"I figured you guys were more likely to have vodka than pinot noir," Natasha answered with a spark of humor as she slowly crossed the floor to join him in the kitchen. She'd been running on pure adrenaline for so long that all of her various aches and pains had started to return now that she'd let herself be still. She took the tumbler in hand with a quick, automatic smile, and lifted it as she said, "I won't make you sit through a Russian toast, at least. Cheers." There was a hint of irony in her voice, like she recognized that there wasn't a whole hell of a lot to be cheerful about.
She knocked back a sip and made a face after she swallowed. True to his word, it tasted like antiseptic. "I've had worse." On one memorable occasion, she'd been forced to try somebody's bathtub gin to keep from blowing her cover. It felt like a knife that had been sitting in a block of soap for six months.
Her head dipped in a nod to acknowledge his statement, and she rolled the tumbler back and forth between her palms as she watched the remaining vodka slosh around inside. She knew that she had to rip the bandaid off. But he was one of the few people alive that would recognize what it meant when he saw what was underneath. There had been enough overlap between the programs they'd both been forced to work for. Not just overlap, but exchange of information. Training. Testing. Always testing.
It was cruel the way the ghosts of the past refused to stay there.
"Well," she began as she looked back up at him. Her mouth pulled to the side a little, a quick twist of her expression, like she wasn't sure if she wanted to laugh or cry or scream. Maybe all three. "It's the Red Room that's after me." She chased the statement with a draw of vodka long enough to make her eyes water. The tumbler came to rest on the counter as she met his eyes. "Dreykov's still alive."
no subject
She knocked back a sip and made a face after she swallowed. True to his word, it tasted like antiseptic. "I've had worse." On one memorable occasion, she'd been forced to try somebody's bathtub gin to keep from blowing her cover. It felt like a knife that had been sitting in a block of soap for six months.
Her head dipped in a nod to acknowledge his statement, and she rolled the tumbler back and forth between her palms as she watched the remaining vodka slosh around inside. She knew that she had to rip the bandaid off. But he was one of the few people alive that would recognize what it meant when he saw what was underneath. There had been enough overlap between the programs they'd both been forced to work for. Not just overlap, but exchange of information. Training. Testing. Always testing.
It was cruel the way the ghosts of the past refused to stay there.
"Well," she began as she looked back up at him. Her mouth pulled to the side a little, a quick twist of her expression, like she wasn't sure if she wanted to laugh or cry or scream. Maybe all three. "It's the Red Room that's after me." She chased the statement with a draw of vodka long enough to make her eyes water. The tumbler came to rest on the counter as she met his eyes. "Dreykov's still alive."