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impertinences) wrote2018-07-09 09:55 pm
impertinences) wrote2018-07-09 09:55 pm
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Lene takes an ice bath, descending into the frigid cold toes-first and rolls onto her stomach once she’s fully submerged. The coldness becomes a pain so bright that it feels like a bullet wound, a knife cut, a hangman’s noose. She keeps her eyes open under the water to remind herself that she is still alive, that the ice and the freezing temperature can be withstood.
There’s a purple bruise swelling beneath her left eye, and her lip is busted at the corner. She can still taste blood in her mouth. She has at least one broken rib and knots across her shoulders that are tender enough to make her wince.
When she can’t take it anymore - holding her breath, counting the seconds, freezing to death - Lene pulls herself from the tub, her hands clawing at the porcelain edges. There’s tiny knicks on her cheeks from where she’d been cut by glass during the explosion, and her knuckles are scraped raw. She’s shivering before she has time to shake her hair from her eyes. The dull pain in the back of her head tells her to worry about a concussion. Gingerly, she stands on shaking knees.
Roman tosses her a towel. It’s so white it reminds her of snow, which just makes her colder. But it’s plush and expensive and smells faintly of lavender. She wraps it around herself before carefully stepping from the tub, her wet feet soaking the bathroom matt.
“Headquarters thinks we should lie low,” Roman says, hissing out cigarette smoke in an upward draft.
“Where were you?” Lene takes a second towel from the shelf above the toilet and uses it to start drying her hair, careful to avoid any quick movements. She doesn’t ask as an accusation, but her eyes, so like the color of her ice bath, are steel.
“I was late because I was followed.”
“There’s late … and then there’s missing the entire heist altogether. Were you IDed?”
Roman scoffs at her, flicking cigarette ash into the bowl of the sink. He speaks as he inhales. “Were you?”
“Just thrown out of a window.”
“You’ve had worse.”
She pulls on an overly large shirt, some German script printed in bold across her chest, and sits on the edge of the bath. Lene lets him tape her knuckles and clean her face. When they’ve finished, he pours her a shot of Stoli and gives her two aspirins. She skips the aspirin but takes a second of the Stoli.
“MI6 is so worried, they called the CIA on us.”
Roman shakes the ice in his drink, preferring his vodka on the rocks, and rolls his eyes. He rubs a hand over his mouth, his fingers scratching at the inch of thick beard across his jaw. East Berlin is blanketed in snow, scrawled in graffiti and neon lights and hedonists, and Roman seems to be fitting in well. He’s wearing a leather jacket studded with safety pins and heavy combat boots and an air of nonchalance.
“So,” he says, lighting his third cigarette in ten minutes, “we are in a precarious position then?”
“More like working under a time table.”
“No rest for the wicked.”
“Hey,” Lene corrects, pulling on an overly large sweater, “we’re supposed to be the good guys.”
They spend the next night in a bar loud with music and black lighting, their four eyes on a Russian and woman in a blood-colored skirt. Roman gets drunk in the name of national security while Lene’s hair is an unnatural shade of white, her teeth glowing every time she laughs or cusses.
“That’s her translator,” Lene says, leaning up against Roman’s shoulder to speak into his ear. It’s hard to hear over the music.
Roman takes one look at the hulking, massive man sitting beside Augusta and lifts three fingers to their waitress, signaling for another drink. “I don’t believe it. She doesn’t even need a translator.”
“I don’t think he’s teaching her French at four in the morning, but officially, yes, that’s his job description.”
“I thought she was married.”
Lene groans, running a hand back through her hair. “She is married. Do you even read the reports? The briefings?”
“More like skim, I skim.”
Lene laughs, half exasperated, half knowing, and plucks his cigarette from his mouth to steal a drag.
They wait another hour and then they leave … where they promptly continue to wait, only this time it’s in the cold, the snow peppering their shoulders and turning their fingers to ice. When she agreed to this job, nobody explained to Lene just how much of spy work consisted of counting minutes in the dark. At least here they are covered on either side by brick alleyways, and the bar music is loud enough to make the sound of any potential gunfire less noticeable - although East Berliners are already so accustomed to bullets firing in the night, they hardly blink an eye.
When Augusta and her party finally exit, the translator flanks her like a shadow. She has the collar of her coat turned up against the cold, and her heels sound like icepicks as she walks across the cobblestone. There’s three other men with her, but she only hooks her arm around one, burying her cheek against the side of his shoulder when the wind rattles.
Roman moves first; he’s already planning on stubbing his cigarette in the tallest man’s eye and going for a choke-hold move, but Lene catches his elbow at the last minute. She shakes her head no, glancing pointedly to the left.
