MacFic: Mishka, chapter 17
My many, many thanks to my Excellent Beta Reader and Editor 'Beth, for lending her Awesomeness to me to help make this chapter as wonderful as it can be!
Mishka 17, Mata Hari
There’s a scene like this in every detective and spy novel I’ve read. The bedroom scene. Softly lit atmosphere. Silk sheets. Relaxing music playing somewhere. A scent of flowers and musk.
Chandler might have added a thunderstorm.
Fleming would’ve had me order champagne and stick a gun under my pillow.
But this wasn’t a novel or a movie. My stomach was roiling with a meal of anxiety and anger, with a heaping helping of self-disgust for dessert. I couldn’t think about Natalie as KGB - I wanted her to be innocent. I wanted her to feel about me how I felt about her - before.
The lights were out in my room; only the diffused sunlight shining through a gap in the curtains lighting the humble setting. No silk sheets, no champagne in a frosted bucket. Only clean cotton and birdsong through the open window. On the small chest of drawers by the bed, the top drawer slightly open, papers placed in a carefully careless array.
My arm itched under the cast, and my feet itched to be moving - running away from this scene where I felt part of myself would surely die - maybe a lot of myself, if the KGB decided to drop their gloves and skip the intrigue. I should be so lucky - I’d’ve preferred a stand-up fight to this.
The waiting was the worst part. I stood by the window, arms braced against the sill, staring out at the mocking blue sky. Somewhere out there under that sky, my teammates were competing in the rifle trials. I’d even rather be handling a gun right now!
Tomorrow they would be running cross-country - and I’d be running, too, but in an altogether different direction. If they won, they’d go to Moscow for the Olympics. If I lost my race, I’d be heading to Moscow, too… possibly a destination further east. Siberia, for example.
I hear the gulags are lovely this time of year…
xoxox
Natalya sat in her own room, staring blankly at the second bed.
The roommate she had originally been assigned had long since been moved out: a lucky coincidence, she had thought, when her uncle had first come to her. Now she realized that the KGB must have arranged it, so that she would have a place for her uncle to hide, where she would think he’d be safe.
There are no safe places, she thought bitterly. There is only obedience and duty.
Mikhail was the perfect lever over her; she desperately wanted to help him. And it would be he who suffered, if she balked or failed in this task. She might get a reprimand - at worst, maybe lose her visa privileges and her place on the Olympic team - but he would go to prison. Or worse.
She thrust that idea from her. It would never happen! Not when it was in her power to prevent it!
And she’d make sure the KGB lived up to their promises. She had insisted on documents guaranteeing her uncle’s continued safety. Her father had the power to make sure they kept their word - they would not dare to harass Mikhail after this.
Now all that was left was to work herself up to this - this job.
Natalya hugged herself to still the fluttering fear and excitement struggling for dominance inside her heart. This should be easy - she did care for MacGyver - certainly she was attracted to him. Had been from the moment she had seen him, fumbling with his keys in the corridor, flashing that smile at her that made her forget for a moment her own name.
She felt tears behind her eyes as she thought about him, and she closed them, pressed her fists against her eyes firmly. She was determined not to let the tears fall.
She took a deep breath, sitting up straight and squaring her shoulders. She ran her fingers through her hair and then shook herself, just as she would had she been preparing for another Trial. She stood and headed toward the bathroom, shedding her clothes. She stood under the pounding fists of the water, as hot as she could stand it, hoping that this wouldn’t be the last time in her life she could feel clean.
xoxox
The knock on the door was so soft, so timid - Mac thought he might have imagined hearing it. The sound repeated an instant later, stronger. He opened the door and simply stood.
“What’s the matter?”
MacGyver blinked. “What? Nothing... why?”
Natalya blushed and smiled. “You’ve been standing there staring at me. Is there something - ?” she reached up uncertainly toward her hair.
Mac swallowed. “It’s just that you look - lovely. Sorry! I guess I’m kinda out of it.” He smiled reassuringly at her and stepped back to turn and reach for his jacket. “Where would you like to go?”
Natalya stepped inside the door and pushed it closed behind her. “I - I’d rather stay in, if you don’t mind.”
MacGyver let his jacket drop from his hand. “I was thinking the same thing... only I didn’t want to be selfish and deny the folks in Helsinki the chance to see the next Olympic star.”
