Archive of Our Own

“... Well, if you'd been standing where I was, you would have seen his foot catch mine. It's rather difficult to stay upright when someone decides to stand on you.”

You glanced up from your tea, having missed enough of the conversation to be of very little use. Across from you, one of your colleagues was explaining why the outcome of his last bout required reconsideration. His sparring partner appeared unconvinced, occupied as he was with shaking snow out of a glove. There was more of it trapped in his collar, which perhaps explained why he'd been less generous about the whole affair than usual.

You nodded before properly thinking about it. Unfortunately, the gesture was taken as agreement.

“See? She noticed it too,” the first man declared, pointing his cup in your direction. “You can't tell me it was a clean throw when there was somebody watching.”

“I wasn't watching your feet,” you replied, drawing your own cup closer. “I only saw the part where you fell. You'll have to ask someone else about the rest.”

His partner laughed, earning a look of considerable displeasure. The argument resumed without you, and you were left beneath the covered walkway with your tea cooling between your hands. It had been warm when you first sat down. Now, a thin skin had begun to form across the surface, disturbed whenever your fingers shifted around the cup.

Beyond the yard, a shovel scraped over stone. The morning's snowfall had covered the paths before anyone finished clearing them, and the wind was doing its best to return what had already been swept aside. You watched a little of it drift beneath the walkway, settling against the legs of the bench. Your boots would be wet again by the time the break ended.

Normally, you wouldn't have minded. The cold was easier to tolerate once you were moving, and there was comfort in having something immediate to concern yourself with. A misplaced foot, a guard held too high, the unpleasant jolt of discovering a weakness your opponent had noticed before you did. Those things demanded your attention without leaving much room for anything else.

It was one of the reasons you had taken to training so readily.

When you'd first left the Royal Energy Commission, a few people had assumed you would reconsider. Research and guard duty had little enough in common that your decision had seemed abrupt, if not rather poorly thought through. You could hardly blame them. The hands you once used to turn delicate pages and adjust instruments had spent their first weeks in the yard blistered and sore, your handwriting deteriorating at roughly the same rate as your patience with being asked whether you missed your old position.

You had missed parts of it. You simply hadn't been willing to say which ones.

There had been satisfaction in learning, at least. The exhaustion after a difficult session had made sleep easier, and the routines of the Druzhna had given you somewhere to put your attention when your thoughts threatened to wander. Gradually, you stopped being the researcher who had made an unexpected career change. Your instructors began trusting you to demonstrate, then to help the newer recruits when an explanation wasn't enough. People came to expect you to hold your ground.

It was a reputation you had worked hard to earn. This morning, you hadn't quite managed to live up to it.

Twice, you'd allowed an opening you should have noticed. Once, you'd taken too long to hear an instruction. Neither mistake was serious enough to merit more than a correction, but you knew why they'd happened, and that knowledge had done little to improve your mood.

Yesterday, Mitya had been standing outside the gates when you finished training. You had spent much of the night trying not to remember the way he'd looked at you before you left.

“You're going to freeze there if you don't move a little,” Nadya remarked, approaching with her own drink. You shifted your scabbard to make room for her, only belatedly noticing that she was looking at your face rather than the bench. “Or is that the intention? I could tell them you're part of the building now. It might get you out of the next round.”

“I'm fine. We'll be back out there soon enough.”

“Well, that wasn't quite what I meant.” She sat, tucking one hand beneath her opposite arm to warm it. “You've been staring into that cup since they gave it to you. Is the tea particularly awful, or are you thinking about something?”

You looked down, grateful for the opportunity to move your eyes away from hers. In truth, you hadn't tasted it. You took a sip now and discovered that the delay hadn't improved it, though at least the bitterness gave you something ordinary to react to.

“I didn't sleep well,” you said. “I'm just tired.”

“That much I believe. You've looked glum since you came through the gates.” Nadya took a cautious drink of her own, then set it beside her with a faint grimace. “Did I say something yesterday? You were quiet when we left, and I couldn't remember whether I'd managed to upset you.”

Your attention returned to her at once. She wasn't usually uncertain around you. Since you'd begun training together, she'd become one of the few people who could sit through your silences without immediately trying to fill them, and you disliked the thought of having made her doubt herself.

“No. You haven't done anything.” You rubbed your thumb against the handle of your cup, feeling the rough place where the glaze had worn away. “I spoke to somebody after you left. It didn't end very well, and I suppose I'm still thinking about it.”

The admission seemed larger once it was out. You hadn't intended to mention him at all, though perhaps that was the trouble with being asked gently enough. There was less to object to, less reason to close the conversation before it could become personal.

Nadya settled back rather than moving closer. “Somebody from here, or somebody you know outside of work?”

“Someone I used to work with.” You paused, hearing how carefully you had chosen the words. “We were close for a while.”

You'd been more than close in all the ways that were difficult to explain without sounding foolish. There had been mornings when you could tell Mitya had arrived before you saw him, simply from the sudden change in the voices along the corridor. He would appear at your desk with a thought he hadn't yet put into order, ask you to listen, and then become so caught up in your answer that whatever he'd originally come to collect remained forgotten beside your elbow.

You used to enjoy that. The unfinished explanations, the way he turned towards you when something interested him, the small satisfaction of finding a note in the margin that answered a question you'd asked the day before. It had seemed natural to stay late if he was still there. You would finish what you were doing, and he'd eventually remember to ask whether you'd eaten, often with the guilty expression of someone who hadn't thought about his own dinner either.

