A/N: Not much to say with this one, other than my Russian's pretty rusty. Okay, a LOT rusty. Okay, since we're being honest here... BEYOND rusty. So if you're a Russian speaker and know that what I wrote does not mean what I meant for it to (Cossack [f.]), then please PM me with the right word so I can fix it!

Disclaimer: I do not claim to own or be officially affiliated in any way with CSI: Miami or the rest of the CSI Franchise except for being a fan. I do own my original character, but not the world in which she lives.

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Age

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Time line: Takes place after 01x13 "Bunk"

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"So I heard your retirement home homicide turned out to be not quite so." Mikha strode into the break room to find Delko sprawled across the couch, coffee cup in hand.

"Yea, purely accidental. Poor thing stumbled in her own home and ended up offing herself."

The coffee maker was calling to her from across the room, and she answered it, grabbing a cup for herself as she spoke. "I also heard you're going to make your poor grandmother live like a cloistered nun in her final days?" That got his full attention. He swung his legs onto the floor, righting himself.

"Damn southern belle," he muttered before addressing Mikha directly. "That's a gross and biased oversimplification."

"Is that so?" Mikha turned, now full mug in hand, and leaned against the counter. Her legs crossed as her weight settled on the edge.

"Yes."

One blonde eyebrow quirked. "So what are you going to do if she wants to go live in an assisted living apartment complex?"

Delko threw he a skeptical look. "Why would she ever what to do that?"

"Uh, because it's fun?" She upturned her free hand for emphasis. "My grandparents live in one up in New York, and they love every second. Seems to me like college all over again, only this time you're eighty instead of eighteen."

"Would you want to live in someplace like that?" Delko squinched up his nose, "It reeks of impending death and decay."

"Absolutely I would. It's not a nursing home, Eric."

"Sure seems like one to me."

"It's apartments for the elderly with minor nursing available if they need it, not a life sentence in a hospital room. You keep your independence in those places." The look on Delko's face made it clear that Mikha had yet to sway his opinion. So she tried a different tactic. "For example, I would never want to go out unable to socialize, which frankly, if I was shacked up with my family, wouldn't happen. Besides. If I'm still able to function for the most part, it seems silly to me to shackle my extended family with that responsibility." She finished and took a sip of her coffee, waiting for a rebuttal.

He continued to stare at her silently over his coffee, so she added, "Besides, who in their right mind is going to let their eighty year old grandmother get some tail in their house? And lets face it, if I was going to make it to eighty, I sure as hell better be getting some."

It was Eric's turn to raise an eyebrow. "You don't plan to make it that long?"

Mikha placed her mug down on the counter before waving his comment away. "Naw, I figure if I make it to seventy-five healthily, then I'm going to take up sky diving. Like good old G.H.W. Bush there. Only instead of on my birthday, I'm going to do it as often as possible, and solo."

"Oh really..."

"I want to go out with my adrenaline pumping, in the middle of action. Do it Spartan style, come home with my shield or on it." She stopped and laughed a little. "Or in this case, my parachute. And at seventy-five, with sluggish motor skills, I figure it's only a matter of time before statistically something goes wrong." She shrugged. "That way it's still a natural death."

Eric's brows furrowed and he took another sip of coffee before asking, "Why seventy five?"

"Well, I figure that up until that point I'll probably still be doing something that can get me killed in my daily life."

He let out a small chuckle as he swung his legs back onto the couch. "Bambi, you're an odd duck."

Mikha picked her mug up again. "I know."

The pair sipped their coffee in silence for a moment before Mikha spoke again. "How 'bout you, Triton?" Over the past week or so Mikha had evolved his newbie nickname into something she thought more equal to hers, giving his previous moniker of "Merman" the Disney twist he seemed so eager to push on her.

"How 'bout me, what?"

"How do you want to go to that big lab in the sky?"

He didn't look over. "I want to go out surrounded by family in the comfort of my own home. Or one of theirs."

Mikha snorted. "Cubano."

"Kазачка."

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A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Reviews are always appreciated!