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For the hundredth time since being paired up with Lantsov, Zoya questioned her sanity. When she thought things couldn’t get worse, they did just that. And it was Nikolai’s fault. Again.
She supposed it was her fault, too. If she’d stopped sparing his sorry existence and killed him two days ago, she would have saved herself the trouble of having to deal with his fever. Staging Nick Carter’s suicide would’ve required some delicate work, of course, and it would probably take a bit of her effort to act heartbroken in front of the Bouchers, but she’d manage. Terrifyingly enough, she suspected that her “acting” wouldn’t really be quite so fake after all.
“40.2 °C,” she stared at her old thermometer with a mix of concern and irritation. “Remind me again, why should I be keeping you alive and functioning?”
Her glare turned to Nikolai, curled up on the bed and visibly trembling beneath the covers of their expensive-looking eiderdown. He looked weary, despite only being ill for two days, his eyes watery and skin a tad paler than usual. The aspirin she’d been generously shoving down his throat clearly wasn’t of much help.
“Because I refuse to be killed by a river, comrade,” his voice was hoarse and shaky, but it hardly lost its snarky spark. “It’s embarrassing. You can kill me once I’m me again.”
She scoffed, stuffing the thermometer back into its plastic case. Sometimes it was rather hard to distinguish his sarcastic demeanour from outright stupidity, but Zoya was in no mood to ponder. “What a relief would that be.”
Part of her meant it. Zoya didn’t particularly enjoy having to decline Louis’ dinner offer from yesterday — a much wanted breakthrough after their fruitless efforts from before, — even though she was simultaneously relieved. She’d be lying if she said Nikolai’s company wasn’t preferable to Mr. Boucher’s, as much as it stung her pride to admit it. For all his flaws, unlike Louis, he could at least be threatened by her.
“I’ll ring for tea,” she informed in her thick accent, making her way to the wardrobe in search of something slightly more presentable than her robe. “Try to resist charming whatever maid brings it to you. You’re a married man, Mr. Carter.”
“And what of you, dear wife?” he sounded almost cheerful, although Zoya detected how his tone changed slightly at the end. “Headed to a secret breakfast with Louis?”
She was not.
“And if I am?”
“It’s a divorce, then.”
But his response came with a delay, as if reluctant to leave his mouth. Whether it was because of his overall miserable state or something else entirely, Zoya couldn’t quite fathom. Neither could she fathom why they were keeping this charade going, truth be told.
“Not until the honeymoon is over,” her excessively sweet voice surely reached Nikolai’s ears as she whirled around to look him in the eye, fingers clutching a hanger with a simple dark-blue dress on it. “The Bouchers still have tons of wine for me to taste.”
They really did. Except the price was spending time with them directly, and that Zoya didn’t enjoy one bit. Pleasing people with inflated egos was Nikolai’s department, not hers.
She remembered the way Louis’ hands were all over her waist a little while ago, and the way his lips tasted of his own expensive wine. His presence at her side for the rest of that day wasn’t nearly as dire as she’d expected — it was much, much worse. But it was part of the job. What really made her uneasy was the fact that she kept imagining Nikolai by her side instead, and how terrifyingly comforting his supposed presence felt. A wince crooked her features at the thoughts, one she was sure Nikolai, despite his bleary gaze, noticed. Yet, he kept his mouth shut. Odd.
“I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” she said curtly, breaking the silence at last.
Whatever made her think of briefly kissing his forehead, she suppressed it. Instead, Zoya went straight out of the room and for the phone, letting their concierge know that they’d like some tea brought up. Then, after locking up in the bathroom, she quickly changed into the dress — it was plain, but pretty nevertheless, and the sunny weather outside was perfect for it. Without the need to annoy Nikolai by occupying said bathroom for unnecessarily long, she did it in almost record time, too. And just like that, within moments, she was gone.
Zoya did not make it in twenty minutes.
It was so unlike her to be late that her stomach twisted with something like dread, and each step she took made her heart sink further down. But what was she worried about? The ten additional minutes she’d spent at the bakery weren’t going to lead to Nikolai’s sudden demise. He was an idiot, yes — to the point that made Zoya question how he managed to fool her back in Berlin, — but he should be perfectly capable of surviving on his own for half an hour. Besides, she’d got him a chocolate-filled croissant and three macaroons, plus a whole bag of medicine. With his own money, granted, but that was insignificant and unsurprising.
Of course, whatever faith she had in him had evaporated as soon as she set foot in their suite. Zoya was forced to drop everything and rush to Nikolai’s visibly swaying body before the imbecile collapsed entirely.
“God,” she breathed out, catching him just in time. “What have you done?” she hissed as they both stumbled to the bedroom, barely registering his heated skin beneath her hands.
His speech was slurred, and he was leaning heavily on her, but the two words that she did manage to make out were: “shower” and “cold”. It made zero sense at first: a cold shower? Why would he take a cold shower? But then, as she kept trying to piece it together, the dumbest thought occurred to her. He wasn’t referring to the water at all. Nikolai felt cold when she’d left, so it was only natural for him to try warming himself up with a quick shower. A hot shower, judging by his… well, everything, really.
Zoya grunted, guiding him to their bed and, although she felt like whacking him in the head with a mug, she was trying to be reasonable. One half-wit was more than enough for their partnership.
Nikolai groaned and panted as his head hit the pillow, and when Zoya tried to cover him with the eiderdown, he mumbled some more and tried to wriggle away from it.