There’s a car pulling around the corner, headlights blaring. It slows to a stop, and they watch as Augusta and the men slide inside. It’s hard to tell in the darkness, but Lene thinks she can make out Harrow’s form in the front seat.
There’s a purple bruise swelling beneath her left eye, and her lip is busted at the corner. She can still taste blood in her mouth. She has at least one broken rib and knots across her shoulders that are tender enough to make her wince.
When she can’t take it anymore - holding her breath, counting the seconds, freezing to death - Lene pulls herself from the tub, her hands clawing at the porcelain edges. There’s tiny knicks on her cheeks from where she’d been cut by glass during the explosion, and her knuckles are scraped raw. She’s shivering before she has time to shake her hair from her eyes. The dull pain in the back of her head tells her to worry about a concussion. Gingerly, she stands on shaking knees.
Roman tosses her a towel. It’s so white it reminds her of snow, which just makes her colder. But it’s plush and expensive and smells faintly of lavender. She wraps it around herself before carefully stepping from the tub, her wet feet soaking the bathroom matt.
“Headquarters thinks we should lie low,” Roman says, hissing out cigarette smoke in an upward draft.
“Where were you?” Lene takes a second towel from the shelf above the toilet and uses it to start drying her hair, careful to avoid any quick movements. She doesn’t ask as an accusation, but her eyes, so like the color of her ice bath, are steel.
“I was late because I was followed.”
“There’s late … and then there’s missing the entire heist altogether. Were you IDed?”
Roman scoffs at her, flicking cigarette ash into the bowl of the sink. He speaks as he inhales. “Were you?”
“Just thrown out of a window.”
“You’ve had worse.”
She pulls on an overly large shirt, some German script printed in bold across her chest, and sits on the edge of the bath. Lene lets him tape her knuckles and clean her face. When they’ve finished, he pours her a shot of Stoli and gives her two aspirins. She skips the aspirin but takes a second of the Stoli.
“MI6 is so worried, they called the CIA on us.”
Roman shakes the ice in his drink, preferring his vodka on the rocks, and rolls his eyes. He rubs a hand over his mouth, his fingers scratching at the inch of thick beard across his jaw. East Berlin is blanketed in snow, scrawled in graffiti and neon lights and hedonists, and Roman seems to be fitting in well. He’s wearing a leather jacket studded with safety pins and heavy combat boots and an air of nonchalance.
“So,” he says, lighting his third cigarette in ten minutes, “we are in a precarious position then?”
“More like working under a time table.”
“No rest for the wicked.”
“Hey,” Lene corrects, pulling on an overly large sweater, “we’re supposed to be the good guys.”
They spend the next night in a bar loud with music and black lighting, their four eyes on a Russian and woman in a blood-colored skirt. Roman gets drunk in the name of national security while Lene’s hair is an unnatural shade of white, her teeth glowing every time she laughs or cusses.
“That’s her translator,” Lene says, leaning up against Roman’s shoulder to speak into his ear. It’s hard to hear over the music.
Roman takes one look at the hulking, massive man sitting beside Augusta and lifts three fingers to their waitress, signaling for another drink. “I don’t believe it. She doesn’t even need a translator.”
“I don’t think he’s teaching her French at four in the morning, but officially, yes, that’s his job description.”
“I thought she was married.”
Lene groans, running a hand back through her hair. “She is married. Do you even read the reports? The briefings?”
“More like skim, I skim.”
Lene laughs, half exasperated, half knowing, and plucks his cigarette from his mouth to steal a drag.
They wait another hour and then they leave … where they promptly continue to wait, only this time it’s in the cold, the snow peppering their shoulders and turning their fingers to ice. When she agreed to this job, nobody explained to Lene just how much of spy work consisted of counting minutes in the dark. At least here they are covered on either side by brick alleyways, and the bar music is loud enough to make the sound of any potential gunfire less noticeable - although East Berliners are already so accustomed to bullets firing in the night, they hardly blink an eye.
When Augusta and her party finally exit, the translator flanks her like a shadow. She has the collar of her coat turned up against the cold, and her heels sound like icepicks as she walks across the cobblestone. There’s three other men with her, but she only hooks her arm around one, burying her cheek against the side of his shoulder when the wind rattles.
Roman moves first; he’s already planning on stubbing his cigarette in the tallest man’s eye and going for a choke-hold move, but Lene catches his elbow at the last minute. She shakes her head no, glancing pointedly to the left.
There’s a car pulling around the corner, headlights blaring. It slows to a stop, and they watch as Augusta and the men slide inside. It’s hard to tell in the darkness, but Lene thinks she can make out Harrow’s form in the front seat.