Natasha was a liar. Kiev was not nice this time of year.
Even in the hotel room they checked into (husband-wife duo—he shaved his goatee, she wore a wig) Tony’s fingers were still cramped from the cold. He could barely type.
“I’m ordering room service.” He needs a warm mug of coffee to wrap his hands around. Hell, he’d settle for tea. “You want anything?”
She’d been short with him during the entire trip over. Fine enough. He took the opportunity to kick back and get some rest. He had a feeling neither of them would be getting much over the coming days.
  It’s strange seeing Tony without his goatee, and it’s stupid that something so small really drives the point home for her, but it does: he’s doing this for her. No matter which buttons he had to push to get here, the fact is that he is here, and there aren’t many people she can say that for.
  She asked him for a favor and he’s delivering. Above and beyond expectations, which... she should feel bad about, maybe, but she doesn’t have the time. In his shoes, she knows she would’ve used whatever leverage necessary, so she understands it.
  It makes her relent, just a little, when they make it to their hotel room and she starts setting up their equipment.
  “I saw a McDonald’s on the way in,” she says, and it’s an olive branch. (She’ll never admit it, but she’s just as much a fan of nasty, processed food as he is.) “Or you can’t go wrong with borscht.”
  “Just make sure you get it hot,” she says, unnecessarily, as she tucks her legs beneath her and rubs her hands together for warmth.
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