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shutter hues (12/?)

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Djadja - uncle Tjotja - aunt

*Both are not necessarily biological; for instance, it can refer to the kindly storekeeper down the street that always gives the kids extra candy that everyone affectionately calls uncle.

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-

There is a stiff lump on the slope of his shoulders, the part that Ivan vaguely recalls is called the trapezius muscle. It's sore and it hurts when Ivan rolls his shoulders, and Gilbert grimaces when he pokes it.

"Not that I don't like hard muscles," he comments, kneading it, "but what have you been doing for your muscles to get this tight?"

"Slouch, probably," Ivan manages, wincing as Gilbert struggles to work out the knot.

"Really? Because I think it's 'cause you're too stressed," Gilbert chides. He switches tactics and digs his elbow in instead; Ivan resists the urge to whimper. "You're lucky that I know how to do massages, or you're going to end up with back problems when you're older."

"Forgot older: I already have back problems now," Ivan grumbles, then hisses at a particularly rough kneading.

There's also the headache that he doesn't tell Gilbert: his head pounding to the beat of his heart. It'll be nice if Gilbert can knead it away too, but such pains can only be alleviated, not eradicated; Ivan's learnt as much. He's already learnt to ignore such inevitablities as much as is possible.

"How do you manage to destroy your body this much," Gilbert grouses, "what the heck have you been doing?"

Frankly? Nothing much, just that a few high-ranking officers decide to take a trip down over because apparently interest in Berlin's strategic importance is renewed again and Ivan has to work with Pap to coordinate with the personal bodyguards and the German security personnel, how fucking fun. He doesn't tell Gilbert as much, because that's just asking for trouble. "Guarding duties," he says instead, which is technically not a lie. "Many guarding duties."

"Is that why you come over right after your shift is over without even bothering to head home to take a nap?" Ivan protests that he is still too wired up to sleep. "I can tell; you need to relax. Your job is stressful and boring."

"It is," Ivan confirms, "there's not even a single assassination attempt." But the amount of bureaucratic coordination has assassinated his will to live. "I'm tired. I want a reassignment."

Gilbert laughs. "Then what will you do?"

"I'll be a superspy - I'll be fucking Stierlitz." He hopes whichever Stasi officer listening to this knows enough Russian pop culture to get a laugh out of this.

Gilbert evidently does not. "Who's Sterlitz?"

"Never mind, I-" He's cut off as Gilbert finally works the knot out of his shoulder, a pained yelp before slumping over onto Gilbert's bed. "Ow."

"If you fall asleep like that, you'll wake up with a sore neck."

"I'm not sleeping," Ivan complains lazily, "who's sleeping? The sun is nice and bright today, I'm not wasting the day sleeping."

"You Russians and your sunshine," Gilbert mocks, "it's not a Siberian winter, you know."

"One: it's the British and their sunshine, and secondly," Ivan retorts, "what about you Germans and your nudity."

"Oh. You want to go to a nudist beach?"

"No."

"Prudes," Gilbert snorts, flopping down beside him. "You sure you don't want to nap? You can have the bed: I'm heading out."

Ivan immediately pushes himself up on his elbow. "Head out? Where?"

"Down to the Weisser See."

"That lake?" Ivan wrinkles his nose. "What's there to do?"

Gilbert waves flippantly. "Parks," he begins, holding up a finger, "history and heritage, nature, people - tada!"

"Oh, you want to do landscape photos."

"That too," Gilbert agrees. "Have I ever told you? I want to document every single part of East Berlin. Can't believe it took me this long to get to this one."

That's a curious one. Gilbert has said many things about his love for photography, and this variation is the first of its kind. "Why?"

"I want to preserve a memory of all these before they are gone." He shrugs, dismissive, but there's longingness in his eyes - a strange melancholy uncharacteristic on a man as boisterous as Gilbert. "You know how it is: places develop and transform over time, and the old have to make way for the new. It's just... I thought of Mutti telling me about Dresden once being the Florence of the North, and I thought: I want my grandkids to see the beauty of the world that I'm looking at."

"That's poignant," Ivan replies, "write that down for the press release of your next exhibition."

"Don't mock me." Gilbert yanks the blanket sharply from under Ivan; Ivan stumbles off the bed and rolls to a crouch on the floor.

"I'm not mocking you - I'm serious. That was beautifully put. Write it down."

Gilbert snorts. "If it means so little to me that I would forget if I didn't write it down, then that's not the essence of the exhibition at all."

There is something in Gilbert's tone - something grim and too serious, that makes Ivan focus and watch Gilbert closely. Gilbert tenses his shoulders. "What?" he snaps.

"Nothing," says Ivan, "just - this project means a lot to you, doesn't it?"

"It means something," Gilbert answers, flippant, before making his way to the cupboard to fish out his equipment. Ivan gets up, and although what he wants to do is to draw Gilbert into a hug, to wrap his arms around Gilbert's waist and tucks Gilbert's back against his own chest, Ivan knows better. Instead, he helps Gilbert make the bed like a housewife with a propensity for orderliness, then kneads the pain at his own temples with his knuckles that quickly transforms into big sweeps at his fringe when Gilbert turns back around.

"So you're coming along?" Gilbert asks, adjusting his straps, his satchel filled and camera looped around his neck.

Ivan shrugs. "As you said: I need a break," he answers, and that's that, then.

-

The park has only smatterings of visitors, and the skies are blue and bright and accompanied with a calm breeze, the gentleness of wind that ruffles their hair and kisses their cheeks. There are even birds chirping.

The scene is so comfortable, so mundane, so, so edenic. Ivan hates it.

"Nice weather today," Ivan comments, watching Gilbert trots ahead.

"Bullshit: it's awesome weather," Gilbert corrects, "holy shit, did you see that?"

"See what?"

"That man walking five dogs," Gilbert replies, awed. "He's living the dream." He takes a hurried snap. "Wait, let me go talk to him."

Ivan walks down the trail of the most deserted side of the lake, toeing the edges of the coastline without getting his boots wet. There is a pier at the end; Ivan sits down on it, legs dangling above the water.

He rubs between his eyes before leaning back on his palms. It is a good day, the kind that spurs content in people's hearts and has them waxing poetics about nature's glory. It won't look out of place for some retired old man to bring his grandson fishing here, right at this very spot; he remembers Djadja Nikolai and their fishing trips down by the stream. It was boring, at first, just holding the rod straight; then Djadja switches tactic and takes off his shirt, smoothly netting up a herring.

(Of course, even in that triumphant afternoon, Djadja can't quite keep the grief from his sad eyes. Djadja has always been a sad man: too different to seek comfort in family, but too stubborn to roll over and die. Djadja lives melancholy like it is his ambrosia, lives life like it's a slow suicide, and in the end, when Djadja is found in a dingy motel room with a gun in his hand and blood splattered across the walls, Ivan only felt relief.)

But the point is not Djadja's tragic murmur of a life; the point is that memories of fishing are always accompanied with a rosy sheen for Ivan that speaks of youthful vivacity that matches Gilbert much more than it is ever associated with Djadja, fortunately.

But Weisser See has too many people swimming in it for it to be an ideal fishing location. The fish are probably scrawny. Maybe Ivan can suggest a trip back to Russia; Gilbert is always talking about wanting to travel.

He is broken from his reverie with the sound of a familiar click; look up, and it's Gilbert, grinning down over his camera.

"I thought you stopped doing that?"

"Me?" Gilbert places a hand mockingly on his chest. "Stop taking pictures of you?" His grin widens. "Never."

