Chapter Text
“Once again, I’m very sorry,” Sergei says as he holds open the entrance door. “I should have checked the weather.”
“It’s fine,” Margo insists through chattering teeth, and Sergei looks at her sideways. Her thin coat is definitely not suited to the current weather; April in Moscow means, apparently, heavy rain and wind that causes the raindrops to fall in every direction, occasionally defying the laws of physics.
In other words, Margo is soaked to the bone and very, very cold.
The sequence of events that led her to this precise moment – Sergei leading her through the maze of Moscow’s gray, narrow streets to a mysterious place that is not her hotel, but where he promises that she will get warm – is kind of complicated. And it started when NASA got invited to Moscow to celebrate the signing of the International Lunar Peace Treaty.
The invitation was met with mixed reactions. A lot of people, like Molly and Ellen, expressed mistrust. Others, like Dani and Nathan, were enthusiastic about the idea, saying that it would help bring the two nations closer. The rest, Margo included, withheld judgment.
They ended up going. A seven-person party, consisting of Dani and Nathan (obviously), Molly and Margo, Aleida and Bill (who did not, technically, need to be there, but no one protested too hard, and Margo felt that they deserved some fun, too), and a CIA agent who insisted on being referred to as Derek.
“I just hope we won’t end up being taken hostage by the Ruskies,” Molly grumbled, fastening her seat belt, and Bill nodded, backing up her sentiment.
“Come on, it’ll be fine,” Dani protested. “I really think that this is a step forward.”
“Forward and into the dragon’s nest,” Molly said under her breath, and Dani either didn’t hear it or pretended that she didn’t.
Molly ended up liking the whole adventure more than anyone else could have predicted. Everyone had to admit that it was very nicely done; they were put in one of Moscow’s finest hotels, they spent a whole day in Star City, where they were allowed to ask questions and tour the mission control room, and every night they were taken out to dinner. In fact, their itinerary was so tightly packed that they could barely catch a breath.
By day three, everyone had had enough of the official schedule. It became crystal clear when the Russian group arrived at the hotel after breakfast, even though the agenda specifically stipulated that the two groups should meet in Star City. The Russian delegation, consisting of Stepan, Radislav, Sergei and Lenara, suggested a change to the schedule – one previously agreed with their superiors – and offered to take their American colleagues on a sightseeing trip around Moscow.
Margo would have liked it very much to go with them, but she received an urgent call from NASA that morning (something about the transport of supplies to Jamestown) and she had to find a computer, a phone and some peace and quiet - things that their hotel did not provide, or certainly not all at once.
Sergei very nonchalantly suggested that he could escort her to Star City and wait until she was done, and then they could go back to Moscow and join the rest of the group, and Margo agreed, all too easily.
On some level, she realized that this was an insanely bad idea. The tiny crush on Sergei Nikulov that she allowed herself to entertain back when she was in Houston and there were six thousands miles between them, hit her with full force as soon as she stepped onto his turf, witnessed both the way he commanded the space at Roscosmos and the respect that his subordinates showed him. She’d never been particularly turned on by power, but to her utmost surprise, she quite liked it on Sergei.
Which was a problem. He was married. (Even though he explicitly told her once, over their covert phone conversations, that his marriage was not very conventional). But more than that, he was a Soviet. He was supposed to be her enemy.
Not someone about whom she had very, very confusing dreams.
The NASA business turned out to be important, but pretty straightforward, and Margo was done within an hour. Sergei waited for her, spending time over his own work, but as soon as she knocked at his door and told him she was ready to go, he pushed away his papers and got up to join her.
They were driven back to Moscow, straight to the Kremlin, and Sergei eagerly took on the role of her guide. They barely stepped onto the Red Square, however, when a thunder rolled above them and it began to rain.
Actually, rain doesn’t even describe it. It was basically a wall of water that suddenly grew in front of them, and Margo found out that, unfortunately, her new burgundy coat was not suited to the Russian spring.
And so Sergei led her away, enticing her with a promise of a warm place where she could get dry — but that was not her hotel, for some reason — and Margo was too shocked by the sudden change in weather to argue.
Which led to them ending up at the front door of a shabby town house.
Sergei rings the intercom bell and exchanges a few words in Russian with the person on the other end of the line. They get buzzed in, and Margo shivers when she realizes that the dark hallway is even colder than the outside.
She is also pretty surprised by the absence of their KGB driver/babysitter.
