Disclaimer: The characters from Get Smart do not belong to me, obviously.
Sometimes we almost existed.
--
She's been in the city before, of course. There's never shortage of work to be done in this part of the world. She knows her way around Moscow. Maxwell seems to as well, but in a map-shaped way, they walk around the streets and she sees him get this faraway look and she knows he is going through hours and hours of files and piled-up knowledge about the city. Like she can read him. And underneath all that, underneath the pay-off from all those years of studies, of scribbled notes and listening to surveillance tapes over and over, there's a little gleam in his eyes, like he can't really believe he is actually -finally- here.
`I can't believe I'm actually, finally here,´ Max says as they walk pass Cathedral, sparkling like the rest of the city, like the rest of the night.
`Where, in Moscow?´ She teases.
`No,´ he puffs, rolling his eyes, you silly, `in the field.´
`I know,´ she smiles.
`I'm a experienced field agent now,´ he sighs, content, looking into the distance.
She stares at him, turning away when he notices.
`Yes, you are,´ she concedes, examining her shoes.
They act like tourists – Max knows a lot of bars round here but they are all frequented by Chechnyan terrorists and disgruntled ex-KGB agents so in the end they just pick a café behind Red Square, a tiny place with chairs on the front even at midnight and three or four couples of taciturn travelers holding hands over paper tablecloth. They sit among them, indistinguishable from them, acting like tourists, acting like lovers, and Max folds her napkin into the shape of a lemur and says "See! My hands are deadly weapons!" and she has to cover her mouth with her hands from laughing out loud.
`Thank you,´ he says, when they order some lemon cheesecake and he diligently informs her that it's called zapekanka.
`For what?´ she asks, distracted, spoon in her mouth.
`For this week, all of it, I guess,´ Max shrugs. `This was my first job on the field, thank you for making it, I don't know, special.´ She looks up from her food and gives Max a panicked glare. He smiles slightly and adds: `Except for that time when you punched me. That was... Not Cool.´
She tries swallowing a bit of cake but her throat has suddenly gone dry.
They take the metro and stare at the mosaics in Mayakovskaya station and the she stares at the mosaics and pretends Max is not staring at her - she has very good peripheral vision.
And the way Max looks at her sometimes, it's the first time she's felt comfortable with her own face.
They are about to miss the last train on the green line, three minutes to 1AM and Max takes her hand and pulls her as they run along the platform.
`That's inappropriate,´ she admonishes once they are inside the train.
Max gives her a look that can only be described as challenging. The fact is, they don't let go of the other's hand for just a bit longer.
Shit, she thinks.
Max's suite is on the second floor while hers is one up, but he walks her to her room anyway, because that's the sort of thing he does. He is not expecting anything, she knows. Just that little kid's smile of his, the way he falls one step behind her and she can feel his eyes on the back of her neck, the way he never forgets to glance sideways at the hallway in case there are enemy agents hiding behind the plastic plants trying to kill them. It drives her insane. He drives her insane.
`Well,´ she says when they arrive at her door, her voice coarser and higher than she intended.
She turns to say goodnight. He is doing that thing where he locks his hands behind his back and just smiles, goofily, at her.
`Well,´he repeats.
`Well, goodnight, I guess,´ she starts to turn the key in the lock. Max is not expecting anything but his face falls a bit all the same. She feels the ridiculous urge to make excuses: `Early call tomorrow, it's late and-´
Max shakes his head, dismissing her vehemently. A little too vehemently.
`Of course,´ he says too loudly. `I need my beauty sleep. Or do you think this,´ he gestures down his body and what passes for Maxwell Smart's version of smugness, `comes without effort?´
She can see him kicking himself mentally for that – he is transparent – and she has to fight a smile. She steps into the room, looking at Max over her shoulder.
`Goodnight then,´ he gives her a little wave and walks away towards the elevator.
She watches him press the button once, twice, three times, fallen shoulders.
`Max,´ she calls out, leaning on the doorframe.
`Yes?´ He turns around, hope catching up with his voice in his throat.
`Thank you.´
He frowns.
`What for?´
`This was, in many ways, my first job on the field too,´ she explains. `Thanks for making it... special.´
There's no punchline this time. He smiles at her. It's sort of beautiful and she waits for the panic attack to settle in. It never does.
`You are welcome, 99´ Max replies in precise, sharp tones.
The elevator is finally here.
She finds herself making plans, thinking, Oh, well, we have time. She wasn't counting on that. She is a professional.
`Goodnight, Max´ she repeats to fill the space between them.
Her hand still on the knob, but she doesn't seem able to close the door. It's Max the one who leaves, and that's a first, but he keeps looking at her as the elevator doors close in front of him so that's alright.
She is left staring at the cold, golden metal, the tiny city lights outside reflected on it, red, blue and white.