"That's not fair: I have never taken any pictures of you."

Gilbert laughs. "That's because you're not the photographer." He settles down, letting his feet swing over the water surface, and knocks their ankles together. The quiet that settles is nice and comfortable, and it is all very new for Ivan, a quiet this gentle.

Then Gilbert clears his throat. "Do you want to?" Gilbert dangles his camera. "You can play photographer for a day."

There is really nothing to lose here. Ivan shrugs. "Why not?" Gilbert grins, immediately clamouring to his feet. Ivan follows suit, taking Gilbert's hand to pull himself up. "Thanks."

Gilbert drops his satchel on the pier before looping the camera's strap over Ivan's neck. He briefly explains the basic controls, telling Ivan to aim at some trees and that fountain in the distance before deeming him capable enough of not accidentally destroying the camera with careless fiddling. Gilbert hangs back, now, the horizon of the lake stretching from his ribs a perfect parallel to his outstretched arms. "There you go," he announces, "amateur photographer at work."

Ivan holds the camera up, squinting into the viewfinder. It's a good picture: fair composition, big grin, the light is just right, and yet his fingers hesitate above the shutter. Gilbert starts to frown. "What's wrong-"

Ivan darts forward and shoves Gilbert into the water.

Gilbert squawks when he breaks the water with an embarrassingly huge splash. Ivan hurriedly snaps a few photographs. When Gilbert resurfaces, he's spluttering and his face is red as he shrieks, "Oh the hell with you!"

Ivan continues snapping.

"Hey, stop that!" Gilbert waddles towards the pier. This close to the shore, the water is only waist-high. "Come on, stop-" Ivan shoves Gilbert back into the water when Gilbert tries to get up, snorting when Gilbert slips at the third attempt to claw his way up. "Ivan, fucking stop. You're wasting my film!"

"I'll buy more for you," Ivan promises, still snapping away.

"Stop snapping, asshole." Gilbert makes to lurch, but Ivan only leans away. And because he can be a little shit, Ivan tuts.

"Make me," Ivan retorts, not quite keeping the smug smile away from his face. "You can't drag me into the water with you because I am holding your camera."

"I can still get your pant legs wet," Gilbert retorts, splashing warningly. Ivan takes another step back. "No, I actually can't," Gilbert admits. "You little shit. Help me up."

Ivan stretches out a hand. Just as Gilbert is about to grab it, Ivan snatches his hand back, leaving Gilbert flailing as he tumbles down again with an even bigger splash.

Ivan roars.

"Oh fuck you, Ivan!" Gilbert wipes his face furiously on his equally drenched sleeve. "No, stop - stop laughing, you-"

"I'm sorry," says Ivan, wiping at his eyes, "you make it so easy." Another picture.

"I helped you up, and this is how you treat me? Rude." Gilbert huffs, kicking the water disgruntedly.

"You know you love me regardless," Ivan teases. Gilbert rolls his eyes. "Please let me keep some pictures of this."

"And give you embarrassing materials to blackmail me with?" Gilbert retorts. When Ivan can't stop smiling at him, his glare softens. "Yeah sure, sure; it's your first work as a photographer after all - even if it is at my expense." He splashes water onto the pier. "I am really going to try to get your boots wet."

"I love how you constantly lower your standards for me," Ivan teases, ignoring Gilbert's scowl as he unloops the camera from his neck. Then, turning the camera towards himself and stretching out his arm as far as he can, he crouches at the edge of the pier. "Come on, Gilbert, smile into the camera."

"You bet," Gilbert mutters, waddling over. "I'm going to out-smile you."

"Sure you are." The click of the shutter once. Twice, thrice - and it's done. "In case you blinked."

"You are so full of shit." Ivan ignores him and lowers the camera gingerly onto the satchel. "Hey, don't worry, I never let any of my films get damaged," Gilbert says. There is a gentle tilt at the corners of his mouth that Ivan hesitates to call fondness. "But since you took three, you can pop by my office someday and I'll develop an extra copy of your favourite for you."

"That'll be nice," Ivan agrees. The sun refracts off the drops hanging off Gilbert's hair like dew, small glowing globs of white light condensed. "Come on, let's get you out of the water."

"You will not retract your hand at the last moment," Gilbert threatens, but takes Ivan's hand without hesitation. Gilbert's palms are wet and slimy and Ivan ends up having to grab Gilbert's elbow to pull him out, painfully aware of the water dripping all over. "Look at what you've done."

"I have performed a work of art," Ivan answers solemnly. "A hilarious work of art. It is a commentary on trust issues."

"Hardy ha ha, shut up, Ivan." Gilbert grunts as he wrings the water out of his shirt. It doesn't seem to help much. When he releases it, the shirt slaps wetly back against skin.

"I'm sorry," says Ivan, earnest. "No wait, I'm not that sorry."

"You-"

"Sir!" Ivan turns instinctively, and yup, it's for him. There is an unknown guard waving at them before turning around to yell something at... Roman. Huh.

Roman is flushed and flustered as he runs towards them. "Thank god you're here," he manages breathlessly. "I just got a call, and you need to come back to the office right now. There's-" He cuts himself off abruptly when he finally notices Gilbert. "Oh. Hi?"

Gilbert waves vaguely.

"Give me a moment," Ivan instructs, "and for fuck's sake, someone get him a jacket."

The unknown guard salutes before running off. Roman takes a few steps back, angling his body away in the universal body language of 'don't mind me, just fading into the background right here'. Ivan faces Gilbert. "I'm sorry," he begins awkwardly, "but something urgent's cropped up and I need to-"

"You gotta go." Gilbert nods grimly. "Yeah, I get it."

"I am truly sorry."

"I said I know, Ivan," Gilbert snaps. "Just get to it."

The unnamed guard returns with a thick jacket, probably plucked off some bench somewhere while the owner is off for a swim. Ivan gives an apologetic nod, smiling weakly; he hasn't noticed it earlier, but now there's a forlorn lonesomeness about Gilbert, standing soaked and alone and confused as he stares after them. It's almost pathetic, watching the slight chills of Gilbert's body as water drips off him.

"I'll make it up to you," promises Ivan, and without a second glance backwards, hurries off.

-

"How did Feliks escape?!" he shouts. Sasha winces and angles away. "How did he escape on our watch? On my watch!"

"I'm sorry, sir," says one of the uniformed guards that Ivan has never bothered learning the name of, "but the prison break was a highly-skilled job. When we-"

"Ivan Mikhailovich?" The officers that interrupt them with their approach are foreign and authoritative in a way that has Ivan squaring his shoulders. "Please follow us this way."

"Sasha, deal with this," Ivan commands before following the officers down the corridor, feeling an inmate on the death row marching his final steps.

He is lucky to have an interrogation; most failures don't, and their own continued existence is the only proof of the brass's decision to tolerate mistakes.

Even then, most interrogations go the same way: high-ranking men with their back to the window and the light haloing them, four looming shadows behind an oval table cataloguing your every answer.

Pap is among them. It doesn't seem to matter. Ivan swallows the pulsating heartbeats at the dip of his jugular, and salutes. "Sir."

His captaincy is mentioned (Dryly, "What impressive valour you must have exhibited to be captain at this age.") and his loyalties questioned, a push and forth that has Ivan dully reciting political opinions he can't remember where he heard them from. Pap, probably; Pap taught him most of his world the way Mama's ruthlessness can't. It's the same push and pull that Ivan is drilled to handle - always the same push and pull, and Ivan leaves the room with a final chance and a red cross painted over his heart.

