.)

[nerves_of_ice]

"Yes, Comrade Lieutenant," he says, widening his eyes in mock chagrin. "I stand - er, sit - corrected."

His grin is quick and bright, though.

"Of course you did."

[redintheledger]

She huffs an almost laugh, and then blows lightly on the top of her tea.

A part of her feels like saying, you know, if my husband was alive, I'd have told you to go to hell earlier. She swallows it. Her husband isn't alive, and Alex is a smart man. He can work it out, if he really wants to.

So instead, she just sips her tea.

[nerves_of_ice]

He doesn't press, nor does he try to jolly her out of her quiet. It's been a long day for her already, and here he is at the end of it, upsetting what had been left of the life she'd made for herself.

If he hadn't been sure, absolutely sure, that he was the right one to come--



"What time do you want me here tomorrow?" he asks, finally.

[redintheledger]

Natasha blinks a little, and refocuses on him.

"Ten o'clock? I should be be back from the markets by then."

Beat, and a look of amusement.

"And I'll have your report ready."

[nerves_of_ice]

He opens his mouth to say she doesn't have to, and then rethinks it at the look on her face.

Wry amusement gleams in his own answering look.

"I wouldn't expect anything less."

[redintheledger]

"Well," she says, taking a sip of tea.

"Reports have been one of the few things I've been able to practice."

She doesn't even want to think about how her English currently sounds, not until they are on a train with very little to do for almost a week.

[nerves_of_ice]

He lowers his voice enough to ensure that any of her roommates - should they be listening, which he doubts, but still - can't make out his words.

"We'll have to make sure Comrade Budanov is aware. He'll find a way to incorporate that skill, I'm sure."

His tone is light and teasing, but knowing Budanov, he'd probably do exactly that.

[redintheledger]

"If there is one thing I've learned here, it's that...actually, everything runs on paperwork.


And I make an excellent secretary."

[nerves_of_ice]

"Better you than me. But it could help, I think."

[redintheledger]

"Much more useful than playing the femme fatale. I'm pretty sure Mata Hari didn't get all that useful information."

Also, she has no desire to end up in front of a firing squad, but, you know, details.

"But I think I'm out of speculation for the night."

[nerves_of_ice]

"Just as well, as it's going to be a long day tomorrow."

After a final taste of tea, he sets the cup aside and gets to his feet. Pulling the towel from around his neck, he makes an effort at folding it - absently, with military-neat precision.

"It's late; I should go."

[redintheledger]

"And I should...start packing."

And sleep, but tired as she is, she knows she won't be able to sleep until she's got at least one bag ready to go.

"So, uh. I'll see you tomorrow."

[nerves_of_ice]

"At ten," he confirms. He sets the towel on the table beside his teacup.

"See you tomorrow, Natasha. Sleep well."

[redintheledger]

"You too, Alex," she says, warmly enough. But despite her tone, she lets him see himself out.

So.

She's going back to Moscow.






She tips out the rest of her tea down the sink, and goes to find where she put her bags. Packing is an excellent substitute for thinking about what she's just let herself get back into.