armeyets | for repaying.

for repaying.

the red room

pre-graduation: sparring | mess hall
post-graduation: hurt/comfort | a week at the dacha

present-day

post-civil war: domesticity

【 au 】 the americans

no name / margaret atwood
This is the nightmare you now have frequently:
that a man will come to your house at evening
with a hole in him — you place it
in the chest, on the left side — and blood leaking out
onto the wooden door as he leans against it.

He is a man in the act of vanishing
one way or another.
He wants you to let him in.
He is like the soul of a dead
lover, come back to the surface of the earth
because he did not have enough of it and is still hungry

but he is far from dead. Though the hair
lifts on your arms and cold
air flows over your threshold
from him, you have never
seen anyone so alive

as he touches, just touches your hand
with his left hand, the clean
one, and whispers Please
in any language.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Natalie hadn't been sure, upon arriving in America, that being paired with Philip had been the right choice. Of course, she condemned herself for even thinking it, for even questioning her orders, but he'd taken some work. Days spent figuring one another out in the confines of their new little house and new little life, prying him with inane small talk to coax him into something more affable and warm, make all the pathetic dinner party chatter more natural and less stiff.

The first mark he'd had, though, she couldn't help but be impressed by his precision and strength, the easy way he took out a threat and disappeared the body with no more than a blink or need for her help. (She'd gone anyway, because they're supposed to work as a pair, and he'd been accommodating enough). She could do the talking, mostly, the batting of eyes and pretty smiles, make the connections and trace her webs back to him so he wouldn't have to work as hard at small talk, at feigning interest. She floats to and from him at parties, looking more like the overly enamored wife turned socialite.

It's why she leans into his shoulder and hums a laugh, fond and easy as she raises her eyebrows at a couple of the other knowing husbands. "He's really not as terrible as he thinks, but men will be men," as if she's speaking to the girls and not a group of men without their wives present. Natalie poises herself to make another cheeky comment when he bumps his shoulder with hers and she quiets, turning her eyes up to him with the anticipation of a woman just waiting to be swept out onto the dance floor.

"A glass of white for the man and a dance for me, that's a deal I can pass up, fellas. Excuse me, I'll make sure to return him with both feet in tact," she teases and gives a soft tug to Philip's hand, keeping their fingers twined delicately as they start toward the drinks table which, oh so fortunately, happens to be just near an entrance to one of the side hallways.

"We've got the General, easy, and I've got a pickleball date with the wife," she murmurs, keeping her head turned toward him, a wife murmuring gossip to her husband. "We've got about six minutes, max, to sweep the left hall. Right we can take in another twenty, when security changes shift."

Stepping into the hallway itself feels like a vacuum, the noise of the party quieting the farther they wander from the reception hall. "His office should be at the end of the hall. Unlocked. Wife used it as her powder room earlier when he upset her. She didn't have keys on her."

And she's all but forgotten to let go of his hand, even in their snooping.

"No matter how many times you say the name, pickleball still sounds like a fake sport," he says; the mask dropping as quickly as hers had, but his voice remains low and his tone jokingly light.

The sport hadn't come around until 1965; he'd gone long years and decades without ever hearing about it. The pop culture references had been the other trouble with overhauling a soldier into a spy, filing down his sharper edges and repurposing the asset for more delicate undercover work. It wasn't the same as those one-off missions supporting a widow for a mere night or week or two at a time— this one, paired up with this woman for the first time, required subtlety and potentially being embedded for years, and so he had turned to his task with typically stubborn attentiveness. Long hours with Reader's Digest and Us Weekly, learning soap opera plots and memorising the faces of celebrities like he'd once memorised assassination targets. Filling his pockets with references and knowledge until Philip Rushman could, in the right light and if his wife helped steer the conversation, pass for your average American.

Here and now, though, as those doors swing shut behind them and the party fades away, the guise of the toothless Rushmans does too. Philip's steps speed up and he strides right for the office— he doesn't notice their fingers are still intertwined until they get to the door and he has to reach for it, and he glances down, a little surprised that they're still holding hands, and even more surprised that he hadn't realised either.

There's that moment of hesitation, a startled reluctant pause before they both untangle themselves and then he raps on the door, quick and curt, as if he's one of the help. When there's no response, the pair of them slip into the office and then Philip leans back against the door to gently close it behind them, gaze already darting around the room and noting items of interest. Piles of paper. The desk drawers. (Are they locked?) Likely spots on the wall for a safe. No mounted or even hidden cameras; they already knew the general didn't go in for having his activities recorded. He liked to think the inside of his house was safe, and he only had to worry about the outer walls, the wrought-iron-tipped fences, all the cameras pointed outward for intruders. Hubris.

