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Tatiana sits on the armchair by the window, listening to the rain outside. It's a calm rain tonight. She thought it was a downpour when they were out there slipping on the gravel and wiping water from their eyes. She was definitely drenched, teeth chattering and hair sticking to her face, when they first made it to the safe house. But either the rain has calmed down, or the adrenaline was making it look worse than it really is, because this is...kind of peaceful.
"Tea, love?"
She blinks in the direction of the tall, lanky man now standing in front of her holding two steaming mugs of tea. All her training is telling her not to accept anything from a strange, foreign man—and another spy at that—but she doesn't care. It's one of those nights where she cares about very little.
"Thank you," she says, and takes one of the mugs from him.
He told her his name is Owen. Well, actually, he told her his name was Jack, but she pressed until he came up with Owen. Whether or not that's his real name, she doesn't know, but it suits him, so she accepts it. He's clearly English, but he's also clearly exaggerating his accent—putting a Cockney twist on words he's clearly used to pronouncing differently. He seems decent enough at his job: secretive and resourceful. With deadly aim.
The tea is bitter. It warms her up marginally.
"How's the arm?" Owen asks. Tatiana glances down at her bandaged arm. It doesn't hurt much anymore, if that's what he's wondering, but she has a feeling that might partially be because of the half bottle of whiskey she downed while he was stitching her up.
Getting stabbed sucks.
Luckily, Owen's safe house was close, and he not only had medical supplies, but also alcohol. And a change of clothes, though they're closer to his size than hers. They're clearly men's clothes, but she can't bring herself to mind.
"Fine," she says.
Owen watches her for a moment. "Not very talkative, are you?"
"If you were hoping for me to casually reveal—how you say?—classified Russian intelligence? I'm afraid I must disappoint you."
"Oh, I know," Owen says lightly. "I overheard."
Tatiana closes her eyes. She thinks back to the confrontation mere hours ago. To Lina catching her off-guard, to the argument, the sharp pain of a knife in her bicep. Traitor! Lina had screamed in her face. The anger was fresh and burning, and Tatiana was stunned for a moment, wondering how, after all these years, Lina was still taking her departure personally.
She opens her eyes. Owen is sipping tea and watching her carefully.
"Why did you leave?" he asks. "And why not defect to America or something? They would pay you handsomely, I'm sure."
"I was fifteen," Tatiana says. "I was not interested in another job."
For the briefest moment, Owen's eyes widen as he takes in the new information. Something flashes across his face—horror? Disgust? Understanding? Tatiana's not sure. But of course, it's gone as quickly as it came, and Owen is just nodding sympathetically.
"Why did you help me?" Tatiana asks.
"That other woman was an enemy operative targeting a—to my knowledge—civilian. Besides," he quirks an eyebrow, "you looked like you could use the help."
"And you were hoping that I would be grateful enough to give you something to impress your bosses with."
Owen smirks. "Wouldn't hurt."
"Well, I have nothing for you." She sits back and sips her tea. "And I am not going back to your...how you say...headquarters with you."
"You can drop that act," he says, waving a hand dismissively in her direction. "I know you speak English just fine, just as you know I would be able to understand you if you spoke in Russian. We don't have to keep pretending there is a language barrier." He puts his mug down on the table between them and sighs. "I'm not taking you back to headquarters. I didn't even call this in yet."
Tatiana blinks at him. "You didn't?"
"I think you should be able to walk away when you want to," Owen says softly, sincerely.
A quiet settles over them after that. They drink in silence, each watching the other while trying to pretend they're not. After a while, Tatiana realises that she believes him. She relaxes a fraction.
"Then what do you want from me?" she asks sheepishly. She hopes it's something she can give. She hopes she doesn't have to fight him, too. She could win, but it would be hell on her arm, and she's not sure she can incapacitate him and keep her location a secret without killing him. She really doesn't want to kill him.
But Owen just smiles, almost genuinely, and stands. He walks around the room, picking up his discarded items from before: gun holster, coat, hat, cigarettes. He pauses at the door and looks at her one last time.
"Clean up before you leave," he says, and disappears into the night.