CC3
"Ilya?"
He looked up from the repair work, busy hands stilling. His expression, partially hidden behind the curtain of his hair, was gently inquisitive, like when the name of a puppy was called. It was an expression entirely free of guile but not entirely empty of suspicion. There was a wariness, a readying of the body to flinch. His shoulders, clearly visible in his tank top and graced with a dancer's muscle, were pulled tight with tension. The softness of his movements were incongruous with the body he possessed. He did not look as if he could be careful and yet he appeared to be fixing something as intricate as clockwork, working with a tiny slip of a screwdriver, nails pulling apart wires as thin as string. It wasn't even immediately clear that what he was repairing was a weapon. His shoulders relaxed when she came into view, eyes flickering over her, analysing her body language, every shift and twitch. She was not in trouble. She was not hurt. She was not angry. She was not carrying instructions. It was just them - as much as it was ever just them. Beyond this room, there were soldiers. There were always soldiers.
"Yes?" "I was wondering where you'd got to." He decided not to mention that there were very few places he could have been found. Free reign they did not have. She came and sat beside him on the sofa, looking over the project laid on the table. After a moment of observing her, he returned back to his ministrations, allowing the silence to sit comfortably between them. Her shoulder touched his companionably. Hers was still bruised from the last mission, a fading set of stripes in yellow and purple, imprints from a particularly vicious combat boot. Her arm had been yanked right out of joint before being slammed back in again. To others, they would still be out of action. To her, it was a Tuesday. His own panged with sympathetic pain. Sometimes he could have sworn that when she was hurt, the wounds showed up on him, invisible but just as painful. When she was punched, he felt it.
As if reading his mind (another possibility that did not seem improbable), she touched his shoulder gently and smiled. Her fingers were cold but he did not shiver. They were born in ice after all. The snow ran in their bones. Snow and howling wolves. The touch was over all too soon. If it was anyone else, he would have shuddered away, repulsed at the idea of touch. She didn't count though. With her, he couldn't get enough. A soul could not recoil from itself. He did not abhor the mirror if the mirror was her.
Tomorrow, they would be shipped out again. A new assignment delivered to their handlers, then delivered to them. Who knew where they would be? So, for the moment, he would breathe in the calm of this room and he would enjoy the quiet before the all too loud world crashed into them.
