redintheledger | OOM: Paris, December 1955

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OOM: Paris, December 1955

It just turns December by the time they get to Paris; the city is appropriately cold. Beautiful, different, Paris...and cold. As is the small apartment that James and Nancy Rushman are renting from a countess fallen on modern times, and Natasha bites back any complaints she might have over the heating because Nancy never grew up with ovens.

(And yet, the point remains: she was warmer in Siberia.)

Natasha sits at the dressing table, carefully shading her eyelids. The make-up case is new, but she'd done her best to add some scratches and dents to it, so it'd actually look like it belonged to a woman who travelled. She'd done the same with the new wedding ring on her left hand, so it'd look like Nancy and James hadn't been married for less then five minutes. Of course, details like that wouldn't be worth a damn if no one reads them as being an item in the first place. Not for a married couple who are happy and stable, which is needed here. And which Alex has so far...somewhat failed at this aspect of James's life.

She sighs, and then carefully finishes applying her make-up. They have some time before they are due to go out, and she needs to talk to Alex. She slips on her coat, and then walks out into the living room.

"James?"

She thinks he'll listen.

Hopefully he'll listen.

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"Hmm?"

He looks up from his left wrist, where he's been fiddling with one of the metal bands at the base of his thumb. It's not that there's anything wrong with it; it just feels odd (or would feel, if there were anything beneath the metal to feel), and it's better to be safe than dead.

His own smile catches him by surprise, but it's both warm and real.

"You look great."

"Thank you." It's sincere, but a little awkward. It's not the speaking in English, it's the... Natasha stops, shuts her eyes, takes in a breath, and then rolls her shoulders back.

"Thank you," she says, this time more pleased, more of a flirt to her voice. Surer. Nancy likes making James look like that, Natasha thinks; she understands the sentiment, even if Nancy colours it differently.

She's not sure if she should be thinking of a persona like this, but it's what she's doing.

"Something's come to my attention. Wanna take a seat?"

"Oh, you're very welcome," he teases back. "And sure."

It sounds serious, whatever it is. He moves toward the small sofa and takes a seat there, leaving her plenty of room to join him.

She follows him, spreads her skirts so they won't get crushed, and sits down not on the couch, but on his lap. Arm settles around his shoulders, and she smiles at him.

"Hi.

You shouldn't be looking this startled, dearest darling husband of mine."

"... um."

His right hand has come to rest automatically at her waist, but his left hand is suddenly braced flat against one of the sofa cushions.

"Nancy--"

Not Natasha, not when they're in the field, and especially not when she's making a point of their cover for some reason.

"-- I don't know what you mean."

"I've noticed," she says, drily.

"This is flirting. Married people do it, too. I'm sure you know what to do with flirting, because 'we' have done it many times. This is why we're the Rushmans. Now, observe."

Natasha shifts in his lap, sliding down a bit and moving her limbs. Instead of perching, she's curled up against him, head on his shoulder.

"So, where do you think you put your hand now?"

He hesitates, but only for a moment before putting his right arm around her, cradling her close. His left hand comes across to rest at her hip, securing her against a fall.

"I didn't want you to feel... given everything, I just thought--"

Her laugh is more a sigh than anything else, but it's still at least a little entertained.

(And it's...nice, being held.)

"And I appreciate that," she says, pitching her voice quieter. "But outside our apartment...Nancy Rushman's not a widow. And James is very in love with his wife. We can't sell that unless our behaviour backs it up."

Then, voice back to being tart, "Or haven't you ever gone out with a woman for more than a night?"

He ducks his head, laughing a little, even as her dart strikes home.

"It takes a special woman to hold my interest," he answers, wryly. "But I take your point, Nancy, sweetheart."

"Or you're easily bored." Then she bumps her head very gently against his jaw, the gesture affectionate.

"Good. Now let me up, because someone has to get dressed up."

He shifts in order to allow her to stand, and smiles up at her.

"It won't take me that long."

"Men fuss, too," she says, getting to her feet and smoothing down her dress.

"I'll just be in the kitchen when you're done." In the kitchen, trying to work out what supplies they need.

So far, espionage is proving to be largely an affair of logistics and budgets.

