She slumped her head back on the tiny cloth of the seat cover and gave out another sigh of relief. She'd made it. Early flights- they were seriously a gamble. She'd woken late, as anticipated. Having no time to shower, she'd stumbled blindly out of bed, spraying a long wave of some men's perfume across her torso, letting the heady scent fill her nostrils. Men's perfume always smelled better. Her suitcase ready packed, she had little to do except wriggle into clothes she'd prepared the night before and hail the first cab she could find. Luckily here, driving included innate insensibility to road rules in order to reach the prescribed destination as quickly as possible. The cabbie had swerved around enough side streets to make her glad she hadn't had time to down any breakfast.

Mornings were evil. She'd tried the special alarms, the ones that were supposed to wake a person up at the 'optimum time' in their sleep cycle. It was an utter lie- there was never an optimum time to wake up before 8am. Her eyes would still be groggy with hideous crusts, and she would still feel like a zombie. 'Just take coffee,' her morning friends said very simply. She'd tried it, for a little bit, with little patience, hoping it would work miracles and turn her into a chirruping squirrel before midday. It didn't. She just wasn't a morning person.

A guy sat next to her aisle seat. He was slim- the first thing her sleepy eyes had observed before she had headed into a brilliant doze. There was an empty seat next to the window, and she wondered why he didn't just sit there, but she didn't complain. She was too tired. He smelled nice, and he was slim.

They were mid-flight now. Her fellow passenger hadn't spoken a word, hadn't uttered a sound or moved an inch except to stoically order more of whatever he was chugging down. That was the fourth glass he had on his turntable, and he hadn't needed to get over her to go to the loo or anything. She usually made small talk with whoever sat next to her, but he didn't look like the kind of man who wanted to be disturbed, so she gave him what he wished and left him alone.

She put her hand on the armrest and felt the warmth of human skin instead of the coolness of metal. She pulled her hand away, uttering a polite whisper while gracing the tiniest glance towards him. "Sorry."

He barely acknowledged her, but she supposed he had heard her. She rested her left arm on her left thigh, cringing at how scrunched up she was. It was a short flight though, so she reasoned she could bear the discomfort. She shuffled forward in her seat, pulling the flimsy headphones from the front jacket pocket and tearing off the plastic. She plugged the end cord into the armrest of his seat carefully, and was about to jam the headset over her ears when she heard him speak.

"Travelling alone?"

His voice was low and heavily accented. Pretty hot, actually.

"Da," she said huskily, and turned an enquiring eye upon him.

"You?"

He raised a perfect brow.

"Da."

"Business or pleasure?"

His mouth twitched into a small smirk. "Pleasure," he said slowly.

Some seconds later he spoke again.

"You?"

She smiled. "Pleasure, I suppose." I mean they were bound for Paris.

There was a silence.

"You are Russian?" she said, though she already knew the answer.

There was no reply, just a slight nod, a lazy movement of the chin downwards.

She waited for another word, another question. There was none, and she supposed that he had exhausted his supply of chattiness for the day and the conversation had truly ended. She was about to put the headphones on again when an amused voice filled her ear.

"Your accent. It is difficult to place."

She craned her neck towards him again, smiling wryly.

"Guess," she said.

He blinked, cool, intelligent eyes. They were a deep hazel, and seemed to assess as he stared.

"You are not American. You are not…quite British."

She nodded. "Correct."

His eyes. They seemed to look deeply into her, pick her apart. She felt a thrill, a shiver run through her.

"Australia."

He said the word tentatively, the word rolling strangely off his tongue. It was one of the few times he had expressed uncertainty before anyone, but her eager nods made him feel like a fucking god.

"You are good. Not many people can guess."

"It is a hard accent to place." He repeated his previous line mechanically.

"Ever been there?"

"Niet."

There was another pause, and he looked at the screen in front as she waited expectantly, wondering when he would speak next.

"I have heard it is beautiful."

She smiled, really smiled. "It is."

"Like you?"

His eyes looked towards her then, watching, his interest plain. Her eyes widened just a little, and a slight blush crept over the white skin. Then she half snorted, delicately. It was her turn to be silent.

The hazel eyes swept another glance over her, but there wasn't much they hadn't gleaned already. He had already memorised the fairness of her face.

He had seen her at the ticket counter. Cool, elegant. The polished, direct voice. Long hair, the colour of night. Wide eyes, wide lips. It was enough for him to admire her by. And then she smiled. He could not take his eyes from her at that point.