He does not realise he's holding his breath until the door closes behind him.

-

It takes him too long to notice Sasha waiting for him outside his office.

(Here's a thing that Ivan said that he doesn't remember:

Pap said it first, told this to him, to all of them, once upon a time. Told it to both him and Ira and Natasha, all of them young and huddled around Pap's feet after Pap just read them a story, Mama a shadow in the background watching over them through the corner of her eyes that are sharp as a hawk and sad like Djadja's.

"It is easier to sympathise with the enemy when you haven't seen their cruelty," he has said, Ivan will say in that little room with the oval table, and it will earn that crinkle at the corners of the eyes of the Polkovnik that hints of an ally.

And Ivan, then, a child - Ivan has blinked, wide-eyed and impressionable. "And that is bad?" he asks.

"It makes us complacent," Pap answers, "and we lower our guards too much."

"But what if it is this - this peace that takes away our enemy's cruelty?" Ira presses. She's always been precocious and more sensitive than everyone else. "Maybe we don't see their cruelty because there is no cause to be cruel. Won't that be better for everyone?"

In that dim orange light by the fire, Ivan remembers that Pap's eyes are strangely luminous, light dancing with shadows on Pap's pupils. "Darling," he says, "but peace doesn't last.")"I got us a warrant to rummage through Stasi archives," Ivan reveals, unlocking the door. "I also got myself voluntary work down at the public welfare sector, so it's time to steel myself against angry, hysterical civilians that I have to slough through ineffectual paperwork for."

Sasha grimaces. "And in the meantime," he replies, "I'll dig around and see what they'll try to hide before you waltz in and turn the place over."

"I'm jealous," Ivan retorts dryly. "Really. Your paperwork is so much more important than mine. Speaking of which, I just dug up some files on Feliks that you may want to look over. There can't be a paper trail so you'll have to memorise-"

"Just pass them to me; I'll filter out the details I need." Sasha halts Ivan by clutching on both his shoulders. "But you, sir, need to rest. You look like you hadn't slept in three days."

That's because Ivan hasn't. He's only managed a light doze between his shifts and bureaucratic management, and before that, there was the whole gruelling planning process to get to: sleep hasn't been on the top of Ivan's priorities in quite some while.

"I'll be fine," says Ivan, "back to the topic-"

Sasha grunts threateningly.

"Sasha, I can still mark you down for insubordination."

"Ivan," Sasha interrupts with an impression that can at best be described as disgruntled. "Sir. I'm saying this as a fellow human being, not as a concerned friend. You need to look in a mirror and then go to sleep."

Ivan winces. "That bad?"

"Worse," Sasha says. He clears his throat, all gruff and squared shoulders. "Trust me to look after the squad for you, sir."

"Don't say that - I may suspect a mutiny."

Sasha snorts. "I got my lone wolf reputation to uphold," he retorts, "can't go all mutinous and become a leader if I still want to allegedly hate everyone."

"My noble vassal, my gallant knight in shiny armour," Ivan teases, "guarding distant lands under my flag."

"Very funny," Sasha replies dryly. Then, sardonically, "My Liege."

Ivan laughs.

-

Ivan is not expecting Mama to look as though on the verge of collapse when he reaches home.

It seems Ivan is not getting his sleep after all.

"What happened?" He hurries to her, lets her clutch onto his arms. "Mama, mama, what's going on?"

"Natshechka is gone!" she wails. "She's run off!" Her eyes widen. "Do you think-"

"No, Mama," he answers too quickly. Both Pap and he have made sure that their work never follows them home, but now with Ira... he's not so sure anymore.

Mama seems to sense his distress, her nails digging deeper. Then, struggling to regain composure, she pulls herself up and flicks away the traces of hysteria off the edges of shining eyes. "Vanya, please find her."

"I will, Mama, I-" He helps her to a seat. "Have you called Pap?"

"Shortly, just before you arrived."

"Ok," says Ivan. "Ok, I'll need to go look for her now, Mama. I'll need to leave."

"Don't go," Mama beseeches helplessly. She's clawing onto his sleeves. "Stay with me."

"I need to leave to find her. I'll get-" Dima, but he's not here anymore, "-Tjotja Masha from next door to stay with you, alright? I think Pap will send some guards over too."

Mama's hands tighten before slowing folding onto her own lap. Ivan pours her a glass of water, first, before leaving the apartment, their own door left wide open, to knock on the neighbour's door. "Tjotja," he greets when Masha opens her door, and Masha is adequately shocked that Mama has been freaking out for the past hour without seeking help from the neighbours.

There is no way to explain trauma to a woman who has never suffered unadulterated desperation, but Masha is a sympathetic soul with a kindness never tested. "I will stay with her for however long she needs," Masha promises.

"Thank you, tjotja," says Ivan with more feeling than he thought himself capable.

He has contacts on the streets, petty delinquents and dangerous gangsters that owed Ivan favours for all the leeway he allowed them. ("You still owe me 37 favours, Kolyan," Ivan points out, earning him a scowl.)

He calls some of the off-duty guards that he can spare on the way to keep an eye out, and by the time he's gotten to the office, Roman has turned up in uniform. "Sir," he greets, a looseness in him that speaks of getting up too early too fast, "what do you need me to do?"

Find Natasha. "Is Sasha here?"

Roman falters. "I can go get him."

"No, no: let him handle official business." Ivan pinches between his eyes. "Can you get the timetable and rearrange the shifts? Cover for me."

"Yeah, sir, of course." Roman chews on his lip, as though holding back words. When Ivan raises his eyebrows, Roman swallows. "I know now is not the time, sir," he says, "but this whole fiasco is making some of our newer members nervous." He wets his lips. "Especially Karl and Petto. They -"

"You're right, now is not the time," Ivan interjects. "They'll be fine. See to the shifts."

He twists the key in before Roman can protest, and then the lock clicks and the mind swiftly processes and Ivan -

Ivan stops.

"My office is not locked," Ivan says, a strange calm settling over him. "Someone's been in. Who came to my office while I'm gone?"

"No one, sir," answers Roman, doubts colouring his voice, "maybe Sasha?"

"I really don't have time for this," Ivan murmurs, inching the door open carefully. When nothing happens, he pushes it further apart. "Wait here," he instructs Roman, and swiftly pulls out gloves from his pocket.

On his desk is a thick manila envelope.

Ivan holds his breath.

"Do you think it's a bomb," Ivan finally says, "or a message from Natasha?"

"What if it's from Feliks, sir?" Roman whispers.

Ivan stares at the envelope, then scans the room. He breathes deeply for one, two, ten seconds; then he goes to examine his drawers and cupboards. He's been searched, but the most important documents are still locked away. "Call for the forensics to take a look at it," he commands, mind forcibly blank, and Roman obeys.

-

"Goga," Ivan says, straightening up, and Goga with a Y enters the room with the missives.

"Sir," he salutes.

(And here is the scene that no one sees: Ivan, slumped over his desk, just a while ago. He feels wrecked. He feels like shit, if said shit has been churned and pounded and then processed into fertiliser and sucked up by the greediest neediest plant to ever exist.

Even if everything that matters is still kept under lock - even then, he knows that the brass now knows that there are some documents Ivan needs to turn up, secrets that Ivan has to account for.

It could be worse: Ivan could have left personal pictures lying around, instead of only state-endorsed certificates and recognised achievements. That, then, is future leverage - damning, to let them know that he holds family so dear to his heart: Pap and sir being conflated. Ira actually meaning something to him.

