Disclaimer: Obviously I don't own McKay and Weir, but I don't own Igor Ivanov either. Neither do I own The Godfather or The American President.
Acknowledgements: Thanks to Charles Berlitz and Yahoo! Translator for the Russian, the BBC for the news story, and of course Margaret for the beta.
A/N: I don't speak Russian. All the phrases in the story are pretty roughly translated and transliterated, and I'm sorry for that. However, I have tried to provide English translations in the immediate area of the occurence in the story. Where it was not possible, translations are provided at the end of the story in the order in which they occur.
The events in this story, so far as I know, do not interfere with canon. McKay was indeed in Russia between March and June 2002, if we assume Stargate occurs in real time. The event discussed by Weir and the Foreign Minister is true and also occured in March 2002. Find out more here: http/ news. bbc. co. uk/ 1/ hi/ world/ europe/ 1870923. stm
Keep in mind that any disparaging comments about Russia are from McKay in a bad mood. No disrespect is intended to Russia or Russians. Also forgive any inaccuracies in cultural references. As much as I'd like to, I've never actually been to Russia.
Enjoy!
March 2002
"Incompetent!" the man exploded. "Do you have any idea how long it will take to program a new simulation for that generator? No? Do you even know what you've done?" He paused, paging frantically through a small book. "Vwi znayetye vwi dyelalye?" he sounded out, glaring daggers at the trembling technician before him.
"Pazhalstah, Doktor Mac-Kay," a timid voice spoke up from behind the irate man. "This prablyema, it will not take so long to remantiravat, ah, repair."
"That's not the point!" McKay snapped, rounding on the second man. The original target of his rage scrambled away into the maze of technical paraphernalia, hoping to hide from the irritable Canadian until...well, forever.
"Who is that man's supervisor?" McKay demanded. "I can't work with such inept..." At the blank look on the Russian's face, he sighed and consulted his book again. "Ah, zave...dush...chyeoy," he tried. "Zavedushchyeoy. Supervisor."
The Russian's bewildered look remained. "Pazhalstah, Doktor Mac-Kay," he licked his lips nervously, "but you are -- su...per...vi...sor -- of this proyekt."
"Well, obviously," McKay rolled his eyes. "But who is the supervisor of this section?" The question had about the same effect as the last attempt. "You mean, there is no hierarchy here? It's just me in charge of all of you?" He shook his head in disbelief, muttering to himself, "I can't believe this backward country...Marx was an idiot; so was Lenin for that matter...only thing they're even remotely good at is hockey...I need food..."
"Doktor Mac-Kay?" the Russian inquired concernedly. "Are you harasho, all right?"
"Oh, yes, I'm fine," McKay spouted sarcastically. "I'm only the one person in all of Russia that apparently knows anything about a naquadah generator, put in charge of a bunch of incapable 'scientists' with a first-grade education, working with materials manufactured before the Cold War, and teetering on the verge of starvation!"
"I am glad you are well," the Russian grinned, turning to walk away. McKay scowled; stupid Russkies didn't even get sarcasm.
"Wait!" he called. "Hey, you!" He could never remember their names, anyway; why bother to learn them?
The Russian returned, smiling widely. "Da, Doktor Mac-Kay?" The man was helpful, McKay had to admit, almost overly so. Maybe it was just smarm.
"I'm putting you in charge of this section, okay?" He spoke slowly, as if his audience was three years old. "Tee...zavedushchyeoy...this...razdyel," he pieced together, yet again riffling through his book. The Russian concentrated, deciphering the butchered sentence, before grinning and nodding eagerly.
"Spasibah!" he exulted.
"Yeah," McKay muttered. "Right. So, your first task as section head is to go get me something to eat. Eda," he translated, miming eating. The Russian nodded obediently and scampered off. "Something edible!" McKay called after him. "None of that weird Russian crap. And no lemon! Nyet limon!"
"Dabro pazhalavat v' Rasiyu, Doctor Weir," the wiry young man greeted. "I am Dmitri Gregorovich, special assistant to the Foreign Minister and your escort for the duration of your stay."
