The Welcoming

The car came to a slow halt outside of a nice looking house- a house that Lucas knew well. He had been there many times as a small boy, and upon considering its remote location hundreds of miles away from London, it was not the first place Arkady would think to look for them. He switched off the engine and pulled the handbrake on, suddenly aware of the silence. Anzhela was still staring straight ahead- she had been for most of their long journed, gkancing occasionally in the mirrors to check behind them. She had calmed down a little now- not that she was ever erratic, but she had been nervous, he could tell. He opened the door and got out slowly, having decided that sudden movements would only hinder her nervous system further. He had planned to open her door for her and help her out but it seemed that she wanted as little to do with him as possible, as she got out and closed the door quietly. She followed him to the front door, looking around her nervously and cluthching a small bag. It contained all that remained of her life in Russia. Not much for her 27 years. They were soon inside- standing awkwardly in an open plan kitchen, decorated in 70s style. There was an awkward, still silence. He watched her, cluthcing her belongings desperately, as if they would take her home again, back to their place of origin if she squeezed them hard enough. She looked around the room, her face a mixture of emotions. Anxiousness, relief, tiredness- they were both very tired, pain, blank submission and a strange and terrible sadness. She felt all alone in this unknown place, alone with the man that had taken her whole life away in seconds, following orders from a higher command. He suddenly felt ashamed, and guilty and sad. Seeing such a young, talented officer in a crumpled, abandoned state was not pleasant, but it was the sadness he could not stand. What was done was done- now he must make everything ok again. As ok as it would ever be again for Anzhela.

"Are you tired?"

She looked at him as though she had not heard him, barely making eye contact. The clock ticked loudly in the background.

She nodded, looking away.

"You can go straight to bed if you like, I'll call Harry."

She nodded again, looking very small and defeated. He showed her to one of the upstairs rooms, and hovered in the doorway. Upon seeing her trudge inside and sigh, he turned away and pulled out his phone. He couldn't bare to watch her like this. It hurt him too.

"Lucas?"

Her russian accent startled him slightly- she had spoken very little in the car, or sonce leaving Moscow, and her accent was stronger than he had first thought. He turned slightly.

"Will it always be like this? Running, and hiding."

He turned very slowly to face her, all the pain and misery and sorrow of his own situation and past all coming in a rush upon him suddenly. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he finally looked her in the eye.

"No. I promise it won't. I know you don't believe me, but I truly am sorry. I will do anything to protect you now, and to make it all a little easier."

She looked at him for a moment, then glanced at her bag.

"I don't have a photo of them. Of anyhting."

What could he say? Except that he knew how that felt, and that it would get better with time. Nothing seemed appropriate. Instead he walked over to her, very slowly. Reaching out gently, he placed his hand on her arm.

She swallowed, probably to keep tears in. She probably didn't want him to see her cry. But she couldn't stop the trembling, and soon she was hugging him. He put his arms around her and squeezed her gently, resting his chin on her head.

"Spasibo, Lucas."

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