“Ah, they don’t need to watch me here,” Sergei says dismissively. “They know my neighbors, and I know my neighbors. Mrs Poliakova is surely standing by the door,” he points his chin to the apartment on Margo’s left and continues climbing the stairs. “She’ll report everything she sees. Same with the upstairs neighbor — he’s a policeman, you see…”
“Your neigh… Wait, this is your house? ” Margo asks in horror as they come to a halt on the second floor, in front of apartment number 4. She feels a sudden urge to turn on her heel to run away, but then the door opens and someone — a woman — appears.
The first thing that Margo notices is that she’s beautiful. She’s tall and slender and has this Slavic type of beauty; pale, milky skin, striking blue eyes, red lips. Her hair is covered with a colorful scarf, but Margo can bet that it’s blonde.
The woman blinks at them, surprised, but then she recognizes Sergei and her eyes instantly get warmer.
“Seryozha!” She exclaims with a smile and pulls him into a hug, kissing both his cheeks. Then she says something in rapid-fire Russian that makes Sergei laugh and Margo just stands there, dripping wet, and wants to die of embarrassment.
She hears her own name as Sergei says something back and she looks up.
“I was just introducing you,” he explains, meeting her eyes. “Margo, meet my wife, Yulia.”
Now all that Margo wants is for the earth to open up and swallow her whole, but instead she looks at Yulia Nikulova and tries to summon a polite smile, as if her insides haven’t just turned to lead.
“Hello,” she says faintly. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
“ Oh. My English… not so good,” Yulia says apologetically and awkwardly waves her hand. “Sprechen Sie vielleicht Deutsch?”
“Ja,” Margo finds herself replying and Sergei turns to her, surprised. “Aber mit einem hässlichen Akzent.”
Yulia laughs and shakes her head, signaling that it’s not so bad, before she gently takes hold of Margo’s elbow and pulls her deeper into the apartment.
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Madison,” she says warmly and it’s funny, but Margo doesn’t remember Sergei introducing her to Yulia by her full name.
“Likewise, Mrs. Nikulova.”
“Oh, please, it’s Yulia. I’ve heard so much about you!”
And then, before Margo has a chance to process that, she continues,
“Tea? Coffee? Or maybe,” she adds and raises an eyebrow in Sergei’s direction, “something stronger? You look like you’re freezing.”
“Something stronger would be nice,” Margo admits through chattering teeth. “And it’s Margo as well, by the way.”
“Well, Margo,” Yulia says and eyes her critically. “Let’s maybe get you out of these wet clothes, yes? I’ll get you something from my closet.”
Margo is not quite sure how it happens, but ten minutes later she’s sitting down to dinner in Sergei and Yulia’s kitchen, wearing Yulia’s old shirt and pants and a wool-knit sweater, and watches as Sergei is setting the table. She doesn’t even have the time or space to feel uncomfortable, as if she’s intruding — Yulia is a volcano of energy and she commands the space (and Margo) with ease. She gives Margo a towel to dry her damp hair, a pair of woolen socks that Margo suspects might be Sergei’s, and then she practically pushes Margo into a spot on the bench in the corner of their warm kitchen with fogged up windows. The icy feeling in her stomach resolves and Margo finds herself swept up in the busy domesticity. Actually, it comes to her so easily that it’s almost frightening.
“Four plates, da ?” Sergei asks Yulia. “Jurij is coming?”
“Probably,” Yulia shrugs and sits down next to Margo. “His shift ends at seven. So, Margo,” she says and sets a bottle of cognac on the table before pouring the three of them very generous shots. “How do you like Moscow so far?”
“Um,” Margo says, taken aback, and Yulia apparently finds it hilarious because she bursts into laughter.
“Don’t worry, it’s a common reaction,” she assures. Then she picks up her glass and gestures for them to do the same. “ Prost !”
The cognac burns Margo’s throat, and heat immediately hits her cheeks. The warmth starts spreading from her stomach to her arms and legs, but not yet all the way through to her frozen toes and fingers.
“Moscow is… so big,” Margo continues hesitantly, and Yulia looks at her with interest. Sergei has plopped down onto a seat across the bench, facing them. “And so old. It’s very impressive. I’ve never been to the Soviet Union before.”