"Dobraye utra," Elizabeth smiled. "Ochen rada."
"Gavaryu paruski?" Dmitri asked, pleasantly surprised.
"Very little," Elizabeth admitted. "I'm afraid I've exhausted my small store already."
"No matter," Dmitri shrugged, carrying her two small bags to a flag-bedecked car. "That is part of my job as well, to interpret for you."
"Moscow is a beautiful city," Elizabeth commented as they sped through the traffic-choked Red Square.
"This side, yes," Dmitri agreed, scowling slightly. "The side tourists do not see, not so much."
"It's the same everywhere, I suppose," Elizabeth noted somberly. "Even in America."
"I have been to America twice," Dmitri told her. "It is nice, but I don't think the land of promise many believe it to be."
Elizabeth nodded, stared out the window and retreated into her thoughts.
"Doctor Weir?" Dmitri called from a great distance. "Doctor Weir, I am sorry to wake you. We have arrived."
Elizabeth opened here eyes, briefly disoriented. Dmitri's handsome, smiling face hovered over her, his hand extended to help her from the car. She took it and stood, gazing with wonder on the impressive building before her. It was large and intimidating, though beautiful in its own, stone-and-metal, industrial way.
"I will take you to your room," Dmitri informed her graciously, "where you can refresh yourself. You have an appointment with the Foreign Minister at 1:00."
"Balshoye spasibah, Dmitri," she thanked him warmly.
"Hey!" Twenty heads turned at the shout and their owners all suddenly found something terribly important to do in the opposite direction. "You! What's wrong with you?" The angry Canadian bore down on his victim, a small Russian man who had recently been tightening a nut. "Were you born stupid or did growing up in this unprogressive shell of a country make you an idiot? You have to make it tight! Do you realize what would happen if this bolt came loose while the generator was operating some critical function like, I don't know, powering a stargate?"
The small Russian's eyes, wide with terror, cast about for help from his comrades. The recently appointed section supervisor stepped forward, trademark lip-licking at hyperspeed.
"Pazhalstah, Doktor Mac-Kay," he spoke up nervously. "He speaks no Angliski."
"You've got to be kidding me!" McKay squawked in disbelief.
"Pazhalstah, Dok--" the supervisor began.
"Would you quit with that?" McKay erupted. "No more 'pazhalstah, Doktor Mac-Kay,' all right? If you have something to say, just say it." He stormed away.
"Pazh--" the section head began, catching himself. "Where are you going?"
"I'm taking a walk," McKay called back tersely. "When I get back, I want those nuts tight and everyone speaking at least two words of English!"
Elizabeth slipped into more formal attire, feeling refreshed after her short nap in the car and a shower. She still had an hour before meeting the Foreign Minister. A short walk around the block -- or the Russian equivalent thereof -- would be nice. As she stepped into the hall, a security guard jumped to his feet.
"Doktor Weir!" His surprise came through even his thick accent. "Can I help you?"
"Nyet, spasibah," she assured him. "I'm just going for a walk. Pogulyaoytye."
He nodded, unsure. "The Minister expects you in one chas."
"Yes, I know. Don't worry, I will not be long."
She stepped out into the cold Russian air and breathed deeply. No doubt the guard would follow her despite her assurances but she was grateful for even the semblance of privacy. She had never been to Russia before, but she had studied the country extensively and dealt with Russians at the UN. Even though the Cold War was ostensibly over, many Russians still didn't trust Westerners -- particularly Americans. She was fairly certain she was under constant surveillance.
Out here, though, only one security guard was watching her and no one could hear anything she said. She reveled in the feeling, letting the bustle of a busy Moscow street flow around her as she strolled aimlessly. She had always loved the Russian language and the snatches of Russian conversations that drifted past her had a very calming effect. Suddenly, her reverie was broken by harsh English cries.
"Hey! Can you tell me where I am? Does anyone speak English? Hey! I'm talking to you! English? Directions? Where am I?"
