Chapter Text
Aleida had gotten her downstairs bathroom repainted and Margo wasn’t a fan of the colour. The pale green colour was nauseating, or that’s what Margo told herself – ignoring the fact it was the relentless spinning of her stomach that had had her confined to the bathroom in the first place. 3 mouthfuls of Enchiladas had been all it had taken before she had to dart from the table. Victor was the one who had come in to see if she was ok, a glass of water in hand, the look on his face dangerously close to pity.
Margo wasn’t stupid, she knew what was happening. The excuses of a bad ham sandwich, stress and stomach flu had grown less and less convincing even in her own mind after days of dashes to the bathroom had turned into a week, 2 weeks, 3. When she was late, her mind had gone to menopause before it had gone to… well… A cheap plastic stick from CVS confirmed the hypothesis.
Rinsing out her mouth she heads back to the dining room. Aleida glances up from her food as she walks back in before looking back down just as quickly. Aleida’s desperation to pretend that nothing had changed was almost painful to behold each Friday night. She and Victor were seemingly back together, but the cracks were still there, papered over. Octavio was his usual talkative self but he had called Margo Sofia when she had arrived. He didn’t seem to have noticed Margo had disappeared just now either. She and Aleida hadn’t actually discussed anything about what had happened with the Russian engine, after Margo’s confession Aleida avoided that topic seemingly on pain of death. Margo knows better than to poke that wound but it stings that Aleida seems unable to even look her in the eye anymore.
She doesn’t manage any more Enchiladas, the smell is almost enough to send her back to the bathroom. She makes her excuses as early as she can and heads to her car. She gets to the intersection of 12th and Mason and paused as if there was a choice to be made. She went left as she had done each week for 6 months now, away from the perm-on halogen lights of JSC – covered in scaffolding, and toward a spine-twistingly banal suburb of southwest Houston. Why the CIA had decided the best place to put a Soviet defector was the dreariest, cookie-cutter neighbourhood in the city was beyond her. Sergei seemed to like it though. A Moscow native all his life, he had only ever lived in apartment buildings – a garden of his own was a novelty that had yet to be worn down but years of lawn maintenance.
Driving past row after row of identical houses, a handful carelessly garbed in tacky Christmas decorations, she arrives at her destination. The lights were off when she pulled up – but that was not unusual, it was late. She thinks he might have mentioned going to see his parents – that was usually where he went on evenings she went to Aleida’s for dinner. Sometimes on the drive over she would think about what it would be like if he had joined her, met Victor and Octavio and little Javi. To watch him eat a plate of Mexican food – one more thing to add to the seemingly endless list of new experiences he was amassing. He had never joined and probably never would – there was a cold distance between Sergei and Aleida that would likely never thaw beyond reluctant colleagues. There was an ache in her chest when she thought about that, one she avoided digging at.
She lets herself in with her key. There were scant few personal touches amongst the basic furniture. A few technical drawings and mathematics books were scattered on a coffee table, a half-dead potted plant in the corner. On the sideboard, there was a bottle of excellent brandy that sat next to a distinctly average bottle of bourbon. Sergei couldn’t stand the taste of Brandy, but that was fine because she didn’t partially like bourbon. There were no photos, no knickknacks that told any stories about the person, or people who lived there.
He is in bed, asleep when she slips as quietly as she can into the bedroom. She can, in the dark, feel her way to the dresser on the right wall, and pull a clean night dress from the second draw. She makes her way to the bathroom shutting the door before flicking on the light. She changes, drops her clothes into the hamper, and grabs the toothbrush from the pot next to his. In the bathroom mirror, her eyes trace the strands of grey, cutting through her hair, the lines around her eyes. When she turns to leave, she catches a glance of herself in profile. She doesn’t bring her hand to rest on her lower abdomen by sheer force of will and turns off the light before her mind can catch up.
She slips back into the bedroom and slips under the covers on the right side of the bed. He shifts beside her, not fully asleep anymore but not quite awake. The weight of an arm is draped over her waist, heavy and warm, she shifts as well until she is pressed against his solid chest. She closes her eyes.
***
Getting used to sharing a bed with another person had been a process for Margo. Sergei snored and not subtly either. He also ran a lot hotter than she did. Walking up sleep deprived and sweaty should have been a nightmare, but, in her mind’s eye she can see a younger version of herself rolling her eyes at this, it was worth it, to be close to him.
The alarm goes off even though it’s a Saturday. Sergei always seems to wake up quicker than she does, the arm slung around her waist disappears, as he pushes himself up, reaching over her to the alarm on her bedside table. They are back in silence, just the two of them. She feels him press his lips to her cheek, as he does each morning. His mumbled ‘good morning’ is in English today, and she rolls onto her back, and answers by pressing her lips to his.
