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bloomsoftly · 7 years

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of blades & silk, chapter 1

this is the first chapter of a new wintershock fic that @paranoidwino and I are making together–this first chapter was written as a surprise to her for her birthday.

Since it’s technically 30 July in Italy, I’m posting it now. ;) I hope you like it, Wino! you deserve all the happy things on this day and every other day. ❤️ ❤️ ❤️

(sooooo many thanks to @ragwitch for reading this over and assuaging my nerves. you’re the greatest!)

Prologue: Collateral Damage

St. Petersburg, Russia, 1998

As she raced through the streets of the city, Darcy cursed herself at least a million times. She had one rule, and she broke it. Not on purpose, but that didn’t matter when here she was anyway, racing to undo the damage she’d unwittingly wrought.

She’d created the rule for herself years ago, when she’d first pulled herself from the streets and began teaching herself how to use poisons. Never stick around after finishing a deal. The best way to avoid hearing about the nefarious things people did with her merchandise was to skip out before they started discussing the details. It wasn’t a perfect system for dealing with her conscience, of course, but it was enough that she could wrangle it into submission. Most of the time, anyway. Some nights, she still had nightmares. But all in all, it had worked fairly well for the better part of a decade.

Which was why she was furious that these stupid assholes hadn’t waited until she was gone to start discussing their little plan. If they had, she wouldn’t have had any idea that they planned to assassinate Olga Lebedeva, one of the only people willing to stand up for human rights in this God forsaken country. And one of the only politically-minded figures Darcy respected.

If they had waited, she would have heard about the murder on the news, and weeks later when they realized it was poison—if they ever did—she would’ve been able to convince herself that it wasn’t her poison, wasn’t her fault. Instead, here she was, sprinting through the city. Racing against time to stop an assassination attempt she had helped come to fruition in the first place.

At least she knew how to get around the city without being seen. Now all she had to do was get into the Belmond Grand Hotel without being seen, slip Lebedeva the antidote, and get out unnoticed. If she did it right, the Petrovs would never even know that she’d interfered. Slightly worried, she patted down her pockets, searching for the little vial of antidote she always kept with her during a deal. It was there, in the inside left pocket of her jacket, and she breathed a sigh of relief. If nothing else, she could trust in her paranoia to save her skin. Ever since—was it seven years ago? Eight?—the Vasiliev family had tried to get out of paying her, using the same poison she’d supplied them with. She’d been young and stupid. Luckily for Olga Lebedeva, she learned from her mistakes.

And finally she was in the heart of St. Petersburg, a place she usually avoided for the bright lights and wealthy people. Back in her pickpocketing days, the Nevsky Prospekt would’ve been a gold mine, but these days she tried to blend in with the shadows.

Which would not be possible here, she realized, looking up at the brightly-lit facade of the building and through the doors to the gleaming marble lobby. Nice job, Darcy. Maybe you should’ve thought of a plan before you rode in on your white horse. You have the antidote, but how are you planning on getting it to the woman?

Realizing that she was going to start drawing serious attention if she stood outside the hotel for much longer, staring but not making any move to come in, she strode purposefully for the main entrance. As she entered the lobby, she veered toward the right. She knew better than to head for the lobby desk; it’s not like they were going to simply hand over Lebedeva’s reservation information and room number.

But if the woman could afford this hotel—and damn, if Darcy wasn’t jealous—surely she could afford security. And security in Russia meant lazy men who liked to drink on the job. With that in mind, she headed for the lobby bar.

Sure enough, there were two big, burly Russian security types at a table near the bar. She slowed her pace as she passed their table, enough to hear them complaining about their boss. It was all ‘this woman’ or ‘can you believe the nerve of her,’ and she figured she was in the right place. She was almost offended on Lebedeva’s behalf; in addition to the incessant complaints, these two didn’t look even remotely concerned with their boss’ safety. They were concerned with the legs and bust on every woman in the room, though, which could work in her favor.

Adding an extra sway to her hips, she sauntered past them. Their conversation stuttered to a halt as she passed, and she stifled a grin of satisfaction. Men, she thought derisively. They were so easy. And true to form, she wasn’t even at the bar long enough to signal the bartender for a drink. He’d just looked in her direction long enough to nod and head her way when suddenly the two men were on either side of her. They leaned in close, pinning her in, and an overwhelming stench of sweat and cheap cologne hit her nostrils.

The bartender took one look at the three of them and turned away, wiping down an imaginary spot on the bar. Darcy barely refrained from wrinkling her nose in disgust—at the terrible odor and the cowardly bartender, both. Instead, she offered a mysterious smile and purred, “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

One of them trailed meaty fingers down the outside of her arm, and she suppressed a flinch. “See, we were thinking that we could help you,” the one on her right said. “No beautiful woman should have to drink alone.” The other man said nothing, but waggled his eyebrows on cue. She absently wondered how often they did this to poor women in bars, and whether it actually worked very often. Luckily for them (or unluckily, depending on the point of view), it would tonight.

“What are you drinking?” she pouted, playing hard to get. Let them think she was reluctant and needed to be won over, and they’d be less likely to remember her later.

“Green Mark,” the chatty one replied with a leer. She was impressed in spite of herself, let it filter through her expression. He saw it, and the leer became a cocky smirk. “We know how to drink, baby. And we’re not afraid to pay. Good things in life tend to be expensive.” He played with a blonde strand of hair that fell over her shoulder while the other bonehead nodded along seriously.

Oh. Okay, well. She could still work with this. It might be easier this way, actually. She leaned into the talkative one, stroking a hand over his chest. “In that case, lead the way,” she purred, looking up at him through dark eyelashes.

His face flushed—too easy—and he turned, leading her to their table. Only when they had both turned away did Darcy slip the room key she’d stolen from his jacket into the neckline of her dress. She followed them to their table and took the shot of vodka they offered her, relishing the burn as it slid down her throat. After two decades in this country, it still wasn’t her favorite liquor—tonight, though, she appreciated the liquid courage. She was going to need it.

Reaching for a piece of bread to soak up the alcohol that was currently burning a hole in her intestines, Darcy tuned out their obnoxious voices. They were clearly trying to impress her, each getting louder as they tried to drown the other man out. When the second guy offered her another shot, she took it without hesitation. As she slammed the shot glass back on the table she stood up, pretending to wobble slightly. “Ooh,” she giggled, leaning against the table for effect. “That’s the good stuff.”

They offered identical smirks, which turned into a frown when she added, “I need to go to the restroom. I’ll be right back.”

Before she could move, one of the man surged forward to clasp a hard hand around her wrist. “I’ll come with you,” he said with an angry sneer.

A frisson of fear slithered through her gut, replacing the vodka, but Darcy didn’t pull away. She knew better than that. “Don’t be silly,” she slurred, hoping it sounded more like tipsiness than paralyzing fear. “I’ll be right back.”

“Anton,” the second man hissed, “let her go. Lebedeva—” he broke himself off with a look in her direction, and the other man seemed to understand.

With an angry huff, he released her. She fought to stand steady and meet his eyes. “You come right back,” he growled. “Do you understand?”