His team and him being that close - especially the old fellows, those that plough through sludge and gritted through the hazing and backed Ivan through his brutal rise.

Gilbert, who's not just a friend, seen through every slight tilt of the head, the comfortable lean into each other's spaces, the unlying eyes that whisper subconsciously to one's instincts that it is something more.

Ivan's hands tremble, just a little. He clenches it.)

"Just leave these here," Ivan instructs. "I'll take a look at them later." After he finds Natasha. "I have a task for you, Goga: guard this office without letting anyone realise that you're watching. Can you do that?"

"Yessir," Goga Y answers stiffly.

There is something about Goga Y's tone that has Ivan looking twice. Ivan gives him a hard look; Goga Y barely reacts. Ivan is strangely reminded of a petulant child. "Goga," he begins, "take a seat."

Natasha will have to wait, Ivan decides anxiously, because above all he is also the leader, and a leader looks after his followers and takes note of jealousy within the ranks. "Goga," Ivan tries, "you've been with me for a long time: do you think Roman is ready for his promotion?"

"I don't see why not."

"Won't you think he needs more experience first?"

"Sir," Goga Y replies, testy, "if you are concerned about my feelings, then don't: I fully accept Roman's promotion."

And that's the opening Ivan needs. "You may accept it," says Ivan, "but that doesn't mean you're happy about it."

"I'm fine," Goga Y grits, "sir."

"No resentment?" Ivan baits. "No questions?"

"What will change if I say that I am upset, sir?" Goga Y snaps. "Will that get me a promotion?"

"No," Ivan answers slowly, "but it can get you an explanation."

"I don't need it. I know why you chose him. He's got the demeanour for it. I don't. I'm not, not charismatic enough." He pauses, suppressing a shudder, and Ivan waits. "You need someone to replace Dima, and Dima's best at people. I'm not someone like that - Roman is."

"I'm sorry," Ivan says, sincerely, "you're a very loyal man, Goga." The oldest friend that Ivan has, now that Dima is gone. Even Sasha, with his steadfast solidness, is someone he found in the latter half of national service, not the brother-in-arms that Dima have pulled into their circle from day one."But I have to think for the team, not just for myself."

"I know, and I don't fault you for it." Goga Y slaps both palms onto his knees. "If that is all, I'll be -"

"There is something else still bothering you," Ivan cuts in. "You're not leaving until you confess everything."

"There's nothing else, sir -"

"Goga."

"It's just -" Goga Y visibly swallows. "I just hate that everyone forgets I'm in the squad, first. Having two Gogas? Yeah, that's funny at first, because Dima makes everything funny, but he's gone now and I'm Goga Y. Fuck, what a mouthful." He makes to spit, until he recalls that he's in Ivan's office.

Ivan hasn't thought about it like that, and he says so. "I didn't know," he admits. "I'm sorry that I hadn't notice. Hadn't notice it bothering you."

"I," Goga Y bites out uncomfortably, face flushed with humiliation, "I'm Goga first. I don't want to compromise. Egor -" Goga E, "- can pick another short name."

Ivan doesn't know what to say. "I'll talk to him."

"Yeah. Yeah, that'll be nice." Goga Y stands, clearing his throat. "Thank you, sir."

"It's the least I can do," says Ivan, and that's true, too, for a man like Goga Y.

-

The night is disgustingly chilly, and Ivan is even more disgustingly sweaty from all his running about.

It is only the dramatic tendencies of fate, then, that Ivan will chance upon a glaring Natasha squatting at the doorsteps of a church while he is soaked in sweat, the church bells chiming the arrival of midnight, and Tolys staring up at Ivan with opaque eyes from beside Natasha.

"Fuck off," says Natasha.

"No will do," says Ivan, "you gave Mama a fright."

"Maybe she'll finally make an expression other than intense calm now," Natasha grumbles. Tolys frowns disapprovingly at her. "Well I'm sorry if I offend your virtuous sensibilities on filial piety."

"Natasha," says Ivan, tiredly, "is this about Ira?"

"Of course this is about Ira!" Natasha cries. "And how none of you fucking cares that she's gone."

"Don't be stupid - of course we do."

"It doesn't look like it!" Natasha yells. "The way you say it makes it sound like you're talking about the weather rather than my sister."

"Natasha-"

"No. I don't want to hear it."

"Natasha," Tolys soothes, "there is no point agitating yourself. Go inside and sit on the pews. I'll talk to him."

"And then you'll tell him to leave."

"I will," says Tolys, "now go inside."

Natasha stomping away will probably appear more effective if she hasn't done so with the grace of a ballerina; downsides of the sky-high heels she wears, Ivan thinks. With her gone, it is like the fall of the curtains - the scene has ended, the suspend-disbelief gone, and a strange chill settles over both of them.

"Tolys," Ivan greets.

Tolys ignores it. "Your own cousin," he accuses, eyes burning in the moonlight, shiny like the rosary he does not believe in that hangs around his neck.

Irony, Tolys is. Ivan never knows what to do with him.

"She broke the law," says Ivan simply, "and she got caught."

“But she's family, and yet you don't even appear the least upset." Tolys shakes his head. "I hate everything you stand for, do you know that?"

"You've said that before."

"And I mean it each and every time," Tolys replies icily. "Is it any surprise that Natasha ran off?"

"No," Ivan admits, "but running off to a fake layman? That is a first." He runs his eyes up and down Tolys's attire. "So, is the church harbouring traitors now, or is this an infiltration?" He tilts his head in consideration. "Although I supposed this is an infiltration either way: a revolutionary into state-controlled institutions, and a pagan onto Christian grounds."

"What do you want?"

"I'm simply curious," says Ivan. "You weren't supposed to ever appear in front of me again. What are you trying to pull, befriending Natasha?"

"I'm not pulling anything; I just thought she needs a friend who isn't one of your crazy family."

"Ohh. So you like her."

Tolys ignores that, too, the same way he ignores semantics in pursuit of his goals. It's a strength, Ivan thinks, a stubborn adaptability that makes Tolys so dangerous and Ivan so fond of him. "German churches are less susceptible to Soviet control," Tolys answers, almost a non-sequitur until Ivan remembers his earlier question. "I'm secure here. Will you take that away from me too?"

Ivan smiles. "You'll know soon enough." Then, quietly, "Will you let me pass?"

Because Ivan knows Tolys and Tolys knows Ivan, much as Ivan loathes to admit, he knows Tolys will relent. Family is family, for both of them, and Natasha's angry lashing out is not a solution to all the creaks in the system that Ivan stands for and Tolys seeks to tear down. Tolys will rather Natasha ignorant but safe, too, the same way Ivan shields her from the consequences of the world he knows.

"We both know Natasha needs to learn to move on," Ivan adds. Mutters, like an afterthought. "Ira never stood a chance the moment she's arrested, you know?"

There is a pregnant pause, something flickering in Tolys's eyes that Ivan doesn't want to examine. "Maybe," says Tolys, body language still stiff, but he's already moving aside.

It's a truce, of sorts. "Thank you," Ivan whispers as he passes.

He's not sure, but he thinks he hears Tolys bites out, "I don't want your thanks."

Ivan ignores it; he's not sure anyway.

In the dim night, the moon glowing through the window, there is a curious solemnity about the night that makes even the lightest conversation more intimate and grave. The world slows to the milliseconds: quiet, precious.