It takes him a little while, in fact - longer than he'd expected.

When he calls out as he approaches the doorway to the kitchen, he sounds a little wry.

"Nancy? Would you mind--?"

He's trying, and failing, to fasten the cufflink at his right wrist.

"-Yes, what? Oh," she says, turning around to see him.

Right, yes.

Metal fingers.

She walks over, smoothly fastening the cufflink like she's done it before. Then, she hesitates.

"Your tie is a bit...askew, do you want me to fix?"

"I never can get the hang of those things," he says.

"Yes, please."

"Well," she says, untying and then retying his tie without meeting his gaze, "it's a good thing you have me around, isn't it?"

Then she looks up, and smiles at him.

"There. You are now moderately presentable."

He smiles back, and brushes the fingers of his right hand over her cheek.

"It sure is; I wouldn't know what to do without you."

"Are you ready?"

The simple-seeming question has multiple layers, of course..

She goes still for a moment, a moment full of calculation and self-assessment. This isn't a train-trip, nor speaking to Customs officers. And for all of her talk about body-language, can she actually pretend, and keep all of those layers intact...

Yes.

She can.

(Nancy Rushman isn't a widow, and Nataliya Alianovna Shostakova is an spy.)

"I'm ready."

He searches her face for several long seconds, then nods once... and smiles.

"Then let's go, darling. We don't want to be late."

"God forbid that happen," she replies, and offers him the crook of her elbow with a smile more tart than reassuring.

The car ride she spends mostly quiet, gazing out into the Parisian streets with the occasional delighted comment - it's enough for the driver, and anyway, her comments aren't a lie. Paris is...new; Nancy is just a bit more vocal about voicing things.

When 'James' helps her out of the car, and as they walk up the steps to the restaurant, she keeps the lines of her body softer. Shy and coquettish can be charming; confident reserve is off-putting, and that is simply not something Nancy can be.

"Oh, I do hope we're not late," Nancy says once they're lead to their party's table. They aren't; only half the chairs have occupants.

But Nancy is nervous, and her smile is large, and hopeful.

"Not at all," the man directly across from them says, gallantly rising to his feet. Beside him, his blonde companion smiles a welcome. "James, it's good to see you again."

"You know I couldn't stay away," James laughs, and puts his arm around Nancy. "I just had to bring my other half 'across the pond,' as you Brits say. Allow me to present my wife, Nancy Rushman."

"Nancy, meet Quentin and Amanda Evans."

"It's so nice to meet you," Amanda says, and Nancy's smile softens into something a bit more confident.

"And you, as well. James has told me a bi-i-i-it, but we've been so busy with the move, I couldn't interrogate him properly." She glances over at James fondly, and then ducks her head in thanks as he helps push in her chair.

He brushes his left hand lightly over her hair, smiling at her, then reaches across the table to shake hands with Quentin before the two men take their seats.

Amanda laughs. "That will never do. You'll have to come for tea, and we'll trade stories and advise you on all the best places to shop."

"You'd better plan on more than one outing," an amused feminine voice notes, this one low and rich, with an unmistakable Parisian accent. Its owner is a tall, slender brunette on the arm of a gentleman several inches shorter, whose suit is as impeccably tailored as his moustache.

"Henri and Marie Durant," Quentin introduces them, standing again along with James as the couple joins their table. James offers his hand.

"Pleased to meet you both. I'm James Rushman, and this is my wife Nancy."

"Monsieur, Madame," Nancy says warmly, French smooth enough that she'd been practising.

"I don't find the prospect of multiple outings to be at all alarming. This is Paris, after all."

"Planning on enjoying yourself?" Amanda says, and Nancy smiles at her quickly.

"In between arranging our apartment, and trying to find some work? Why not? It's not an opportunity that arrives every day. Is it, James?"

"Not yet, anyway," James answers, and Marie laughs.

"Well said, m'sieur. Madame Nancy, do please let me know if you've any interest in seeing some of the better places around and about, hm?"

"Indeed," Henri agrees, and shakes hands. "I like a man who thinks ahead."

"It's just nice to find an American that does," Quentin observes, dryly. "No offense, James, but a good many of your countrymen are extremely brash and boastful, but lacking substance."

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