She pulled a bottle out of her jacket. “Best vodka from Russia. Perfect to celebrate. Or to forget.”
“Um...” MacGyver shook his head slightly. “No thanks. I don't drink.”
“Not at all? But everyone drinks!”
“Not everyone.” He smiled and took the bottle from her, setting it on the table. “Perhaps we should go out.”
Natalya laughed lightly, her eyes sparking. “Considering the bad luck you’ve had,” she touched the rigid cast covering his arm gently, “I thought it might be safer in here. And - ” she hesitated; her face flushed brightly. She covered her embarrassment by turning and dropping her own jacket on the floor on top of Mac’s. “I’d rather keep you all to myself. Since you have to - to go. Soon.” She ran her fingers up the length of the cast to his shoulder. “Does it hurt?” she asked softly, stepping close to him.
“No - not much. It - um - itches a little.” Mac looked down into her face, lovely with color and framed by her golden hair. She smelled fresh and clean and her hands were warm as she circled his neck with her arms and drew herself up to his lips.
Mac found his arms had minds of their own; he gathered her to him, mindful of the heavy cast, and held her firmly against him, drinking in the kiss. He could feel her body trembling.
When she released his mouth, he drew his head back a little and looked at her. “Natalya... you don’t have to - ”
“Shut up, MacGyver. Shut up and kiss me. Kiss me like I know you want. Like I want you to.”
He did, and to his surprise he found that he did want to - regardless of everything.
She broke the kiss after a long moment, nestling her face against his throat. “Let’s be together, Mac,” she whispered. “Let’s pretend that the world is - that there is no world. Only us. Only now.”
“Natalya - I’m leaving in the morning. I - ”
“Shush.” She covered his mouth with her fingertips and then with her own mouth, whispering, “Call me Natalie.”
xoxox
MacGyver remained where he was, lying on the bed with his good arm over his face. He could easily have been asleep, instead of pretending. His body felt warm and loose and pleasantly exhausted. He listened to the soft sounds of Natalya stirring, slipping out of the bed and gathering her clothes, dressing slowly. Too slowly. As if she wanted him to rouse and stop her.
He heard the drawer ease open with a tiny scrape, the rustle of the papers as she gathered them. Then there was a long moment where he heard nothing, and the flesh on his neck crawled as he waited and waited. Finally, she padded softly away, pausing at the door for another moment before opening it carefully and closing it behind her. The latch clicked with a cold sound.
Mac lowered his arm. The papers were gone-of course. Something bitter and cold flared in his chest. He had hoped-had really wanted Gorodisch to have been wrong about Natalie. But he hadn't been wrong. She had lied to MacGyver-used him-and now she had robbed him. It didn't matter that the papers were planted. She took them and now she was gone. So was his hope.
MacGyver rolled out of bed and dressed quickly. All his essential things were in his small satchel, which he pulled from under the bed. He went to the window and pushed it open, tossing the bag onto the balcony. There was a slight chill in the air - he turned back to get his jacket from where he had dropped it, pulling it awkwardly over his bulky cast. Climbing down wasn’t going to be much fun - he looked down over the rail.
A rope ladder was tied to the rail, bundled up and hidden under a casually draped towel. MacGyver smiled slightly. Gorodisch. He pulled on the string binding the ladder and watched it unfold in a fluid motion. He slipped the strap of his satchel over his shoulder and climbed down quickly. Then he hurried over the grass and into the crowds that thronged the streets of sleepless, night-less Helsinki.
As he walked over the bridge leading to the Port Ferry, he felt something poking him through the lining of his jacket. He reached in and took it out; a royal blue matchbook bearing the name of the Ambassador Hotel in silver letters. He didn’t remember picking them up. He stopped to examine it, leaning against the rail as he flipping it open with his long fingers.
Two words were written inside the cover of the matchbook. Two words that seared his throat closed as he whispered, “Me too, Natalie. I’m sorry too.”
Wind up from the river tugged at the painted cardboard he held, trying to pluck it out of his hands, as if encouraging MacGyver let it go. He found himself wishing that painful memories could be stripped away as easily. He often kept mementos of his journeys, but this time, he did not want to remember.