There's the quick snap of businesslike efficiency to their movements now, but there's also an amiable camaraderie still-lingering from their personas when Philip asks:

"How did he upset her?"

Natalie slides in easily in Philip's stead, waiting at first in the dark of the room to be sure there are no sounds out in the hallway or within the spacious office. She curses the fact that this persona, that Natalie Rushman wears heels and form-hugging dresses in a way that maybe quieter, simpler little housewives might not. The shoes make noise, the dress restricts her movement, but it's a lovely target, isn't it? The General certainly paid attention, anyway.

With practiced ease she starts for a stack of papers left on the desk, riffling through them to see if there is anything of import. A letter to the President, a telegram with a cryptic message— all of which she pulls a tiny camera free from the bust of her dress and snaps photos. She'll have time to dig for more when she visits the man more personally, but better to get the information while it's easy.

Natalie glances up at Philip, hair falling across one of her shoulders, and she hums. "She thinks she caught him flirting with one the waitresses. She'd melt down if she knew he had a handful of my ass with my husband in plain sight. That ego's going to get him in trouble."

And poor man, it already has, with silvery-white little webs wrapped all around him for the snaring later. "How's the safe?"

It's not that she can't do the work, but she leaves the technical, nitty-gritty matters to him. Her handler had suggested it before they left Russia, having pressed her to make sure he felt useful, that he employed his skills to the best use. Just as they expected her to slowly weave them into their little suburban life, they expected precision, laser-focus, and cut-throat obedience from both of them. Though she's always gotten the idea they expect much more from him, what with the leagues between them in their training.

"I don't think he noticed though. That she's upset, I mean. Real charmer. You get anything off him besides a pickleball invite?" A snort, and if there was a verbal version of an eyeroll, Philip might well have heard it. She shouldn't be so casual, not when they're on a job, but something about Philip has always put her at ease in a way that reeks of danger.
He'll protect her, no matter what. She doesn't know how she knows, but she does.

"Working on it."

It was an odd and unexpected comfort, knowing that they actually enjoyed each others' company. Could actually get along, in addition to working together like a well-oiled machine. A good partner was invaluable when you were going to be embedded for such a long-term assignment, with unpredictable end dates. If they'd been paired with a spouse that they hated—

Well. They would swallow that poison and they would do their job regardless, following orders, but it'd be far less enjoyable. It wouldn't be this: Natalie making him smile faintly even in the middle of this hurried evening, even as he lifts away a painting from the wall (some idyllic nature scene, maybe out by Nevada? he didn't recognise his American geography as much as he'd like), gently set it on the floor, and then pressed his ear against the safe.

"And not much. I think he's more interested in you."

His supersoldier's hearing is craned into the mechanisms of the safe, listening to the faint tumblers as they click. Listening equipment would've gotten another agent this far into the safecracking, too, but his way is less obtrusive and doesn't require smuggling anything in. Benefits of using this particular machine of a man, with his particular skillset. Most of his attention is narrowed down to the delicate turn of the lock, the rest of the world fading away. He trusts her to warn him if someone's approaching.

"You still going to visit him later?"

(He tries to sound casual, asking it. This is the job, Philip. This is the assignment.)

A few more photographs taken and she begins rummaging through the drawers of his desk, finding things tucked deep into the recesses that have notes or shorthand on them. Phone numbers, keywords, anything could be useful later, and she snaps away, leaving everything where she found it.

The occasional glance is spared for her husband, the man leaning into the safe as though he's already cracked it. She knows what he's been built for, trained to do, but it's fascinating watching him, sometimes. The focus in his eyes, the expert tilt of his hand on the safe's dial. He's masterful in a way that she is clumsy with these things.

She's staring, she realizes, even if it's veiled by her long, fiery hair. Tearing her eyes back to the documents in some filing folders, she lets out a soft huff of a sigh.
"Probably. Depends on what's in the safe."

Natalie doesn't want to spend the night with this grubby, slimy older man. It's easy enough work, but the way he's already pawed at her is telling: it won't be a restful night, and he won't go down easily. If the safe has military blueprints, letters, any form of correspondence, maybe that will be enough. She could always visit him and his despairing wife another evening.

She shrugs a bare shoulder as she snaps one of the folders shut, turning to him once the final drawer is closed.