She nodded mutely, grateful that the table hid her shaky knees. He looked away, and she took it as her cue to go. Swaying slightly, her trembling legs giving credence to her tipsy disguise, she headed for the lobby.

When she hit the main entrance, Darcy headed for the restroom. Slipping into a stall, she allowed herself one shaky breath before slipping the key out of her bra. The number 342 was engraved on the back side, and she took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, then exited the stall. She headed straight for the elevator from the restroom, not daring to look toward the bar entrance.

She made it without incident, and pressed the button to close the elevator door before anyone else could join her. With every second that the elevator ascended, she second-guessed her decision. Was it worth it, if she got caught? If the mafia ever found out it was her, she was dead for sure. And perhaps Lebedeva wasn’t much of a feminist icon anyway, a snide voice inside her whispered, if she hired men like the ones downstairs. Even the memory of them made her furious, burning away the last of her fear.

She’d convinced herself to stop, hit the button for the ground floor, and leave this damn hotel forever—when the elevator dinged. The doors slid open noisily, bringing the hallway into view. It was empty, and a pit opened up in her stomach. The hallway wasn’t supposed to be empty. She checked the floor number just in case, but there was no mistake. This was Lebedeva’s floor.

This was the woman’s floor, and there were no security personnel in sight.

(read more link here)

She was too late. But what was the point of using poison, if they were going to murder the activist’s security guards anyway? Something wasn’t right.

But that was Olga Lebedeva’s room, four doors down, and Darcy hadn’t come all this way to let the woman die. The key slid into the lock, turning easily, and she cautiously stepped into the room. Only to abandon caution as she caught sight of the woman sprawled across the floor, clutching at her throat and gasping for air.

A glass of wine was spilled across the carpet several feet away, and Darcy realized she didn’t have much time. She raced to the woman’s side and dropped, uncaring of the wine that stained her knees. With a rough hand, she lifted the woman’s head off the floor. Reaching for the antidote with the other, she uncorked the little vial with her mouth. “Hey,” she hissed, trying to get the woman to focus. “I need you to open your mouth.”

The woman’s eyes lolled back in her head, and she didn’t respond. Cursing viciously, she readjusted them so that the woman’s head was propped up on Darcy’s knees, freeing her hands. She pried open the woman’s mouth, poured the antidote in, and then held her jaw closed as Lebedeva sputtered and choked. She waited as the woman swallowed and fell silent, head listing to one side.

Darcy waited in silence; she didn’t know if she’d made it on time, didn’t know if the woman had swallowed enough of the antidote to do any good. She just sat there with the woman’s head in her lap, waiting for her to either live or die. She wasn’t religious, had no God to pray to, so she just closed her eyes and breathed.

A gasp cut through the quiet, and the woman surged upward, clutching at Darcy’s shoulders. She sobbed into her chest uncontrollably, forcing Darcy’s arms to come up and support her. She rocked them back and forth, stroking the woman’s wine-soaked hair, and muttered soothing nonsense in her ear. “There, there,” she said, having no idea what to say to a distraught woman who’d been dying several minutes before, “You’re alright. You’re safe, I’ve got you.”

As if the words had reminded her of something terrible, the woman shook her head frantically. “Not safe,” she muttered into Darcy’s shoulder. “Security’s gone.”

“Yeah, I saw that. What happened?” Darcy asked, but the woman was nonsensical again. She looked like she was going to be sick, actually, and Darcy moved out of the way just in time. Not knowing what to do with her hands, she lightly rubbed the woman’s back. That’s what she was supposed to do when someone was ill, right? Honestly, she had no idea. She was so distracted by the smell of the vomit that it took her a second to recognize the sounds of angry shouting in the hallway.

The other woman paused in the middle of wiping her mouth on her arm and looked up at Darcy fearfully. So, the voices were not her missing security guards, then. Without hesitating, Darcy yanked the woman to her feet and strode toward the bedroom. She had no weapons, no way to protect them, and the only thing they could do was hide. There wasn’t time to be gentle, and maybe another time she would’ve felt bad about the hard grip she kept on a woman who had so recently been violently ill. But right now they needed to get out of sight.

Lebedeva seemed to understand that, too, and she didn’t make a word of protest. Sardonically, Darcy wondered whether the woman would still trust her if she knew Darcy was the one who made the poison that almost killed her. The voices were getting closer, though, and there was no time to think like that. Making a quick assessment of the bedroom, Darcy made a decision and shoved the other woman to her knees, pointing at the bed silently. The closet was empty, and would be one of the first places the intruders looked. Same for the bathroom. Dropping to her knees, she shimmied under the bed.

Reaching over, she clapped a hand over the woman’s mouth, just in time for the door to the hallway to bang open. Her hand muffled Lebedeva’s involuntary squeak. Darcy herself made no sound; she’d learned a long time ago how to hide her terror and stay absolutely still and silent.

The thunk of multiple pairs of boots sounded in the other room. “She was here,” a man snarled. “The bitch was here.”

“Did she leave?” someone else asked. Footsteps hurried quickly away, back toward the hallway.

“Search the bedroom,” the first man ordered. “Our sources say she was going to be poisoned. She can’t have gotten far.” Several pairs of booted feet passed by the bed, and Darcy clamped her fingers tighter over the other woman’s mouth. Neither of them moved an inch, and she held her breath.

“That fucking asshole,” one of them said. “Always ordering us around.”

“Shut up,” another hissed. “He’ll kill you for that.”

The third one shut them both up. “You, check the closet. You, with me. The bathroom.”

They moved away, and the two women could do nothing but wait. There’s no way they’d be able to sneak out without being seen.

Holding her breath was making her dizzy and lightheaded, so Darcy released it as quietly as possible. Her heart pounded in her chest so loudly she was afraid they might somehow hear it. It felt like forever before one of them called out, “She’s not in here, boss!”

The other two echoed him, but their boss didn’t answer. There was a light thump from the sitting room, like a body hitting the floor. The three came racing past the bed, headed toward the door to the living area. A fourth set of boots—black combat boots, well-worn, and utterly silent footsteps—appeared in the doorway. Three suppressed gunshots sounded, loud in the otherwise-silent room, and their bodies fell immediately. Darcy looked away from their empty eyes, toward Lebedeva, who sobbed into her hand.

She tightened her fingers’ grip on the other woman’s face, digging in hard enough to draw blood, but it was too late. She barely had enough time to meet the other woman’s terrified gaze before Darcy was being ripped away, pulled out from under the bed by her hair. A gun was pressed into her cheek before her eyes could even focus. She looked past the barrel—it was abnormally long, with the suppressor attached to the end—into the eyes of her murderer.

Darcy froze, staring into those empty eyes. Panic made her still, and she couldn’t even plead for her life. Not that it would do any good, anyway; she knew who he was. Привидение. The Red Room’s prized possession, their leashed killer. She stared up at him, past the dirty brown hair and the straight nose to the empty eyes. Her life in Russia had never been easy, and this was not the first time she’d stared death in the face.

Even if she couldn’t fight back, she wouldn’t bow down either. His eyes bored into hers for long moments, and she vaguely wondered if he was playing some kind of game, taunting her. But then something flickered behind his eyes, something like humanity, and he glanced away. The barrel of the gun was still hard against her cheek, bruising the skin there. But his gaze fixated on her wine-stained hands, palms up in supplication next to her head. His gaze tracked her body slowly, as if looking for weapons.