There is nowhere for them to be this morning. His hand finds her waist as their kisses become more heated. Her hands find the back of his neck and shoulders, pulling him closer. He lets her.
And then he pulls away. Margo doesn’t have time to register what’s happening before he has rolled to face away from her, his shoulders heaving with a hacking cough that shakes his entire body. There is nothing Margo can do but place a hand on his back and wait.
After what seems like an eternity, the coughs subside to a wheezing rasp. Sergei falls back into his back, trying to catch his breath. When he begins to breathe somewhat normally again Margo lays her head down on his chest.
With her ear pressed against his chest, she can feel the rattle accompanying each deep inhale. The coughing was intermittent. In his 6 months in the US, he had been on antibiotics for pneumonia twice. When the doctor had begun talking about scarring in the lungs, he hadn’t seemed overly surprised. It scared her. People she cared about had gotten sick before, her father, her aunt, and she had been concerned of course but this was different. It wasn’t ill health or old age that had done this to him. It had been purposeful, designed to leave lasting damage. On his body. On his mind.
His hand traced patterns up and down her back, an apology of sorts. The moment had passed, and they both were content to just lay there for a little while.
Margo’s stomach has other ideas. It’s her turn to pull away abruptly, darting to the bathroom and the toilet. A rather unpleasant few minutes later and Sergei had grabbed her a glass of water. It was his turn to lay a hand on her back, just as ineffective as hers had been.
“Maybe you should see a doctor?” She definitely should but not for the sort of appointment Sergei was thinking of. She hums something noncommittal and mutters about taking a shower, so Sergei leaves her in peace. She changes the temperature to cool and lets the water run over her, easing the twisting in her stomach. She needs to talk to Sergei about this. Desperately. This is half his fault after all, and he has a right to know. Just she can’t seem to force the word out. This un-named thing between them feels too fragile, too much like chance.
The bomb that shook JSC had ended a chapter of Margo’s life. After she came too, lying on the floor of mission control, smoke and debris all around, Margo hadn’t had much of an idea of how profoundly her life was changed. Aleida’s hand on her arm, her cheek, her forehead as she had tried to staunch the blood flowing from Margo’s nasty head wound has been the only anchor in a sea of chaos. Margo remembered very little of that day and none of how she had gotten out of the building (it had been with Aleida’s help), time had only really begun to recrystallize in the hospital a few days later.
It was 3 weeks before they had released Margo, doctors finally confident that the lingering effect of the swelling in her brain had subsided, at which point she had immediately been confronted with a new problem. She didn’t have anywhere to go. The possibility of ending up homeless had not been something Margo ever considered before. She also despised relying on charity. Both of Margo’s two visitors during her hospital stay had shot down the idea of her living in a hotel for a while before it even got off the ground. The deciding factor had been that Sergei had a spare room and Aleida didn’t.
Margo spent one night in that spare room.
Her second night had started with an exceptionally uncomfortable dinner and ended with her in Sergei’s bed so she supposed it could have gone worse. JSC still hadn’t been fully repaired, but even if it had Margo doesn’t think she would have gone back to her office bedroom. He had told her he loved her that night.
Not once in six months had either of them broached the topic of exactly what was happening here. It felt trivial or almost childish to try and find a label for quite how profound an effect they had had on each other’s lives. But mostly Margo is scared of the possibility that this tentative thing might break apart and that there is nothing she could do to fix it.
The last ten years had changed them both so much that they were almost unrecognisable from the man and woman who had sat down for a drink at 11:59 to discuss an engineering problem. Both for better and for far worse. Margo wonders sometimes what a younger version of herself would think of her now, of the person she had become and how she had got there. How she had come so close to throwing all that she had worked for away, how luck and the forgiveness of a protégé had been all that saved her.
It seems only normal, that the things someone wants out of their life change the more if it they have lived. Margo had everything she had wanted, all those years ago when the furthest thing to shoot for was the moon. She ran NASA. She was respected, people looked to her to lead. As she stood the to the top of the mountain and looked down, some of the things that hadn’t seemed so important then suddenly seemed very large now.
“Not every woman is cut out to be a mother” Christ she hadn’t thought about that conversation with Gene in years, hadn’t even thought about Gene in a while. Under the cool spray of the show, this time Margo can’t stop her hand from falling to her still-flat belly. Those words had stung then but they ached now. She wonders how true they had been, how true they still were.
The wounds of her own father’s apathy had followed her for decades after the man himself had died. But what she had meant what said when she told Dev Ayesa, that she thinks he was proud of her in his own way. Wernher had told her that her father had loved her. That she found much harder to believe. Being proud of your child for what they achieved is not the same as loving them, not to her anyway. She doesn’t know if she could ever forgive herself if she infected the same pain on her own child as her father had inflicted upon her.