Looking back, you weren't certain when you'd begun wanting those evenings to mean something more.

By the time you noticed, he'd already become the person you wanted to tell things to first. A good result felt incomplete until he'd seen it. An irritating meeting became easier to endure once you imagined repeating the worst of it to him afterwards. You knew what his laugh sounded like when he was genuinely amused, and how different it was from the polite one he offered people he was trying not to disappoint.

You also knew how easily he found time for Vodyanitsa.

The theatre had never seemed like a problem until you began measuring his enthusiasm for it against the uncertainty of your own place beside him. He enjoyed the performances. You knew that, and you had liked listening to him speak about them before it began to hurt. There was something endearing about how thoroughly he could lose himself in a scene, remembering an expression or a pause long after the rest of the evening had ended.

When Vodyanitsa was involved, he made certain he was there. He remembered the time, found a way around whatever else occupied him, and returned with enough to say that you could picture how much he'd enjoyed himself without having been present.

You had told yourself that none of it proved anything. Then you'd caught yourself waiting for the same certainty from him, and the waiting had become unbearable.

Yesterday had been the latest in a series of attempts to stop doing that.

You'd found him near the gates with snow caught along the edge of his scarf and a paper bag held between both hands. At first, you had considered leaving by the other side. He'd looked up before you could make the decision, however, and the pleasure on his face had made it difficult to move anywhere at all.

“Oh, there you are! I wasn't sure whether training had finished. Somebody told me it might run late, but then I thought I could wait for a little while and see.” He'd straightened, nearly catching the bag against the gatepost before adjusting his grip. “How was it? You look tired.”

You'd pulled your gloves on slowly. “It was training. I'm usually tired afterwards.”

“Yes, of course. I didn't mean—” He'd stopped, then tried again with a smaller smile. “There's a café not far from here. I passed it earlier and thought you might like it. They have somewhere to sit away from the door, so it wouldn't be cold every time somebody came in.”

He remembered that you disliked sitting in draughts. The realisation had been both pleasing and deeply inconvenient.

“I need to go back,” you'd told him. “There are things I haven't finished.”

“It doesn't have to be today,” he'd replied quickly. “Tomorrow, perhaps? Or whenever your next free evening is. I can find out when they close, and if you're tired, we wouldn't have to stay very long. I could walk you back afterwards.”

The bag had rustled as he shifted it between his hands. Your eyes dropped to it, and he noticed at once, lifting it a little as though you'd asked.

“Ah, these are for you. Well, I hoped they would be. I saw them and remembered you used to like—”

“You don't need to keep doing this, Mitya.”

He'd stopped speaking. You could still remember the change in his face with uncomfortable clarity: the smile lingering for a moment because the rest of him hadn't quite caught up, then fading as he looked from the bag to you.

“Doing what?” he'd asked. His voice had lost some of its brightness. “Have I brought the wrong ones?”

“No. I mean waiting for me. Finding reasons to come here.” Your fingers had tightened around the cuff of your glove. “I've said no more than once. You don't have to keep trying to make it easier for me to give you a different answer.”

The words had sounded colder than you intended. Or perhaps you had intended them that way, and only regretted it once you saw what they'd done. Mitya's hands grew still around the bag. For a moment, even the loose end of his scarf stopped shifting against his sleeve.

“I wasn't trying to make you do anything,” he'd said. “I thought you might want to spend some time together. We hardly see each other now, and I—” He'd swallowed, looking at you more carefully. “Do you actually want me to stop asking?”

That should have been easy to answer. You had been working towards exactly that for months, refusing his invitations and returning his gifts before they could become something you kept. All you needed to do was tell him yes.

Instead, you had looked at the bag. His fingers had pressed creases into the paper, and one corner was beginning to soften where the snow had touched it. You'd wondered how long he'd been waiting. Then you'd hated yourself a little for wanting the answer to be a long time.

“I need to go,” you'd said at last.

He hadn't tried to keep you. Somehow, that had stayed with you more persistently than anything he might have said in protest.

“Was it an argument?” Nadya asked, bringing your attention back to the yard.

You shifted the cup in your hands. A little tea had collected in the rim where you'd tilted it, and you watched it slide back before answering.

“Not exactly. He wanted to take me somewhere, and I said no.” You paused, aware of how harmless that sounded. “I wasn't very kind about it. He asked whether I wanted him to stop coming to see me, and I left instead of answering.”

Nadya considered that for a moment. Across from you, the two guards had abandoned their argument in favour of comparing the bruises they expected to find later. Their voices made it easier to pretend this was an ordinary conversation, though your shoulders had begun to tense beneath your coat.

“Did he do something to upset you?” she asked. “Before yesterday, I mean. Or is it just that you don't like him very much?”

You let out a quiet breath, almost amused despite yourself. “That would make things considerably easier.”

“Ah.” She lowered her cup to her lap. “All right. I think I understand that part.”

You weren't sure she did, though you were grateful she hadn't sounded pleased to have discovered something interesting. The feelings you'd spent so long containing seemed rather exposed here, with your colleagues only a few feet away and the training yard still busy beyond the covered path.

“I think I let myself expect more than I should have,” you admitted. “We spent a lot of time together when I worked at the Commission. It was easy to forget that we would have been seeing each other anyway, whether he wanted to or not.”

“And now he's coming here to see you.” Nadya said it carefully, without the triumphant tone you might have expected from someone trying to prove a point. “Doesn't that count for something?”