He dropped the matchbook over the side of the bridge. By the time it fluttered down to sink beneath the sparkling water, MacGyver was nowhere in sight.
Mishka 17, Mata Hari
There’s a scene like this in every detective and spy novel I’ve read. The bedroom scene. Softly lit atmosphere. Silk sheets. Relaxing music playing somewhere. A scent of flowers and musk.
Chandler might have added a thunderstorm.
Fleming would’ve had me order champagne and stick a gun under my pillow.
But this wasn’t a novel or a movie. My stomach was roiling with a meal of anxiety and anger, with a heaping helping of self-disgust for dessert. I couldn’t think about Natalie as KGB - I wanted her to be innocent. I wanted her to feel about me how I felt about her - before.
The lights were out in my room; only the diffused sunlight shining through a gap in the curtains lighting the humble setting. No silk sheets, no champagne in a frosted bucket. Only clean cotton and birdsong through the open window. On the small chest of drawers by the bed, the top drawer slightly open, papers placed in a carefully careless array.
My arm itched under the cast, and my feet itched to be moving - running away from this scene where I felt part of myself would surely die - maybe a lot of myself, if the KGB decided to drop their gloves and skip the intrigue. I should be so lucky - I’d’ve preferred a stand-up fight to this.
The waiting was the worst part. I stood by the window, arms braced against the sill, staring out at the mocking blue sky. Somewhere out there under that sky, my teammates were competing in the rifle trials. I’d even rather be handling a gun right now!
Tomorrow they would be running cross-country - and I’d be running, too, but in an altogether different direction. If they won, they’d go to Moscow for the Olympics. If I lost my race, I’d be heading to Moscow, too… possibly a destination further east. Siberia, for example.
I hear the gulags are lovely this time of year…
xoxox
Natalya sat in her own room, staring blankly at the second bed.
The roommate she had originally been assigned had long since been moved out: a lucky coincidence, she had thought, when her uncle had first come to her. Now she realized that the KGB must have arranged it, so that she would have a place for her uncle to hide, where she would think he’d be safe.
There are no safe places, she thought bitterly. There is only obedience and duty.
Mikhail was the perfect lever over her; she desperately wanted to help him. And it would be he who suffered, if she balked or failed in this task. She might get a reprimand - at worst, maybe lose her visa privileges and her place on the Olympic team - but he would go to prison. Or worse.
She thrust that idea from her. It would never happen! Not when it was in her power to prevent it!
And she’d make sure the KGB lived up to their promises. She had insisted on documents guaranteeing her uncle’s continued safety. Her father had the power to make sure they kept their word - they would not dare to harass Mikhail after this.
Now all that was left was to work herself up to this - this job.
Natalya hugged herself to still the fluttering fear and excitement struggling for dominance inside her heart. This should be easy - she did care for MacGyver - certainly she was attracted to him. Had been from the moment she had seen him, fumbling with his keys in the corridor, flashing that smile at her that made her forget for a moment her own name.
She felt tears behind her eyes as she thought about him, and she closed them, pressed her fists against her eyes firmly. She was determined not to let the tears fall.
She took a deep breath, sitting up straight and squaring her shoulders. She ran her fingers through her hair and then shook herself, just as she would had she been preparing for another Trial. She stood and headed toward the bathroom, shedding her clothes. She stood under the pounding fists of the water, as hot as she could stand it, hoping that this wouldn’t be the last time in her life she could feel clean.
xoxox
The knock on the door was so soft, so timid - Mac thought he might have imagined hearing it. The sound repeated an instant later, stronger. He opened the door and simply stood.
“What’s the matter?”
MacGyver blinked. “What? Nothing... why?”
Natalya blushed and smiled. “You’ve been standing there staring at me. Is there something - ?” she reached up uncertainly toward her hair.
Mac swallowed. “It’s just that you look - lovely. Sorry! I guess I’m kinda out of it.” He smiled reassuringly at her and stepped back to turn and reach for his jacket. “Where would you like to go?”
Natalya stepped inside the door and pushed it closed behind her. “I - I’d rather stay in, if you don’t mind.”
MacGyver let his jacket drop from his hand. “I was thinking the same thing... only I didn’t want to be selfish and deny the folks in Helsinki the chance to see the next Olympic star.”
