The First Day of Winter - Picfic, 26th Jan

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

The snow had began falling again. Already the streets were covered in a thick blanket of white, which would be unlikely to clear before spring. It was beautiful right now, before it became muddy and trampled, and covered with soot as people turned to burning anything they could get their hands on in an attempt to stave off the cold.

Illya breathed in the cold air and tried to capture the scene in his head; the warm glow of the electric street lamps reflected across the snowy park, the icicles hanging from the gates of the metro station, the faces of the people passing by, bundled up in thick coats and scarves as they hurried along the wide path, the sound of balalaika music, the smell of roasted fat coming from the shashlyk stall...this would all be part of his enduring memories of home.

“I imagine England will be very different from this,” Pavel remarked, looking at him curiously.

“They have snow,” Illya replied. “Not generally as deep as this, and it does not last as long, but I saw a few bad snow storms while I was there before.” He smiled slightly. “Mostly, there is rain and there is fog, which at least gives the English something to talk about.”

“But you liked it there, didn't you?” Pavel asked, sounding almost anxious.

Illya's hesitation was – hopefully – barely perceptible as he looked around, cautiously picking out the two KGB men and their GRU counterparts. He had already checked himself for bugs on the train, and they were far enough away that their conversation should not be overheard. The higher-ups in both KGB and the party might want the prestige of having a Soviet agent in UNCLE, but the actual agent – Illya – was inevitably under intense scrutiny. Any sign that he was taking the slightest pleasure in his assignment could be interpreted as disloyalty. It was...irritating. He just wanted to enjoy these, his last few days in his homeland for who-knew-how-long.

“England is alright,” he said therefore. “Provided one does not mind the food, or the drink, or the arrogance of their upper classes.” He remembered with fondness the smoky jazz clubs he had used to frequent, on those rare evenings when he had free time, and the times he had spent in the pub listening to other students as they loudly and vociferously criticized their government and realising, with befuddled amusement, that they felt no fear in doing so. He was loyal to his country beyond all question, but it was a different world.

Pavel elbowed him lightly. “No good vodka?”

Illya gave him a crooked smile in return. “Not like the stuff Taras Fedorovich used to make on the roof of the physics building back in Tibilisi,” he said solemnly.

“Oh, I'd forgotten that,” Pavel laughed. “One sniff was enough to make grown men break down and weep. Taras Ferodovich, what a character. I wonder whatever happened to him?”

“Do not ask,” Illya said after a second's pause, remembering their old classmate's arrest and subsequent exile to Siberia.

“”Ah,” Pavel said, a shadow crossing his face. “Of course.” He carefully changed the subject, the way they had all learned to. “So this job they're sending you to in England. What is it again?”

“Scientific and technical attaché to the Soviet embassy in London,” he said. His cover within the USSR.

“Yes.” Pavel smiled again. “They do give you some interesting titles, don't they?”

He spoke knowingly but Illya refused to be drawn. “How is your work at the university going?”

“Very good,” Pavel said, nodding intently. “My team has been working on a new scattering experimental process, and the early results look promising. I think we are nearing a breakthrough.”

“I look forward to reading the paper,” Illya said, only afterwards realising with a pang that there was a good chance he wouldn't be able to. He had already been told in no uncertain terms that he should abstain from any contact with home so as to avoid any kind of suspicion falling on him. 'These Westerners are paranoid,' Alyokhin had told him. 'They see our agents behind every door.' In the privacy of his own head, Illya suspected it was more about their continuing ambivalence towards UNCLE. The existence of a Soviet UNCLE agent was a matter for international pride, not domestic consumption.

At Pavel's signal they paused, standing on a bridge overlooking the frozen river. “Do you ever wish you had gone into research like me?” Pavel asked tentatively. “It might not be glamorous, but it's regular hours, and you would be an asset to the university. It's safe as well.”

“There is nothing inherently dangerous in being a scientific and technical attaché,” he said woodenly.

“Of course not,” Pavel snorted. “Just as there was nothing inherently dangerous in you being a junior researcher for the State Committee for Science and Technology. And yet the last time I saw you, your leg was broken in three places and you were recovering from a concussion.”

“A motorcycle accident,” he said, and it wasn't a complete lie. Just that it hadn't exactly been an accident. He sighed. “We all serve the Soviet Union in our own way,” he said. “I go where I am sent and do as I am told.”

Pavel looked around, and he might not be able to pick out their watchers as surely as Illya could, but he was intelligent enough to assume they were there. “Are you happy?” he asked in a guarded whisper.

He looked at his friend, with his steady job and his loving wife. “Yes,” he admitted. “I enjoy my work.”

“Being a scientific advisor to officials and diplomats?” Pavel asked ironically.

“I admit it is not for everyone,” he said, deadpan. He rested his gloved hands on the railings of the bridge. There was a row boat trapped in the ice below. It would be useless, come the thaw. “How is Inessa?”

“Good.” Pavel brightened noticeably at the mention of his wife. “They are expanding the clinic so she has three more doctors working under her. She's keeping busy. Oh, she's looking forward to seeing you again. She's made solyanka especially, but don't tell her I told you.”

“I shall be the soul of discretion,” he promised eagerly, suddenly looking forward to dinner even more than usual. The only thing more difficult than obtaining good Russian food in Britain was obtaining good Ukrainian food.

“She worries about you,” Pavel added, staring down at the river himself. “All that time overseas, among the capitalist wolves. She is afraid that you are going to be hurt or killed and we will never hear from you again.”

Ah. He could not promise that wouldn't happen. He could not even say it was unlikely. And certainly, he knew that he could not promise he would keep in touch. “I will be careful,” he offered instead. “As much as I can be.”

“I suppose that will have to do,” Pavel sighed. “At least I know our country is safer. With you offering scientific advice, I mean.”

He smiled and said nothing.

“Come on,” Pavel said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Let's go home, and we will eat and drink and celebrate your last days here in style.”

That, at least, he could do.

Comments

[rose-of-pollux.livejournal.com]

Ooh, pre-series intrigue! Hang in there, Illya; the best is yet to come!

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

True. But he's not quite considered that yet. Thanks for commenting.