"So let's hope we find something good. There's a new episode of Magnum PI. I want to watch it."

American TV fascinates her, but it's also an incredible study tool. Or so she tells herself, to wash away the guilt of immersing herself in American culture. The idea of curling up on the couch in comfortable clothes and watching TV until she falls asleep sounds good after an evening like this. It's nice to think that's what she could be doing, instead of letting the man in the grand hall use her straight on till morning.

"Here's to hoping," he says lightly, the aphorism falling easily from his lips. (They are both very good at English, her native accent completely imperceptible, but his has always been just a touch more fluid. More natural. Smoother than his Russian.)

And that treacherous thought does occur to him, then: they should be hoping for a juicy find for the good of the mission. For the usefulness of the intel. For how much good it might bring the rezidentura and what the home office. The bigger picture. Not for this: PJs and winding down the evening together at home, rather than serving her up to this handsy general on a platter. It would be entirely personal and entirely selfish.

So he's becoming selfish. Maybe it's an American thing.

Click. The last tumbler falls into place and Philip mutters, "Voila," under his breath before opening the heavy metal door. He hears Natalie's heels clicking on the hardwood floor behind him as she moves closer, to peer over his shoulder as he reaches in to briskly sift through the paperwork.

Money. Of course there's always stacks of money, a hidden trove kept away from the general's wife. But they don't care about that. The files look far more interesting—

Technical diagrams and blueprints. Philip can't make head or tails of them — he's not a scientist or an engineer — but he brandishes the sheaf of papers at her, obligingly holding them up one-by-one for her to photograph. And he says, with a hollow skip of his heart behind the words: "Think this might be good enough?"

The click of the safe feels loud in the quiet of the room, her eyes turning to the careful way he opens the safe and rifles through the papers. For a brief instant, when he holds out he first sheet, she admires his hands - strong and callused, made for tougher things than cracking safes and leafing through blueprints. Yet he's gentle, too, something she hadn't expected in her training partner. All the men she trained with were demanding, brutal, unforgiving.

The little camera clicks with each turn of the pages, her eyes scanning the schematics and drawings. Promising; better than any letter or correspondence she thought she'd find. The rezidentura will be pleased they found something like this tucked away. And it had been so easy.

Natalie steps closer to him, leaning in to peer at the last sheet which shows something weapon-like in its shape, with several handwritten scribbles in the margin with exaggerated question marks. The camera clicks once more before she returns it to the bust of her dress, tucking it away for safe keeping just as he begins to tuck the files back into the safe.

"I think it is."

Parting her lips to begin to speak again, she hesitates the moment she hears the click of something so very unlike the closing of the safe or the snap of a camera. The doorknob behind them rattles, a confused voice follows (or is it two? the general and... what, another woman?), and the sound of a key turning in the lock rides closely on its tail.

Her body moves without thought, her hands reaching for his lapels and pressing him back against the wall, covering the crooked portrait. It's a flurry of motion that has her yanking his shirt free from his waist band and her body pressed flush to his.

"Поцелуй меня."

Kiss me. A demand, not a question, and she tip toes up to close her mouth over his, melting into him as though they hadn't been snooping, as though they had come here to have a moment to themselves, husband and wife.

He's normally so quick on the draw: his reaction time instantaneous during a fight, dodging a swung blade, catching his balance after a jump, even jumping in the way of a bullet. The instincts had been drilled into him over and over and over, until his body seemed to react on autopilot without his needing to consciously think about it. Like a machine kicking into motion, cause and effect, repercussions and echoes.

They missed this part of the training, though.

Philip still doesn't know what to do with a kiss — he goes strangely still, a little frozen, his brain crashing, but then the sound of scuffing footsteps at the door grows louder and the door is swinging open to the general's boisterous laugh and, obediently, the spy falls back into motion. Hands reaching for his wife's face, no preamble, no build-up, just gracelessly smashing their mouths together from the sheer hurried rush of it— his back against the painting, his knee sliding between hers, his tongue already licking into her mouth, because they need to do a very good job of looking very rumpled in a very short amount of time.

And the thing is, it works. He's swallowing Natalie's breath and she's pressing up against him and Philip kisses her harder, the kiss open-mouthed and messy until it can smear her perfect lipstick.

And there it is. The startled "Oh!" from the door in a woman's voice, an officious male clearing of the throat, and the general looking stern at his wayward guests (but also a little amused, because he gets it, because he clearly evidently does this exact sort of thing too, just not with his own wife).