Natasha sits facing the cross, visage turned towards the ceiling and eyes close, a pearly statue of a saint in repose. She shifts when Ivan approaches.

"I knew I shouldn't trust Tolys," Natasha grumbles. Ivan takes a seat on the pew right behind her, and Natasha shuffles so that her body is facing him, even though her eyes are cast determinedly away.

"You shouldn't," Ivan concurs cheerfully. "He's a revolutionary."

"What?"

"Don't worry, I won't arrest him," Ivan continues, "I let him live once, I can let him live again. But he owes me a life."

Natasha blinks. "Does Pap know?"

"Nope."

"He shouldn't know," she agrees, crossing both legs. The moment stews in quiet sanctitude, and then Natasha hugs both knees to her chest, ankles crossed. "Do you think he knows Ira?"

"Pretty sure they fight for different organisations."

"Oh." Natasha sounds almost disappointed. Ivan can't tell; she's getting so good at masking her emotions. She's becoming more and more like Mama. "But they have the same goals, don't they? They want the same ending."

"They want the system to fall," Ivan confirms, and Natasha flinches. "It's bold, isn't it? The system may have its fault, but it's better than the chaos during the wars. They are chancing anarchy in hopes of change."

"Is the present really that bad?" Natasha asks. "It's not ideal, but I thought Ira is content."

"Peace doesn't last," explains Ivan, and that's an answer, too.

"That's what Ira said." Natasha rests her forehead on her knees. "Do you ever think of Ira? Sometimes, it feels like you never do."

Ivan looks up, and the single cross hanging above the pulpit bears down on him as though it has a million eyes watching. This is why Ivan hates religion, he knows. It's the boogeyman that can't be quantified, surveillance taken to a transcendental level, unavoidable even with all his knowledge and tricks.

Is this why Tolys fight? Why Ira fight? Do they fear the boogeyman staring over their shoulders too? The thought is somewhat humbling, Ivan thinks, to have fear stem from something so childishly instinctive. "How do I not think of her," Ivan whispers. "She was like my sister."

"And yet you didn't save her."

"I couldn't," says Ivan.

"You didn't try," says Natasha. "In the end, she's just another sacrifice. I know you, Vanya. I know how you became captain - they tell me the stories." More quietly, with a tinge of shame, "Dima told me."

Of course he did. He's never good at lying to family, born or found. "It's not the same."

"How's it not?" Natasha counters. "How can the same man who rose three ranks within two years fail to do something?"

"I didn't say I didn't do anything, Natasha." Ivan rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm. "But no matter what I did, Ira's still gone."

The implications of the words hang in the air and laugh like sirens after a feast; Natasha's pupils dilate. "Vanya," she says, "what did you do?"

"Whatever is necessary," he answers. Natasha throws her head and lets out a bark that is half hysteria and half relief. "There are many ways to make someone disappear."

"You will kill us all," she says, her voice trembling frightfully close to a sob. Natasha's face flushes with alarmed shame; Ivan pulls her close, arms around her head, and kisses her hair. "Oof."

"I won't forget her," Ivan whispers. "Trust me.

"Come home now."

-

(An interlude:

"I feel like I'm losing you, you know," Gilbert once muttered, during those long, quiet nights when the world doesn't exist and Ira looks at Ivan like she's just realised she's looking at a stranger, and words spoken dissipates into the cold the moment they are spoken, chasing those wispy tendrils of Gilbert's smoking. "You've been avoiding me. I thought you're second-guessing whatever this is again."

Is this a date, or just hanging out, or does Ivan want an out? Is this something or anything or nothing that matters after all? It's a relationship in flux, a small boat in a storm out at sea, always on the verge of capsizing. "I want this to last."

"It doesn't fucking look like it," Gilbert snarls. He takes another drag. "I never know where I stand with you."

"You are standing right beside," Ivan answers, and Gilbert's head snaps towards him. "I mean it." He clears his throat. "It's always a date."

Gilbert drops his cigarette to the ground and stomps it out. "It better be," he says.)

-

"Sir," Roman calls out, nervously hurrying along. "The results are back. They cleared the parcel: here."

Ivan grabs the manila envelope. It's lost its ominous aura now that Natasha's back home and Ira's secret is out. "I'll look at it later," he assures, hurrying down. "Thanks Roma."

Roman blinks in confusion. "I'm German. I don't use short names."

"Sorry," Ivan replies without much thought and slips behind the corner.

He finds Pap's office and knocks on it with three sharp raps. "Sir," Ivan announces, and at Pap's assent, enters the room.

Ivan grins. "Morning, Pap."

"Don't smile just yet," Pap says, and flicks a document across the table.

Ivan steps forward to pick it up, scanning through the pages. "Pap," he begins slowly, "are we having our budgets cut?"

Pap thins his lips. He is grim as he says, "We are preparing for other expenses."

"Won't I like to know." Ivan pushes the document back. "Should I start preparing a will and cherish every second I have left?"

"You'll know soon enough." Pap tucks the document away. "Viktor took a shine to you. He won't let you die."

"The Polkovnik?"

"Of course it's him. The other two - one is irrelevant, and the other is a snake." Pap frowns at him. "I'll invite Viktor over for dinner; don't waste the opportunity."

"Yessir."

"Now, about the heart of the matter." Pap pauses. "After Feliks and Natasha-" The phone rings. "Sorry, give me a moment."

Pap picks at the receiver. He nods, "Yes, certainly," and nods again. "I understand." Then, "Glory to the motherland, comrade," and he puts down the phone. "Your own personal surveillance is here," he informs gravely.

"What?" says Ivan, just as the door opens.

Pap stands up.

Ivan wisely turns and salutes, before stepping aside.

"Major Fyodor Pavlovich," Pap greets. Ivan's eye twitches.

"Major Mikhail Sergeyevich," Fyodor Pavlovich returns. He looks at Ivan, and his scowl deepens with a certain ferocity that contradicts his literary namesake. "Is this the captain in-charge of the squad with the traitor?"

"Yes."

"Ivan Mikhailovich." The way Fyodor Pavlovich circles him makes Ivan think of a vulture. "How is progress? Have you checked with the Stasi?"

"Soon, sir." Ivan clears his throat. "It's currently under review -"

"What!" Fyodor Pavlovich's sneer of disgust can probably thicken permafrost. "What do you mean, it's not done yet?"

"Um-"

"Sloppy. Don't think just because you keep your secrets out of sight, they'll be out of mind - I am here now." This is as explicit a threat without outright aggression. Ivan does not flinch. Ivan is also acutely aware that this is the same man who searched his office; another warning, a prelude. But now, that's not important. What's important is that Ivan's got to figure out who entered after him.

"Yes, I understand, sir."

"See to it as soon as possible," Fyodor Pavlovich commands. "You're dismissed, Ivan."

Fyodor Pavlovich says Ivan's name with a singular focus that confirms Ivan's suspicion; Ivan is doomed. He stoically salutes before exiting, and keeps his steps measured until he closes the door behind him.

He turns back forward only to come face-to-face with a passing Karl.

Karl startles.

Ivan smiles placidly.

"Sir," Karl says, eyes darting between the door and Ivan, "what's going on?"

"It is none of your concern," Ivan replies with a cheerfulness he does not feel, "get back to work."

Karl looks ready to bolt, but hesitates at the last moment. "Will," he begins haltingly, "will everything be alright, sir?"

(Roman, eager to step-up to his new role and yet still so green, so unsure, saying, "This is making our new members nervous, sir," says it with the kindness and sensitivity that Ivan always lacks when it comes to people.)

