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The Soviet Union was no fool.
They stared at each other for a moment, before the Reich looked away first, and frown marring his face and a new tick under the corner of his right eye.
Annoyed.
"Well, this is getting us nowhere," the Reich smiled pleasantly and his brows smoothed out and face snapped into place, "how about I make us some tea? It is time for a break anyhow."
Thus, he turned his back on the Soviet and sauntered off to some area of his office. Soviet followed his path briefly, before deciding it really wasn't worth his time. There was a portable stove or something like that in there. He had a tea set. Maybe more.
Everything was in its place here. Each pen was lined up on his desk, each plaque was front and centre, each shelf was neatly packed, and all of it matched the appearance of its owner.
His shirt was tucked in with no wrinkles in sight. He wore gloves, and left no fingerprints. He even stood elegantly, almost like a statement art piece in his own office, a gaze like ice and a false, gentle curve to his back.
Even his hair was plaited past the point of management, no longer was it merely braided to serve the purpose of preventing it all from dragging on the floor and being stepped on, it was now flat and straight and symmetrical, somehow shaped into a large plait with loops, somewhat reminiscent of small flower petals or a fine scalloped lace trim on the sides. No matter what, it almost flowed like water. To top it all off, it was tied off silently, with a silver string that he swore jingled when Reich took a step.
"Here," and his skeletal frame entered Soviet's line of vision once more. There was an elaborate white and blue cup in front of him on a saucer, that Reich poured tea into. It looked bitter, but with just an inhale, Soviet recognized the scent of lemon. "If you want any honey, I'll go get it for you."
Reich set down the ceramic teapot with a single clink, and his hands left, folding behind his back.
Soviet shook his head and nodded towards the chair on the other side of Reich's desk.
"Sit. This isn't just for me."
"Hm. Alright." He replied cleanly.
Annoyed.
Soviet watched him take the first sip. He looked fine.
Not that it mattered, considering the fact that the Nazi probably had extreme toxin resistance thanks to being made up of toxic sludge anyhow, but if he was fine, Soviet wouldn't be that much worse.
Yes, the tea was bitter, but the lemon tasted fresh.
Reich put down his cup. The heat of the water had brought some colour into his deathly pale fingertips, now pink in the pads and under his nails.
He was a murderer, and yet his nails were clean and hands white as fresh snow. Not a single scar or scratch marked his soft skin, not a single chip was carved into his clear lacquered nails.
And any way you looked at him, he was perfect.
"You look like you have something to say," Reich stated, tapping his fingernails on his desk.
Annoyed.
"…Why do you wear gloves?" Soviet asked, still busy with the tea. Reich looked like he had moved on, but Soviet was a little determined. It was already so bitter that he didn't want to know what it would be like cold. This was a tea to be consumed in the present moment, hopefully, as fast as possible. And where was Reich keeping the lemon?
The tapping stopped.
"…Winter is coming." Reich explained. "It's getting colder and drier… without the gloves, I fear my skin would crack. You can see my lips chapping already. I cannot stand the winter."
The tea had definitely wetted them somewhat, but yes, Soviet could see the supposed chapping.
"Never come to Moscow then, you would die."
"Yes, I suppose it would be an unpleasant experience for both of us. Are you sure Moscow isn't warmer in the spring? I do love springtime."
"Eh…" he gave only that as an answer. It said enough, he thought.
Happy.
The Soviet Union was no fool.