It was not a full flight. It did not take much to get the nervous, young attendant to seat him next to the girl. He had read the seat number when she had left the counter, her small, delicate fingers grasping the boarding pass lightly.

He was not in the habit of following beautiful women, but then again he had little opportunity to do so. But this was too good to pass up. Women were his weak spot. He had a month holiday, and would follow his own fucking whims for a change before being clipped back onto Gretkov's leash.

"You can have the armrest."

He shrugged his arm off without even seeming to move, and rearranged his limbs comfortably, noiselessly.

She looked at him, really looked. Her brain had woken up enough by this point. What she saw both scared and thrilled her. He was handsome as sin. His brown, nearly black hair was cut short, close to his head. He had a stubble, a few days' old, she guessed. She had a weakness for stubbles, and this one was a good one. Wide shoulders stretched across the width of the small economy seat, filling out the black coat he wore over a dark pullover. Stretched corduroy dressed lean, muscular legs. She felt her body react, pulling itself towards him, and mentally slapped herself. Tall, dark handsome men were trouble. She'd been with a few, and they were sweet poison, poison she had willingly succumbed to until her body had burned, and her soul along with it. Still, she wondered, he was beautiful. She felt her lips softening, imagining the bruise of his kiss, the taste of him…

He was looking at her expectantly, and she was just blinking. Then he was smirking, like he'd guessed what she was thinking. She wiped the lust filled glaze off her fact and rested her arm atop the now empty rest. The seats were so close together she was touching his arm now, just barely, but the contact made her blood ignite. She breathed in, then exhaled slowly and gave him one of her own deadly smiles.

"Michelle," she said as an introduction, her left hand poking out.

He smiled and looked at her hungrily. The name…it suited her. He could imagine saying it when he was fucking her under the sheets…his breath slowed somewhat, and he knew his pupils were dilated. Along with other parts of his body. He was reacting merely to a daydream- something that had never happened before. He surmised logically that that meant it was going to be unbelievably good when it finally happened. His lower parts throbbed again.

"Are you alright?"

He cursed at himself inwardly, and smoothly took the hand she offered (it was still poking out) and lifted it to his lips. His mouth lingered on the skin of a round knuckle, and he could hear her breath hitch.

"More than alright."

He traced the knuckle alternatively between his bottom and top lip gently, his eyes never leaving her's. Then he put the arm back down on the armrest, gently. She was looking at him unabashedly now, not caring whether she was staring.

"Kirill," he said.

She blinked once or twice, and that wide smile came over her face again.

"Like the conductor." Her voice was excited.

Kirill looked at her with a bemused, slightly puzzled expression, but she continued without prompting.

"Kirill Kondrashin. He was a famous Russian composer. But I suppose," she continued with reasonableness, "not so famous for very many. I admire his work, however."

"He is a- conductor."

"Yes," she supplied when she heard the uncertainty in his voice. The second time in this conversation. He must be running a record; then again he didn't really talk to beautiful educated women. The sort he consorted with were always far less…put together. He listened to her speak. "The person who leads an orchestra. Some may not think they do much except wave their hands, but those waves make the difference between good and great music."

"You are a musician?"

Michelle nodded. "Yes."

"Classical?"

"Da."

He nodded again. He had thought so- it fit her, like the name.

"The Russians have always been my favourite composers," she said. "Their music has soul, and strength. Rachmaninov, Scriabin, Stravinsky. Deep passions under a stern exterior. My teacher was Russian. She was strong- a real bitch sometimes, even- but she made me good, real good."

"What do you play?"

"I'm a pianist."

"I see." He slowly lifted her hand off the seat, taking his time to lightly stroke then circle a finger. "Pianist fingers."

She blushed, but did not take her hand away. He did, however, to lift the half-filled glass on the turntable to his lips, downing the liquid in one gulp.

She was still staring at him as he turned to face her once more.

"And what do you do?"

He had expected this question. "I'm a police officer."

She didn't answer, but her gaze was sceptical.

"Really?"

He half smiled lazily. "Is it so hard to believe?"

"Well-no," she said. "You're built for it. But you- don't dress like one, and you don't act like one."

He lifted a brow. "You would rather I get into uniform? I am on vacation."

She let out a huff of amusement. "That's not what I meant. But no matter."

He knew she wanted to say more, but she was holding back for fear of being impolite. She was keen, this one. He'd have to watch what he said very carefully.

"I think I'd like seeing you in uniform though."

She spoke again, this time her manner teasing. She had regrouped, he figured, dropping her curiosity and making it a mission to flirt in earnest. He was not going to discourage her.

"I think I could possibly arrange that." His voice purred low, his lips stretching into a cat like grin.