"It will be," Ivan promises. Karl blinks. "Don't worry. Now get to work."

Karl scurries off. Ivan turns back towards the door and makes a few faces at it, because Ivan is apparently not mature enough to skip the grimaces. That is, until he realises that this will be a perfect moment for Fyodor Pavlovich to stick his head out of that door and smugly accuse Ivan of misconduct.

He heads back to his office, dropping the unknown envelope beside some portfolios of new recruits and that one copy of Dostoyevsky. He'll have to keep that book off his desk; pity, it's one of his favourite books too.

The tick of the clock is tediously loud. Ivan wonders if he can smash it and blame it on rusty nails. Maybe then he'll get one of those new digital prototypes. The world has changed: new technology and a new era, and even this decades-old system is changing to include new recruits for tech surveillance that Ivan can pick from.

He has narrowed it down to two - an Estonian and a Macedonian. It's weird, Ivan thinks, glancing at the two profiles staring mutely back at him. Everything's weird and everything's different: change, just the way that the party claims they like but in practice abhors. New, like Macedonia the nation, made from central planning and Soviet strategic decisions, a culture created from fragments and legalised with an outside hand.

("It's not new new," Gilbert once said, about Germany. "The idea was already there centuries ago. The culture. The, the nationalism. You've heard of it."

"The 19th Century German Question?"

"Yeah, yeah that." Gilbert scratches his head. "I'm glad you know that; most don't bother. Germany as a united nation has existed for aeons: as the Fatherland, the German dualism between the Prussians and Austrians, as the Holy Roman Empire, or as the Germanies. But it's all fragmented until someone came along and gave everyone a shared cause through war.

“It's powerful, you know, having a common enemy. War is powerful. It makes those different groups think that they belong to the same side, 'handing-over of all power' to the small leading class as 'the condition of survival', and shit." Ivan side-eyes him, but lets it pass. "So that's unity enough for a nation. The rest of the identity-building part will work itself out. Tada, nations are made.")

Everything's new and everything's changed, and yet Ivan is here, in an old run-down office with a job that never changes, day after day after day, repetition at first comforting and now frustrating.

Sure, he's captain, but then again, he is a man who's made captain within two years of being Lieutenant. Unheard of, ridiculously shady, and secretly, in the darkest of nights when Ivan can finally admit to himself, a mark of extreme restlessness.

I hate my job, Ivan realises with a viciousness that startles himself. Fuck, I hate my job. And he's going to do this for the rest of his life, a trail of promotions and paperwork already laid out at his feet. He'll manage people, and he'll guard more important people, with all their bureaucracy and politicking that Ivan can debate about in his sleep - all the skills he's perfected.

All the boring, tedious work he's perfected, for the rest of his life, where he will wait and wait and wait and stop things from happening. Fuck.

He needs to stop thinking, Ivan decides, because if he's going to do a career change, he won't be cleared for it now, so there's no point thinking. He makes an aborted motion for the files, hesitation making him grab the manila envelope instead. Tears it open carefully, in case he ever needs to reseal it.

Out tumbles certain classified documents and a single book.

Well, Ivan thinks, and perhaps this gift is a tip-off after all.

The documents are a mix of folders that Ivan know are officially passed on by Feliks, and folders that he wasn't aware were lost. Both of these he put aside, mind rapidly rationalising implications. The book - a Zhukovsky verse translation of a novella titled Undine. This is interesting, if simply because it's a Romantic fairy tale, and that can only possibly imply an allegory, which means-

Three raps at the door. "Sir?" It's Sasha.

"Take a seat." Ivan pushes the book beside the folders. Sasha locks the door behind him. "Ah. So you found something from the Germans."

Sasha unfolds the papers tucked under his armpit. "A lot of things," he says, "look."

"So Feliks has notable activities with the Polish underground resistance," Ivan concludes slowly. "That's nothing new."

"No: it's this part." Sasha pulls the document back to circle out certain documents. "You remember Tolys?"

"No."

"Bullshit - of course you do. You used him to get that promotion," Sasha snaps. He moves on, tapping the paper. "Feliks is photographed together with someone who greatly resembles Tolys. That's case number one." That's also a new suspect to add to Ivan's list, but he doesn't voice it. Sasha shuffles the paper and lay out another. "Case two: before Feliks was caught, there were some worrying patterns with his routine - places he frequents. At first, I thought the street names were coded, but if you look at the big picture-"

"The streets connect to form a circle," Ivan finishes. "It's a zone."

"Yes. So I ran up the coordinates and try to figure out who's been following the same patterns. That was inconclusive. I also scouted out the center, but I only found a bus-stop. I checked the nearby buildings and bushes and the trash, but nothing. So I took down the bus numbers."

"That's good," Ivan allows, "go on."

"I relooked through my data again, and then decided to connect the locations in chronological order. And I found -" At this, Sasha pulls out a marked map. "Feliks has been repeatedly tracing the shape of a hexagram."

"Judaism?"

"...Maybe," Sasha decides, "but I'm thinking more of Balkan Orthodox churches."

"Fair point."

"So upon identifying it as a hexagram, things get more fun. Mathematically and algebraically, a few spots are signalled out." Sasha pauses, staring up at Ivan with a solemnity he does not expect. "Your little cousin is a regular at some of these spots, Ivan."

Ivan refuses to react. "What are you talking about?"

"This place, here." He taps on one of the blue crosses. "This is a café with a strong intelligentsia following. Natalya is a regular patron here too. Reports have her being 'sympathetic to their cause'." He points to another. "This place. A church - we all know German churches are problematic. And then this one. A sweets shop. She's said to be regularly buying chocolates for 'a friend', but based on what I do know about your family, you wouldn't be seeing six bags of chocolate and candies every week on your dining table."

"Look, Sasha." Ivan wets his lips. Sasha waits. "I know Natasha. No matter her personal feelings, she wouldn't dare do something like this. She's not a traitor."

"Even after Irina?"

"Especially after Ira."

"I won't normally take your word for it, but fortunately for her, she always had good conduct, and her school reports support it," Sasha assures, "so this is either a coincidence, or she's making some very poor friendship decisions, and you need to stop her."

"I'll keep that in mind. Thanks."

"It's nothing." Sasha thins his lips then, as though bracing himself. "Look, I know you would think I'm being paranoid-"

"Out with it, Sasha."

"There's another person I singled out." Sasha exhales, already looking tired. "It's Gilbert."

Ivan raises both eyebrows. "Are you sure it is not your own bias?"

Sasha's face hardens. "You chose me for this job for my professionalism," he snaps, "so you should know better." He continues without waiting for Ivan's response, "In southern Germany, the hexagram is also called the Bierstern or Brauerstern as a symbol of beer-tapping or the brewer's guild, and is commonly found as part of tavern anchors. Guess what is here -" A green mark this time, at the outermost range of the hexagram, "and who regularly visits it?"

"It can be another coincidence."

"You would think," Sasha replies, "but Gilbert apparently also regularly take all the bus numbers that branch out of the center. Always to the last stop, and always at least one bus route every week."

Ivan rubs at his own eyes. "He's a photographer and a journalist, Sasha. He's bound to frequent dubious places."

"Stop rationalising things away-"

"I am not-"

"You are being an apologist right now, your judgement is clouded, you -"

"Sasha, will you shut up!"