"Am I interrupting?" the American rumbles.

For a brief second, Natalie wonders if he'll catch up. If the kiss was too much and too sudden, too stark a shift from the mechanical work of the safe and the photographs. They've kissed before, sure: chaste little things at fancy dinners, enough to appear domestically in love, enough to ensure the rings on their fingers appear to mean something.

But this? The way he responds in a crush of lips and teeth and tongue, his hands bracketing her face, the press of his knee between hers. She hums, surprised, and she'll call it nothing else, even if the surprise comes from the fact that she likes him kissing her like this. Leaning into him, she slides one leg higher against his, the tight fabric of her dress rucking up her thighs, shedding light on the fine lace of the garters she wears to hold up her stockings.

(In truth, it's not for the stockings at all, as she had come here fully expecting to be doing this with the General, not her husband. A part of her wonders if he would like them - Philip, that is - and she chastises herself for the thought. She's not in the business of what Philip wants and likes, after all).

Her hands slide under the loose hem of his shirt, nails dragging up along the toned muscle she finds beneath, hurriedly dropping to the buckle of his belt, the button of his dress pants, making quick work just in time for -

Bingo. Or so the Americans would say. The sound of the General, the surprise of the woman. It's enough of a display that the painting askew and the desk in mild disarray will make sense. The puzzle pieces will fit. Drawing away from the kiss, her mouth sliding to his jaw, leaving a smear of red in its wake, she laughs breathlessly against his skin.

"Good evening, General," she chimes, knowing the picture she paints, her lips a smear of scarlet, her hair wild around her face, her dress having slid enough, just enough, that she has no doubt he can tell she's wearing lace and satin underneath. But with it comes the feigned embarrassment as she slides her hands away from Philip's fly to adjust the length of her dress, not without a swivel of her hips. Something meant to be more show and distraction, but that only encourages the press of her body against her husband's.

"We were just leaving," she breathes, hands finding Philip's waist beneath his jacket, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

The woman on the general's arm flushes, looking nervously down the hall and then to the pair of them. The general, however, drinks in the sight of them, stern but hungry as his eyes travel the line of her body against Philip's. Not unlike he had been on the dance floor prior.

"I'll tell George to bring your coats," he says not without a hint of amusement. "I was just giving Ms. Lane here a tour - Jessica, I'll show you the study instead, there's a fire going so it might be more comfortable after all. You'll have to visit sometime next week, Philip. You and the missus. Come by for dinner, a drink."

His hand goes automatically to his jaw, thumb trying to rub away that smear of tell-tale lipstick, doing his best at playing sheepish husband. While Natalie readjusts her dress and tugs it back down, he redoes his button and hastily rebuckles his belt.

(And it's just realistic enough that you could believe it. To think that if they'd been allowed to keep going just a little longer, then his hands would be under her dress and hers would be down his trousers, maybe a moment later bending her over the general's desk—)

Philip stares at the general after his invite, and for a second there's a strange blankness in his blue eyes, something which doesn't seem to match up — the man looking like an automaton, inactive, nothing behind those empty windows. But then he seems to shift back into life again.

An invitation. They've taken the liberty of fooling around in his office, and the man still invites them over for dinner. For something more, now that he's seen this? Trading wives, maybe?

Americans, Philip thinks, with a bit of prim bitterness.

"Thanks, sir. We'd love to. You and your wife throw a great party, as ever." That spark of liveliness returning, he flashes a smile. And then, with her hand against his waist, Philip leads the way out of the office, his heartbeat pounding dully in his throat.

He's silent all the way down that hallway, not wanting to break that fragile limbo, knowing they just need to get out of here first. They wait in the foyer for a little while, tense and quiet — he jerks slightly as Natalie licks her thumb and wipes away the last smudge of lipstick which he hadn't caught — and he doesn't speak until after the butler (who keeps a butler?) arrives and hands them their coats with a tight-lipped non-smile.

As soon as they're outside in the brisk night air, a shock of welcome cold to his system, he exhales.

"Close one. Good thinking," he says. And he'd like to simply think of it that way: it was a distraction technique, a weapon levelled at their opponents, it was nothing. But it was the first time he's ever kissed his wife like that and vice versa, and his heart is still pounding, and he doesn't think it was just from the threat of being caught.

