Title: No
Dance No Deal
Rating:
PG-13
Spoilers:
Pre-series. Spoiler for 3.12, “Crossings”
Summary: Katya field-tests an asset; Irina
disapproves.
Disclaimer:
Not mine, no money.
A/N: Raffaella allowed me to steal her idea about
Feedback:
Is cherished: lo_rez @ adelphia.net
Like all of
Irina’s bolt-holes, the flat smelled of burnt wires
and dust. All those millions—dollars, real money—running scams from
Ekaterina bit
her lip to keep from sneezing, head tipped back slightly to avoid killing
herself. The knife at her throat was cool against her skin.
“Irina.” She watched her sister in the mirror hanging over
the sofa opposite, gilt flaking from the cheap frame. Irina
was still too thin, had been since
The blade’s
movement was barely perceptible. “Khasinau called.”
The man might
be useful but he’d make one call too many, one day. Katya
rolled her eyes, in case Irina actually was watching.
“Sasha’s an old woman. I told you I was going to
check on things.”
“You
mentioned
Katya let
her shoulders obey the vicious strain on her right arm, twisted up and across
her back. “It was my birthday,” she gibed, ignoring the pain, admiring her favorite
shirt in the mirror. It was silk, white as milk against Irina’s
usual sleek black. “What do you care if Sasha and I
had a little party to celebrate?”
“Not Sasha,” said Irina, and Katya took an ostentatious breath, her enjoyment of the memory
quite genuine: blue eyes, beautiful hands, a certain
youthful insistence. A little runnel of blood reached the neckline of the shirt.
It was dazzling, red on white.
“No,” she
admitted. “All right. I couldn’t resist. He’s… impressive,
your Julian. You didn’t by some chance think him
innocent?” Not for years, she imagined. Not with the American girl—Allison,
Allie—in his orbit.
“He is not
to be distracted,” said Irina coldly.
“He’s seventeen.
You’re a fool.” She was half in earnest. Irina never cared
about human frailty until she had a use for it. There
was another little prompt from the knife.
“Let me
recall you to our timetable.”
Katya
sighed. “There’s a new mutation; he believes it is stable. Irina,
he’s wasted in the lab. Put him in the field.”
But Irina never cared for advice, either. “He had questions?” Colder still.
He had,
actually. The speculation in his eyes as he’d watched her dress told its own
tale, to her further amusement. He’d offered to accompany her to the airfield,
which made her laugh: such pretty manners. She’d kissed him and made some
remark about how well things were going and then he’d said it so casually, as
though it weren’t the only thing on his mind: And Irina?
“No
questions,” she said. She shifted slightly, which hurt. There was a new and faster
trickle down the side of her neck. “Oh, come on, Irusha.
We had a little fun, he learned a few things. Nadyenka
will thank me, some day,” she said. “If he ever does find her.”
“He’ll be
useless if he doesn’t,” was her sister’s soft reply. “And you.” No doubt there
was an intricately coded Rambaldi treatise against
humor somewhere in Irina’s collection. She tried
again.
“Don’t be
such a bitch. I won’t touch him again. Shtob
ya sdokhla, okay? Is
that good enough for you?”
There, finally,
a little snort from just behind her left ear. She knew
that would make Irina laugh: May I drop dead.
She anticipated the shove between the shoulderblades.
The knife disappeared. She smelled like blood and her neck was sticky and these
ugly walls that hadn’t been painted since Brezhnev died were beginning to
depress her.
“Perhaps
I’ll just check up on Jack Bristow instead,” she couldn’t help adding.
In the
mirror, Irina’s predatory smile. “Please,” she said.
“And give him my love,” and Katya laughed. She had no
problem conceding that point. For now.
The shirt
wasn’t salvageable. Getting a rise out of Irina had
been worth it, but she’d make her pay anyway. She wet a threadbare linen napkin
at the samovar and carelessly sponged the worst of the blood from her skin.
She hadn’t
answered the boy Julian’s question, actually, had done him the favor of
ignoring it. He knew by this time that Irina had no
personal interest in him. Katya thought it a pity,
but then her own agenda was quite, quite different from her tedious older
sister’s. She shook her head over the tea service, more tarnish than silver.
“’rusha, we have lemon-cakes for tea,” she said, pleased at
her own foresight in providing them, but Irina was
already back at the terminal they’d had all that ridiculous wiring installed
for, clacking away. Katya smiled and set a cup at her
sister’s elbow. She didn’t mind. It meant more for her.
[End]