“Of course it counts. That's the problem.” Your voice had sharpened, and you lowered it before continuing. “If I didn't care, I could go to dinner with him and come home afterwards without spending the rest of the night wondering what it meant. I could let him be nice to me without making it into something he never offered.”

She nodded slowly, her attention remaining on you. You looked away, pressing the heel of one boot into the thin layer of snow beneath the bench.

“There was somebody else,” you added. “Someone he always seemed to find time for. I'm not saying he did anything wrong. He can go wherever he likes, and I don't expect him to stop having friends because I've made a fool of myself.”

“Did he tell you he has feelings for this person?”

“No.” The answer came reluctantly. “He didn't need to say it for me to notice how happy he was around her.”

Nadya rubbed her thumb along the outside of her cup, apparently deciding how to respond. You braced yourself for the familiar reassurance that you were probably mistaken, that surely a man who kept seeking you out must want something more than friendship. It would have been pleasant to believe. That was precisely what made it dangerous to hear.

“I don't know him,” she said eventually. “And I've never seen the two of you together, so I'm not going to pretend I can tell you what he's thinking. But has he any idea this is why you've been turning him away?”

You didn't answer immediately. It was a reasonable question, which made it more irritating than an unreasonable one would have been.

“What would I say? That I can't bear listening to him talk about his evening because I wish he'd spent it with me?” You shook your head, heat rising into your face despite the cold. “He hasn't promised me anything. I'm trying not to make that his problem.”

“Well, you don't have to explain every part of it to him today.” Nadya leaned forward to set her cup beside the bench, then looked back at you. “I asked because you seem upset about how yesterday went. If you think you were too harsh, you can apologise for that without agreeing to go anywhere.”

It sounded manageable when she put it that way. A short conversation, perhaps, with nothing in it that required you to admit how often you still thought about him. You could tell Mitya that you hadn't meant to sound cruel. You could thank him for thinking of you, and then leave before he found another reason to smile at you as though you'd made his day simply by stopping to speak.

You didn't trust yourself to manage the last part.

“He makes it difficult,” you said, so quietly that Nadya had to turn a little closer to hear. “I spend all this time deciding I'm going to leave it alone, and then he looks pleased to see me. That's all it takes. I feel ridiculous.”

Her expression softened, but she didn't reach for you or insist that you shouldn't feel that way. “I don't think liking somebody makes you ridiculous. It does make it harder to be sensible around them, from what I remember.” She paused, then added, “I'm not saying you have to talk to him. Just that yesterday doesn't have to be the last thing you say if you don't want it to be.”

Before you could work out how to answer, the order to return to training carried across the yard. Cups were set aside, gloves pulled back on, and the man opposite you resumed complaining as soon as he discovered his had become damp while he'd been sitting. You were almost grateful for the interruption. Your chest felt uncomfortably full, and you weren't certain how much more you could admit without beginning to regret it.

Nadya stood and held out a hand. “Come on. You can help me stop landing on the same shoulder. If I leave it to him, he'll tell me the snow makes a perfectly good cushion.”

You accepted her hand, a faint smile tugging at your mouth. “You keep turning before you've shifted your weight. I've told you that.”

“Yes, and I'm hoping that if you tell me often enough, I might eventually remember while somebody's trying to throw me.” She waited as you adjusted your scabbard, then fell into step beside you. “One thing at a time, hm? You can worry about this one for a while.”

You appreciated the permission to let the conversation end, though you doubted she knew quite how much.

The next part of the morning demanded enough attention that you had little choice but to give it. You demonstrated the movement slowly, letting Nadya stop you halfway through to ask where your weight was supposed to be. Then you exchanged places, corrected the angle of her foot, and tried again until she completed the turn without making the same mistake.

There was satisfaction in that. You had missed it earlier, distracted as you'd been, but the familiar rhythm returned once you stopped looking towards the gates. You could do this. You could notice what needed adjusting, explain it, and see something change because she'd understood you.

When she finally caught you off balance, you went down with a startled breath and enough snow beneath your collar to understand the complaints you'd heard during the break. Nadya stood over you looking almost apologetic, though the grin spoiled the effect.

“You told me to commit to it,” she said, offering her hand again. “I thought I'd try listening for once.”

You took it, brushing snow from your sleeve as she helped you up. “Keep doing that. Preferably when I'm expecting you to.”

For the first time that morning, you laughed without having to think about whether anybody was watching. It was brief, and your shoulder ached where you'd landed, but the world had become a little more manageable for the moment.

You were still shaking snow out of your glove when the messenger arrived from the palace.

At first, nobody seemed particularly concerned. Changes to the watch weren't unusual, and training had been interrupted often enough that most of your colleagues simply waited to hear where they were needed. It was only when the instruction to assemble before Her Majesty reached you that the muttering began to subside.

The yard emptied quickly. You wiped your boots, checked the fastening at your throat, and tried to brush the worst of the damp from your cuffs before following the others inside. Nadya walked beside you for part of the way, though neither of you returned to the conversation beneath the walkway. Whatever had prompted the summons, it had given you something else to think about.

The palace was warmer than the yard, though you had little time to appreciate it. Snow softened on the hems of your colleagues' coats as the unit passed through the first corridor, leaving dark marks where it touched the stone. An attendant directed you onward with a brief gesture. You straightened without thinking, suddenly more aware of the dampness beneath your collar than you had been outside.

Vesna was already in the hall. A map lay open on the table near her, held flat at the corners, with several routes marked through the capital. You noticed the district surrounding the Royal Energy Commission before you registered much else, your attention drawn there by habit.

