agoodyarn | meeting the boy

meeting the boy

[She had been in the city for less than a day when she saw the boy, the man really, nearly fall to his death.

To be fair, she saw him fall to what would have been his death. But, as always, she'd been unable to let it happen, unable to let the moment pass when she could do something about it.

It was snowing, freezing cold, the kind of weather that her advisors had warned her about when she'd said she wanted to go 'wherever she was needed'. No one should be out at all, let alone two young men on the rooftops of the city. Certainly not a girl in nothing more than a shift of a nightgown and the first few snowflakes that had fallen on her hair in the space between her little hostel room and the window ledge that had almost been his doom.

There is a whoosh of air, the touch of soft hands still stronger than iron, blue eyes so deep they almost glow, and the soft press of warm lips across his forehead. Then he'll find himself on the roof of the building, safe and sound, unharmed if slightly jangled with soft Russian words in a strange accent whispering in his ear-]

Be more careful.

[Before there is nothing and no one and Clara is back in her hostel room, closing the window slowly so as not to catch his eye.]

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[Thoughts can happen very quickly sometimes. He'd been running, he had to, the training run was timed, and he'd jumped, and his hand had scrabbled at an icy windowsill but he'd hit the building too hard and then he'd held onto nothing. He'd had time to wonder at the slippery sill—it's been cold, snowy, but not the right conditions for ice to build up that thickly, with no snow covering it—and time to feel sad for his mother, losing him like this, and time to wonder if they'd tell her, and time to consider how best to fall—

—and then a soft hand from the middle of the winter night clasps his own, a moment speeds by, and when he's left standing on the roof, he can still feel the fading warmth of lips. Who—how—

Illya had never been in the habit of superstition, and he knows that the old folklorish ways are just that, superstition, but in moments of stress, sometimes errant thoughts in the privacy of one's own mind can be forgiven. Illya's first thought, upon realizing he's been somehow impossibly rescued, is—]

I didn't think the Snow Maiden would be warm.

[Okay, sometimes these little thoughts slip and are said aloud. No one is here to overhear him. He moves carefully to the edge of the roof, to stare at the windowsill that had so nearly been his undoing. Coated with ice, clearly done. Against the rules, though if it had worked, there would be no penalty. Since it had not worked and Illya will report it back, his opponent will receive a punishment.]

Thank you.

[It isn't enough, but what more can he say? What does one say when someone from folklore saves your life, and you didn't even believe in them until just now?]

[ There's no reply from the snow maiden, though she does hear him from her window across the street. She can't help herself from fluttering a little wave at him before she closes the thick curtains to keep out the cold, and her mind is just a little caught by the handsome young man she'd saved as she tries to go to her bed.

But she can't quite keep him out of her thoughts. Part of it is that she's curious as to what he was doing, why he was on that roof, what might have happened. Another is that the windowsill had been curiously iced over, as if someone had put water there to freeze in just such a way. The idea bothers her, that someone might have tried to kill him, and she tries to make herself believe it's merely circumstances; being in the land of spies, of course.

The last part just keeps thinking about how much she'd enjoyed kissing his forehead and she can't help blushing a little at that.

Thus, it's really no wonder that the next time Illya is doing errands around the city, he might notice a young woman enjoying her lunch from a cafe window with bright blue eyes and the reddest lips and the most pale golden skin that seemingly can't help herself from smiling at him before turning back to what looks to be a book at her table.]

Edited 2019-01-24 03:02 (UTC)

[As predicted, the failed gambit is punished, Illya deepens his enmity with that fellow cadet but gains the quiet, grudging admiration of a few others, and very shortly, he's able to pay the man back, far more successfully. One less enemy to worry about. It gets about that Kuryakin can scale sheer walls, and he lets it. It makes things easier. Besides, no one would believe him if he talked about what had really happened.

But he can't put out of his mind the glimpse of that lovely, otherworldly face he's certain he'd seen, just for a moment. He'll never forget, and he doesn't mistake, either, when he catches sight of those blue, blue eyes watching him from across the street. It takes him a moment to realize the woman is sitting in a cafe, and the rational side of him, the KGB cadet whose family name he is restoring one successful mission at a time, it says she's just a pretty girl.

The part of him that still whispers half-remembered snippets about snow maidens is the part that walks across the street and into the cafe. He smiles, polite and careful.]

Excuse me, please. I think maybe we have met before? [Quieter:] You did not give me a chance to say thank you.

[ It was foolish of her.

She shouldn't have looked at him, watched him. She shouldn't have been looking for him, let herself drift to where she hear his heartbeat, find a cafe near the last time she'd heard his voice.

She likes his voice.

Which is why those pale cheeks blush pink without her looking up from her book.

She could deny everything, pretend as if he's just seeing things, pretend as if she's just another girl in a cafe.

But she doesn't like that idea, doesn't want to. That's why what slips out, in that same strangely-accented Russian, is- ]

I heard you.

[There's a visible conflict at that, his certainty in modern Soviet science and the future warring with his now-gleeful Rus' folkloric roots.]

...may I sit?

[Even as taken aback as he is, politeness still compels him to ask instead of simply taking the chair opposite.]

[ She looks up then, finally letting him see her face properly, up close, and yes it is certainly the person who saved him, kissed him, and ran before. It's hard to mistake her any way, but it had been dark after all. ]

You can, if you'd like.

She'll probably come by asking if you'd like tea. My cups almost empty.

