Chapter Text
Even through the closed door, the approaching staccato of Margo Madison’s sensible heels against the tiled floors of the Johnson Space Center had Sergei Orestovich Nikulov rising to his feet in anticipation of her arrival to his temporary office. He tugged down on his brown sweater vest and then took a sip of water to quench his suddenly dry mouth. His increased heart rate, he told himself, meant only that he was nervous about what new road block had caused her to come looking for him.
The presentation this morning had gone well, despite the frustration from some of his colleagues that he had given over their radio frequencies so easily, but he had reminded them immediately that it was his decision and his alone. He was allowed, he explained, this small reciprocation given that NASA had blinked first and redesigned the docking mechanism. Though Margo had at first baulked at the idea of her team taking full credit for his idea, he quickly made her understand that given his orders and the rules in place at Roscosmos, it was the only way.
He was surprised when in her voice came the heavily accented greeting of “Do-bray vecher,” clearly directed to the KGB officer outside his door. Hearing this caused a genuine smile to break quickly across his face. A swell of warm regard rose in his chest and he tilted his head in wonder. She continued to surprise him, this remarkable woman. Smart and perceptive from the beginning, she had understood his hesitancy to talk that night in his office, and had devised a plan on the spot.
He was not half way through the first rip of his coaster before she had seen exactly what he had in mind and together, and eventually with the help of her junior engineer, they worked quickly and efficiently through to the early morning hours.
And now here she was, attempting to converse with his colleagues in Russian when, in his experience, American’s almost universally expected everyone to come to them all but fluent in English.
He gave his head a brief shake to help school his features as she knocked lightly on the door.
“Yes. Come in, please,” he allowed, planting his fingertips on the edge of his desk as if bracing himself for her arrival. They had not been alone in the same room since that night and he found himself hoping that he would not end his time here in Houston without having such an opportunity again.
He let out the breath he had been holding as she entered, thankfully alone, shutting the door behind her. He noticed how she fidgeted ever so briefly with the file in her hands, eyes drifting down to her sensible red pumps before lifting to meet his. She cleared her throat. “Hello, Sergei.”
Except for the use of his first name, she was once again all stiff formality, a marked contrast to the ease with which they had once known He felt a shock of disappointment at the retreat, but then again, they were back to reality now. And as her mangled greeting to his handler so aptly reminded, they were no longer operating without scrutiny.
Sergei stepped out from behind the makeshift desk, but moved no further toward her in deference to the space she had already established. He nodded towards her in greeting. “Hello, Margo.”
She was still, despite his expectant gaze and he wished he could read her better, this muted version of her, that bared little resemblance to the warm and spirited person he felt he already knew. Still she stared at him and just as the moment was about to become uncomfortable, she seemed to make some sort of a decision.
“Right,” she started, taking two steps towards his desk, then stretching ever so slightly to place the rather thick folder she’d brought with her solidly on his desk, “I was hoping that you might have some time to review these docking SOPs.” She retreated a step before adding, “Our ops teams turned these around rather quickly once the design and communications approvals came through.”
“So they have.” He acknowledged. “Our teams seem to have much in common. I am sure they had these drafts ready to go five days ago hoping for the go ahead. Then it’s just a few hours to fill in the blanks, yes?”
“Sounds about right.” She admitted and then reached up to adjust her glasses. “Still,” she said, “I think we can also both agree that regardless of how thorough they have been, once we send these up the chain one of the powers that be will find something to complain about.”
Sergei nodded in agreement, “I wish it were not so, but you are most likely correct. No one can find a way to be more easily offended on behalf of a nation than a bureaucrat trying to justify his position.”
“Exactly,” she agreed, glad that she did not have to try to convince him of the value in going through the SOPs with a fine tooth comb. “I thought if we both took a look, from our respective points of view, maybe you and I could try to head them off at the pass.”
His brow furrowed slightly, “I am sorry, I do not know what this means…uh… at the pass?”