There were plenty of reasons for its inclusion. You told yourself that while taking your place beside the others.

The Tsaritsa stood beyond the table, listening to the end of a report. When the speaker finished, she asked a question about the personnel still waiting to be escorted from their workplaces. You couldn't hear the whole reply from where you stood, but Vesna inclined her head and made a brief note before the attention in the room shifted towards your unit.

“Access to the affected facilities will remain restricted until further notice,” Her Majesty said. “The personnel concerned are to receive additional escorts. Commander Vesna will oversee the assignments and ensure that the checkpoints are given the information they require.”

Nobody spoke over her. There was no need for her to raise her voice, though the quiet that followed each sentence made you conscious of the smallest movement among your colleagues. You clasped your hands behind your back, pressing your damp glove against the other to keep from adjusting it.

“These precautions are intended to protect them. They are not to be treated as prisoners. No one is to be separated from their escort because an instruction has been poorly communicated.”

Vesna acknowledged the order, and the discussion moved to the routes on the map. A guard asked which entrance would remain available to arriving personnel. Another raised a question about the lists being sent to the checkpoints. They were practical concerns, easily understood, and you made yourself listen as your own unit's assignment was explained.

Yet your eyes kept returning to the Commission.

You had heard enough rumours over the last several days to stop treating any of them as a reliable account. The trouble surrounding the theatre had reached the barracks in pieces, each person apparently having spoken to someone who knew a little more than the last. Then there had been the reports from the Armory Palace, more unsettling for how difficult they were to separate from speculation.

You'd assumed that if Mitya had been seriously involved, somebody would have told you.

Standing in the hall, you began to understand how little that assumption rested on. You no longer worked beside him. The people who once saw you every morning had stopped including you in conversations about the Commission's affairs, mostly because you had made it clear that you were occupied elsewhere. You'd declined invitations from former colleagues, let letters wait longer than they should have, and avoided the places where you were most likely to meet him.

It had seemed necessary at the time. You hadn't considered what else you might stop hearing when you stopped listening.

Mitya had been alive yesterday. You held on to that thought while Vesna explained the change in the watch. He'd been standing at the gate with a paper bag, speaking too quickly because you looked as though you might leave. Whatever else had happened, you had seen him with your own eyes.

A day was a long time when you didn't know where somebody had gone after you walked away.

You missed the next sentence and had to piece it together from the question that followed. Nadya glanced at you, noticing the movement of your fingers behind your back, but said nothing. You were grateful for that. Your unease felt disproportionate when nothing personal had been confirmed, and you weren't eager to draw attention to it in front of the whole unit.

By the time you were dismissed, you knew your new position and very little about why you would be standing there. The others began filing out, their conversation returning in low voices once they reached the doors. You remained near the table, waiting while Vesna answered a question about the next rotation.

Nadya paused beside you. “Do you need me to wait?”

“No. I just want to ask something before we go back.” You tried to make the answer sound ordinary. “I'll catch up.”

She studied you for a moment, then nodded and followed the others. You waited until Vesna turned from the guard she'd been speaking with before approaching, your hands held carefully at your sides.

“Commander, may I ask what happened at the Commission? I heard there'd been trouble, but I didn't realise it required all of this.”

Vesna's attention settled on you. “Pierro brought the report to Her Majesty. What you've just heard is part of the response. Some work will remain suspended while the situation is assessed, and we're arranging protection for those involved.”

“Which work?” you asked, too quickly. You swallowed, aware that you should have phrased it more carefully. “Which departments, I mean. I used to work there. If the researchers need assistance, I might know—”

“Mitya's project is one of those affected.”

The rest of your explanation left you. You looked at her, waiting for more, but for a moment all you could hear was somebody shifting the map on the table behind her.

“He is alive,” Vesna added, watching your expression change. “Valeriy is bringing him here for the briefing.”

That should have been reassuring. Instead, the fact that she had chosen to tell you he was alive made your stomach turn. It suggested an alternative you hadn't allowed yourself to consider clearly until she put it into words.

“Was he hurt?” Your mouth had gone dry. “Do you know if he's all right?”

“He's coming here on his own feet. I haven't been told he needs medical assistance.” Her tone remained measured, though she set aside the paper she had been holding. “You can ask him the rest yourself when he arrives.”

“When is that?”

“Shortly. They're using the eastern entrance.” Vesna glanced towards the doors, then back at you. “You have time before your assignment begins. If you're going to see him, go now. I expect you back at your post when the watch changes.”

You thanked her, managing enough composure to wait until you'd turned away before quickening your pace. There was no reason to run. She'd told you that he was alive, that he was walking, that nobody had reported him injured. You repeated those facts while passing through the first set of doors, each one briefly reassuring until your mind found a way around it.

People could walk while hurt. People could neglect to mention things. Mitya, in particular, could become so occupied with what somebody else needed to know that the rest of the conversation went unfinished.

You reached the next corridor and began running.

A servant stepped aside, startled by your approach, and you apologised without slowing. Your boots sounded far too loud against the stone. At the next turn, the sole of one slipped on a patch of melted snow, forcing you to catch yourself against the wall before you could fall. Pain travelled up your arm, sharp enough to make you hiss, but you pushed away again before it had fully settled.

If you missed him at the entrance, they might bring him somewhere you couldn't follow. You had spent months finding ways to avoid being alone with him. Now the thought of another closed door seemed almost intolerable.

