#ruinaa

HI, TIGER. Dmitri smiles softly, fondly.

This wasn't easy. Roman is a highly well-trained SHIELD operative. Dmitri is just a man from a violent home, albeit one with rigorous values. He wasn't taught by his father how to hunt. He was taught to submit. He rejects those lessons now.

He thinks about what he would like to have for dinner with Josephine. He thinks about what it would be like to cook for her. For her to cook for him. Does she make lasagna, now, a family woman with a hectic schedule? Maybe they could make dumplings together.

He listens to the voicemails dissolve into panic and worry and fretting. He holds Roman's phone as comfortably as he would hold his phone, despite their different models.

Ridley, honey, give me a minute, Josephine says. Getting Roman to this apartment—a new rental, far from his actual current residence—had required a shift into Ridley. Humiliating and strange. New perspective. Oh, well. It was worth it.

Roman is unconscious. He will stay that way for several hours. Dmitri has been experimenting with tranquilizers and debilitating chemicals. Chloroform is the classic, and he isn't opposed to its utilization. Still. It's fun to be creative. To shift.

Like now. Next to the handcuffed and ziptied Roman, an identical Roman-looking figure stands holding Roman's phone.

He can't help but pretend to be Roman, to imagine what it's like.

"This wife of yours is a very concerned woman," Dmitri muses. His natural—is anything about him natural?—accent comes naturally with the way Roman's jaw sits. "How does she stand it? All this silly worry over silly things. You—will be fine." He's bitter about it, but he knows that it's true.

"And she—will come to me. Willingly. Wanting to." He shivers.

Kermit the Frog voice: "Sheesh."

Joey voice: "Relaaax. I also got gum, but you don't see me chewing it." He pulls a pack of gum from his back pants pocket and waves it. "Eeey?" No, wait, that's the extra magazine for the gun. Fuck! Panickedly insistent: "I'm not gonna hurt you." He repockets the magazine. And the gun with it. He's got contraband all over him. Like someone smuggling cheap convenience store candy into a movie theater; it's good to have options. When you're a man without a dick, there's a lotta extra room down there. He pats his thighs for his gum. Finds it in his front left pocket. "See?" He waves the half-empty pack like a white flag. As if it proves his pacifism. "Do ya want some? Ya look like you want some. It's cinnamon." He leans towards her, arm out, offering a piece to the wary six feet between them.

he doesn't even look up from his plate.

(he's not great with chopsticks: it takes concentration and a dexterity that he simply no longer possesses - call it too many broken fingers, or at least he will if made fun of for this particular lull in his impressive skill set. the truth is he just never picked up the knack and though he will insist on eating with them at every presented opportunity, he will in fact look like a toddler trying to skewer a worm.)

his shoulders hunch and his hands twitch toward hoodie pockets. chestnut eyes remain on her face. (he ain’t looking away. you avoid eye contact and the deceit glimmers like a diamond.)

           this is a place they have come to many times.  the memories attached to it were good  --  maybe a sprinkle of a couple arguments mixed in,  but nothing that had him cringing.  they danced here.  they ate here.  they got so drunk here that one time,  he had to give her a piggyback out the door,  her laugh in his ear,  so close that he could feel her smile.  he remembered those feelings;  should have known,  back then,  where it would lead to. 

          but he had already told himself that he was content with what they had.  all he wanted  --  all he needed  --  was just to be with her,  and be by her side.  and if that meant he didn’t get to sit at the seat of the booth next to her,  laughing about what was going on around them,  then  --  it was fine.  he should just be happy that he had gotten to get his rest and to sleep and to see roman.  

She never gets to talk about things like this; she never gets to talk about much at all that she thinks Josephine — who is glamorous and educated and experienced — will find very interesting.

And what are female friends for if not the occasional failure of tbe Bechdel Test?

          so it goes.  he doesn’t pull the trigger,  twice now.  

          and if he keeps on going,  there has to be something different than the past.  he cannot separate himself from this;  detach and dissociate and let it just happen.  that was the hardest part of it all:  facing himself.  the things that he had done and he had chosen,  the moments that had led him to this point.  he had wanted to consider himself a better man for the people he loved;  he wanted to be more than the weapon he was born to be,  but he had ended up weaponizing love instead.  

           so when he makes that choice,  and he puts the gun back down,  he calls her.  

           she knows he has never been one to talk a lot,  but he lets the conversations go longer once he is back in new york.  he asks her more questions.  he tries to let her know that he wants to see her,  without overdoing it.  when he’s able to ask for dinner,  and when he’s finally able to tell her that he can’t do this anymore,  that he misses her  --  he considers it a step in the right direction.  (  she cries,  he holds her hand across the table,  and they don’t talk about that she’s taken her wedding ring off and he hasn’t.  ) 

            she goes home.  he asks to see her again,  and the second time they have dinner,  he asks to walk her back to shilah’s apartment.  it is there that she must know he is struggling with it;  how could she not?  this was the woman who knew him inside and out,  who had told him that it was okay to be himself,  the first person in the world who saw beyond what he was but what he could be,  and had loved him for it,  and  --  

          you can face this.  

           isn’t it a terrible thing?  for everything he’s done,  to have her still look at him with those eyes,  and to give him this patience once more?  

           “  it should have always been you.  “  it is the first time they are acknowledging it.  “  there’s no going back.  but if i could  --  “  his hands tremble.  he cannot reach out to her,  only to himself right now.  the words are all there,  at the tip of his tongue,  and he should say them  --  say them like he means them,  because he does,  desperately.  “  i should have fought for you,  josephine.  i should have protected you.  it should have never gotten this far.  and  --  i know you’ve taken off your wedding ring,  and i don’t know what that means for us,  but if i have to take every day and show you how much i want this  --  “