The yell is a surprise to even Ivan; the hush that follows seems too loud when the air is still reverberating. Somewhere outside, someone must be gossiping. Ivan inhales sharply. "We are talking about Feliks, aren't we?" Ivan reaches for the documents from the unnamed envelope, all the confidential information that is likely leaked. "I received what was possibly a tip-off two days ago. Inside was these documents and that book over there. I believe these are the information leaked, and-"

"A book? Is it that one? Do you think they hid a code in it or -" Sasha grabs it, frowning down at the cover. "Undine." He stares accusingly up at Ivan. "That dubious envelope contains Undine."

"I know what it looks like-"

"You call the envelope a tip-off yourself, Ivan," Sasha hisses, waving the novella. "And Undine? A book translated from German about a water sprite that transformed into a human? For fucking love? If this is not screaming the truth in your face, I don't know what else will."

"You're projecting."

"Projecting what?!" Sasha shouts. "Stop being stubborn, Ivan!"

"And you should stop overstepping your authority," Ivan replies coldly. "Undine is a very popular fairytale. Many people owned a copy of it."

"But this specific edition? I bet that if you search Gilbert's apartment," Sasha challenges, "you would find the exact same copy."

"He doesn't read Russian that well."

"Please, Ivan," Sasha says, "listen to yourself. Russian is a compulsory subject in schools, and Gilbert is good enough to go to university. Zhukovsky's translation?" He slams Undine down onto the table. "It won't be a problem for him." He straightens up. Salutes. "If that is all, I'll be dismissed."

Sasha slams the door after him. Ivan should really write him up for disrespect - he really should, at this point, but his head hurts and he's tired and his mind is bursting with so much thought that the only thing Ivan can do is to close his eyes and tilt his head back, and breathe in and out and in and out.

-

In the end, Ivan is not adamant without cause. He's not being unreasonable - he is not wilfully blind to Sasha's logic. He knows what it looks like, but Ivan, Ivan's captain. Ivan needs to consider beyond facts, sees the context, and what Ivan sees is a beautiful set-up.

It's obvious: only Sasha and he knows that Gilbert is codenamed Rusalka. Only two men - not any tip-off, not any other informant watching the Germans, much less one that knows that Sasha and Ivan know German files.

It's too easy; there has to be a troublemaker involved.

Who sent Undine? Who placed the parcel in his office, is the question - a man who is able to slip past security and into his office unnoticed. (But is it that hard? Ivan had slipped Gilbert among his guards before. Fyodor Petrovich has waltzed in and none of his guards paid attention, because everyone's so tired, everyone's so busy, it's so easy-) It must have been a series of fortunate coincidences, for the culprit to strike the same day that the brass searched Ivan's office during one of the busiest period of the year.

"Roman," Ivan begins when Roman is called over, "have you reviewed the surveillance footage?"

"Yessir. There was no one that stood out." There is a hesitation, then, a lapse that feels vaguely like shame at their negligence. "But there is this period of time when the footage's tampered."

Doubtlessly when Fyodor Petrovich decides to conduct his search. "Show them to me later." Ivan leans back in his chair. "What about tracing Feliks?"

"No sightings, sir. Whoever does it either slipped Feliks out already on the first night, or Feliks is in hiding somewhere."

Hopefully the latter, but Ivan will still review the security footage at the checkpoints later, just in case. "Thank you, Roman," Ivan dismisses. The clock strikes tik, tik, tik, almost accusing in their apathy, and Ivan catches himself. "Wait. Roman, can you cover for me again, today? I want the rest of the day off."

Roman looks like he painfully wants to groan. "Sir?"

"Do it yourself, or, or find someone who can do overtime today. I'll clear the tab of whoever takes over." Roman's face visibly lights up - oh money, the key to people’s heart. "Remember to assign someone to watch my office when I'm not around. And don't let Major Fyodor Petrovich pry."

Roman, predictably, snorts.

Ivan can't quite keep his lips from quirking. "Unfortunately, he's not a wastrel like his namesake, and will get me shipped off for re-education if he can help it, so make sure you do your job well." Ivan stands up. "Now then."

Roman salutes eagerly. "Trust me, sir," he says, "I won't betray your confidence in me."

Ivan smirks. "We'll see," he says, and is startled that he laughs when Roman puffs up his chest proudly like a frog.

-

There is a disconcerting moment of dysphoria as Ivan stands in Gilbert's room, the pervasive surveillance looped or tampered or awaiting future theft by (probably) Sasha from the archives, and Gilbert's lock brazenly picked without fear of curious eyes, now that Mdm Gras has moved away.

Maybe it's that it is the first time that he's alone here; maybe it's because it is the first time he visits uninvited and unwanted. Or maybe, it is that he is betraying Gilbert's trust just standing here, behaving like the party-state's favourite watchdog.

(He remembers Ira, the fire burning in her eyes the way flames dance in Pap's.)

Ivan searches.

The Stasi has searched Gilbert before - Sasha has checked - and for them to not find anything means that anything conclusive must be hidden where they either dare not pry open or have not thought of searching.

Under the floorboards? Between the mattresses? In the walls? Tucked under the window sill? In all those locked drawers and cupboards that Ivan has never looked through? Where else is a good hiding spot in an apartment this bare, Ivan wonders, stepping warily across the floorboards, rolling his feet from heels to balls to toes. There is the sort of things that Gilbert may hide too to consider - this Ivan knows is true, that Gilbert must be hiding something. If not contraband, then banned books at least; he never watches his slips anymore after the first few times Ivan lets it slide.

Then Ivan catches sight of Gilbert's unlocked wardrobe, and he thinks, of course it's here, of course it's where it's hiding in plain sight. Opens it up, empties all of Gilbert's belongings onto the bed. Remove the board at the back to find another board. This, while dubious enough, is where the Stasi will stop - if they even go so far, but Ivan knows this trick. He digs his nails into the corners of the board - digs until the paper starts to peel - and Ivan tears the whole wallpaper down and off the board.

Carefully taped on the board, edges smoothed out, are documents and papers and photographs and letters - a whole wall of them.

Ivan inhales deeply and removes all of them.

There will be more, Ivan thinks. Where are the books? There must be more than a single hiding spot, because Undine is innocuous but Orwell will get Gilbert arrested, yet Ivan sees none of them. At his office? Maybe? Ivan looks back across the room. There has to be more.

He pushes the bed off the wall; pushes the bedstead away too. Tears the wallpaper down. Tears down the other one, and almost tried dragging the radiator off the walls by its nails before common sense got the better of him. He finds a cranny in the wall, a long crack in which Gilbert stuffs more letters and several books, one of which is Zhukovsky's Undine - specifically the 1912 A.F. Devriena edition - that seems newly shoved in.

Ivan digs out a toolbox from one of Gilbert's drawers and finally removes the radiator from the wall. Hidden in the walls, behind the nails and amidst the wires, are Pasternak and Zamyatin and Grossman, with careful correspondence stuck between them. No Orwell nor Bulgakov, although what Ivan has already found is damning enough.

Ivan slumps onto the bed, staring at all the papers staring back at him, and begins to read.

-

Don’t ask, don’t think, don’t speak - keep the peace. That's the way of his parents, the lessons that Ivan learns to tuck into his heart for as long as he knows to speak; the values that his grandparents taught his parents, and his parents to him, so that they could become each other - they could be a family.

But now? Now Ivan does not know if he can turn back the time, keep mum about all these knowledge he doesn't know to ignore.