"With the hat?" she asked with a grin of her own. "Or perhaps not. Those furry things are awful."

"They are. Perhaps I could do without."

"And the jacket…it looks…constricting. And so full of duck feathers."

"I could take it off."

They were leaning in to each other now, a hair's breadth away from each other. She licked her lips. He looked at them hungrily. He was just about to swoop in, propriety and location be damned, when there was a jolt on the plane. They pulled apart, and then heard the captain speak in Russian over the intercom as the craft made another thunderous lurch downwards.

Michelle looked a little worried. "Just turbulence," Kirill said softly. "He reminds everyone to wear the seat belt."

"Thanks," she said. "My Russian sucks. Ya yo-ha ga va roo pa Ruski."

The plane started to see saw again.

"Oh my god," she whimpered. "Shit." She clasped her hands together against her chest, curling into a ball.

"It'll be alright," Kirill said reassuringly.

She turned her head slightly and gave him an almost cross glance.

"It's just turbulence," he said lamely.

"You're a real comfort," she said.

"It is."

"I do not have any wish to go down with a plane."

"That does not happen very often."

She glared. "Aeroflot has the worst reputation for crashes."

He looked at her levelly. "Then you should not have picked it to fly with."

"Yes, well it was either that or Air France, which is equally bad."

The plane gave another lurch.

"Oh god, oh god!"

"I would not be too concerned," the Russian said in a cool voice. "Despite their bad record with crashes, fatalities have not been so frequent. The last time someone died was in-"

"Not helping, not helping…"

She was hugging herself now, and her breathing had become ragged. The plane was still continuing its acrobatics, and the captain spoke again over the intercom. She lifted her head in a panic.

"What did he say?"

Kirill sighed. "He reminds everyone to wear the seat belt."

"What good is a fucking seatbelt if this thing plummets head first into the ground?"

"Michelle." He pulled her chin towards him, his hazel eyes staring deeply into her own. He spoke slowly, but commandingly. "The plane is not going down. Now breathe. In, out. In, out."

She was so mesmerized by those eyes she forgot that she might be facing imminent death. Or maybe it was okay, if those eyes never left her's. She did as she was told, and inhaled slowly, and then exhaled, his eyes locked steadily onto her own, his Russian lilt repeating the instructions over and over. By the time he stopped, the plane had returned to cruising in a straight line, and she felt surprisingly relaxed. She frowned a little, and then shook herself.

"I- I'm sorry," she said croakily, unfolding and leaning back into her seat. His hand was still on her chin. "I'm usually not like that."

He stroked her cheek before dropping it into his own lap and sighed. "I suspect you had a panic attack."

"I don't like flying."

"I guessed as much."

"I usually take my pills, but I thought it was a short flight, I didn't need them…"

Her voice trailed off. She was still clenching her fists.

"What is so frightening? Dying?"

She faced him, and gave a little nod. "That, and other things."

"If your time is up, your time is up," he said in a matter-of-fact way.

She let out a sigh. "That's what my mother would say."

"She's right."

She looked at him irritably. "Comforting, aren't you?"

"Comfort is of little practical use in a life threatening situation."

She raised her own brow. "Oh. What would you prescribe for me then?"

He grinned. "I can think of a few things."

She looked at him drily. "Terrible."

They lapsed into silence. Michelle took the time to get her own beverage from the cross-looking flight attendant with too much make up on her face. The woman glared at her as she tossed the water bottle into her lap. Funny, she thought sardonically as she twisted the cap off, she didn't seem to have any problem getting Kirill all those drinks.

She lifted the bottle to her lips, but just before she drank she could feel he was watching her, his hazel eyes boring a hole into her cheek. Or maybe her nose.

"Are you staying in Paris long?" she said once she'd finished her sip.

He blinked and looked ahead. "I'm not sure. At least two weeks."

She didn't dare ask him more. She wanted to, to make a proposition- but she knew that would be best left to him, and if he really wanted to she knew he would.

She fingered the edge of the bottle. The water had tasted mildly foul, but she'd expected that. Water seemed to taste foul everywhere overseas.

"And you? What are your- plans?"

She snapped her head up, trying not to look like an eager bunny. "I'll be in Paris for ten days. Then I'm heading home. I've got to go back to work."

His eyes were unreadable. She was sure she must have a red sign above her head saying to ask her out somewhere, but perhaps he hadn't seen it.

"We should spend some time together."

Ah hah. Perhaps he had seen it.

She smiled her wide smile. "I thought you'd never ask, officer."