Good thinking gets them out of the General's abode, into their quaint little car, and all the way back home. The car ride had been quiet, discussing what they found and the details they could send back home. She rubs idly at her lips, feeling the oil of smudged lipstick, but remembering the slide of his tongue and the prickle of his stubble instead. It leaves her distracted from the debrief, muttering vague agreements and postulations but little else until they arrive home.

Home. Their house. Whatever it is, is a sight for sore eyes after a close call and crowded ballroom. They turn on lights, check windows and doors, and Natalie makes her way to their bedroom to begin getting out of her party regalia. (He helps her with the zipper of her dress, per usual, but something about it makes her skin prickle this time, unlike others where it had simply been an action of function. All the wine's gone to her head).

A peaceful quiet falls as they go their separate ways, each of them carefully peeling away the layers of Natalie and Phil, the smiling and handsome couple attending the General's gala. By the time she emerges from the bathroom, freshly showered and dressed down in her pajamas, she hears the TV on downstairs in the living room. Pausing at the top of the stairs, she peers down to see the dim light flickering from the TV set, and while she is certain he knows she's there, she curiously takes up the sight of him settled on the couch, flipping through the channels.

Padding her way down the stairs in a second hand pair of gym shorts and a t-shirt (one, she realizes, is invariably his) she takes up her spot on the couch, damp waves of red framing her face and cascading just past her shoulders. She's not in her usual spot, however, but a little closer to him, as though whatever invisible barrier had been between them has dissolved, cracked.

"We should probably turn on the news," she murmurs finally, leaning back into the cushions. "Figure out where we'll do a drop for the photos. When we'll go back. Give us more time there I bet we find even more." She draws her knees up to her chest on a little shiver - hindsight tells her she should have dried her hair - and tilts her head toward the TV screen. Her expression goes murky, losing some of its edge for the briefest of moments.

"Magnum PI. You were listening."

Maybe she shouldn't be surprised, but in a way? She is.

They get dressed for bed like they're taking off their armour: Philip undoing his tie, unbuttoning his shirt, tidily hanging up his clothes, putting away the small camera, everything in its place while Natalie disappears and scrubs off her warpaint. She eventually emerges looking— well, never homely, she's always gorgeous, but she looks stripped-down and bare in a way she normally never is. Accessible. Those walls no longer quite so indomitable as they always are.

For his part, he's down to boxers and a t-shirt, chin propped thoughtfully in hand, the shorter sleeves now exposing that seam where his prosthetic arm begins and ends. He'd been sitting on the sofa, trying to wrangle his thoughts back into order. When Natalie suggests planning for the future, sizing up the next opportunities to regain access to the general's office, he sighs. "Does that mean we have to have that horrible dinner double date?" It's said wryly, like an exasperated husband; like it's not their job, like it's just an annoying invitation that they have the liberty of turning down. But of course they don't.

When Natalie settles in beside him and remarks on the show, he just shrugs wordlessly, as if his remembering was a given. He's hyper-aware of her beside him now, her weight on the cushions, in a way he hadn't been before. And he turns his attention back to the screen: the all-American war veteran with his tropical shirt and moustache, the golden beaches and green palm trees. Philip's never been to Hawaii; he wonders what it's like.

His voice is distant and distracted and nowhere near the actual assignment when he muses, "Must be nice, to come and go. Be a private eye. Decide what cases you want to take on." A sidelong glance at her, a flicker at the corner of his month. "Solving problems for beautiful women."

(On-screen is, of course, a beautiful woman, hanging on Magnum's every word as she dangles a case for him to solve.)

The air in the house moves differently, the walls don't seem as high or as threatening, and Natalie finds her eyes wandering up to his face instead of the images on the TV screen. But there's nothing there for her save for the handsome line of his jaw, the set of his brow, the wordless shrug. He's not obligated in any way to be kind to her, to remember the silly things she rambles about, to protect her in any way that isn't strictly professional, and yet.

She hugs her knees tighter, troubled by the odd, squirming sensation of what she is sure is vulnerability, but to give it a name would weaponize it. Instead, she meets his gaze when he speaks, her mouth curving into a soft, small smile. "Mm. You're not subtle enough to be a private eye. You'd have to go on so many double dates with beautiful women, and since you're not a fan of dinner double dates..."

Natalie raises her brows, shrugs her shoulders, but there's heat hiding in the rise of her cheeks. "Maybe I should be a private eye. Pick all the international cases. Solve problems for incredibly handsome men."