Margo shut off the water abruptly. Her emotional spiral had already done enough damage to Sergei’s water bill. Dressing as quickly as she can, she heads down the narrow stairs to find out if Sergei had managed to coax his outdated coffee machine into working this morning.
He hadn’t. Not because the coffee machine was old, but because, as far as Margo could tell, he hadn’t actually turned it on yet. He was standing at the sink, staring out the window. He did that a lot, Margo had noticed. Sometimes she would catch him, just standing there, eyes gazing at nothing, face blank. He would look up at her and there would be a second before he seemed to realise that should be emotion on his face and he would smile. But it never quite made it to his eyes, not anymore. It was starting to happen more often, as the weeks go by. Sometimes it feels like the man she fell for in a London elevator is slipping from her grasp, that it's up to her to pull him back.
He didn’t seem to hear her this morning; it took her light touch on his arm to bring him back from where his mind had gone. He almost seemed disoriented for a moment before refocusing on her. He leaned into her touch before bending slightly to kiss her on her cheek.
As he headed back upstairs in the direction of the shower, without a word, Margo sets about making the coffee Sergei neglected. Milk and sugar for her, just milk for him. Margo raises the mug to her lips before but stops before taking a sip. Should she be drinking decaf? The mug is set back on the counter undrunk.
When Sergei reappears, after a shower far shorter than her own, they discuss their plans for the day. Margo had work to do at JSC. Sergei has work to do as well but it’s nothing he can’t do here, at the small desk in the corner of the spare room. They will go to Sergei’s parents for dinner. He hadn’t seen them last night in the end, tired from a week of work.
Margo leaves the house with a smile on her face. Sergei pours her undrunk coffee down the sink, too sweet for his taste.
***
Sergei’s mother was a lovely woman. Svetlana Nikulova had kind eyes and a kind face, and every time Margo came to visit, she would give her a hug, and never lets her leave on an empty stomach. His father, Orest, looked so much like Sergei it was almost comical. They seemed to share a similar personality as well from what she could tell, pendulum-ing between reserved and demonstrative with little warning. Usually, Margo visits them with Sergei, but more and more she visits them alone, grocery bag or box of some household items in tow. Between her, Sergei and his two sisters, she’s not sure if they have even had to venture into an American grocery store since they got here.
The only problem was neither of them spoke a word of English, and the handful of Russian words Margo knew were all greetings or goodbyes. But still, Margo would head over and sit down at his parent’s kitchen table, a mug of tea in hand, as his mother chatted way in a language she didn’t understand. She didn’t even, particularly like tea. She didn’t know how to describe the feeling in her chest as she sat there. It was warm and empty at the same time. If Sergei was there with her, he would chat away to his mother in Russian, a long-suffering expression frozen on his face as she fussed over him. Occasionally he would fill her in on what his mother had said, some small observation about America, or something she had seen on TV, and Margo would smile, and Svetlana would smile back.
Margo had been expecting them to be much older, Sergei's parents. Maybe the same age her own mother and father would have been if they were still alive - octogenarian or nonagenarians perhaps, but instead they were, well not young, but when Sergei had told her his mother had been 16 when he was born, things started to make more sense.
Very occasionally Sergei would convince Margo to join him at one of the local restaurants with one or both of his sisters. The elder was a little younger than Margo, the second a shade older than Aleida. They spoke more English than their parents but less than Sergei, so conversion was often silted.
Tonight, his parents’ house smelt like beetroot and garlic, so it looks like it's Borscht for dinner. Sergei’s mother’s Borscht had given her new appreciation for quite how terrible the version she had bought Sergei in the hotel room had been. Margo had eaten a lot of Borscht in the last 6 months. It was one of only about 5 dishes Sergei could make, all inferior versions of dishes Margo had also eaten at his parents’ house. Not that she could complain, it was 5 more dishes than Margo could successfully cook. Well 4, Margo could make a mean Kraft Mac and Cheese. She wonders if there is some sort of correlation between rocket scientists and poor cooking skills. The study would make for an interesting read at least.
Her stomach seemed to have given her a night’s reprieve, and the dinner is lovely. Sergei’s mother does almost all of the talking, Sergei is a bit quieter than normal. Margo sits and eats, silent, enjoying the company and the food. After dinner, the four of them sit in the lounge, Margo pressed into Sergei’s side, his arm around her shoulder.
When some of Sergei’s words catch in his throat he begins to cough again. Margo tenses but fortunately this time, it doesn’t turn into anything more. She sees her own fear reflected in his parents’ eyes. Sergei would start coughing again and the hopelessness in his mothers’ eyes would cut into her heart like a knife. His Father would sit there, frozen until Sergei began to breathe more evenly again. She wonders what it’s like, for your child to vanish for two years, you don’t know where they are or if they are alive or dead. Only for them to return to you hurting and scarred, and there be nothing you can do to help them.