He found none, clearly, and slowly his eyes came back to her face. “Civilian,” he grunted in Russian, with a strange accent. It reminded her of home, of the way she’d spoken the language in her early years.

Not quite, she thought, but wasn’t stupid enough to say it out loud.

“Not the target,” he grunted again, glaring at her. Daring her to contradict him. Like she would ever do that.

Finally, he removed the barrel from her face and stood. Turning to head out the door, he paused. Without looking at her, he muttered, “Take the southeast stairwell. It’s clear of guards.” And then he was gone.

She lay there frozen for a solid minute after he’d left, trying to coax her frozen muscles to move. Darcy couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but strain to hear his footsteps, certain he’d change his mind and come back to kill her. Her heart beat loudly in her ears, drowning out all other sound.

A sudden movement out of the corner of her eye made her flinch. It was Lebedeva, crawling toward her.

“We need to go,” the other woman whispered. The lingering terror on her face made it clear that she knew who the man was, too. They needed to get out of there, now. The urgency of her thoughts finally forced her body into action, and Darcy rolled to her feet. Grabbing the other woman’s hand, she headed for the stairwell.

“Are you crazy?!” the woman hissed, echoing Darcy’s thoughts and pulling them to a stop. “You’re going to follow his advice?”

“He’s the only one I can say for certain has no intention of killing me,” she pointed out, dragging Lebedeva toward the stairwell door. If only she could convince her voice not to shake, or her knees not to tremble. The other woman seemed to understand that they had no choice, and didn’t try to stop her again.

The stairwell was empty, just as he had said. Why would he help? she wondered, before cutting off that train of thought. It would do her no good to think about it now.

And then they were in an alley behind the hotel, and then they were running. Both were silent for long minutes, united in unspoken agreement to get as far away from danger as possible before they stopped. And then Lebedeva could go no farther, and she pulled them to a stop. Looking around, Darcy realized she had no idea where they were. They’d run in a blind panic, and she felt a stab of shame surge through her gut. It wasn’t smart, what she’d done; there was nothing intelligent about anything she’d done that evening.

The other woman spoke, tearing her away from her self-flagellating thoughts. “I can never repay you,” she said, holding onto Darcy’s arm.

She ripped it away, recoiling. “Don’t say that,” she spat. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I know you saved my life—” the other woman said, reaching for her again.

“I made the poison that almost killed you!” Darcy hissed. The words lingered in the air between them, turning it all to acid. A different kind of shame burned in her gut, and she had to fight to keep the other woman’s gaze.

“Oh,” was all she said. Lebedeva took a step back, then stopped. A calculating look swept over her face. “But you came to save me.”

There was no point in denying it. “I did,” she said, suddenly weary. “But that doesn’t make me a good person.” She took several steps backward; surely the other woman could find her own way home now. “I almost killed you, then I saved you. We’re square.”

Lebedeva didn’t look away as she retreated backward. Her eyes were piercing in a keen way, like she saw all the things Darcy didn’t want her to see. Covering up her discomfort, Darcy called, “And hire better fucking security. The ones you’ve got are pigs. Or dead,” she added on an afterthought.

She turned, ready to disappear into the shadows. A soft chuckle sounded behind her, and Lebedeva promised, “I will.”

There was nothing else to say, and Darcy fled. Her knees and hands were covered in wine, her dress had a splatter of vomit along the hem, and she was pretty sure she’d been lying in some man’s blood. Oh, and her cheek was going to be the size of a baseball tomorrow.

She really needed to get out of this line of work.

to be continued...

#wintershock #darcy x bucky #darcyland #of blades & silk #new fic #birthday surprise #paranoidwino #love you girl!#my writing

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theaetherghoul · 6 years

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@runexandra replied to your photoset “DEATHLESS ↳ Lebedeva, Naganya, & Zemlehyed”

Could you possibly tell me where you got the last picture for the third aesthetic?

I found it on Flickr, here!

#runexandra #.replied

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best-left-hook-jones · 7 years

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It Is Not Yet Evening (8/?)

Summary: Historical AU. It is 1917, and with the Russian empire on the verge of collapse, Emma - a former maid for the Imperial family - means to escape the imminent revolution and start a new life in London. Desperately fleeing the Bolsheviks and armed with fake documents and a new identity, she sets out to find the mysterious man with the power to grant her her freedom. But the road to Moscow is a treacherous one, and a chance encounter with a wealthy British businessman may change her life forever.

Words: 35,532

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8

Kalashnikovo Station; March 15th, 1917. 5:16am.

The first thing that Emma noticed when she was awoken from her sleep was that she wasn’t in her bed. Even in the dark room, she knew that the ceiling above her was not her own, the faint light emanating from the dirty lamp casting unfamiliar shadows across the walls. For the briefest moment it made her tense, and it took forcing her mind to go over the memories of the last few hours to calm the racing of her heart.

The train. The argument.

Killian Jones.

She looked across to where the sleeping figure on the bench was curled up, his chest rising and falling in even waves. His book lay open in his lap, a thumb marking his place in the pages where he had left off. Emma was glad he had been able to fall back asleep after their fight. The fight she had started. The fight that somehow hadn’t gotten her thrown out on her ass like she probably deserved.

It was then that she noticed the second surprise; her shawl was splayed over her as a blanket, tucked around her legs and shoulders like a cocoon. She wasn’t sure exactly when that had happened, but she felt toasty and warm under the extra layer. Emma felt a flicker of shame as she realized who must have done it and that, despite her earlier betrayal of trust, Killian was still a gentleman enough to make such gestures. He was proving to be a much better travelling companion than herself, and she would have to find a way to make it up to him later.

Ruling out the sleeping businessman, Emma listened careful for the sound of whatever had drawn her from her sleep. There was nothing. The cabin was completely silent, the only sound in the air being the soft snores of her companion.

All of a sudden it dawned on her, the realisation clear and obvious; the engines had gone silent, the rhythmic rocking of the train halted.

They had stopped.

Emma grabbed for her pocketwatch and held it under the light of the lamp. There was no reason to be anxious, but Emma couldn’t help the slight shaking of her fingers as she pried the lid open. 5:16 in the morning . By her estimate, they were likely in Kalashnikovo, but if that was the case then they were late. They should have been well on their way already.

A knock on the door startled her from her thoughts.

“Officers of the Imperial Staff. Open the door and present yourselves immediately.”

Emma felt all of the blood drain from her face. Oh God. They had found her.

She felt rather than commanded her body to move, and before her mind had fully caught up with the situation, her hands had begun shoving what few possessions she had removed back into her bag. Her papers. What had she done with her papers? Emma turned and twisted the small dial for the lamp, immediately bathing the room in light. A slight, sleep addled groan echoed from the other bench at the sudden brightness, but she paid it no attention as she turned back to her bag. She nearly sobbed with relief as she found the documents stashed away in an inner pocket, the crumpled sheets trembling in her hands as she smoothed them out on the seat.