She frowned, trying to find the speaker. It wasn't too difficult; she soon spotted a frantic man standing on a corner, trying to snag various passersby. He wasn't dressed for the weather, she noted; only a white lab coat overlaid his first layer of clothing and, when he wasn't yelling at pedestrians, he jumped up and down to keep warm.
She approached him from behind just as he exploded with a frustrated, "Why doesn't anyone speak English?"
"Maybe because we're in Russia," she suggested with friendly wit.
He spun around with unbelievable speed. "Oh, thank God, you speak English," he sighed with relief.
"Can I help you?"
"Where am I?" he asked bluntly.
"The Foreign Ministry."
"Oh," he acknowledged neutrally, concentrating hard on something. "Okay, so I just went in a circle. Okay," he repeated, apparently to himself, before starting off.
Elizabeth watched the odd man walk away, his white lab coat making him easy to spot for quite some distance. It was a strange encounter, to be sure, but she thought little of it. The meetings of the next week were going to be more than enough to occupy her attention.
Three days later
"Minister Ivanov," Elizabeth smiled, inwardly gritting her teeth in frustration, "I assure you, the United States has absolutely no intention of attacking Russia. The list simply reflects nations that have, in the past, been hostile to the US. We must be prepared to defend ourselves." This was not the first time she had said this, nor, she expected, would it be the last.
"As must we, Doctor Weir," Igor Ivanov said earnestly, leaning forward and pointing to himself to emphasize his point. "It is...disconcerting to us when an ally is secretly planning to send a nuclear bomb to our country."
"If we were secretly planning this," Elizabeth pointed out, "would it have been published in the newspaper for all the world to see?"
"Ah, but secrets are not always kept," Ivanov returned swiftly. "For that matter, how do we know the newspaper article was not just a ploy to divert our attention from an actual missile pointed at Russia?"
"And yet your country has long-range missiles aimed at the United States, does it not?" Elizabeth mentioned casually, her smile never wavering.
The Foreign Minister hesitated slightly. "That is...an unfortunate remnant of our less friendly times," he allowed. "It is only a matter of government efficiency that they have not been removed."
"Of course," Elizabeth inclined her head respectfully, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.
"I do not think we will progress much further today," Ivanov sighed dramatically. "Dobri vyecher, Doctor Weir. Da zaftra, until tomorrow."
"Da zaftra, Minister Ivanov," she replied. He stood as she left.
He sighed as he jotted several notes on his list. He shouldn't be doing this; he was a scientist, not an accountant. But there was no one else -- at least, no one competent enough -- and so he took on this job, too, along with the other twenty hats he wore at this facility.
He scowled as his pen suddenly stopped working, scratching only faint indentations into the page. "Chast Ruskaya starya," he muttered, throwing it in the wastebasket and reaching for another. It was one of the few Russian phrases he'd bothered to learn, along with Nyeh kosnetyesi etah! (Don't touch that!) and the very important G'dyeh twalet? (Where is the toilet?)
Chast Ruskaya starya was probably his favorite, though. It meant 'piece of Russian junk' -- or at least, he hoped it did. He'd pieced it together out of his phrasebook/dictionary and had yet to try it in public, but it served him well as a private expletive.
He sighed again and returned to his catalogue. It was a cross between an inventory (nothing had gone missing yet, but you couldn't be too careful) and a budget. He hated having to justify scientific expenses to outsiders, especially outsiders as tight-fisted and military-oriented as the Russian government.
Suddenly feeling like the cluttered 'office' was too small, he scribbled a short shopping list from his work so far and left the building. He hadn't been outside since his little excursion three days ago and felt the need to stretch his legs a little. That and his stash of American junk food could use some restocking. The various nuts and bolts (literally) the facility needed provided a convenient excuse to get out.
He paid more attention to where he was walking this time, determined not to become disoriented again. He hadn't been lost last time, really; he'd just gotten turned around. He would have found his way eventually, even if that American woman hadn't helped him. And he certainly wasn't afraid to venture out on the Moscow streets again; he'd just been tied up with work. Scowling, he tugged his coat tighter around him. At least this time he'd remembered warmer clothes.