“Oh no, you don’t,” she snarled, catching him by his wrist and yanking the man back, then aggressively tucking him under the duvet. “Stay there, or I’ll let that fever finish you off. You’ll be killed by a shower instead, cowboy.”
That briefly caught his attention. Now, with his eyes only half open and his face slick with sweat, he was looking at Zoya like… Like what? Like she was a goddess of some sort? Or like she just insulted his hair? In any case, she brushed if off and, with a deep frown on her own face, went for the thermometer rested on the nightstand. She’d forgotten to give it a shake earlier, so a few more moments were wasted on bringing its quicksilver back down. Then, after it was in Nikolai’s mouth — Zoya found it to be very convenient and, sadly, one of the few things that made him shut up, — all they had to do was wait.
She was kind enough to wipe his face with a cold cloth, and to bring a bowl full of icy water for later. Then, disregarding Nikolai’s pleading eyes and quiet whining, Zoya went back to the front door to get everything she’d bought. She doubted now that Nikolai would be able to actually eat anything, but it was worth a try. He had to eat something, sooner or later. Pastry was as good a snack as any, in their situation. She would’ve made him Liliyana’s soup if she had the resources; not because she wanted to care for him, of course not. Simply because it worked wonders for her in the rare times she was sick. Either way, food will have to wait until after the thermometer is out and his wellbeing gets better.
When she’d extracted said thermometer at last, he closed his eyes again, breathing heavily. Zoya pressed her hand to Nikolai’s forehead, then his cheek, not willing to trust the numbers on the scale alone, but his skin felt so fervid she thought it might actually combust. To prove the point further, his hand — just as heated — ended up on top of hers, the one still cupping his cheek, keeping Zoya from leaving.
“Stay,” he sounded groggy at best. “Please.”
It was so unusual to see him like this, she realised. Vulnerable, pleading and, for some reason, trustful. He shouldn’t be any of those things. And she shouldn’t feel like giving in.
“Please,” he begged again, words slurring. Then, his eyes slowly opened to look at her, and the sight of them made her breath hitch treacherously. “I don’t want you to go.”
She obliged. Slowly, reluctantly, cursing her foolish sentiments. With her hand finally freed, she sat down beside him.
“Five minutes, cowboy.”
The voice sounded alien to her. What was she thinking? Why was she getting soft on him? She should be concerned with their mission, should be looking for ways to get closer to these damned Bouchers, should be thinking about her country’s good, for fuck’s sake. That’s what good spies do, and she wasn’t good — she was the best that KGB had to offer. And instead, here she was, fussing over her country’s worst enemy. She’d be doing everyone a favour by just killing him, she knew that.
Everyone but yourself, her own thoughts provided unhelpfully.
The pointless monologue in her head was interrupted by Nikolai, as he crawled closer and pressed his hot cheek to her exposed thigh. His right hand found hers again and squeezed it weakly, unwilling to let go, his forearm now resting on her other thigh. A perfect trap.
And Zoya sat there, frozen in place, like the skin to skin contact transferred some kind of paralysing venom into her blood. Her mind went blank, her world narrowed to the little room they were in. She almost felt like suffocating.
Her eyes darted this way and that, trying to ignore how his heavy breaths brushed over her bare skin, how his dishevelled hair tickled it. Zoya wasn’t even sure if she was still breathing.
Nikolai shifted again, his stubble prickling Zoya’s lap. His hand squeezed hers harder when he did, and she instinctively returned the gesture, as if she was about to help him to get up. But he was merely adjusting the angle to lay more comfortably, it seemed. The audacity.
Eventually, she rested her head on the wall in defeat. The weight of his body felt… nice. It really shouldn’t.
She studied his face. His eyes were closed, brows furrowed just a bit, and he was breathing unsteadily through his mouth. Maybe he did poison her somehow. It was the only explanation for Zoya’s overwhelming urge to kiss him in the forehead again. Instead, cautiously, her fingers only brushed the golden strands back from it. Just how much of this was his conscious doing? And was he still awake now?
His breathing appeared somewhat faint, but his head followed the touch, tilting slightly. Zoya sighed, threading her fingers into his tousled hair and massaging his scalp softly. It was all too intimate for her liking, too real. His head on her lap, her fingers in his hair, his hand clinging to hers like a lifeline. It was something they had no right to, not in their position. What they were doing was unwise. What she was doing was laughable.
To distract herself for a brief moment, Zoya fetched a soaked cloth from the bowl and, after squeezing out all the excess water, gently placed it on Nikolai’s forehead. She could see the relief on his face, the way the crease between his brows slowly disappeared. Only a few seconds later, his hand was searching for hers again. She huffed in disbelief, but took it nevertheless.
“You’re insufferable.”
He muttered something in response, pressing his cheek onto her skin harder to emphasize whatever he was trying to say.
“What was that, cowboy?”
He tried again, louder this time, “Maybe I just like it when you’re close to me.”
It was a dangerous thing to say. Even more so if it was the truth.
“Don’t get used to it.”
To that, he only hummed. Zoya could’ve sworn he was mocking her.
He kept mumbling until, eventually, his exhaustion got the better of him, and his mind trailed off to sleep. Zoya didn’t mind. She spent a few more minutes slowly stroking his head, thinking of nothing in particular. Just him, apparently. And, when the time came, she carefully slipped away, unable to resist planting a kiss to his forehead as she did.
She only hoped he wouldn’t remember any of it. If he did, it would be the death of both of them.