Emma Nolana, born 1893, Petrograd. A lie. Emma Nolana, only daughter to David Nolan. A truth. Emma Nolana, a tutor visiting a sick friend. Another lie.

She repeated her story to herself over and over, the words running wild in her mind.

“Miss Nolana, what is going on?”

The sound of his voice was enough to alert her that he was awake now as well. Perhaps it had been her to wake him, or maybe it was the knocking at the door. It mattered little though; Killian’s words barely registered in her mind as blind panic consumed her. A small voice in her mind reminded her of the need to mask her fear in front of her companion, but it was far too late for that. If there was one thing that Emma Lebedeva did not do well, it was behave with caution when backed into the corner. What did one more person matter when she was moments away from being lead away in handcuffs anyways? He was finally going to see who she really was, she thought wryly.

There was no time to run, she knew that. The windows were likely sealed shut for the winter, and even if by some miracle she were able to pry them open, the train was barreling along the tracks far too fast for her to make any sort of escape.

“Miss Nolana?”

He was in front of her now, his arms raised as if he meant to place them on her shoulders to still her. But he didn’t, and she brushed him aside, reaching for where her shoes lay on the ground next to her.

“Emma.”

She turned at that, her eyes wild as she raised her gaze to meet his. He had never called her by her first name alone before. It had always been ‘Miss Emma’ or ‘Miss Nolana’. He was staring at her with concern, a clear reaction to her own panic. Oh god, he didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve what was about to happen. Of the many things that Emma had hoped he would forgive her for, she had really hoped that this wouldn’t have had to be one of them.

“Please,” she begged, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Do not say anything. No matter what happens.”

He looked like he was about to argue, his brow creased and more questions than she was ready to answer on the tip of his tongue, when there came another knock on the door, this time harsher.

“We are Imperial Officers. Open the door!”

She wanted to explain, to reassure him that everything would be alright if he just listened, but there wasn’t time. Besides, how could she make such a promise anyhow? Without further ado, she slid the latch to the side and yanked open the door.

The officer in the doorway was already in a terrible mood by the time he stepped across the threshold into the small room. Even with the unfriendly scowl marring his small features, Emma could tell that he was young. His mousy brown hair was cropped shorter than what probably suited him, making the pixie-like ears that framed his face more pronounced. But it was the eyes that Emma noticed first, the piercing glare the same flat, dark green as his uniform, the whites slightly bloodshot from the late hour.

“Good evening to you both,” he started, his tone indicating the opposite. “We are searching the train. Papers?”

Emma handed over her papers and Killian, upon seeing Emma’s action, quickly rummaged through his own bag to do the same.

“Searching the train? For whom?”

The officer fixed her an icy glare. “I do not believe that is for you to know.”

Emma fell silent, hoping not to antagonize the soldier further. He skimmed through the pages as Killian searched, his frown deepening as he compared it against his own set of papers.

“You are not listed as a passenger in this class, Emma Nolana.”

She had expected the question.

“No. I was invited by Killian Jones to join him in his cabin for the journey as a guide.”

The officer fixed his gaze over her shoulder to where Killian was standing, papers now in hand. “Is this true?” He addressed Killian gruffly.

“You must forgive him,” Emma intervened quickly. “He is an Englishman visiting on business. He does not speak Russian.”

“Ask him.”

She turned to Killian and relayed the officer’s question in English. Though he appeared to be bubbling with questions and the look of relief at being included in the conversation was nearly palpable, he replied with only a firm nod.

“Very well,” the officer began again, his attention once again fixed on the blond. “We will start with you. Where are you travelling to?”

Another question she was prepared for.

“I am going to visit my friend. She is sick.”

“How unfortunate. Is she gravely ill?”

“I believe she is getting much better.”

The difference between the harsh interrogation she was undergoing now and the playful questioning she had received from August was nearly comical. There was no sparkle in the officer’s eye as he asked about her friend, no hint of affection as he asked her about her date of birth. Emma only hoped that her voice did not waver as she focused on keeping her face neutral.

“And is this your husband?” The officer asked, nodding sharply at Killian.

“No.”

“How do you know him? Is he on his way to visit your friend as well?” There was a hint of mockery in his tone as he mentioned her friend, and Emma had to swallow down her nerves. She had a story and she was sticking to it.

“No. We only met yesterday. We are not together. Not in the sense that you mean.”

“What is your hurry, then?”

That question threw her. “I beg your pardon?”

“These documents were signed only yesterday and you are already on a train to Moscow. As you have only met yesterday, it cannot be because you were waiting on this man.” His eyes flicked briefly to Killian again before returning to her. “Are you not confident that your friend is getting better?”

The butterflies in her stomach that had been calmed by her pre rehearsed script began to reawaken at his words. “It is not wise to tempt fate in these matters,” she responded carefully.

“Indeed not,” he agreed lightly, but the sharpness in his gaze didn't waver. He was a cat with a bird clamped firmly between his jaws and he was not about to let go now. “And I suppose that in your rush to see your ‘friend’ you also mistakenly applied for an external passport, when surely an internal one would have sufficed?”

Emma felt her tongue go dry. “I was only trying to see my friend.”

“It seems odd to me, you see, that someone in such a rush would go through the trouble of getting external papers when an internal passport would have taken far less time,” he pretended to muse out loud, drawing out her fear. “Surely there must be a reason that you chose to delay your trip to visit your sick friend in order to receive external papers.”

“Perhaps the officer made a mistake.”

“Are you suggesting that the imperial officers are in the habit of making such mistakes?” He tutted.

Emma knew better than to grace that question with an answer. It was a trap, if she had ever seen one. Before she could think of something else to say to begin digging herself out of the story she had created for herself, Killian decided to do the worst thing imaginable. He began to talk.

“Sir, I think that there has been some sort of misunderstanding. She is with me.”

“Please, do not interfere,” Emma begged, praying that he would take her hint and back down. There was no such luck.

“The lass is with me,” Killian explained, speaking with confidence as though the officer was surely going to understand him. “I invited her into this cabin to accompany me. If there is any issue with that, I will gladly pay the expenses.”

“It is not about that,” Emma explained quickly, praying that her answer would silence him. “Please, stay out of this.”

“Then what is it about?”

“Killian, stop .” Her voice was firmer this time, a mix of fear and anger rising in her.

The officer’s patience was beginning to wear thin. He gestured to where Killian stood.

“Are you certain that this man is simply an acquaintance?”

“Yes. We have barely spoken,” she lied sharply, but her tone gave her away. It was a terrible misstep, one that she was sure to regret, but she tried again. “He is a new acquaintance. A new friend.”

“A new friend?” The officer smirked, amused.

“Yes.”

“Understood. Well, since you seem to not like my questions so much, perhaps I should ask your ‘new friend’ instead?”

The officer turned toward Killian then, and Emma felt her heart drop into her stomach as she realised her mistake. No .

“Alright, ‘new friend’,” the officer began in heavily accented English. “Who are you? And who,” he pointed a finger towards her, “is she?”

It had been a trap. Of course it had been a trap. Killian hadn’t understood a word of their conversation, hadn’t heard a word of her fabricated story and now he would be asked to replicate it. Instead of answering, Killian turned to her, his clear blue eyes meeting hers.