"Stupid freezing place," he grumbled. "It's supposed to be spring. Backward country can't even keep up with the weather."
"Some people do speak English, you know," a voice commented behind him, startling him. "You might want to be more careful."
"Jeez, don't do that," he managed, holding his chest dramatically.
"I'm sorry," the voice said and, turning, he saw the face behind it. It was the woman! The American who had helped him three days ago. "I didn't mean to frighten you."
"I wasn't frightened," he mumbled. "You're not following me, are you?"
She chuckled. "No. He is, though." She pointed out a bulky Russian man about 20 meters behind them.
"What?" he turned, unconsciously trying to hide behind her. "Why?"
"The Cold War may be over," she explained, moving so that she was facing him again, "but a lot of Russians still don't trust Americans."
"I'm Canadian," he responded automatically. She raised an eyebrow. "Right," he muttered, embarrassed.
"I suppose two chance encounters merits an introduction," she changed the subject, offering her hand. "Dr. Elizabeth Weir."
"Dr. Rodney McKay," he reciprocated. "Let me guess, poli-sci doctorate." His voice bordered on condescending.
"One of them," she smiled. Her tone was modest but the subtle, unspoken 'Don't underestimate me' was not lost on him. "Hmm, I'd say yours is in physics."
"One of them," he smirked.
A passerby jostled them on her way past, giving a small "Izvinitye" as she hurried on. Elizabeth returned an automatic "Nichevo" and Rodney's expression changed from annoyance to surprise.
"You speak Russian?" he asked, smiling innocently. She nodded slowly, eyebrows coming together as she tried to determine what he was planning. "Can you read it?"
"Yes," she admitted. "Why?"
"I'll pay you twenty dollars to come shopping with me," he blurted eagerly. It was about the last thing she had expected to come out of his mouth.
"Canadian or US?" she joked, still unsure what exactly this was about but interested nonetheless.
"Canadian," he shrugged. "Still, I bet you don't have anything better to do."
"Well, no..."
"Look," he huffed, getting impatient. "I just need someone to read labels for me. I could figure it out on my own but that would take a lot of time and patience. Do you want to or not?"
Elizabeth wasn't sure why she agreed to help the obnoxious Canadian do his shopping. He certainly wasn't the most agreeable company, but something about him intrigued her. The diplomat in her was fascinated by his tactless honesty; he said things she had thought but would never dream of speaking aloud. The woman in her simply wondered why he was so difficult; there had to be some reason for his prickly behavior.
She found him several different varieties of washers, nuts, bolts, screws, screwdrivers, and, oddly, paperclips. She wasn't sure she wanted to know what he was going to do with them, although she assumed they were work-related. When meeting Westerners in Russia, it was best not to inquire about work. The personal purchases were far more interesting, anyway.
"Do you really need thirty Snickers bars?" she asked incredulously when he emptied the grocery store's shelf.
"Hypoglycemic," he offered by way of explanation, already tearing into one candybar. "I just wish they had more." He was apparently also rather fond of a Russian brand of powerbar, claiming its restorative powers as fairly legendary. He bought fifteen.
His choice in 'real food' was fairly bland, she thought, so she suggested some lemons for flavor. He sighed dramatically. "Allergic to citrus. I've always assumed that's why the whole 'when life throws you lemons...' thing doesn't work for me."
"What do you mean?" Elizabeth asked. It seemed an odd statement, almost a joke but more of a personal revelation -- if an unintentional one.
"Uh, well..." He seemed surprised, because she had asked or because he had said it in the first place, she wasn't sure. "Just that I've always been something of a pessimist. Only I call it realism."
Her translation was not needed for his coffee purchase; apparently he didn't discriminate.
"Coffee is caffeine," he explained around his Snickers as he scooped up bags and bags of beans. "I don't sit around savoring the aftertaste of my roast in conjunction with the fineness of my grind. If there was a faster way to get caffeine in my system I'd do it, but the IV's not very practical."
She laughed, helping him load the bags into the basket. Costco could have been invented for this guy. She looked up, realizing he was no longer grabbing coffee with the feverish intensity of a dying man. He stared at her with a strange expression on his face, almost awed.