It wasn’t entirely clear to Margo quite how much Sergei’s family knew about the circumstances that lead to their departure from the Soviet Union, Margo’s part in it, or really any of the complicated history that lay between herself and Sergei. She didn’t ask Sergei for the answer to that question, afraid to rip off the band-aid that had held them together for 6 months.
When Margo and Sergei get up to leave, his mother walks them to the door. She gives Margo a big hug as always. Margo thinks for a split second that she would be the most fantastic grandma. Tears begin to form in Margo’s eyes, as she steps out into the night.
***
Sergei drives them the short 15-minute journey back to their house. He doesn’t say anything, he’s barely said a word all night and Margo is starting to worry. She’s not sure how to ask him if he’s ok, a not sure what to do if he says that he is not, so she stays silent as well. Instead, she sinks into her own thoughts, something she had been trying to avoid doing for a while.
In the darkness of the car, she brings her hand to rest on her belly. She has to tell him. She can’t do this by herself. She could blurt it out now, while he’s driving, it would mean she could avoid looking him in eye as she tells him. That feels cowardly somehow. She stays silent.
She starts to feel a little queasy, but this time it's nerves that are the culprit. She doesn’t know if she can do this. It felt so stupid to say, even in her own head. These were the thoughts of some hapless teenager knocked up on prom night, not a fully grown woman on the wrong side of middle age. She had every means someone could ask for to support a child. She’s not sure if she wants this.
She doesn’t know if she can love anything as much as a child deserves to be loved. She loves her work, she loves Sergei even if she hasn’t figured out how to tell him yet, she loves Aleida so much it hurts to even think of it, and there doesn’t seem like there is room for anything else.
They pull into the driveway, Margo was shaken from her stupor, pulling her hand quickly away from her belly. She follows Sergei up the drive, through the door and into the lounge. Sergei grabs the bottle of Brandy and the bottle of Bourbon from the sideboard and set them on the coffee table, before going to grab a couple of glasses from the kitchen. Margo dithers in the middle of the room, too anxious to take a seat on the couch, hands twisting around each other. She’s going to tell him. She can’t put it off any longer.
When he walks back in, slumping down heavily on the couch, like all the life had been drained out of him. He looked exhausted. Maybe worn down was a better word. He goes to pour the Brandy, but she stops him before he wastes it.
“Sergei, I have to tell you something” his hand freezes on the brandy, shoulder tense as he tilts his head up to look at her. There’s dread in his eyes, clear and cold and she almost loses her nerve, but she forges on.
“I’m pregnant” it’s the first time she has said the words out loud and they don’t make the weight in her chest any easier to bear. She had no idea what his reaction would be, no fragment of data on which to build a hypothesis. It turns out he would have no visible reaction at all – his face is completely blank. She looks away, unable to meet his eye anymore.
Unlike her, he’s been married before, more than once if his younger sisters vailed remarks can be taken at face value. If he had wanted children, he would already have them, but he doesn’t. She doesn’t think she has ever seen him interact with a child, maybe he can’t stand them, maybe he’s fantastic with them. She wants to say he would be a good father but doesn’t really have much to base that thought on. All that she does know Sergei is a man who loves with his entire being. His parents, his sisters, Margo, he would pull down the moon for any of them if they were to ask him to. Margo wants to believe he could love their child like that too.
When she can’t bear this distance anymore, she reaches out towards him, her finger brushing the back of his, where they still rest on the bottle of Brandy on the coffee table. He recoils back, pulling it away. His face is still a mask, but she thinks there might be a hint of desperation in his eyes.
Ice fills Margo’s veins. He doesn’t want this. Panic courses through her, and she tries to swallow it down. Sergei still hasn’t said a word, not uttered a sound since wishing his mother good night. He seems to be frozen in place, looking right at her but not really seeing her. Margo, to her shame, can’t take it. She bolts.
The night air seems colder than it had been minutes ago as they had walked into their house. She thinks she is going to be sick.
***
She ends up in front of Aleida’s house of all places, because of course she does. She should just keep driving, it's late, it's not her place, but she doesn’t. Before she can think better of it, she is knocking on the door. Aleida answers, thank God, Margo has no idea what she would have done if Victor or Octavio had answered. Aleida looks a mixture of confused and afraid to see her there, shaking on the doorstep. Margo thinks she has probably been crying but she isn’t sure.
She is scared, she is so scared. About the child she didn’t plan for, that she doesn’t know if she wants, she doesn’t know if she can care for. About losing Sergei, to the scars that those two years left on him, physically and mentally. Losing her job, her purpose, her freedom. It’s all beginning to crack, and she can’t take it anymore. She is clinging to Aleida like she is the only thing keeping her afloat. And Aleida lets her