“Is it everything that your news outlets have led you to believe?” Yulia asks wryly and Sergei lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Don’t sigh at me, Seryozha, I’m just asking a question. Margo doesn’t have to answer if she doesn’t want to. Meanwhile, you could maybe pour her another shot, because her lips are still purple.”
Of course, that immediately makes Sergei look at her lips and Margo feverently hopes that the blush that spreads across her face and neck will be attributed to alcohol.
“I have something better than cognac,” Sergei says. “And I’ll make us some tea, too.”
“With raspberry jam,” Yulia suggests and he nods. She then pats Margo’s arm. “It’s the Russian way. Between that and Sergei’s mother's medicinal concoction, you will return home in perfect health.”
“My mother’s concoction is vodka with fruit,” Sergei warns and retrieves a bottle full of suspiciously yellow liquid from one of the cabinets. “But this one is made of lemons, mostly, so, you know. Vitamin C and all of that.”
“Practically medicine,” Margo agrees, a faint smile dancing on her lips.
“Она мне нравится,” Yulia says warmly, and Margo doesn’t understand her words or why they make Sergei drop the can of tea that he just picked up. Yulia quickly continues, in German, “So, did you have any time for sightseeing?”
Margo, with Sergei’s help, starts telling her about all the sights that they’ve seen (just the one today and some in passing, yesterday and the day before). She is almost done with the story when the doorbell rings and she startles, but Yulia only smiles and lays a soothing hand on her elbow.
“It’s Jurij,” she explains. “Let me get that. I don’t think that he expects company.”
“Who is Jurij?” Margo asks in a whisper as soon as she and Sergei are left alone in the kitchen, and Sergei chokes on his drink.
She frowns. But before she has a chance to ask him what’s going on, Yulia returns to the kitchen, followed by a bulky, dark-haired man that she assumes to be Jurij.
“Margo Madison, Sergei’s friend,” she says in German, pointing between Margo and Jurij. “And Jurij Stepanovich Vasilyev, my friend.”
Jurij shakes hands first with Margo, then with Sergei. They exchange a few words in Russian and Margo observes their interaction with interest. Something changed in Sergei’s face when Jurij came in; right now, he’s more akin to that standoffish engineer that she first met in the early days of Soyuz-Apollo. It lasts only a moment, though; they sit down and Sergei looks at her, and whatever he reads in her curious expression makes him relax.
Now it’s Yulia who looks between Sergei and her as if she’s seeing a puzzle that she can’t solve.
“So, dinner,” she says and claps her hands. “It’s very simple, and not very traditional, I’m afraid. I’m sorry, Margo, but I wasn’t given any notice…”
Margo rushes to assure her that it’s fine; she’ll be more than happy to eat whatever she’s given; she knows that she’s imposing anyway…
After a minute or so of such dance, Yulia brings a steaming pot to the center of the table and reaches for a ladle.
“It’s vegetable stew,” she explains as she starts pouring it into bowls. “Tomatoes, paprika, beans, potatoes…”
Margo’s mouth starts watering and she earnestly tells Yulia that it smells delicious.
“Bread?” Jurij offers, holding out the plate towards her, and Margo gratefully accepts.
As soon as she dips the bread into her stew, Sergei asks,
“Anything to drink?”
“I think we could maybe use another round of your mother’s nastoika ,” Yulia says in an amused tone, and Sergei nods curtly and starts pouring.
It might be because Margo is very cold and very hungry, and already a bit tipsy, but the stew tastes divine. She tells as much to Yulia and this prompts a lengthy discussion about their favorite dishes and a detailed comparison between American and Russian breakfast habits.
The atmosphere gradually relaxes; the conversation flows freely, often interrupted by jokes. Jurij turns out to be a great storyteller, especially when his hands are occupied washing the dishes, and Margo hears a fair share of disgusting medical anecdotes that nearly make her cry from laughter.
Eventually, Yulia announces that she and Jurij have plans.
“You’re welcome to stay, of course,” she says to Sergei and Margo. “Sergei, you know where the emergency keys are, right? When you leave, just lock the door and throw it into the mailbox, would you?”
Margo glances at Sergei, but he only nods and makes no move to leave. He gets up only for a moment to give Yulia a goodbye hug, but then he sits back down.
The front door opens, letting a flood of noise into the apartment, and then closes behind Yulia and Jurij. Margo and Sergei are once again enveloped in blissful silence.
Outside, the day has begun to turn to evening. The sky is dark blue. The lights are off in the kitchen and it becomes darker, full of shadows.
