Banking? Color him surprised. Avery carefully composed his expression and slid into the driver’s seat. People did like to be unpredictable, he supposed. And perhaps his new companion was bending the truth a bit. Because truth told, he looked more like someone who would rob a bank than work at one.
In the confines of the car, Avery automatically parsed and cataloged each scent he encountered, starting with the lingering cigarette smoke. Dirt, metal (and gunpowder?), rubber-soled shoes, and–
The undercurrent of something not human. He couldn’t quite place it yet–it was coppery and cold and mossy and oddly powdery–but it tugged at the edges of his mind as he started the car.
“Hm?” He’d missed that last question, but the gesture was easy enough to interpret. “Ah, no, I don’t mind.”
Honestly, having the window down in this cold was preferable to being trapped in a cloud of smoke. Mostly because the cold didn’t bother him in the slightest.
“Most people aren’t so hardy as you and I,” he added, trying to keep things lighthearted. “The moment the temperature gets anywhere near freezing, they bury themselves in coats and scarves and mittens. But I suppose everyone is different. I find the dry, bright heat of Arizona distasteful, for example.”
“Russian, eh?” he added. “I think as an American, it’s obligatory for me to make a joke about Soviet spies. You’re not in banking so you can disrupt the financial system, are you?”
If Avery did say that he preferred that he didn’t smoke, Sokol would’ve politely tossed the cigarette out but, thankfully, he gave him the go ahead. It didn’t do much anymore and was nothing but a creature comfort. A security blanket of sorts, he supposed. With the window rolled down the rest of the way he propped his arm up on it, cigarette dangling from his lips.
“Da, that is exactly why I am being here,” he mumbled around the orange end and shook his head with a gentle chuckle, amused and yet…not. Soviet jokes were all too common but at least he was attempting to make one rather than be rude. Americans still weren’t too fond of his type.
“I am working with small company that is helping with smaller businesses. Is not much, but something. Better than what I could be doing.” Plucking the cigarette from his lips he gestured to the street, indicating which way they had to go.
“So…you ah…” he lifted his hand, gesturing over his own face to indicate the coloration on the other. “Are wearing makeup. You are maybe entertainer?”
Avery laughed and shook his head. He turned out of the parking lot and onto the street, debating how to respond.
“I have a skin condition,” was what he eventually decided on. “It’s easy enough to conceal, but I forget to touch things up, especially after a long day.”
A pause, and he added “I’m a writer, actually. Paranormal romance is quite popular these days, and it’s easy enough to churn out books on a regular basis. Not particularly glamorous, I suppose, but it pays the bills.”
He did prefer it to the classic Harlequin-style tales of gruff barbarians kidnapping hapless women who fall in love with them, too. The 1960s had been a very trying time for his craft.
He grinned, feeling oddly playful.
“I do the Russian translations, too, if you like that kind of thing,” he said.