She pulled a bottle out of her jacket. “Best vodka from Russia. Perfect to celebrate. Or to forget.”
“Um...” MacGyver shook his head slightly. “No thanks. I don't drink.”
“Not at all? But everyone drinks!”
“Not everyone.” He smiled and took the bottle from her, setting it on the table. “Perhaps we should go out.”
Natalya laughed lightly, her eyes sparking. “Considering the bad luck you’ve had,” she touched the rigid cast covering his arm gently, “I thought it might be safer in here. And - ” she hesitated; her face flushed brightly. She covered her embarrassment by turning and dropping her own jacket on the floor on top of Mac’s. “I’d rather keep you all to myself. Since you have to - to go. Soon.” She ran her fingers up the length of the cast to his shoulder. “Does it hurt?” she asked softly, stepping close to him.
“No - not much. It - um - itches a little.” Mac looked down into her face, lovely with color and framed by her golden hair. She smelled fresh and clean and her hands were warm as she circled his neck with her arms and drew herself up to his lips.
Mac found his arms had minds of their own; he gathered her to him, mindful of the heavy cast, and held her firmly against him, drinking in the kiss. He could feel her body trembling.
When she released his mouth, he drew his head back a little and looked at her. “Natalya... you don’t have to - ”
“Shut up, MacGyver. Shut up and kiss me. Kiss me like I know you want. Like I want you to.”
He did, and to his surprise he found that he did want to - regardless of everything.
She broke the kiss after a long moment, nestling her face against his throat. “Let’s be together, Mac,” she whispered. “Let’s pretend that the world is - that there is no world. Only us. Only now.”
“Natalya - I’m leaving in the morning. I - ”
“Shush.” She covered his mouth with her fingertips and then with her own mouth, whispering, “Call me Natalie.”
xoxox
MacGyver remained where he was, lying on the bed with his good arm over his face. He could easily have been asleep, instead of pretending. His body felt warm and loose and pleasantly exhausted. He listened to the soft sounds of Natalya stirring, slipping out of the bed and gathering her clothes, dressing slowly. Too slowly. As if she wanted him to rouse and stop her.
He heard the drawer ease open with a tiny scrape, the rustle of the papers as she gathered them. Then there was a long moment where he heard nothing, and the flesh on his neck crawled as he waited and waited. Finally, she padded softly away, pausing at the door for another moment before opening it carefully and closing it behind her. The latch clicked with a cold sound.
Mac lowered his arm. The papers were gone-of course. Something bitter and cold flared in his chest. He had hoped-had really wanted Gorodisch to have been wrong about Natalie. But he hadn't been wrong. She had lied to MacGyver-used him-and now she had robbed him. It didn't matter that the papers were planted. She took them and now she was gone. So was his hope.
MacGyver rolled out of bed and dressed quickly. All his essential things were in his small satchel, which he pulled from under the bed. He went to the window and pushed it open, tossing the bag onto the balcony. There was a slight chill in the air - he turned back to get his jacket from where he had dropped it, pulling it awkwardly over his bulky cast. Climbing down wasn’t going to be much fun - he looked down over the rail.
A rope ladder was tied to the rail, bundled up and hidden under a casually draped towel. MacGyver smiled slightly. Gorodisch. He pulled on the string binding the ladder and watched it unfold in a fluid motion. He slipped the strap of his satchel over his shoulder and climbed down quickly. Then he hurried over the grass and into the crowds that thronged the streets of sleepless, night-less Helsinki.
As he walked over the bridge leading to the Port Ferry, he felt something poking him through the lining of his jacket. He reached in and took it out; a royal blue matchbook bearing the name of the Ambassador Hotel in silver letters. He didn’t remember picking them up. He stopped to examine it, leaning against the rail as he flipping it open with his long fingers.
Two words were written inside the cover of the matchbook. Two words that seared his throat closed as he whispered, “Me too, Natalie. I’m sorry too.”
Wind up from the river tugged at the painted cardboard he held, trying to pluck it out of his hands, as if encouraging MacGyver let it go. He found himself wishing that painful memories could be stripped away as easily. He often kept mementos of his journeys, but this time, he did not want to remember.
He dropped the matchbook over the side of the bridge. By the time it fluttered down to sink beneath the sparkling water, MacGyver was nowhere in sight.