Margo meets Sergei’s eyes. She thinks that she rather likes him like this; when it’s dark and quiet and just the two of them.
“I have a couple of questions,” she says eventually, switching back to English, and Sergei chuckles.
“I figured you might,” he replies and pours himself a glass of compot. Then he offers some to Margo, but she shakes her head.
Sergei puts down the pitcher and folds his hands on the table.
“Shoot.”
“These are personal questions,” Margo warns warily. “I don’t know if…”
“Margo,” Sergei interrupts, looking at her fondly. “You’re sitting in my kitchen, wearing my wife’s clothes and sampling my mother’s nastoika. I think that we’ve already crossed into the realm of personal, don’t you?”
Margo blushes, in spite of herself, and pushes her empty shot glass around the table in a feeble attempt to cover up her embarrassment.
“You and Yulia are together,” she states, barely able to look in his general direction. Then, without waiting for confirmation, she continues, “But Yulia and Jurij are also… an item?”
“Here is where it gets complicated,” Sergei says lightly and Margo forces herself to look at him. “Remember, I told you once that my marriage is not very conventional, especially if you look at it from the outside.”
Margo nods slowly.
“See, Yulia and I… we got married young. Just after I started working at Roscosmos. We loved each other, but over time, as I started working longer and longer hours and was never home… The love just wasn’t enough,” Sergei gives her a crooked smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and Margo hums in sympathy, her brow furrowed in concentration. “We didn’t have children; I don’t know whose fault it was, but it just never happened for us.”
“Did you want to?”
“At some point, yes,” Sergei admits. “But then years passed and we eventually let go of the idea. It didn’t help our marriage, though. I spend most of my time in Star City and Yulia - here.”
“But you didn’t divorce?” Margo asks, trying to keep the judgement out of her tone. She reminds herself that she doesn’t know what life looks like here. Sure, on paper the divorce rate in the USSR is second only to the United States – she has no idea how she knows it – but maybe the reality is different.
Sergei seems to sense her efforts, because his face softens.
“We wanted to, especially when she met Jurij and things became serious. But then Yulia got diagnosed with cancer.”
“Oh, god.” Margo, without thinking, puts her hand on Sergei’s wrist, but he only waves his other hand around before gently patting Margo’s fingers.
“Oh, no, it’s not bad now. The cancer is in remission; it was caught early and Yulia is under very good care. Jurij is actually a doctor; ironically, he was the one who forced her to get herself checked out. But, you see, the treatment options are limited in Russia, and Jurij is just a family doctor in your neighborhood clinic. He doesn’t have access to proper oncology treatments. A flight director at Roscosmos, however, especially aided by his high-ranking friends, has the possibility to send his wife to Switzerland for chemotherapy.”
“Oh,” Margo says quietly. Her hand stays on Sergei’s wrist.
“There are more perks, of course. I get bigger rations than your usual Soviet citizen… This is a profit for my whole family, especially my parents and sisters… I can shop in those special service stores for diplomats — Beriozhka… Yulia has access to some Western medication and I can always get coffee and proper brandy, which, you know, they don’t just carry in supermarkets.”
Again, he gives her that strange, crooked smile that is half-fond, half-sad.
“It’s a long leash,” he adds quietly.
“I’m starting to understand,” Margo replies just as softly.
Her thumb slides to Sergei’s bare hand and she absentmindedly starts rubbing it back and forth against his skin. Sergei’s eyes drop to look at their joined hands before returning to her face.
“And so, to correct your assumption…” he says, moving a few inches closer. “Yulia and I are together only in the legal sense. Nothing else.”
Margo’s heart starts beating faster and a strange sensation forms in the pit of her stomach. She has no idea what to say, but she tightens her grip on Sergei’s wrist.
“Are you sure?” she asks, and of course she means more than if Sergei is fully aware of his own marital status, and she hopes that he can understand.
Judging by the fact that he moves another inch closer and his eyes don’t stray away from hers, he does.
“Very sure,” he assures her.
They don’t kiss; despite what they’ve just talked about, it would be too weird to do it here, in his kitchen, in his home full of traces of a whole another life that he’s led and that Margo is just discovering. But Margo, unable to ignore this pull towards him any longer, leans in and presses her forehead against his. Their noses touch, their breaths mingle, and to her surprise Margo realizes that she’s trembling.
“You know, I never suspected that you speak German,” Sergei says conversationally and Margo lets out a breathy laugh.
