blonderussianspy | (no subject)

It was a deceptively sentimental activity. Natalya sat on the low, wrap around porch of her hut, improbably sized wolf friend stretched out over the cool wood and similarly oversized snow globe in hand. She was turning it over to crank the key at the bottom and start whatever song wanted to play next, a seemingly endless, she'd found over the years, medley of Russian melodies and anthems. Then she would right it and set it on the railing to watch the snow fall on Red Square.

She felt sometimes as though her entire world could compress down to fit inside the glass, and maybe if she focused long enough, she'd wake up there instead of the island one day. The question would ultimately be, of course, if she did, would it be to a living Rodya or a dead one? Would it be to the world she'd left or the one that had existed before?

The questions weren't helpful, really, they didn't make the days less lonely or more compelling. If anything, she recognized her dependence on the maudlin little ritual as being, probably, a bad sign for her mental state. She wasn't sure she knew how to interact with people in a meaningful way, any longer, and that should have made her sadder.

Instead of letting that particular emotion bloom, though, she pulled the snow globe down and wound it again.

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"You know, yesterday was my anniversary here. Two years," I tell her, sitting back in my chair. Two years, and I've spent most of that time questioning my own sanity. It hasn't been easy.

"Of the friends I've made here, you and Ellen are pretty much the only ones left." I reach out for her hand. "I don't know if it means much and I realize it's incredibly selfish, but... I'm glad you're still here."

It certainly wasn't the first time they'd touched, casually, as friends, but the degree to which she'd isolated herself felt thrown into rather sharp relief by the contact. She didn't pull her hand away, wasn't even sure if her first instinct was to do so or to let the touch linger. She pulled in and released a quiet, steady breath, looking over Matt's face, contemplating the nature of timing in relationships.

"Thank you," she said after a moment.

"I am feeling much the same way. Is difficult, so many faces gone, or coming back and being not quite right. It is good, to have you here still."

"I haven't suffered that particular fate yet," I admit. I don't anticipate the day it happens, should it ever come to pass. What are we if not our memories?

I squeeze her hand, keeping it there. "But you should come over sometime, for dinner. This place has its downsides, but there's still more to do than read and monitor Rapture."

Natalya turned her hand grasp Matt's in return, squeezing back in place of nodding.

"True. This, I would like. Very much." Even if it wouldn't be easy to bear, it would be the right thing to do, and a better thing to do than ignore a friend's happiness and an extended hand when it was offered.

"Good," I say, glad that she agreed without too much convincing. It's been a while since I've had to argue a point with any real conviction, and while I might enjoy the practice, it's for the best that this was an easy sell. She seems so blamed lonely.

"Have you ever met Ellen? I don't think I've asked."

"Not in formal way," she replied. There weren't enough people on the island for her to now know who the other woman was. Even if there were, it was her job to be aware, and she had good eyes, anyways.

"Will be good, to do so."