i.
Walter knew that things were never black and white, that there were no villains or grand heroes in the world. He knew that compromise always got further than automatic xenophobia, he knew the Soviets weren't evil by nature...
Nevertheless, with Molokov's gun at his head, he couldn't help but think the Soviets were - and one Soviet in particular was - very much the enemy. Diplomacy didn't mean a hell of a lot when you could feel cold metal against your temple.
"This is a little close for comfort, comrade," he said, trying to keep his tone light, though he knew it came out somewhat strained.
Molokov ignored the words, dark eyes intently focused on Walter. "Do I make myself clear, Mr. de Courcey?"
"Exceedingly so. Now would you mind taking your finger off the trigger? It would make me feel a hell of a lot more comfortable, is all."
ii.
There was no better place for two servants of opposing governments to discuss business than a Caribbean island. Except perhaps a small boat off that Caribbean island, where there was even less chance that they would be overheard. Walter could actually almost pretend the trip was for pleasure - and it was pleasure, really, negotiating with Molokov, because things with him were so easy.
One offhand, derisive comment about Florence Vassey, however, and Walter briefly contemplated whether he could shove Molokov over the side of the boat and get away with it. He decided he couldn't, and reluctantly discarded the thought.
iii.
Molokov was with him when the Soviet Union fell, officially, though the death throes had been obvious for some time now. Walter had been careful not to mention it around Molokov, knowing it was a touchy subject - a life devoted to the party, to the Cause, and suddenly one's government was falling apart under its own weight.
But the day the flag was lowered for the last time over the Kremlin, Walter muttered under his breath, unthinkingly, "Good riddance."
He had never seen a colder, darker look in Molokov's eyes, and was fairly certain he never wanted to.
iv.
Walter appreciated Molokov's smirk, truly. It was so constant, and served so many purposes, he almost wished he could master it too. It was the smirk of a man who knew his place in the world, a smirk that could cow a lesser man in a heartbeat. It was impressive, really.
But on occasion, mostly when it was directed at him, that smirk got under Walter's skin, to the point where he started wondering whether shooting Molokov really wouldn't be such a bad idea. He always decided against it, if only because he didn't want to get blood all over the upholstery.
v.
Walter balled the sheets into his hands, struggling to remember to breathe as Molokov pressed into him. Breathing was a secondary concern, though, compared to the way the Soviet was touching him, doing things he shouldn't, by all rights, be able to. He gasped, dug his fingernails into Molokov's back, and of course, Molokov's smirk didn't so much as waver. That smirk sent heat right to Walter's groin, made the need for more that much more desperate.
Walter felt certain he was going to die in that instant, of all the things he'd been through, this was the one that would kill him. He couldn't say he minded.