A compliment for a compliment, because she can't deny she likes the set of his jaw, the dark hair, the stubble she felt beneath her lips and hands, the way she fit against him. Natalie doesn't have a name for it, for the uncomfortable feeling deep in her gut, but a part of her wants to know if he thinks she's beautiful, and not beautiful in the way politicians or greasy ne'er do wells think of her.

It's a shrug and a sigh that brings her closer to him, hesitantly, crossing no-man's land into enemy territory as she lays her damp head of hair on his shoulder, her eyes focused on the TV screen so as not to call attention to the closeness. (He's warm, just like he'd been in the office, and she's felt the warmth of him in the bed beside her before but this suddenly seems different).

"Where would you go. If you had to take a case, anywhere in the world. How many beautiful women would be waiting for you?"

"You as a private eye? You'd look very good in a trenchcoat." Teasing; the ghost of a sense of humour.

And then he's silent for a second — gone still and quiet with her nestled against his shoulder, as if she's a deer in the woods and she might spook if he moves too quickly — as he ponders how to answer that question. I only know the one beautiful woman, James considers saying, but it'd be a lie. Technically, he knows plenty. Every graduate from the Red Room, regardless of where they'd been assigned and whether they were to be sent abroad like these two, had been cut from the same mould: sharp, glittering, beautiful, dangerous.

And even some of the American women here have been beautiful, although there's a soft frivolousness to them which makes James' gaze skip right over them, completely blind to their charms. Like they were simply a well-appointed piece of interior decoration, or something. (Natalie had even chided him for it at one point, as a detriment to their cover: every American husband in their circle was supposed to let his eyes wander, at least a little.)

In the end, he shifts and readjusts slightly in order to sling his arm around the back of the sofa, creating a space where it's easier for her to lean against him. He can smell her shampoo. Her soap.

"I would go somewhere warm," he says, thinking of Siberia, so bitterly-cold that it ached in your teeth. "Not Cuba," too close to home and too closely-knit to their employers slash captors, "but Hawaii seems like the right idea. And I'd take a case from a fat old fisherman first. Maybe he lost a treasure at the bottom of the ocean."

"A trenchcoat would stand out in Hawaii, don't you think?"

Philip's arm moves and her body fills the opened space on its own, long before the mechanical trappings of the spy can catch up. Instead, she slots herself against his side, her knees tucking up beside her, the easy weight of them settled against his thigh all the while her head comes to rest more comfortably against his shoulder.

It feels so familiar, the way they're sitting, the TV burbling in the background. She doesn't dare to look at him as she settles, finding that now she's close the gap, her hands have nowhere to go. Maybe it's cruel, what she's doing here, seeking comfort in a man who was meant only to be a business partner, a co-worker, an accomplice. But he has every right to push her away, too - remind her of their work and their place in this world. Instead, he adjusts, his arm moves, and Natalie finds herself enjoying the warmth of him.

Another beat of silence, then she glances up at him, observing his face in the dim light of the living room, taking notes on the view at this angle, archiving it. "So I think I would go somewhere warm, too. But maybe Spain. Italy. I think I'd like to see the art there. Take a treasure map and go hunting for gold."

Her hand falls tentatively to his side where it rests as if it were the most natural place for it - as though it's been there dozens upon dozens of times before.

Edited 2022-03-14 17:23 (UTC)

It's for the cover, Philip tells himself as they inadvertently craft this comfortable tableau with her squirreled into the crook of his arm and him breathing the scent of her shampoo: husband and wife, American nuclear family in the nuclear home in front of the television, sans children. But it's not like their civilian neighbours will be standing on tiptoe outside the living room, peering in through the windows to ensure that the Rushmans behave like a married couple in private; it's not like they'll have anyone pressing their ears to the bedroom door.

It'll help us play the part better, he could tell himself, but if he's being honest, he knows better. Philip knows better and yet he sinks into that touch regardless, casual and intimate and domestic as if they really are married. This is terribly dangerous territory. This is probably worse than if they'd turned guns on each other. This insidious seed of genuine affection and genuine want could ruin him.

He indulges in it anyway.

"If it's Europe," that old familiar hunting-ground, the place where they'd been forged, "then I think it'd be Greece for me. I don't know why I keep thinking about islands. But I like the idea of being on a yacht, maybe. Go sailing around beaches and pearl-white cliffs."

A commercial plays in the background, something for kids with lots of color and flashing. She barely registers it as he settles in with her, her arm around his middle, her hand at his side. He's warm, just like he had been at the party all pressed against her and breathless. Thinking of the kiss makes her stomach flip uncomfortably and she shifts in her place, which only serves to nestle her body closer to his.