The route was familiar. You'd walked it beside him once after a meeting, listening while he tried to explain a thought that had occurred to him during somebody else's report. He'd turned towards you halfway through a sentence, forgetting that looking at you and walking forward required some awareness of what lay ahead. You'd caught his sleeve before he reached a pillar, and he'd laughed with more embarrassment than he was willing to admit.

He'd insisted afterwards that he would have noticed. You'd told him that being stopped by a wall still counted as a collision, even if it made him aware of the wall's existence.

You remembered his laugh far too clearly. The sound of it, the way he'd looked at you afterwards, the hand he'd left over yours for a moment before either of you moved. There was something cruel about recalling an ordinary afternoon so vividly when you didn't yet know what condition you'd find him in.

Yesterday, you had been unable to answer a simple question. If that became the last conversation he remembered having with you, there would be nobody to blame for it but yourself.

You tried not to think any further than that. The eastern passage was just ahead, its windows bright with the reflected light off the snow. You rounded the corner too quickly, nearly colliding with someone coming from the opposite direction, and a hand closed around your elbow before you could stumble backwards.

“Oh! There you are. I was hoping I might catch you before—”

You looked up into Mitya's face and forgot whatever explanation you'd been preparing.

With a breath you couldn't quite steady, you caught the front of his coat and pulled yourself against him. Mitya made a small, startled sound as your arms went around his middle. The hand at your elbow moved to your shoulder, hovering there while he tried to understand what had happened.

You hadn't meant to do this. There had been no decision to embrace him, no sensible thought about what he might make of it after yesterday. He was simply there, close enough to reach, and you couldn't bear to leave any space between you until you were certain of it.

His coat was cold against your cheek. Beneath it, you could feel the warmth of his body and the movement of his breathing, which seemed to have become as uneven as your own. You held on more tightly, your fingers catching in the fabric at his back.

Then his arms came around you.

He was careful at first. One hand settled between your shoulder blades, the other at your waist, without quite drawing you closer. You felt the hesitation in the way he held himself, as though there was a question he didn't know how to ask without making you move away.

You pressed your forehead against his shoulder, and whatever restraint he'd been trying to maintain seemed to leave him. His fingers closed more firmly around your coat. He lowered his head, the breath he let out warm beside your temple, and held you with a gentleness that made it difficult to swallow.

For a little while, neither of you said anything. You were busy trying to make your breathing sound less desperate. Mitya seemed content to wait, his cheek resting lightly against the side of your head, his hands remaining exactly where you'd allowed them.

Somewhere beside you, Valeriy shifted his weight. You had barely noticed him before, though of course he would be there. The realisation brought a flicker of embarrassment, but not enough to make you step back. You'd been sensible about Mitya for months. You couldn't seem to manage it now that you could feel him holding you in return.

“Mitya,” you began, though you hadn't decided what should follow his name.

“Mm? Yes. I'm here.” His voice was quieter than you expected. He drew back a fraction, trying to look at your face, then stopped when your hand tightened against his coat. “All right. Just a moment, then. You've been running, haven't you? Catch your breath first.”

You nodded against him, ashamed of how difficult you were finding it. His hand moved once over your back and settled there again. The loose end of his scarf had found its way onto your shoulder, brushing your sleeve before curling more closely against it, and you were dimly aware that he had made no attempt to move it.

Normally, you would have noticed every part of that. You would have gone home and thought about it until the memory became more important than it had any right to be. At present, you were occupied with the simple relief of feeling his heart beat beneath your cheek.

He was alive. He was standing in front of you, holding you, and nobody was asking you to let go yet.

It took longer than it should have for the fear to ease enough that you could look at him. When you finally loosened your arms, Mitya followed the movement for half a step before catching himself. His hands slipped to your sides, lingering while you lifted your head.

He was flushed. The colour had spread beyond what the cold would reasonably account for, and the uncertain smile forming on his face made your chest ache. You hadn't seen him look so openly pleased in some time. Or perhaps you hadn't allowed yourself to remain near him long enough to notice.

“What were you thinking?” you demanded, because anger was easier to manage than the rest of it.

His smile faltered. “I—about what? Did somebody tell you—”

“I've just stood through a briefing about restricted facilities and additional escorts. Then Vesna tells me your project's been suspended, and you're involved in whatever happened, and nobody seems to have thought I might want to know whether you were all right!” Your voice rose before you managed to contain it. “I didn't know where you were. I didn't even know who to ask until she said you were coming here.”

Mitya looked at you, the pleasure in his expression giving way to concern. One of his hands shifted along your sleeve, as though he wanted to comfort you and wasn't certain whether you would still welcome it.

“I'm sorry. I didn't realise you'd heard about it like that.” He glanced over your face before continuing, more firmly, “I'm all right. Truly. I should have said so immediately, but you caught me a little off guard.”

You looked him over properly then, searching for something he'd failed to mention. There were shadows beneath his eyes, and his hair had been disturbed by the wind, but you could find no obvious sign of an injury. Your hand rose before you thought to stop it, fingertips brushing the side of his jaw as you turned his face slightly towards the light.

He went still beneath the touch. His eyes remained on yours, wide enough to make you realise how close you were, and your fingers faltered before drawing away.

“You're certain?” you asked, unable to make the question sound less personal. “You're not just telling me that because you have somewhere to be?”

“Yes, I'm certain.” He swallowed, his attention following your retreating hand before returning to your face. “There's a lot I need to explain, but you don't have to worry about that part. I'm here, and I'm not hurt.”

