The cabin outside Yekaterinburg
December 5
0720 local
Mercedes was one of those people who, when allowed, woke up in
stages. At the moment, she was mainly registering two things: One,
someone was snoring, and two, while the air she was breathing in seemed
distinctly cold, she was blessedly, blissfully, delightfully warm.
Cautiously, she cracked open an eye... and found herself getting an
extremely up close look at Clayton Webb's neck.
Ah. Well. At least she knew who was snoring. As the rest of her
wits began reporting in, she also realized why she was warm when the
air was freezing. There were multiple blankets draped over her, and
*she* was draped over him. Damn. For someone who'd effectively lived
like a nun for 14 years, her subconscious was certainly making up for
lost time. Then again...was this a bad thing?
She pushed that thought aside, her mind too muddled to deal with
it. What was clear was that she'd obviously forgotten to get the fire
going again. Great. Somebody was going to have to freeze their butt
off to get the damn thing going again.
She sighed deeply, considering options, when Clay spoke. "You're
breathing on my neck."
She craned her neck to look at him. "How observant of you," she
replied dryly.
He opened his eyes, giving her a look. "Don't do it again."
"Why not?"
"Just don't."
She frowned at him, than began to grin. "It tickles, doesn't it?"
"That's classified."
"Un-hunh. Well then, I know how you can avoid that problem?" she
said, still grinning, blue eyes sparkling.
"Oh?"
"Yeah. Go get the fire going while I stay here. I won't be
anywhere near your neck then."
"You wouldn't be anywhere near it either if *you* took care of the
fire."
"Yeah... but you're the guy. You're supposed to all the manly,
macho things like fire-building and such, to protect a delicate flower
such as myself from such strenuous exertions," she said, throwing in a
bit of eyelash-batting and a fake southern accent for effect.
Clay shot her an evil look, even as her climbed out of bed and
headed for the fireplace. "You're about as delicate as that tank of a
car outside," he grumbled. "Somehow it fits that you've got the same
name."
She groaned. "You would have to mention the car-name thing,
wouldn't you."
He eyed her speculatively. "Why do I get the feeling there's a
story there.
"Because there is," she said, wearily. "My Dad was a racer too."
He paused in his work to shoot her a look. "Your father named you
after a *car*?" he said, disbelief in his voice.
She sighed. "No, he named me after two cars." He looked at her in
confusion. "My full name is Mercedes Portia Rabb." She rolled her
eyes. "At least he used the Latin spelling for my middle name."
"Mercedes Portia," Clay repeated.
She nodded.
He turned back to the hearth, finishing his task. The room
temperature soon began to climb, but nonetheless, Clay wasted no time
hurrying back under the covers.
They were quiet for a few moments before Clay spoke. "Clayton
Nigel Francis Webb."
"What?"
"I was named after my Grandfathers."
"Ah." She paused. "Nigel Francis?" He nodded.
A pensive look came over her face. "Hmmm. Well, that was fun.
Food?"
"Agreed."
****************
Twenty minutes later, they had scrounged up a passable meal from
the fairly well stocked larder. CD, feeling slightly relaxed for the
first time in days, had simply pulled on her jeans under her
nightshirt, then grabbed her food and dropped down cross-legged to sit
in front of the fire. Clay, ever adaptable, had joined her, and a
lively discussion was now in progress.
"So you work for the State Department?" she asked.
Clay sighed. "Sometimes."
"And other times?" she prodded.
"Other groups."
"Like...?"
His response was automatic. "That's classified."
Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. "You know, that's at least
the second time you've used that phrase." She bit her lip, thinking.
"You work for the Agency, don't you?"
Out of habit, he opened his mouth to deny it, then changed his
mind. "Yes, but don't spread that around."
She laughed. "Clay," she said, gesturing, "who'm I going to tell?
Besides, at this point, that's a definite good thing."
"It is?" he asked, mildly surprised.
"I'm on the run in the middle of Russia. Think about it."
"True," he admitted, even as he turned the tables. "Okay, you know
a secret of mine. Now tell me one of yours."
Her eyebrows rose. "Classified information?"
He grinned. "Turnabout's fair play."
"Oh, all right. Fine." She looked heavenward, thinking. "Okay.
I've got tattoos."
"Plural?"
"Yup. Three of them."
"Where?"
"Oh, here and there," she said airily. At his look, she gave in.
"One near each hip, but I'm not telling about the third."
"I see," Clay was beginning to have a hard time concentrating on
the conversation...
...Which meant he missed the thoroughly wicked sparkle that came
into her eyes. "Actually," she said, leaning forward and crooking her
finger at him, "I can tell you an even bigger secret about one of the
tattoos, and it involves my cousin, too."
"Harm?"
She nodded. "When I finished high school, I spent a summer with
him & his Mom in California... he and I both got one that summer."
Webb couldn't believe his ears. "You're kidding."
"Nope. Same as mine, only a little smaller. It's right about
here," she said, gesturing a few inches in from her right hipbone, just
below her waist.
Webb shook his head in amazement. "Somebody needs to tell Mac."
It was Mercedes turn to look confused. "Hunh?"
"She has one, and Harm's been hassling her about it for years," he
explained.
"Oh *really*," Mercedes said, and Clay could see the wheels
turning. Harm was in for it, he could tell.
"You're going to enjoy informing her about that, aren't you?" Clay
asked, grinning.
She looked affronted for a moment, before grinning back. "You
bet, spyboy."
"Spyboy?!? Why..." His protest was cut off by her laughter, and the
rest of the evening was spent in conversation and companionship.