Who is she?

Emma’s mind raced in time with her heart. She had used her cover story throughout every conversation with him, hadn’t she? Over dinner, in the cabin, on the platform. She had been so careful to stick to the life that had been prescribed to her on paper, the life that she had meant to adopt as her own. Sure, she had strayed from the script from time to time, spicing up her stories with very real and very true details from her own life, but she had revealed nothing of her true identity.

But he had sussed out so much more, had read her like an open book. Even when she had left his questions unanswered, he had found a way to get around them to find the truth. It had been terrifying and remarkable both at the same time. Killian Jones knew so much more than she had meant to tell him.

Worst of all, though, he knew that she had been lying to him.

It hurt to admit that truth. She had been lying to him from the start, and though he had sensed it from the beginning, he had let her stay. He had shared stories with her, shared his meal with her, and shared his cabin. There hadn’t been a moment where he hadn’t believed in her, where he hadn’t trusted her, and she had repaid him by treating him with suspicion and invading his privacy. And now she stood before him, begging him with her eyes to lie for her, to help her hide the evidence of a secret she had been too cowardly to share.

There was a pregnant pause in which Killian remained silent, and Emma almost thought that he hadn't heard the guard’s question. He was still searching her eyes, his own face unreadable, as he took in a deep breath and let it out with a sigh.

“I am afraid I cannot say.”

Emma felt a wave of nausea roll over her as her eyes began to well with tears. Of course he wouldn’t save her. Couldn’t save her. How could he answer a question like that with confidence when she had never told him the truth. She let the sadness seep into her bones, her body going numb, as she half listened to the officer’s outraged reply.

“Why not?”

Because he doesn’t know , she answered for him.

“Because,” Killian began slowly, his eyes still locked with hers, “I fear the answer could stir some trouble for me. And I do so hate to stir trouble.”

“I am an officer of the imperial guard. You will tell me!”

“It that case, I suppose I must give you the truth.” He faced the guard then, his expression halfway between bored and cocky, as though he were more annoyed at the inconvenience of having to explain himself at all. A powermove by an experienced businessman.

“She is a hooker.”

When the guard’s face turned into one of confusion, Killian clarified. “She is a prostitute.”

The roaring laugh of the guard was nearly enough to drown out the frantic beating of her heart. What had just happened? It took a moment, but eventually the blood that had drained from her face returned with a vengeance and her face flushed scarlet. What was he thinking ? She couldn’t contradict him now. To do so would surely mean swift punishment for both of them.

The laughter began to subside, the guard wiping fat tears from his eyes and mumbling ‘prostitutka’ under his breath as though it was the world’s funniest joke. He eyed her bare feet and she cursed herself for not having put them on when she had had the chance. Her clothes were also in a state that spoke for themselves; as the pair had returned from dinner on shaky terms, neither had been brave enough to ask the other to leave so that they could change. She grabbed her shawl from the bench and threw it over her shoulders, pulling the ends tight to her chest as she crossed her arms in front of her. Killian - who had until that point stood impatiently waiting for the guard to settle down - took the opportunity to speak again.

“I am a man who considers his reputation to be of high importance,” Killian began, handing the officer his papers to inspect. “My business in Petrograd detained me for longer than I had wished, and I have picked up some extra - shall we say - luggage to keep me company during the rest of my stay here. My secrecy is an unfortunate necessity, you see. It would not do for others to learn that I associate myself with such people. Especially my wife. I am sure you understand.”

“Ah, well if you had said as much before I could have given you my recommendation.” He stalked toward her like a lion circling its prey. “This one seems a bit too disobedient for her own good. I could help you sort her out.”

Emma’s eyes - which had been filled with tears of sorrow not long before - heated with anger as she glared at the guard. If the soldier’s attention had not been so intently focused on Emma, perhaps he would have seen the way that Killian’s entire body had stiffened at his words. If it were not for the firearm locked and loaded at the officer’s side, Emma thought Killian would have thrown him to the ground right then and there, Imperial orders be damned.

“I am afraid I am not in the habit of sharing,” Killian managed out, jaw clenched tightly, “and I would rather not be burdened with having to seek new company now.”

Despite the venom in the Brit’s voice, the officer’s eyes remained fixed on Emma’s face, the smugness almost too much for her to handle. “Pity.”

“Is that all?”

The officer did turn at that, his angled eyebrows raised in mock surprise at Killian’s rude dismissal. Emma feared he would arrest Killian on the spot for his indiscretion, but he simply shrugged indifferently and moved back toward the door.

Just as it seemed he was about to cross back over the threshold, the officer spun back on his heel. “Oh yes, one last thing. Felix!”

Almost instantly, another young officer appeared in the doorway. He was taller, his hair a bit longer, and by the way he appeared to swim in his uniform, he was clearly a newer recruit. Though they shared almost identical looks of malice on their faces, Emma thought the green eyed devil boy was his superior, a theory that was immediately confirmed by the orders that immediately left his mouth.

“This man and his whore,” the officer spat, “seem to have found their own means of entertainment for the journey. Make sure their story checks out.”

The man - Felix - disappeared through the doorway without another word.

Out of the corner of her eye, Emma watched Killian step forward with the clear intent of putting himself between her and the guard. He was stopped mid movement, however, when Peter moved his hand quite purposefully to his gun. A warning.

Emma wasn’t sure how long they remained in their little standoff, Emma glaring daggers at the young officer as he watched Killian with interest. Killian, for his part, looked unphased by the added attention, his face returned to the neutral mask he had been sporting before. It was impressive, given that their entire story could fall apart any moment and Killian would be the one caught needlessly in the middle. He knew it too, had understood the risk, and had deliberately leapt in the middle of the firing ring with her. She owed the dark haired man more than she could possibly imagine, and the thought that he might have unwittingly signed his death certificate to help save her made her stomach twist. Emma only hoped that if it came down to it, they would spare him.

The hard clunking of his boots announced the junior officer’s presence far before he made it to the little cabin, though, Emma seemed to be the only one to notice.

“Peter,” Felix called out tentatively, likely sensing the heightened tension in the room.

The summons seemed to draw him from his thoughts, and the officer moved back to where his colleague was waiting in the doorway. His voice was low, but Emma was just able to make out the words. Felix spoke first.

“The passengers in the car next door have not seen anything out of the usual. The Jones man knocked on their door shortly after the train departed from Petrograd. It is not clear whether the woman was with him at the time, but I was told the pair left to dine later. A woman down the hall said she saw them holding hands. And...” He stopped as though he was afraid to deliver news that he found terribly uncomfortable.

“And what, Felix?” Peter asked, exasperated.

“They, uh, well, they reported hearing sounds from this cabin,” Felix continued. “Noises.”

“Noises?” Peter clarified, staring down the junior officer. The man simply blushed and turned his gaze to his boots. The look of disgust on his superior’s face indicated he had understood his meaning.

All of a sudden there were sounds heavy boots and shouts from the platform outside. Felix peered out of the doorway as his name was called out by voice sounding from the hallway. He gave a sharp nod of acknowledgement before leaning back into the cabin.

