blonderussianspy | (no subject)

(no subject)

Natalya usually went on August 26th, the anniversary of the day the Soyuz had crashed onto the island, but she hadn't this year. She'd thought about it, toward the end of the day, but she'd had plans to see Sam and she couldn't bring herself to postpone or cancel them. It was a funny thing, to find herself with plans. And then she'd stayed away because she was afraid of facing it, she realized. After the inarguable failure that the Rapture operation had proven to be, she just... Hadn't wanted to walk up to the cemetery and look at the names, and remember the wreckage and all the people she'd let down.

But that was cowardice, so she dressed in khaki shorts and ankle boots that were good for the terrain and a black tank top, and she headed for the cemetery, Ahimsa following curiously behind.

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"But you can't keep asking for something they can't give," he argues, trying to be gentle about it. He's aware that he's being something of a hypocrite in saying this, but that gives him perspective too, he thinks. Years of wanting forgiveness, from Jess, from Dad, from all the people whose lives they made a little (or a lot) darker. It doesn't help anything in the long run.

"Then I will keep asking until I am decide for myself I have earned it," Natalya replied. She took the medal out of her pocket and unfurled her fingers, looking at the gold star in her palm, the blue white and red of the ribbon it nestled against a little worn, a little faded.

"This is all you can do."

"And when will that be?" Sam queries, again with a gentle kind of pointedness, a knowing arch to his brows.

His eyes drift down to the object in her hands. "Is that yours or theirs?"

"Who can say?" she returned quietly, a sudden steely edge underlying the words.

"This is mine. It is remind me I am capable of earning much. Is remind me of what this can cost, da?" She turned the star over in her fingertips, watching the light glint off of it, before folding her hand around it again and squeezing it so the points dug into her skin.

It's not really her tone that unsettles him but the sentiment behind her words. Sam shies away from the direct conflict, sensing it to be an impossible battle. Much like it would be with him, were positions reversed.

He sees the strain in her fingers, how tightly she holds onto the medal, and moves to stand in front of her. His hand slides over hers, holding her grasping hand in his. "Reminders are good," Sam says without reservation, no 'but' hidden in his tone. "Just don't hurt yourself too much with them. It doesn't do any good and... I don't think they'd like it much either."

It derailed her, the sudden touch, the closeness, the words. It had been a long time since shed been intimate enough with anyone for them to feel capable of offering comfort that way, or at least comfortable enough. She blinked up at him, breath hitching sightly, the cold poise melting a little.

Her closed fist loosened under his hands.

"...maybe you are right."

Sam's smile is faint but genuine, sneaking into his eyes as he feels her hand relax under his. "It happens," he says modestly, his attention on her.

"Ready to go?" he asks, also asking, with his eyes as best he can, if she's done with the topic or wants to talk to him more about it.

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