You believed him. At least, enough of you did that the effort of holding yourself together began to feel rather unnecessary. You looked down, discovering that your other hand was still gripping the front of his coat, and made no attempt to release it.

“Vesna told me you were alive before I even asked,” you said. “Do you know how that sounded?”

His expression changed. Whatever he had understood of your alarm before, something in those words seemed to reach him more fully. He covered your hand with his, careful not to dislodge your fingers from the fabric.

“Oh,” he said quietly. “I'm sorry. That must have been awful to hear.”

You nodded once, refusing to look up until you trusted your face. The corridor had grown quieter around you, or perhaps you had simply stopped hearing anything beyond his voice. Somewhere farther away, a door opened and somebody spoke to Valeriy, but the exchange barely registered.

“You need to be more careful,” you told Mitya. “I know you can't prevent everything. I'm not asking you to. But you can't keep making it so easy for me to imagine something happening to you.”

That wasn't quite what you'd meant to say. His fingers tightened around yours, and you realised how much you'd admitted when he looked at you with renewed uncertainty.

“You were really worried about me?” he asked.

“Of course I was worried about you. I didn't come running through half the palace because I wanted to ask when the research would start again.” Your voice caught on the last few words, which did little to help you sound stern. “You frightened me, Mitya. I don't want to hear that something's happened to you from somebody who thinks I already know.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, and tried again. The colour in his cheeks deepened, though he no longer looked as though he was thinking about anything beyond you.

“I didn't know whether you'd want me to come and tell you,” he admitted. “After yesterday, I thought perhaps I should give you some space. I wasn't trying to keep anything from you.”

The reminder hurt more than you expected. You had wanted him to understand your refusals. You simply hadn't considered how they might sound when he repeated their meaning back to you.

“I know,” you said, your grip loosening slightly. “I know you weren't.”

Mitya took a careful breath. You could see him deciding to say something before the moment passed, his hand closing more securely around yours as though that might help him find the right words.

“Could we talk? Properly, I mean. There's something I've been trying to tell you, and I think I've been going about it rather badly.” A small, nervous laugh escaped him. “Actually, I know I have. If you could give me a few minutes, I might finally manage to explain what I should have said a while ago.”

Your heart began to beat harder for reasons that had nothing to do with the run through the palace. You wanted to ask what he meant. You also wanted, with a familiar and sudden panic, to step back before he could say something you wouldn't know how to bear.

“Mitya, they've called for you,” Valeriy interrupted. “We have to keep moving.”

You looked towards him, following his gaze to the attendant waiting near the doors. The man had one hand on the handle and was watching with the restrained impatience of somebody who had already been asked to hurry once.

“Yes, I know. Just a moment, Sarge, please.” Mitya barely turned his head. “I only need to tell her something. It won't take—”

“You can speak afterwards. Come along.” Valeriy's hand closed around his upper arm, firm enough to turn him towards the doors. Mitya made a startled protest, his fingers tightening around yours before he noticed that he was drawing you after him.

He let go immediately. You felt the loss of his hand before you understood that the conversation was ending, your own fingers remaining half-curled in the space he'd left.

“Could you wait?” he asked, still looking back. “I don't know how long they'll need me, but if you could stay until I've finished, then we could—”

The courtyard bell began to ring. Your attention shifted towards it out of habit, and by the time you looked at him again, he'd followed your glance and remembered your uniform. The rest of his request faltered.

You took a step forward, uncertain what you were offering by doing so. Mitya noticed at once, hope passing over his face so quickly that it hurt to see. Then the attendant was ushering them through the doorway, Valeriy was reminding him that they were expected, and there was no longer enough time to decide what you wanted to say.

Mitya kept looking back until the doors closed between you.

You remained in the passage for another moment, listening to the last stroke of the bell. His scarf had slipped from your shoulder when he'd been led away. You could still feel where it had rested, along with the warmth of his hand beneath yours, and the thought of returning to the yard seemed almost as difficult as leaving him yesterday had been.

This time, at least, you hadn't been the one to walk away first. You weren't sure that made any of it easier.

There was something about an adjoining room, a report that needed confirming, and an official who would come to speak with them before the main briefing. He understood the individual words well enough. Putting them together required attention he couldn't seem to bring back from the passage outside.

You had come looking for him. More than that, you'd run, frightened enough to forget whatever had kept you away for the last several months. Your hands had been cold when he covered them with his own, and he'd felt the tremor in your fingers even through your gloves.

He wanted to go back. The desire was immediate enough that he turned towards the doors before remembering Valeriy still stood beside him.

“I need a moment,” he said, looking between the major and the attendant. “If we're waiting for someone, I could finish speaking with her. I'd only be in the passage.”

“You need to be here when they call for you,” Valeriy replied. “There's no telling how long that will be. You can find her afterwards.”

“She'll be on duty afterwards.” Mitya's eyes returned to the doors. They were close enough that he could have crossed to them in a few steps, which made being kept where he was all the more frustrating. “That's why I asked you to wait. I wasn't trying to avoid the briefing. I just hadn't finished telling her something.”

“I know. But we were called inside, and it wasn't a request I could ignore.”

“Then why are we standing here?” The frustration escaped before Mitya could make it sound reasonable. “She's still out there, or she might be, and I only needed a few minutes! I've been trying to speak to her for weeks, Sarge, and the one time she finally—”

He stopped. The attendant had looked over, and Valeriy's expression had changed enough to make him hear his own voice properly. It had risen far beyond what the conversation deserved.

Mitya swallowed and lowered his eyes. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that.”