Margo let out a puff of air that ruffled her red bobbed hair in the front. “Oh, let’s see. Well, it means to stop someone, before they reach their goal. Keep them from doing something. Getting somewhere. Does that make sense?”
“Yes, this makes sense.” he agreed, understanding her now. “What an interesting phrase.”
“I never really thought about it, but I guess it comes from old western movies. Sorry.”
“Ahh, do not be sorry. You suggest we are to be like your John Wayne, your most famous American cowboy, yes?” he asked, his grin widening.
Margo let out a small laugh drifting ever so slightly towards him. “Something like that. Sure.”
The Margo from that first night was slowly returning and he wanted to extend her visit for as long as possible. He took a shuffling step closer and whispered conspiratorially “Though I don’t think we will be using guns, no?”
“No,” she chuckled, “probably just red pens. It’s paperwork after all.”
“What a shame.” he lamented. “But - this being the case, I agree. We should make for the pass.” He paused and then added somewhat ruefully, “Though I do find something satisfying in thinking about John Wayne holding the politburo hostage with his six shooters.” He then made guns out of his fingers and pretended to shoot across the narrow space between them.
Margo‘s hand came up to smother her genuine laugh. “I am sorry, too. I can think of more than a few folks I’d add to that group myself.” her merriment was infections and he to began to chuckle lightly. “I’m sorry,” she said, her accent heavier than normal, “I can just imagine all of ‘em just tied in a big group in their fancy suits, out of the way. Think how much more we could get done.”
‘“We would be well on our way to Mars!” he agreed.
“Yes,” she added emphatically.
They laughed quietly together, both of them now covering their growing grins, mirth spilling out through their eyes, still acutely aware of the ears on just the other side of the door. He could not help but hold her gaze, her innocently earnest expression so unlike anything he could have imagined when he tried to think about who his American counterpart might be while working on Soyuz-Apollo.
As much as he wanted to keep up this lively conversation, he also knew that their time together was being noted by the stoic fellow just outside the door. He sighed and then motioned to the file she’d left for him. “Did you, uh, want to do this now?” he asked, bringing both of their attentions back to the matter at hand.
“Uh, no,” she answered abruptly, then stammered on, “ I mean-well, I haven’t had a chance to look at them myself, yet. I just wanted to get you a copy so we could both get started.”
“Then I’ll make sure to review it shortly.”
“Do you think you can find time to do that today? If so then maybe you could stop by my office later.”
”Of course. What time would be appropriate?”
“I think I am free after five, if that’s not too late?”
“No, not too late. I often work late into the evening back home. As i think you know, there is never enough time.”
She nodded resolutely. “Okay, then. I’ll have Ms. Jorgens call down and confirm the time,” she added, before turning to leave.
“Yes, this is fine,’ he said, nodding. “Consider that I am all yours.”
She paused, her hand on the knob, and looked back at him quizzically.
“Is this not how they say, to be available?” he asked.
“No. I mean yes, it’s how…you can say that.” She paused. “It’s just, well, it can mean- nevermind,” she said. “See ya.”
“Yes, See you soon.” he offered quietly.
As he sat, he heard her offer a quiet “Spasee-bo” to his minder outside his door.
Since his arrival in Houston, he had quickly grown accustomed to her particular brand of accented English. But as they worked that night, trading half sentences, their hands racing to keep up with their minds, as the one pen they had was snatched back and forth between them as their ideas took shape on flimsy bar napkins, he found he he preferred the lyrical quality of her voice to the more traditionally American sounding English of her co-workers.
But his new found appreciation had not prepared him for what that same accent would do to the palatalized, clustered consonants and short abrupt vowel sounds inherent in his own slavic language. He suddenly wished that his own English was not so good so that perhaps she might direct her fledgling Russian in his direction. Her pronunciations echoed in his mind and he found he suddenly and quite desperately wanted nothing more than to hear her desecrate more of his mother tongue.