"Rodney?" she asked, concerned. "Are you all right?"
"Hm?" He blinked, as if just waking up. "Oh. Yeah, I'm fine. It's just...never mind."
"It's just what?" she pressed.
"It's nothing," he insisted. At her look, he sighed. "No one's...ever...laughed at my jokes before," he trailed off into a mumble.
It was her turn to be rendered speechless as he tossed the final few bags in the basket and started walking away. No one had ever laughed at his jokes? She felt a wave of pity rise in her chest for this rough-around-the-edges little doctor who hid behind his credentials and his sharp tongue, never allowing anyone close enough to hurt him.
Just as quickly, however, the feeling faded. Elizabeth realized that what Rodney McKay needed was not pity; he needed a friend.
Two days later
"You have done very well, Doctor Weir," Dmitri smiled, escorting her back to her room.
"Thank you, Dmitri," she returned his smile wearily. "I only hope relations between our two countries continue to improve."
"With people like you leading the way, I do not see how they cannot." He stopped outside her door. "I will see you tomorrow evening at the banquet?"
"I will be there. Da tagda," she said, retreating into her room.
"Until then," he echoed.
She slipped out of her shoes and walked across the room, savoring the feel of the lavish carpet on her bare feet. Spotting the phone on the bedside table, she slowly made her way towards it. She had a phone call to make; Dmitri's mention of the formal affair the next evening had reminded her.
"Operator? Canadian embassy, please." She held her breath while she was connected, hoping this would work. "Good evening. I'm looking for a phone number for a Canadian citizen working in Moscow..."
Rodney frowned in concentration, tightening a nut here and there and listening closely to the hum of the generator. Almost got it, almost...there! He wiped his forehead, though there was no trace of sweat, and smiled tightly in satisfaction. This was why he liked machines; they were easily understood and their problems could be fixed with the turn of a screw.
"Doktor Mac-Kay?" He turned. His de facto second-in-command -- Sergei, he'd finally learned -- stood nervously, licking his lips.
"What is it? Did what's-his-name overload the sensors again? If I've told them once, I've told them a thousand times: naquadah has a much higher power output than--"
"Ah, no," Sergei interrupted, smiling placatingly. "There is no prablyema. Only telephone for you."
"Oh," Rodney blinked in surprise. He wasn't due for a meeting with whatever government department ran this operation for several days. Who else would call him?
"Telephone in office," Sergei reminded him when he didn't move for several seconds.
"Thank you," Rodney retorted sarcastically, rolling his eyes. He walked into the office and snapped up the phone, barking, "What?"
"Rodney?" a female voice asked, apparently unperturbed by his less-than-polite greeting. "Elizabeth Weir. I translated labels for you the other day?"
As if he wouldn't remember her. "Ah, yes," he replied. "I guess I, uh, never thanked you properly for that." He cleared his throat. "Are you sure I can't pay you?"
"Quite," she answered. "At least, not in money."
"Um, what?" he asked, startled. Suddenly he realized how little he actually knew about this woman. Scenes from The Godfather sprang unbidden to his mind. "What, uh, what did you have in mind?" he asked, trying and failing to sound calm.
If she noticed his discomfort she didn't mention it. "The Foreign Minister is having a celebration tomorrow evening and, well, I could use an escort."
He couldn't contain his sigh of relief. "Um, well," he stalled, recovering from his surprise, "I'll, er, have to check my schedule. It's been very busy at work lately and you never know when something else will go wrong. Can I, ah, call you back?" He winced. Even with his limited social experience, he did not think that sounded like the right answer.
"Of course," she answered graciously, giving him her number. "I'll talk to you later, then."
"Right, yeah. Bye." He hung up quickly and stared at the phone as if it were an alien device. Well, no, he was used to alien devices by now; this was something entirely different.
Had she just asked him out? He realized he wasn't the foremost expert (an extraordinary admission in itself) on Sadie Hawkins-type customs but it hadn't seemed to be a romantically motivated request. Part of him said, Take it where you can get it, McKay; another part of him wondered vaguely what people would think if he admitted that his best friend right now was an American woman he'd met less than a week ago. Then again, who cared?