Valeriy waited until the attendant returned to the documents in his hands, then gestured towards a window recess farther from the doorway. Mitya followed, rubbing the back of his neck as the embarrassment caught up with him. The major hadn't done anything beyond his job. He knew that. Knowing it simply hadn't made the separation any easier to bear.

“I wasn't trying to take her away from her watch,” he added, quieter now. “I know she has duties. I only thought that if I could explain before she had time to decide she didn't want to hear it, perhaps she'd stay.”

It sounded worse aloud. Not because he had meant to pressure you, but because it revealed how afraid he'd become of being refused another opportunity. Every conversation lately seemed to begin with him trying to determine how long he had before you left. He would offer something small, something easy to decline if you truly didn't want it, then find himself adding qualifications until even an invitation to sit down sounded like a negotiation he was losing.

Valeriy folded his arms, watching him without the impatience Mitya had expected. “What did you need to tell her?”

The answer rose so readily that Mitya nearly said it without thinking.

He loved you. He had wanted to tell you for long enough that the words no longer felt like a new discovery, only something he'd been carrying badly. They turned up whenever you were near, complicating ordinary questions until he could barely ask whether you'd eaten without wondering if he sounded foolish.

They'd been there yesterday, beneath every attempt to explain the café. He'd pictured sitting opposite you somewhere warm, asking about training, learning the names of the people you spent your days with now. He wanted to hear you complain about an aching shoulder or tell him that you'd finally mastered something difficult. He wanted to know your life as it was, rather than keep reaching for the part of it he'd once occupied.

Instead, he'd talked about the seating and the closing time, as though the right description of a table might persuade you to want him there.

He glanced down at his coat. The front remained creased where your hand had gripped it, and he began smoothing the fabric before his fingers slowed. He could still remember the pressure of your knuckles against his chest. For a moment, he was reluctant to disturb even that small evidence that it had happened.

“There have been misunderstandings,” he told Valeriy at last. “At least, I think there have. I thought if I could explain some things, she might understand why I keep asking to see her.”

“Which things?”

“Vodyanitsa, perhaps. The theatre.” He hesitated, aware that neither answer was sufficient on its own. “I enjoy the performances. I like being there, and I like spending time with her. But I don't think I've made it clear that it's different with—” His eyes moved towards the doors again. “That what I want with her isn't the same.”

Valeriy let the silence last long enough for him to continue if he wished. Mitya tried to find a way of explaining without making it sound as though Vodyanitsa had caused something by being his friend.

Going to the theatre had never required the sort of courage it took to stand outside your workplace with an invitation. He could enjoy a performance, talk about what had interested him, and leave without replaying every sentence on the way home. There was pleasure in it, and friendship, and no particular need to conceal either. He hadn't realised how little of his certainty about that distinction had ever reached you.

With you, even the simple things had become difficult. He wanted to be at his most interesting and found himself talking too much. He wanted to show that he paid attention and arrived with gifts you seemed uncomfortable accepting. When you grew quiet, he hurried to fill the space, afraid that if he stopped, you would take the opportunity to leave.

None of that had helped you understand him. It was beginning to seem possible that he'd made himself harder to understand with every attempt.

“Has she told you that's what bothers her?” Valeriy asked.

“Not directly.” Mitya let out a breath, resting one hand against the window ledge. The stone was cold beneath his palm. “She doesn't tell me much lately. I ask how she is, and she says she's busy. I ask if I've done something, and she finds somewhere she needs to be. I didn't want to accuse her of being upset about something if I was wrong.”

“So you kept asking her to dinner instead.”

He winced, unable to dispute it. “I thought it would be easier to talk if we weren't standing in a doorway. I wasn't trying to avoid the conversation. I just... I wanted her to want to be there.”

That was the part he hadn't known how to arrange. A place could be chosen, a time found, an evening kept free; none of it ensured you would look at him the way you used to when he approached your desk. He missed the little pause before you answered, when you decided whether whatever he'd come to say was important enough to interrupt your work. He missed being told to wait while you finished a sentence and knowing you expected him to stay.

The first morning after you left the Commission, he'd turned towards your old place with a question already forming. There had been someone else's papers on the desk, stacked where you used to keep your notes. He'd stopped before speaking, then spent an unreasonable amount of time trying to remember whether he'd wished you luck properly when you told him about the transfer.

He had been proud of you. He still was. The determination it took to start again in a field so different from your own was something he understood enough to admire, even when he disliked how little of you he got to see because of it.

He hadn't been prepared for the rest of the distance. Work should have changed where he found you, not whether you wanted to be found at all.

Until today, he'd begun to wonder whether yesterday had finally answered that question.

“You saw what happened outside,” he said, his voice softening despite himself. “She came straight to me. I didn't even finish saying hello.”

“I saw.”

“I thought at first that she'd lost her balance. That's why I didn't—” He stopped, embarrassed by how clearly he remembered his own hesitation. “I didn't know whether she meant to stay. Then she held on, and I couldn't seem to think of anything useful to say.”

He'd wanted to hold you for so long that he'd almost failed to recognise the chance when it came. For an instant, he'd wondered whether returning the embrace would be a mistake, whether you'd step away and explain that you'd only been startled. Your arms had tightened around him before he could decide, and then there had been nothing to do but hold you carefully and hope you wouldn't change your mind.

The warmth of your face against him had made everything else difficult to notice. Valeriy had been there, the palace had been waiting, and Mitya had cared about neither nearly enough. He'd lowered his head, felt your hair brush his cheek, and been overwhelmed by the simple fact that you weren't moving away.