“The rest have finished their searches. It is time to leave.”

There was no response, the soldier seeming to be locked in an intense staring contest with Killian. The shouts outside became louder and Emma thought she could hear the distinct sound of a metal ladder being hoisted up. The train was getting ready to depart.

Felix had clearly heard it too and was shifting anxiously from foot to foot.

“We have to go, Peter.”

There was another slight pause, but eventually the scowling officer let out an annoyed huff and gave a single, affirming nod. Emma felt relief wash through her, and it was only dimmed somewhat by the soldier’s parting words.

“Well, it seems that everything is in order after all,” he concluded, with more smugness than sincerity. The young man clearly did not care for the stress and emotional carnage he was leaving behind in his wake. He shoved the handful of papers into Killian’s outstretched hand, Emma’s documents buried somewhere at the bottom of the pile.

“Good evening. And Gospodin Jones? Find a prettier prostitute next time.”

Without another word, the two soldiers disappeared from the cabin, their shadows merging back into the darkness of the hallway.

The moment they were gone, Emma slid the door shut and fastened the latch. Her hands were shaking - had they ever stopped trembling since she had been awoken? - and she could feel her breaths coming in shallow pants. Even after the footsteps had long since faded away, she only let go of the door handle when she felt the sudden jerk of the train moving again.

They had done it .

Had they done it?

Fear paralyzed her anew as she considered what had just happened. What if it was another ruse? The guard - Peter - had had her in his jaws, teeth clamped tight, and he had… let her go without fuss? It was too easy. It had to be another trap.

She had to leave at the next stop, that was a certainty, but first and foremost, she had to get as far away from Killian Jones as possible. He had risked so much and she was not about to bring him down with her. No, the safest place for him to be was as far away as he could get from her.

Emma picked up her coat and began tugging it over her shoulders. She struggled for a moment, forgetting that she had her shawl wrapped around her shoulders, but she quickly tossed it off and threw it to the side.

“Are you leaving?” Killian’s surprised voice sounded behind her. Of course he wouldn’t expect her to leave. He hadn’t asked her to leave any other time, so why would he now? Besides, Emma realised that she had no idea of what Killian had made of the scene that had unfolded before him. For all he knew, she was an adulterous wife running from her husband, or at worse, a petty criminal. Would he have any sympathy for her if he knew where her allegiance lay? Would he have bothered to intervene if he had known?

“You should not have done that,” she croaked out, her voice shaking from the multitude of emotions rushing through her. Anger, pity, fear, regret.“You do not understand what you just did.”

“What? Saved your life?”

She pulled her hat over her head and began pulling her long gloves up over her wrists. Why could he not understand that she was doing this for both of their sakes? She didn’t want to spend their last moment together fighting.

To her surprise, he stood up immediately, a hand shooting out to rest on hers as she reached for her bag.

“Wait, no! Please, I apologize. Please, just… stay?”

The desperation in his voice broke her heart. Somehow, after all he had done for her, he had felt the need to apologize to her. It felt wrong.

“Please.”

Blue eyes met hers then and she paused. There was fear swirling there, almost certainly, but it wasn’t concern for his own safety. It was fear forhers . Whatever bond they had established between them over the past few hours had meant something, and he seemed genuinely afraid at the prospect of her being in danger. The sincerity in his voice was touching, and it was almost enough to make her waver in her resolve. Almost.

“I have to go,” she pleaded, her own voice starting to choke up.

“You do not. You can stay.”

Fresh tears welled in her eyes, blurring his face in her vision. “I cannot. They will surely send more guards. They will be waiting for me at the platform.”

“They will not.”

“How can you be so certain?” She nearly yelled back. “You do not even know what I have done! You do not even know me!”

She was starting to sound hysterical now, she knew that, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop. All of the stress that she had been keeping inside seemed to be pouring out of her, and she couldn’t find it within herself to plug it back up.

He saw all of this, she was sure, but instead of backing down he took a step toward her, his hand moving to rest higher on her elbow.

“Because if they had wanted to take you tonight they would have. Whatever you have done - whoever you are - your secret seems to be safe. At least for tonight.”

Could it be true? Was she safe?

“No,” she shook her head. “It is almost certainly a trick.”

“Why would they need to trick you, love?” He reasoned, his voice calmer than she deserved. “They could have taken you, but they did not. Running would only make you look guilty now.”

Her breathing began to slow, the ache in her chest loosening a bit. He was right, of course. They had had her, they had seen her papers and she had passed their test.

Because of him.

The man in front of her had lied through his teeth, spun a story so shallow - so believable - that they hadn’t looked any further. She owed him her freedom, and perhaps even her life. It was strange that as everything around her seemed to tremble and shake, the train speeding through the countryside and her nerves frayed within an inch of insanity, that he could be so calm. It was as if she were caught in the middle of a raging storm, but suddenly there was a lighthouse to guide her back. She latched onto it, letting his softness and surety bring her back down.

“Now, please,” he begged, his voice lower. “Sit?”

And so she did.

It was an awkward few moments as she stripped off her hat and gloves in silence. She couldn’t face him yet; she had too many thoughts swirling through her mind and she was sure that if she looked at him now, he would see all of them. When everything was back in its place, she clasped her hands in front of her and finally dared to look up. He was watching her, just as she had thought, but it was anyone’s guess as to what he was thinking.

He finally sighed, his right hand coming up to massage his left forearm. When he finally spoke his voice was more gentle than it had been all night.

“My name is Killian Jones,” he started. “I am a British citizen, and I was raised by my brother, Liam. He died in a naval accident nine years ago. Contrary to what you heard me say, I have never been married. I have a scar on my-”

She couldn’t help but cut him off, her confusion getting the best of her. “Why are you telling me all of this?”

“Because I want you to see everything,” he explained, scooting to the edge of his seat to better catch her eye. His eyes were impossibly blue. “I want you to see that you can trust me. You have good instincts, so use them. Am I a liar?”

Emma blinked in shock. How could he possibly know about her superpower? Ruby had often joked that that was what it was; a superpower. Emma had always brushed off the comment, saying that she had just been lucky every time her gut had infallibly led her in the right direction. But superpower aside, Killian was right. Her gut never seemed to be wrong.

And her gut was telling her to trust Killian Jones.

He had saved her, at his own peril, no less. After everything he had done for her, he deserved something . It was only a shame that the one thing he wanted to ask for would be the one thing that would certainly get him killed. It wasn’t fair.

“You have risked your life for me once already tonight,” she sighed. “I do not want to ask you to risk it again for me now. And once you know this, I am not certain I can protect you from whatever happens next.”

Killian’s face betrayed nothing as he listened to her warning, his features a stony mask. The only sign of nerves she could see was the slight bob of his adam's apple as he gulped. Good , she thought, he should be nervous . But there was a certainty in his eyes as he spoke next, his voice strong and steady.

“Who are you really?”

As he wished. Inhaling a deep breath to steady herself, Emma sat down and took the biggest leap of faith she had ever been asked to make.