They move away, leaning back against their seats, but their hands remain joined on the table.
“Yeah,” she admits. “I learned from my father’s friend.”
She tells him about Wehrner von Braun, and about her own family. Sergei shares with her the tales of his childhood; the lazy days spent on his parents’ dacha, the adventures that he got into as a schoolboy, the time when he found a stray cat and forced his parents to adopt him.
“I cried crocodile tears,” he says with a wistful smile. “My dad was slightly disgusted by the display; I think that he agreed to the cat to shut me up. I was made responsible for it, so when it ran away a year later, my butt got a solid spanking.”
“Well…” Margo says vaguely, not wanting to come across as particularly disrespectful. Sergei seems to catch her meaning, though.
“Oh, you know,” he shrugs. “It was a different time. He wanted to raise me to be strong and resilient; you have to be, to survive here. I’m grateful to him, and I love him very much. It does not mean that if I had children, I would raise them the same way. But, well, I guess that we’ll never know for sure.”
He gives Margo a crooked smile. She tilts her head and mirrors his expression.
“It’s getting late,” she says with regret.
“Yes,” Sergei sighs and looks down into his empty glass. “I’ll get us a taxi and drop you off at your hotel before returning to Star City.”
Margo nods and reluctantly stands to her feet. She waits as Sergei makes a phone call and walks around the apartment, turning off the lights and making sure that the stove is off. A car picks them up; Margo suspects that it’s not a regular taxi, but perhaps a KGB-sanctioned vehicle, so she doesn’t dare to speak much. Instead, she looks out of the window and tries to admire Moscow in her evening glory. Mostly, though, she tries to digest everything that happened today.
Her hand rests on the seat between her and Sergei — she can almost feel the heat of his fingers that are just within her reach, but not quite touching.
She makes it to the hotel, seemingly, before the rest of the group. She takes the opportunity to go to her room and change out of Yulia’s clothes, comfortable as they are, into something of her own. When Aleida knocks at her door half an hour later, Margo is dressed in a pair of slacks and a large sweatshirt, looking as if she’s spent the afternoon in her room with a book.
“But you have done some sightseeing, right?” Aleida asks suspiciously. “Nikulov didn’t just keep you chained to a desk in Star City?”
“No, he didn’t,” Margo replies with emphasis. “We went back to Moscow; he’s shown me the Kremlin, the Red Square and so on.”
“And did you eat?” Molly asks, shamelessly barging into Margo’s room to interrupt the conversation. “Cause if not, we could go to that place where we had dinner the first night.”
“Actually…” Margo hesitates, feeling a blush spread over her neck. But then she tells herself that they will learn about her day sooner or later, and it’s not like she’s done anything wrong. “It started raining, so Sergei invited me to dinner at his house. With his wife,” she adds immediately, because Molly’s face lights up like a Christmas tree and Margo doesn’t want her to get any ideas.
“ Sergei invited me to dinner at his house ,” Molly mimics, and Margo’s cheeks turn red. She turns her face towards the window. “Man, you’re really putting in the effort in those international relations .”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Margo scoffs. “He’s married, and a Soviet. We’re just fri… colleagues,” she corrects herself, but judging by Molly’s smirk, she didn’t miss that slip.
“Fine,” she says mercifully. “If you say so. If not dinner, then, come down to the lobby for a drink.”
“Fine,” Margo replies, a bit tersely.
Aleida, who has been listening to their conversation in silence, her eyes darting back and forth between the women, finally has an opportunity to speak.
“And what did NASA want to speak to you about?”
“Oh,” Margo remembers. “We had to make some adjustments to the trajectory, and then I talked to Ed Baldwin to make sure that they’re ready for the drop. It’s all good.”
“Okay,” Aleida says with a nod. “We’ll be in the lobby, then. Come down when you’re ready.”
Margo nods and Aleida and Molly disappear. As soon as the door closes behind them, she falls on the bed and presses both hands to her face.
God damn it, she’s in trouble.
She gives herself a few seconds to process this revelation before sitting up.
It’s fine, she tells herself. It’s all fine. She just needs to make it through one more day without doing anything stupid.
After all, how hard can it be?
*S prechen Sie vielleicht Deutsch? - Do you speak German perhaps?
Ja. Aber mit einem hässlichen Akzent. - Yes. But with a terrible accent.
Она мне нравится - I like her.