He can tidy up the room - he is tidying up the room, nailing back the radiator and sticking the papers back up, even if he hadn't been able to salvage the wallpaper, but - but the evidence is there, Sasha is right, the informant is right, the sun is setting and the streetlights glow like the stars above and don't they know that it's the end of the world?

La da dee da, la da dee da. Ivan closes his eyes and remembers to breathe.

-

Gilbert startles when he sees Ivan sitting cross-legged on his bed, his wallpapers torn and his books (not all; Ivan replaced the books and their letters behind the radiator) scattered across the duvet.

"You searched me?!" Gilbert yells. His knuckles are white.

Ivan puts down the letter he's reading. (R will be making a crossing on Thursday, one of the letters signed by L - no points for guessing who - says. Meet him at 3, at high noon.) "Do you want to tell me what are these?"

"Why are you asking the questions? You broke into my apartment and searched me."

Ivan ignores that. He places it down and holds out another document. It's an application to cross the border, half-filled. Gilbert tentatively takes it, face grim and pale as he scans through the paper. Is it fear? Panic? Rage? Ivan can't tell. "What else are you hiding?"

It's only a flicker, one that Gilbert catches, but Ivan sees the split-second glance at the lamp. Huh. An investigation for another day. "Nothing," Gilbert retorts. "What are you doing, searching me like a common fucking criminal?"

"Trying to prove myself wrong," Ivan answers. "You've been meeting illegals."

"It's part of my job," Gilbert defends. "We all need some contacts."

"Your contacts include meeting known traffickers?"

"They're not traffickers!" Gilbert yells. When he realises what this implies, he takes a step back. "Is it wrong that I want to talk to my family without someone reading our correspondence or listening in to our conversation?"

"That depends." Ivan gets to his feet. Gilbert stands his ground, this time. "Does it include smuggling contraband to be spread in underground circles?"

"I don't do that."

"Ah," Ivan guesses, "so it's only for personal use?"

"Ivan."

"Is that what it is?" Ivan says. He clears his throat. "You've been trying to emigrate all along?"

"No! I -" Gilbert wets his lips. He looks at Ivan like Ivan's holding a gun to his head. "I - no."

"Then what?" Ivan holds up another stack of papers. "Because none of these is suggesting anything good. Give me one good reason why I should still trust you after this."

"I did not use you-"

"It doesn't fucking look like it -"

"I took up the job, you idiot!" Gilbert tosses the paper back at him. He takes big strides across the room, until he's toe-to-toe with Ivan. He's heaving. "Fuck you, Ivan, you told me to stay. So I took up the offer. The permanent listing with the press." He inhales sharply. "I took it up."

"I thought you -"

"I thought so too," Gilbert confirms quietly. He deflates, all of a sudden, a gasp of air like a resigned soldier ready for the last hurrah. "But I promised you that I'll stay. So since I'm stuck here, I gotta think for myself too." He looks at Ivan. "I took up the job for you, asshole, so don't go throwing the blame on me. What else do you want from me?"

It is like the frantic weight of the last few days finally caught up with Ivan; the world spins, his lungs is suffocatingly compressed, and Ivan suddenly feels immeasurably tired. "A peace of mind," Ivan admits. "I don't know what you did, but what I have here, whether it's a meet between old friends or a courier between you and your family across the wall, or, or something more - these are too much, Gilbert," he continues quietly. "All I want to know is if I can trust you."

Something too fast flashes across Gilbert's eyes. "I'm not using you, Ivan," he promises. "I'm not using us for anything."

Ivan rubs his temples. He walks away, around the room, and then back to the bed. "Ok," he says, sitting down, closing his eyes. "Ok. Just, give me a moment."

"I'm -" Gilbert swallows. "Fuck this. I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too." In and out, in and out, a dance a sequence a repetition, up and down of tides, the swell of pain, a drip of time, the thrum of his heart in his ears, past and future, in and out - "For searching you. Like this. Like a criminal."

"Hey." Gilbert awkwardly sits beside him, his satchel lowered gingerly at their feet. "You've got cause to be paranoid. And you're not wrong, although you're not right anyway. I just -" He nudges his shoulders against Ivan's. "Sorry." Ivan continues breathing. "Wait - shit, here. Let me -"

The satchel is tugged up again, the sound of rummaging, a quiet aha before Gilbert is elbowing him. "Here."

Ivan opens his eyes. It's a photograph of both of them; he barely remembers this one. "What's this," he says, and means, why now?

Gilbert seems to take it literally. "The picture of us at the Sanssouci, remember?" He scoots closer, flicking at the corners. "I made a copy but always forgot to pass one to you. So here." He traces Ivan's image then, a surprisingly tender motion that would have Ivan blushing if he isn't on the verge of throwing up. "You have sad eyes." Then, meeting Ivan's eyes so firmly that Ivan can't breathe, Ivan is choking, his whole life boiling down to Gilbert because this is the one good thing Ivan did, the one thing that Ivan hasn't torn apart like an entitled hatchling in selfish disregard for its shell, and yet Ivan just -

"Ivan," Gilbert mutters. "Are you ok?"

What a great question. Is Ivan ok? With his head killing him, pressure from the top, pressure from family, pressure from every other occurrence that threatens to sweep him off his feet and off a cliff - is Ivan ok? Beautiful question.

"Yes," he lies, "I'm ok, yes." Then, he realises Gilbert is waiting for his questions - playground etiquette, taking turns and all, and oh look, Ivan is maniacal. "You - are we ok?"

"Yeah, I guess we are." Gilbert curls Ivan's fingers around the photograph. "As ok as we'll ever be."

"That's good enough for me," says Ivan.

-

Fyodor Petrovich's shadow looms over everyone when Ivan heads back to the office.

"Dreary," Ivan comments, and Roman looks at him with a pained frown.

"I told him there was an emergency with your underground contacts," Roman whispers. "I'm not sure if he buys it."

"Who knows." Ivan makes Roman stare him in the eye. "Do I look tired enough to you?"

"Worse, sir: you look haunted."

"Then he'll buy it," Ivan decides. Beside them, Petto fidgets and pretends not to hear the conversation.

"Do you think everything's going to be fine, sir?" he asks.

Anxiety is a modest but potent poison, and Ivan sees it, the fear tinting Petto's face green and his fingers cold, and Ivan says, "Don't concern yourself about it," and he says with confidence he doesn't feel, "I'll handle it," and then, just for a hint of normalcy, jokes, "Unless you have a guilty conscience?"

Petto's eyes widen comically. "No!"

"Then there is nothing to worry about," Ivan assures firmly. "Nothing will happen. Go do your assigned work."

"Sir," says Roman when Petto trots away. "Do you really think everything will be fine?"

"A little optimism never hurts anyone." Ivan turns away in clear dismissal. He takes a step. "Oh, and one more thing."

"Sir?"

"Is there anyone you can spare?" Ivan asks. Roman blinks. "Send them off to run some errands for me. I need to mail some films."

"Films?"

"Yes. Buy some new rolls, wrap them up, and mail them over - I'll write you the address in a while."

"Why - oh," Roman trails off, voice softened, and Ivan knows that he must be smiling.

"I made a promise," Ivan answers.

-

1) basically, ivan's reaction throughout this entire chapter was like holt from b99, except replace it with the word "GONE????!?!?!?!" 2) why goga y says that his name is a mouthful is because everyone is speaking in a mix of primarily german with a smattering of russian, and y in german is pronounced ypsilon. for more information, go here and here 3) i never want to write ever again. this chpt is unedited and will never be edited because i will probs rehaul like half of this and also i refuse to work through these 11k words again

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