TBC.....
December 5
0720 local
Mercedes was one of those people who, when allowed, woke up in
stages. At the moment, she was mainly registering two things: One,
someone was snoring, and two, while the air she was breathing in seemed
distinctly cold, she was blessedly, blissfully, delightfully warm.
Cautiously, she cracked open an eye... and found herself getting an
extremely up close look at Clayton Webb's neck.
Ah. Well. At least she knew who was snoring. As the rest of her
wits began reporting in, she also realized why she was warm when the
air was freezing. There were multiple blankets draped over her, and
*she* was draped over him. Damn. For someone who'd effectively lived
like a nun for 14 years, her subconscious was certainly making up for
lost time. Then again...was this a bad thing?
She pushed that thought aside, her mind too muddled to deal with
it. What was clear was that she'd obviously forgotten to get the fire
going again. Great. Somebody was going to have to freeze their butt
off to get the damn thing going again.
She sighed deeply, considering options, when Clay spoke. "You're
breathing on my neck."
She craned her neck to look at him. "How observant of you," she
replied dryly.
He opened his eyes, giving her a look. "Don't do it again."
"Why not?"
"Just don't."
She frowned at him, than began to grin. "It tickles, doesn't it?"
"That's classified."
"Un-hunh. Well then, I know how you can avoid that problem?" she
said, still grinning, blue eyes sparkling.
"Oh?"
"Yeah. Go get the fire going while I stay here. I won't be
anywhere near your neck then."
"You wouldn't be anywhere near it either if *you* took care of the
fire."
"Yeah... but you're the guy. You're supposed to all the manly,
macho things like fire-building and such, to protect a delicate flower
such as myself from such strenuous exertions," she said, throwing in a
bit of eyelash-batting and a fake southern accent for effect.
Clay shot her an evil look, even as her climbed out of bed and
headed for the fireplace. "You're about as delicate as that tank of a
car outside," he grumbled. "Somehow it fits that you've got the same
name."
She groaned. "You would have to mention the car-name thing,
wouldn't you."
He eyed her speculatively. "Why do I get the feeling there's a
story there.
"Because there is," she said, wearily. "My Dad was a racer too."
He paused in his work to shoot her a look. "Your father named you
after a *car*?" he said, disbelief in his voice.
She sighed. "No, he named me after two cars." He looked at her in
confusion. "My full name is Mercedes Portia Rabb." She rolled her
eyes. "At least he used the Latin spelling for my middle name."
"Mercedes Portia," Clay repeated.
She nodded.
He turned back to the hearth, finishing his task. The room
temperature soon began to climb, but nonetheless, Clay wasted no time
hurrying back under the covers.
They were quiet for a few moments before Clay spoke. "Clayton
Nigel Francis Webb."
"What?"
"I was named after my Grandfathers."
"Ah." She paused. "Nigel Francis?" He nodded.
A pensive look came over her face. "Hmmm. Well, that was fun.
Food?"
"Agreed."
****************
Twenty minutes later, they had scrounged up a passable meal from
the fairly well stocked larder. CD, feeling slightly relaxed for the
first time in days, had simply pulled on her jeans under her
nightshirt, then grabbed her food and dropped down cross-legged to sit
in front of the fire. Clay, ever adaptable, had joined her, and a
lively discussion was now in progress.
"So you work for the State Department?" she asked.
Clay sighed. "Sometimes."
"And other times?" she prodded.
"Other groups."
"Like...?"
His response was automatic. "That's classified."
Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. "You know, that's at least
the second time you've used that phrase." She bit her lip, thinking.
"You work for the Agency, don't you?"
Out of habit, he opened his mouth to deny it, then changed his
mind. "Yes, but don't spread that around."
She laughed. "Clay," she said, gesturing, "who'm I going to tell?
Besides, at this point, that's a definite good thing."
"It is?" he asked, mildly surprised.
"I'm on the run in the middle of Russia. Think about it."
"True," he admitted, even as he turned the tables. "Okay, you know
a secret of mine. Now tell me one of yours."
Her eyebrows rose. "Classified information?"
He grinned. "Turnabout's fair play."
"Oh, all right. Fine." She looked heavenward, thinking. "Okay.
I've got tattoos."
"Plural?"
"Yup. Three of them."
"Where?"
"Oh, here and there," she said airily. At his look, she gave in.
"One near each hip, but I'm not telling about the third."
"I see," Clay was beginning to have a hard time concentrating on
the conversation...
...Which meant he missed the thoroughly wicked sparkle that came
into her eyes. "Actually," she said, leaning forward and crooking her
finger at him, "I can tell you an even bigger secret about one of the
tattoos, and it involves my cousin, too."
"Harm?"
She nodded. "When I finished high school, I spent a summer with
him & his Mom in California... he and I both got one that summer."
Webb couldn't believe his ears. "You're kidding."
"Nope. Same as mine, only a little smaller. It's right about
here," she said, gesturing a few inches in from her right hipbone, just
below her waist.
Webb shook his head in amazement. "Somebody needs to tell Mac."
It was Mercedes turn to look confused. "Hunh?"
"She has one, and Harm's been hassling her about it for years," he
explained.
"Oh *really*," Mercedes said, and Clay could see the wheels
turning. Harm was in for it, he could tell.
"You're going to enjoy informing her about that, aren't you?" Clay
asked, grinning.
She looked affronted for a moment, before grinning back. "You
bet, spyboy."
"Spyboy?!? Why..." His protest was cut off by her laughter, and the
rest of the evening was spent in conversation and companionship.
TBC.....