Had there been something real there?

"It doesn't have to be Europe," she says finally, tipping her head up to look at him, her cheek still smushed against his shoulder. "But and island might be nice. A yacht. Maybe we'll get a house boat. You can sail and I can sun, where no one will ever find us."

So unlike the cold of Russia, unlike the cold of their cages. The thought strikes her, sudden and real: she's never considered her work a cage. Her nose scrunches, her lips pull to one side, so as not to betray the confusion she feels.

"Do you think the General has a boat?"

"Don't they all?" James says, wryly. These wealthy Americans with their boats, their cabins, their riches. Nothing like the starvation-Soviet background they both came from. (Although he might remember the cold of the Red Room, but there's something else there too: bitter winters in the northeast, blazing-hot radiators blowing heat into a stuffy Brooklyn apartment, the wind coming in off the ocean—)

"He probably takes it for weekend trips down the Potomac."

The corners of his eyes crinkle in a smile as he twists, tries to glance down at her: the (adorable, fuck) scrunch of Nat's nose and the green of her eyes and the fiery red of her hair. "Why? Do we think he keeps important documents there, too, or do we want to steal it and sail over the horizon?"

As soon as the words are off the tip of his tongue, he feels that kneejerk sudden drop in his stomach — the jolt of training, of electric cattle-prods and sensors hooked up to his temples — the well-drilled instinct to pull back the words, joke, it's a joke, it's only a joke, I'm sorry, don't.

As if they have handlers listening. (They don't. Maybe. At least, he's pretty sure they don't.) As if she might turn a knife on him for that slip. (She might. She's supposed to.) But he goes motionless instead; whenever he's nervous, he goes quiet.

Natalie snorts at his response first, because if there's anything she's noticed about Americans it's that they always have everything. Even those who have less than military men and politicians, it feels like so much more than her life in the Red Room. A small, drafty apartment would seem like paradise compared to the close, cramped walls burning hot and musty in the chill of Russian winter.

The Red Room haunts her in her dreams, even if she finds she still believes something of their teachings to be true. The training had made her strong, hadn't it?

"I have no doubt he keeps plenty of important things everywhere he shouldn't." A pause, because she has come to learn a lot about his silences. For their first month or two she spent so much time observing him, coaching him when he needed it, but memorizing him in a way she told herself was simply part of the job. And it is, to a point. She should scold him for the idea, rebuke the thought that being anywhere other than serving their motherland is foolish.

And yet. She knows the Red Room, knows what happened within those dusty, old walls.

She drums her fingers against his side once, twice, before she sits up slightly, just enough for her fingers to reach his cheek and guide him to look at her. There's an odd pull of something in her chest when she meets his eyes, when she bumps their noses together in a quaint little eskimo's kiss. He's still, quiet - she knows that soldier better than anyone, and right now, it's not the soldier she needs. It's not the soldier he needs either.

And so, a quiet olive branch where it might not have been offered before:

"It's a good idea. Sail over the horizon. I bet he keeps money on the boat. Plenty of booze. We could sail to Greece. Or, well. Pennsylvania."

Her head dips, pressing a kiss to his shoulder, her eyes on his the whole time as she settles back in against him, her free hand coming to settle on his chest, as if to coax the human back out of him.

"Pennsylvania doesn't sound nearly as exciting. Is it sunny there? I want to go somewhere warm to solve mysteries."

"Muggy in the summers, cold and snowy in the winters. So, not Pennsylvania. It's a little similar to DC." How does he know that? Was it part of his training, a past mission in Philadelphia, or...? He doesn't actually know where that factoid came from, but it's buried somewhere in his memory.

Natalie's fingertips splayed against his cheek, her lips against the worn fabric of his t-shirt. It's the gentlest physical contact, and yet Philip feels it like a tectonic rumble underfoot, the foundations kicking and throwing his balance askew as all his attention pivots entirely onto her.

It's like his lips are still burning from their heated kiss in that office, prickling with a self-conscious awareness of how close they're sitting. He'd had to wipe off her lipstick afterwards, but she's still left her mark on him, singeing him forever. Maybe this is reading too much into it, particularly when she's such a good actress, but— but it had felt different from any other staged kiss or when they've had to entangle themselves with a mark for a mission. He can't stop thinking about it.

His right hand, the flesh-and-blood one, goes up to cover hers over his chest. Fingers curling against hers, jotting against her pulse measuring steady in her wrist. (A small tremor.) Then, after a pause, he says softly: "We did good today."