[It had seemed dark, except for the moment he'd seen her, clear as day. He sits slowly, feeling too tall and too forbidding now in his all-black, contrasted with how light she seems.]

I would like tea. Cold today. ...but I suppose you do not feel the cold the same way I do.

[ She can't help a soft laugh at that. No, she doesn't. The snow and the wind and the cold and the dark hadn't done much of anything to her. Her warmth was hard to dampen. ]

I don't, no. But I do like warm tea. Coffee's never been my favorite.

[ She leans in a little to look to him. ]

Which one do you like? Or is it both?

I like whatever I am given.

[Spoken like a true son of the Party.]

...but, given a choice, tea. Black, with jam.

[It's strangely easy to be honest with her. Especially considering so much of his training has been training in the arts of concealment. But then, she is a snow maiden. Who will she tell?]

I did not think someone like you would drink either tea or coffee.

[ She lifts her hand and calls her waitress over, putting in an order for more tea for them both as well as some pastries with jam. Then she looks over at him with a smile, once the waitress is gone.]

I've never had it with jam. Now, I have to.

[ She looks over at him curiously then.]

Why do you think I wouldn't like something like that?

Traditional recipe.

[He looks equally curious, and a little awkward. Is this a strange topic to discuss in a public place?]

Because you are snow maiden. Made of snow.

[Right? Maybe it's a spell that allows her to enjoy hot tea?]

It sounds delicious.

[ But then she's hearing the explanation and she can't help that her eyes go wide and very bright and her smile is... well, it's just very delighted. It's clear, the way her eyes flicker between her teacup and his face that she wants to say something, but isn't sure if she should. The funny thing is... she wants to be. His snow maiden. Even though she knows she's not. It's hard to let that go.

So instead, she puts her hand out for him in offer.]

Does that feel as if I'm made of snow?

[He hesitates, as though touching her hand will cause it to melt away, but he takes her hand gently between his own, marveling a little at the warmth.]

No. You feel like a woman, like any other. But...what you did for me, no one could do.

[Now that he has her hand clasped between his, the proof that she's here and real and so warm, he's strangely reluctant to let her go again. Maybe she won't mind if he holds on for just a little while longer?]

I can do it.

[ She leaves her hand between his fingers, doesn't seem as if she wants to move it any more than he intends to move his. Instead, she smiles a little at him. ]

Maybe I'm just your snow maiden. Would that be all right?

I suppose you are not no one.

[His fingers tighten a little on her hand and he can feel a little smile. This feels as though she's taken him somewhere else. Somewhere distant, far away from his responsibilities and everything else. Maybe she could.]

I think, yes, it would. Does my snow maiden have a name, or will I just call you...snow maiden?

[ She doesn't stop herself from letting out a soft laugh because, well, that's very sweet but it's not very practical. Especially since, well, she wants to keep spending time with him.

It's foolish and her mother and father would both have words for her for something so ridiculous, especially given where she is, but she still wants it. And they're not here. ]

Clara. My name is Clara.

And what's my dashing hero's name?

Klara. [It suits her, unusual but lovely.] I am Illya.

[She's given him no last name, so he gives her none, but perhaps she wouldn't know the reputation of his surname anyway. It's refreshing, something of a relief in fact, to be simply Illya.]

Am I your hero? I think you are mine instead. Would not be here if not for you.

Doesn't the snow maiden help the hero in his work? She doesn't mind not being the hero.

[ Her fingers curl around his and she looks past her lashes over at him. ]

But I would like you to be mine in some way or another. If that was all right.

[ She looks over at the window not far from them. ]

Would you be my date at least? Perhaps for dinner sometime?

[For the first time, Illya glances aside. His work, yes, and what he does is necessary, but he wouldn't call what he does heroic. She shouldn't be mixed up in it.

But she isn't, he tells himself. She'd helped him because...well, he doesn't know why, only that she had, without thinking of who he is or what he's done. So he looks back and smiles again.]

Think I could do that. Yes. Maybe soon?

[ Her other hand lifts from her purse with a little notebook and she jots down the phone number to her hostel. She tears off the page and holds it out to him. ]

You can reach me here. Whenever you have a night free. Most of my evenings are just extra paperwork.

[One-handed, Illya takes the paper, looks at the number to memorize it, then puts it carefully into his pocket. It would be somewhat rude to hand it back to her. He'll destroy it later, so it won't be found and used against him. Or her.]

I will call. Soon.

[Then he glances at his father's watch and sighs.]

Should be getting back. I will be missed.

[ She gives his hand a firm squeeze. ]

You will.

[ Before she lets him go. And she calls over the waitress to put his tea with jam into a travel cup if they can so he doesn't have to go out into the cold without it. ]

I'll tell you how I like mine at dinner.

[Illya lingers until the paper cup arrives, then reluctantly stands. He has no choice, even if he would much prefer to stay here with her until the sun goes down and the cafe closes, and even past that.]

Enjoy your tea. I will see you again soon. Klara.

[He pats the pocket where her number rests, and then because he must, he walks away. For now.]

[ If he investigates her, if he uses the phone number to look into her, he will find a few things.

The first is that she is an exchange student, taking classes on history and literature at the university there while working to pay for her room and board at the hostel she'd given the number to. She is (supposedly) American, or at least is said to have come from the United States, and there is no one who has anything unkind to say about her other than a few sore losers who have taken her on in a debate or a mock trial. She is quiet, dutiful, and mostly enjoys spending her time reading.

And if he tries to observe her from a distance, she always turns to smile at him and flutter a little wave. ]

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