He wanted her the first time he saw her. At first it was simple, flirt with a pretty girl, a normal girl, and if she accepted then he would see how far he could get. He wanted to know that he could still have a normal girl, not just the sad, beaten slaves that came through the business. He didn't actually expect her to say yes, and she didn't, and that was supposed to be the end of it. But then she came back.
He liked the defiance in her eyes, even if it was mixed with mild disgust, and she was strong, strong and stubborn; he hoped that trait would not get her into trouble. When she struggled with her bike in the rain she tried all she could to ignore him, except to show him that she was perfectly capable of handling the situation alone and it made him want to laugh, almost.
"I thought you did birth?" he asked and saw the ghost of a smile. "Sometimes birth and death go together," she'd replied. She was wise and caring, too caring. If she wasn't careful that bleeding heart of hers was going to get her killed. And yet, that part of her made him want her more.
Before he'd just wanted her in a passing way, but gradually, the more he saw of her the harder it was for him to suppress a deeper longing, a type of longing he had forbidden himself to ever feel. He was starting to save his most secret fantasies for her, the thoughts and dreams he kept locked away and would even deny existed if he had to. They weren't anything wild, just him and her in a clean bed, in a nondescript hotel room, in some unnamed city. Sometimes very late at night after an especially hard day he would picture a house in the country instead and a ring on her finger. It's foolish, but worth it in the cold dark.
When he went for the diary he expected it to be the last time he would see her; he had prepared himself, made an effort to close himself off. Her "bodyguards" amused him greatly, especially the uncle, so he couldn't help but have a little fun with them. As she passed him the diary he lightly brushed his fingers over the back of her hand. He shouldn't have, but it was his last chance to touch her. No matter how small, it was worth it. He was confused by her request for the address and the anger she fired at him was unexpected, but he almost preferred it because for a moment those wide blue eyes did not look at him with disgust.
She was lovely walking out of the hospital that morning as he sat waiting on her bike; the shoes were… cute. For a brief instant he imagined her looking up at him and smiling, but when she did see him that familiar contempt and disgust over took her sweet features and he ignored the pang of disappointment. "How can you keep doing what you're doing?" she'd asked. He was good at denying what his true self felt, but, not for the first time, he found himself wishing he could tell her the truth.
When Kirill lunged for her he felt true fear for the first time in a very long while, even if only for a split second. Those long, clammy fingers wrapped around her neck repulsed and angered him. He threw his captain off of her wanting to do more than just separate them, he wanted fist and flesh to meet, but he held back remembering what was more important.
When he opened his eyes in the hospital he really thought he was dead, why else would that particular angel be sitting there by his bed? When she asked about her uncle and he told her the truth, though he tried not to he felt a swelling of happiness when that look, The Look, left her eyes. There was no more disgust there, no more contempt, just relief and maybe even a smile.
"Where have you taken Christine! Tell me you bastard!" she shouted at him, knocking him back into the wall and pulling at his stitches. "What are you talking about?" he asked her, grimacing at the pain. Her eyes grew wide when she realized that he did not know. His own realization hit hard, not only because that baby was his ticket deeper into the organization, but also because he knew what that baby was to her. He knew where Kirill would take her, but he didn't know if they would make it in time.
Kirill stared at him like a little boy who's lost puppy had come home safe and sound. He was a weak man, thank God, because if he weren't then that baby would have been dead by now. He was weak and he was probably in love with Nikolai; that was part of how he had been able to use "The Prince" so easily. He cooed and sweet-talked to Kirill, gently coaxing the baby from his arms. Relief flooded through him as Anna took Christine, bending down to cover her little head with a cap to keep the cold at bay. Everything was going to be okay; everything was going to work out like he wanted it to. Well… almost everything.
He turns to Anna reaching out to gently grasp her shoulders. "You are okay?" he asks. She looks at him with anxiety and confusion. "I need to know who you are," she says. He sighs; he wishes he could tell her. He wishes so dearly for something he knows he cannot and should not have. Christine begins to fuss and he whispers to her, soothing her cries. "Bless you Christine." He and Anna are so close now that he can smell the shampoo from her hair. He looks up into her eyes uncertainly and he makes a move, it's his last chance, his only chance. He leans in to kiss her and miraculously she kisses back. It's soft, simple, and fleeting. When he will look back on it in years to come, sometimes he'll wonder if their lips really ever met. He wants more, so much more, even if it were only for one night. Why couldn't God at least let him have that, one night with her and nothing to disturb them? But they can't. They just can't and he nuzzles her cheek with his forehead in tenderness and frustration. It's hard, so very hard, but he says goodbye and walks away, feeling her warmth recede further from him until it's just the cold wind at his back.
Many months later he sits in a booth at the restaurant, completely still, but for the hand that flicks his beads over and over. He still fantasies about her; they are still nothing wild. He pictures her in a garden, wearing a simple, but pretty blue print dress, holding Christine in her arms and singing softly to her in Russian. Sometimes, very late at night, after an especially hard day he'll picture himself there beside her, a ring on his finger that matches one on hers. It's foolish, but worth it in the long dark.