"Hm. Not Pennsylvania. Got it."

The dream itself nags at her though - both of them on a sunny boat, with no land in sight in any direction they choose to look. Nat knows that it's a life she dreamed of as a girl, a thing of nostalgia rather than honest wanting. Her country needs her here working more than she needs any escape on a boat.

(And yet the image he painted had been a nice one).

Her head falls back to his shoulder where she can watch their joined hands at his chest. Her fingers instinctively curl around his and she's struck briefly by how well they fit together, by the way something has shifted on the air between them to lead them here. They aren't saying goodnight from opposite sides of the bed, quiet and reserved until morning following a mission. It's... comfortable.

"We did. Even if you didn't dance with me," she teases faintly, her eyes still on the joining of their hands, as if puzzling out how to untie a knot. Natalie stays quiet for a beat, then: "But we make a good team, don't we?"

The admission is a little startling for Nat in some ways: she'd always viewed herself as the leader, guiding him through the finesse of the job in a way she'd known she'd have to.

"We do," Philip says, and the agreement comes just as startlingly easy from him. They had been partners for so long, but it had been to the tune of handler and asset; agent and weapon. Allies, certainly, but in the way of two very efficient coworkers.

Now, they're a team. Something about that particular word stirs heart-strings within him: some ancient longing for camaraderie, a squad, (a troop), not just being a lonely sniper scope in the darkness and operating alone. That growth of trust between them had been like a small seed planted from that first day they moved into this house and unpacked their bags, putting up their American decor in their American home, and started placing their lives in each others' hands. And so that seed had taken root, grown steadily, until now it's cracking through raw concrete.

(The Red Room certainly liked its operatives to be efficient partners, but he wonders if that treacherous fondness in his chest wasn't exactly what they had in mind.)

"Speaking of— I might need a refresher on those dance lessons later," he says after a moment: musing, thoughtful, a little amused. "It's hard to shake the muscle memory from combat training. I keep thinking we need to start grappling each other or flipping each other to the floor. Would probably give the wives something to clutch their pearls over."

The Red Room would certainly disapprove of them now, curled against each other on this little couch, when they could be developing photos or resting for the next mission. When they don't have to be Phil and Nat Rushman, and they can go back to the agent and the weapon in their solitary, quiet lives.

The belldames of the Red Room aren't here, though, and Nat finds solace in the warmth of Philip at her side. His heart beats beneath her palm, and it nearly distracts her from his quiet musing. Tipping her head back to peer up at him, she actually laughs - a quiet, snorting little thing as she sits up, pulling away from his shoulder.

"That would make the papers," she shakes her head. "Imagine me crawling up your back or you trying to choke me - just don't break my string of pearls." The image is amusing at best, that they'd grapple on the ballroom floor, but there's a sad realization in it - they're so used to fighting, so accustomed to violence before anything else. So, with that in mind, she sighs and pulls away from him altogether and stands, turning to face him.

She offers out both of her hands with a little huff. "Up. Dance lessons start now, mister. What if the double date is at one of those jazz bars? His wife talked about them endlessly. So, dance with me."

There's a stupid commercial about soap on the television behind them, the jingle corny and upbeat, but she can tune it out, waltz to the sound of the Wheaties ad or the eleven o'clock news bulletin.

“Right now?” He looks up at her from his seat on the couch, surprised. Mentally picking through his state and hers: they’d successfully executed an infiltration mission, but it’s not like they’d come back from gunfire and bruises and wounds, there’s theoretically nothing stopping them from a dance.

And there’s no time like the present, is there?

So, Philip stands up, with his boxers and t-shirt and those jingles in the background. They do have a record player, with vinyl records selected from the top-selling shelves and whatever the store clerk had recommended; a collection where music was just another weapon in the arsenal, another way to blend in. But there’s something to the impulsiveness here, the playful thoughtlessness in dancing to whatever’s available on the television, rather than selecting a record and lining it up.

He squares off opposite her, reaches out and takes both of Natalie’s hands.

“As long as we keep finding ways for me to not dance with any of the other spouses. I feel like she’d notice this on her waist.” He raises his left hand slightly: it’s immobile, hard moulded skin-toned plastic with some articulated fingers which pass muster from afar, but would raise some alarms if he touched someone else. He always has to be mindful; he saves his loose casual touches for his wife, and he seems aloof around the others, stiff and polite rather than flirtatious. There were other husbands in the neighbourhood for that.

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