#Captain Swan #cs #cs au #captain swan fanfics #captain swan fanfiction #cs ff #ouat ff #It Is Not Yet Evening #nextfewwords

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murkymuse · 7 years

Text

Title: Having The Faith To Soar

Fandom: Yuri On Ice

Ships: Gen

AO3, Previous

Chapter Two - Practice, Practice, Practice

Hello! I’m Vera Kotova, a self-taught amateur skater. Through an unlikely twist of chance, THE Yuri Plisetsky saw me skating and was impressed enough to call his coach! Now I’ve been whisked away to St. Petersburg so I can train under one of Coach Feltsman’s associates. Meanwhile, the Grand Prix Series continues with the Cup of China! I can’t wait to see Yuri skate again!

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Vera groaned and rolled over to reach for her noisy phone on the nightstand. The screen glared with a notification: Ballet Practice. Vera practically rolled out of bed and turned the alarm off.

Ever since moving to St. Petersburg, she had a very strict schedule to keep. Six mornings a week she had alternating physical training and ballet practice. Of course, she had school after morning practice five days a week. Her favorite time of day was the afternoon when she was able to practice ice skating.

“You might have some potential but you currently lack a solid foundation to build on,” Coach Feltsman had told her, “If you want to seriously compete, training needs to become your life.”

What else did she have in life anyway? A dead father and a mother that barely paid attention to her. Vera would gladly throw her body and soul into the only thing she did have: ice skating.

So, while her sore body longed to sleep another hour or two, Vera quickly got ready and left for the ballet studio. As she exited the apartment building, the sounds of the city – cars, people, seagulls – invaded her ears. The tall buildings and crowded streets were vastly different from the sparse town she’d lived in up until now. It was still a little overwhelming; she hadn’t yet felt comfortable wandering outside her bubble of apartment-gym-ballet studio-school-ice rink.

Maybe if she asked nicely when the season was over Yuri would go with her to explore the city? He did say he’d check in on her progress, even if he hadn’t been specific on when. But with the Cup of China quickly approaching and then the Grand Prix Finals after that… Then Nationals and then World’s… Vera wasn’t expecting to see Yuri Plisetsky again any time soon.

That was okay. She’d work really hard so that next time saw him, he wouldn’t regret giving her this chance.

Vera’s drifting thoughts cut off as she pushed the door open and entered the ballet studio.

The rink was strangely empty and quiet when Vera got there. She checked her phone and realized that she’d somehow managed to arrive a good fifteen minutes early. It was still unusual because this rink was typically open to the public right before the skating class. Maybe someone had booked it earlier?

Vera shrugged, not caring about the specifics, and went to put on her skates (that they were truly hers and not rentals still made her grin). She hadn’t gotten a chance to skate alone in weeks. There was no way she wasn’t going to take advantage of the empty rink.

As she skated out onto the ice, she put her earbuds in and stuffed her phone in her pocket.

Sic mea vita est temporaria, cupit ardenter caritatem aeternam

Vera hadn’t attempted skating Agape since moving to the city. Now she felt a difference in her skating. Her balance was even more stable; her motions were both more fluid and precise. She smiled softly before going into her first jump.

The sound and feel of blades against the ice as she made a perfect landing was beautiful and thrilling. Feeling even more confident, she continued to flow with the music.

Once she and the music came to a still, Vera blinked and realized that she’d gathered a small audience. Coach Lebedeva was standing rinkside with a bemused expression. A few of Vera’s rinkmates were there as well; their faces filled with a mixture of excitement and disbelief. One girl, who had her hair in a high ponytail, had her phone held up to take a video.

“Um…”

Vera’s cheeks felt a little warm; and, she wasn’t sure what to say. However, her rinkmates broke the silence for her.

“That was so cool!”

“I didn’t know you could land an axel!”

“How long did it take you to learn that?”

“Thanks. I first managed it about six months ago. And a few years,” she managed to answer.

Before anyone could say more, Coach Lebedeva clapped her hands to get their attention. “Alright everyone, stretch and get your stakes on. And, Anya, don’t post that video online without Vera’s permission.”

Anya guiltily put her phone down, shooting an apologetic smile, and then went to get her skates on.

Once the rest of her rinkmates joined Vera on the ice, Anya skated up to her, “Some of us are watching the Cup of China at my house later. Do you want to come?”

Vera wanted to say that she’d go but the words got stuck in her throat.

“…I can’t. I have to finish a project for school,” she lied.

“Oh, maybe next time.”

“Yeah.”

The awkward pause was broken as Coach Lebedeva instructed them into edge drills. As it could be expected from a group of pre-teens, the class was an organized chaos. Students laughed and joked while skating in every direction; and, the coach would call out corrections or glide over to help when someone was struggling. Despite all that, practice always seemed to go by quickly to Vera. Soon enough her rinkmates were heading off the ice. When Vera didn’t follow them, the coach gave her a look but said nothing. Vera took that as permission to continue and stretched into the Biellmann position again.

As parents arrived to pick up her rinkmates, she tried not to pay them any attention. However, it was impossible to completely block out the drifting chatter.

“Anya,” the voice was soft and sweet, “How many of your friends are coming?”

Anya listed off half the class. Excited giggles echoed across the room as Anya’s mother began ushering the group toward the door. Vera frowned as she switched the positions of her legs and went into a spin.

It was only after all her rinkmates had left that Coach Lebedeva’s called out, “That’s enough for today. If you practice much longer, you’ll miss the men’s short programs.”

Since the Cup of China didn’t start for another hour, Vera figured the coach was just saying that because she wanted to leave but couldn’t with a student still on the ice.

“I’m coming,” she replied as she skated off the rink.

That Seung-gil guy was about finished with his short program; the crowd cheering as the commentators exclaimed in excitement over the flawless combination he just landed. It was at that exact moment reality suddenly hit Yuri like a freight train.

“Yuri,” Yakov’s voice was distant, “Come on. You’re up next.”

He felt rooted to the spot, unable to move. The ground seemed oddly distant and blurred as well.

“Yuri?” A hand lightly placed on his shoulder. Lilia. “What’s wrong?”

Wrong?

Grandpa had rarely been able to come to his competitions but he always watched them on tv. Now, for the first time since Yuri moved up to the Senior division, Grandpa wasn’t sitting at home with the tv on to watch him skate.

A sob was building in the back of his throat. Yuri bit it back as a kernel of molten anger settled in the pit of his stomach. He absolutely refused to breakdown here and now! He could get through this! He could get out there and give one hell of a performance!

He just needed to move.

“Yura.”

He glanced around until his eyes found Otabek. His friend’s expression was as stoic as ever but Yuri knew him well enough read between the lines. There was no pity found in Otabek’s gaze, just the certainty that no matter what Yuri would give it his all. That he would soldier through.

“Davai.”

Yuri took a deep breath and then gave Otabek a thumbs up.

“It’s time,” Yakov said.

Yuri nodded and began walking toward the rink. He had a medal to win.

The next night found Yuri kicking the locker room wall and muttering insults under his breath. He honestly didn’t mind losing gold to Otabek but he lost silver to Seung-gil?! What the hell?!

“Between the gold from France and this bronze, your spot at the finals is secure,” Yakov stated from behind him, “You’ll do better there.”

Yuri glared at an invisible point. “I will.”