When you finally did, he'd followed without meaning to. The recollection brought heat back into his face. He hoped you hadn't noticed how badly he'd wanted another moment, though the hope was probably unreasonable after the way he'd stared at you.

Then your fingers had touched his jaw, and whatever small amount of composure he'd recovered had abandoned him completely.

You had been checking whether he was hurt. He understood that now, as he had understood it then. It hadn't stopped him wanting to lean into your hand, or wishing there were some way to keep your attention on him without giving you another reason to worry.

“I should have told her I was all right immediately,” he murmured, more to himself than to Valeriy. “She was frightened, and I was so pleased she was holding me that I let her stay frightened longer than she needed to.”

“You told her once you understood why she'd come.”

“Yes, but I could have been quicker.” Mitya drew his hand from the ledge, flexing his cold fingers. “I don't want her thinking she has to hear about me from somebody else. Not like that. I didn't mean for her to find out through a briefing.”

He had wanted to tell you more than that in the corridor. He wanted you to know he had no intention of slipping away to continue the suspended work, no plan to behave as though the restrictions were an inconvenience he could ignore. Whatever had happened, he would not make it worse by giving you another reason to run through the palace looking as though you expected the worst.

You'd asked him to be careful. He could do that much without needing to understand every part of what you felt.

“And with the project on hold, I could see her more easily,” he said after a moment. “There will still be things to do, of course. Reports, meetings, whatever they need from me here. But I wouldn't have to keep leaving her with half a conversation because something needed checking before the end of the day.”

He hadn't meant to sound hopeful about the suspension. There were reasons to be concerned about it that had nothing to do with you, and he knew he would have to attend to those shortly. Yet there was something almost irresistible about imagining an evening without the usual uncertainty over when he could leave.

He could ask when your watch ended and actually be there. He could listen while you spoke about the work he'd seen so little of, learn which colleagues made you laugh and which parts of training still frustrated you. The thought of having dinner together mattered less than the possibility of sitting across from you without watching the time.

He wanted to know whether you'd begun sleeping better. You'd looked tired yesterday, and he hadn't managed to ask about it without making you withdraw. He wanted to tell you he'd missed you, plainly enough that there was no need to wonder whether he meant your help with the research.

Most of all, he wanted another chance to hold you when you weren't afraid something had happened to him.

“I could meet her after her shift,” he continued. “Or walk with her, if she'd rather not sit somewhere. I don't mind what we do. I just want enough time to explain, and to hear what she has to say.”

Valeriy looked towards the doors, then back at him. “And you think she'll agree now?”

Mitya hesitated. He wanted to say yes. For a moment in the corridor, with your hands still caught in his coat and your face so close to his, it had seemed almost unreasonable to expect any other answer.

“I don't know,” he admitted. “But she came looking for me. She could have asked somebody whether I was all right and left it there. Instead, she ran all that way.” His voice grew quieter as he remembered the way you'd said his name. “You heard her. She was upset that nobody had told her. Surely that means she still wants to know about my life.”

“It means she was worried about you.”

“Yes. I know it does.” He rubbed his thumb against the side of one finger, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice. “I'm not saying it answers everything. But a few hours ago, I wasn't certain she'd want me near her at all. You can understand why I wanted to stay a little longer.”

Valeriy's expression shifted. For the first time since they'd come inside, Mitya thought he saw something closer to sympathy than an attempt to keep him where he was supposed to be.

“I didn't enjoy pulling you away,” the major said. “But I was told to bring you here, and the attendant had already asked us to move. If something else had delayed you, I'd have had to explain why I let it happen.”

Mitya nodded, the last of his irritation losing its direction. “I know. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have made it sound as though you wanted to spoil it.”

The attendant approached before Valeriy could reply, confirming that they would be called shortly and asking them to remain nearby. Mitya managed to listen this time. He gave the answer that was expected, watched the man return to the waiting room, and tried not to think about how much he might have said to you in the minutes they'd already spent here.

Outside the window, a few guards were crossing the courtyard. He looked for you before he could stop himself, following each figure until it was clear that none of them moved the way you did. Your unit might already be at its new post. There was no reason to expect you to linger beneath a window on the chance he would look down.

He wondered whether you regretted the embrace now that you'd had time to think. The possibility unsettled him enough that his hand rose to the front of his coat again.

“Today was different,” he said, as though continuing aloud might keep the doubt from taking hold. “I wasn't the one who went looking for her. I think if I asked now, she might let me finish. She might understand that I haven't been coming back because I need something from her.”

Valeriy was quiet for a little while. Behind them, pages turned in the attendant's hands, the sound carrying clearly through the pause.

“All right,” he said eventually. “Suppose you do get the chance. You explain everything about the theatre, and the invitations, and whatever else you think she's misunderstood. She listens, and she knows exactly what you mean.” He waited until Mitya looked at him properly. “What would you do if she still rejected you? If she understood all of it, and truly didn't want the same thing?”

Mitya opened his mouth, ready to point out that you'd come to find him. Your hands had been trembling. You'd touched his face, held him, sounded almost offended when he asked whether you were worried. Surely those things meant something.

But Valeriy had seen them too. He wasn't asking whether they'd happened. He was asking what Mitya would do if they meant something different to you.

His fingers settled against the creases in his coat, pressing lightly where your hand had been. He remembered how it felt to have you close, and how badly he'd wanted to tell you that he loved you before the doors shut. Now, with the major waiting for an answer, he found himself unable to speak at all.