Hours later Yuri knocked on a hotel door. It took a minute for it to open and reveal Otabek. Seeing Yuri, he opened the door wider and shifted aside. Yuri walked right in and immediately sprawled on the couch.

“I’ve sat on more comfortable benches.”

Otabek simply nodded before nudging Yuri so that he’d make room. Yuri grumbled but complied. Then Otabek just waited for the rant he knew was coming.

“Yakov didn’t even lecture me! He always lectures me after I skate!”

“He’s trying to be sensitive.”

“Well, it’s weird! I don’t want him tip-toeing around me!”

Otabek hummed in response.

“It’s bad enough that Katsudon and Viktor keep calling to check on me,” he continued with a grimace, “Bleh! I swear if Lilia goes easy on me when we get back to St. Petersburg I’ll kick someone.”

Otabek’s mouth tugged up ever so slightly, unnoticeable to everyone but those that knew him best.

“Not Lilia,” he said.

Yuri gave him an incredulous look. “Hell no! I don’t have a death wish!”

There was a beat of quiet as his word choice sank in. Then Yuri rolled off the couch and ended up face down on the floor.

“The carpet is more comfortable than that stupid couch. Someone should complain to the hotel.”

“I’ll be sure to mention it,” Otabek replied, his voice so flat that it was impossible to tell if he were joking or not.

“Good.” Yuri pushed himself back up and leaned against the couch. “We’re still going to Beijing Zoo before the exhibition show tomorrow, right.”

Otabek nodded. “You’d disown me if I tried to back out.”

“Damn right I would.” His eyes suddenly went wide like he remembered something important. “Oh! Watch this.”

Yuri then pulled out his phone and swiped until he found the video he wanted. Otabek leaned over Yuri’s shoulder as he started the video. It was of a young girl skating with familiar movements.

“The kid you mentioned?”

“Yeah. Yakov’s friend sent the video yesterday,” Yuri answered, “Would you believe she’s only been formally training for less than two months?”

Otabek watched to the end before replying, “Then she has overwhelming natural talent.”

“Right!”

The students were gathering their things and trailing out the door when Vera’s phone started playing Allegro Appassionato in B minor. The teacher gave her a disapproving look but couldn’t say anything since it was time to leave. Vera stuck her tongue out once the teacher glanced away. She then unlocked her phone to see a text:

Vera let out an excited noise that earned her a few odd looks from her classmates. She didn’t notice though as she quickly gathered her stuff and zipped up her coat. Then she was out the door.

The air outside was chill; and, the ground was damp from it drizzling earlier in the day. Vera’s breath turned to mist as she glanced around. It didn’t take long to spot Yuri. He was leaning against the fence with his hoodie pulled over his head and scrolling through his phone.

“Yuri!”

He looked up as she sprinted over to him.

“Didn’t you just get back from China? I watched your programs!”

“We got back a few days ago,” he replied, “Come on. Yakov will yell if we’re late.”

Yuri began walking down the sidewalk; and, Vera had to practically jog to keep up with his long strides. She filled the walk with questions about his trip. While Yuri was happy to answer general questions about China, his replies about the competition itself were short and sharp. Vera fell silent after a few minutes.

It didn’t take much longer for the building to come into sight; its sign had ‘Sports Champions Club’ spelled out around the flag. There were a few people milling outside the entrance but they weren’t dressed to skate or workout. Yuri suddenly stopped in his tracks. Vera stopped a step later and looked back at him questioningly.

“Da-” He glanced at Vera and made an annoyed sound. “Tch. Can’t the reporters let me train in peace.”

Since they had yet to notice him, Yuri grabbed Vera’s hand and started walking.

“We’ll sneak past them and go through the back.”

He led her around the side of the building to an ‘employees only’ door. Either someone had left it unlocked or it’d been purposely left that way for this situation. Whichever reason, they were able to get inside without any issues.

Once they’d passed through a storage area, they entered the main lobby. Vera blinked as she took everything in. It was large but not overly crowded; just a few employees going about their work and a group of men with hockey shirts talking to each other. An employee greeted Yuri and gave Vera a curious look but everyone else ignored them.

They entered the rink then. Only Mila (THE Mila Babicheva!) was on the ice, spinning and jumping as she practiced what Vera recognized as her short program for the season.

“Woah.”

“There you are!” Coach Feltsman shouted.

Yuri joined his coach by the ice, while Vera trailed behind him. He began stretching as he replied, “There are reporters out front again.”

“It’s because you refused interviews after the Cup of China.”

“They can stay out of it,” he replied darkly.

“You won’t be able to dodge them forever.”

Vera, feeling a little lost by their argument, went back to watching Mila skate. How cool was it that she would be sharing a rink with both Yuri Plisetsky AND Mila Babicheva, if only for a day?

Mila’s short program practice run soon ended. She glided over and grabbed a water bottle, listening while Coach Feltsman critiqued. However, she soon spotted Vera and leaned over the rink wall.

“So this is the little kitten you’ve adopted, Yuri,” she said with a wide grin.

Vera blinked. “Kitten?”

“Shut up, hag!”

“I can still lift you.”

Yuri groaned in annoyance. Mila turned back to Vera.

“What’s your name?”

“Vera Kotova.”

“Kotova, huh?” She laughed. “See, she is a kitten.”

Yuri rolled his eyes and went to put on his skates, grumbling all the while. Mila continued smiling after him.

“…Um,” Vera said as she tapped Mila’s arm to get her attention, “You’re my favorite female skater.”

Mila stared at her a moment before shouting, “Yuri! Yakov! We’re keeping her!”

Yakov just shook his head at his students’ antics. “Mila, work on that step sequence again. Yuri, warm up.”

Mila returned to skating, while Yuri finished lacing his skates and went to the opposite side of the rink. Vera stood there not sure what she should do until Coach Feltsman snapped at her.

“What are you waiting for? Stretch and then get your skates on.”

“Y-yes, sir!”

It wasn’t long before she too was on the ice, working on basic drills before she moved on to practicing her jumps. Maybe it was because she had been watching Yuri and Mila practice out of the corner of her eye but a thought suddenly popped into her mind: What if she tried a double?

With that idea urging her on, Vera jumped higher and spun faster. A full rotation… 540 degrees… a full 720 degrees! Vera’s heart leapt in excitement for a split second. Then her blade landed wrong. She tried to counter-balance but it was too late. She hit the ice with a solid thump.

“Ow.”

The sound of blades gliding to a stop echoed in her ear. When Vera looked up, both Yuri and Mila were staring down at her in mild concern.

“I’m okay,” she said as she scrambled up.

“Vera!” Coach Feltsmen yelled from the side of the rink, “Have you been given permission to start practicing doubles yet?”

Vera glanced down guilty. “…No.”

The coach’s frown deepened, while Mila snickered.

“You fit right in.”

Vera blushed at the compliment.

“You botched the landing because your foot was angled sloppily,” Yuri commented.

She nodded and then glanced back over at Coach Feltsman with pleading eyes. “Can I try again?”

He stared at her a moment before answering, “We might as well see if you can manage a half decent double salchow before practice is over.”

#Murky writes stuff #yuri on ice #yuri plisetsky #yoi fanfic

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