He picked up the phone and dialed the number she had given him. It rang several times and he was about to hang up when her voice came on the line.
"Weir."
"Elizabeth?" he confirmed, swallowing.
"Rodney," she answered with surprise. He didn't blame her; it hadn't been three minutes since he'd hung up on her.
"Um, yes," he replied nervously, before blurting, "Do you still need an escort?" It was a stupid thing to say, he knew, but he couldn't -- for once -- think of anything else.
It was silly, but he was sure he could hear the smile in her voice as she answered, "Why, yes. Are you available?"
"Dmitri?" Elizabeth called softly, knocking on his open door. The Special Assistant to the Foreign Minister looked up and stood with a smile.
"Doctor Weir," he greeted, coming around his desk to escort her to a seat. "How can I help you?"
"It's about tomorrow evening," she started.
"Is there a problem?" he asked worriedly.
"Well," she frowned, "my friend has no formal wear."
"This is a problem," he nodded. He thought for a moment. "How big is your friend?"
"About five-eleven; hundred-seventy, seventy-five pounds," she estimated. Her brow furrowed. "Why? You're quite a bit smaller than him, Dmitri."
"Da," he acknowledged, grinning, "but he is the same size as the minister."
Elizabeth's eyes widened as she realized what he was suggesting. "Dmitri, I can't--"
"It is not a problem," he assured her. "Minister Ivanov has many tuxedos; he will not notice one missing."
"But how--"
"You leave this to me," he insisted. "Just tell me where to find your friend and I will deliver him tomorrow, fit for a czaritza."
"Doktor Mac-Kay?" Sergei knocked apprehensively. He was always nervous, McKay noted; the man had to grow a backbone.
"What is it?" he called distractedly through the door. He was in the middle of triple-checking a system of equations one of the Russians had come up with and was surprised to find himself mildly impressed. It wasn't great work, of course, certainly not on par with his own projects, but it was passable.
"There is visitor for you," Sergei called. "He says is from Foreign Ministry."
Foreign Ministry? That was unusual. Perhaps there was a problem with the US Stargate again?
"Send him in," McKay sighed. The equations would have to wait; the world might need saving.
"Doctor McKay," the small Russian greeted, shifting the package he carried to offer his hand. McKay just gazed at him, eyebrows raised. "I am Dmitri Gregorovich, Special Assistant to the Foreign Minister," he continued, unfazed by McKay's rudeness. "We have much work to do."
"What's the problem this time?" McKay asked lazily.
Dmitri frowned puzzledly. "There is no problem, Doctor McKay. I am here to prepare you for the banquet tonight."
"The ban--oh! Right, the banquet," Rodney nodded, as if it was just one of many such events he had booked. "Is that my tux, then?"
"Well, it is not so much 'yours,'" Dmitri explained hesitantly, "as it is, ah, 'rental.'"
"Oh," Rodney shrugged. "Well, okay. How'd you know my size?"
"Doctor Weir told me," Dmitri answered, unwrapping the suit. "Undress, please."
"What?" Rodney squawked, startled. "Here? Now?"
"No one can see in, Doctor," Dmitri reminded him. "And we do not have much time."
Self-consciously stripping to his underwear, Rodney donned the tux as quickly as possible. Dmitri immediately set to work, expertly tucking and stitching as Rodney stood awkwardly in the middle of his office.
"It fits pretty well," Rodney commented to fill the silence. "Where'd you find this on such short notice?"
"What is it Americans are so fond of saying?" Dmitri mumbled around several pins in his mouth. "Do not ask and I will not tell."
Rodney laughed shortly. "You mean, 'Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies.' Although I can see how one could confuse the two."
"Doctor McKay," Dmitri growled from behind the pins. "Please be quiet or a pin may accidentally find itself somewhere...unpleasant."
"Oh," Rodney blinked. "Right."
Elizabeth stood before the mirror, concentrating on getting her earrings on. She was looking forward to tonight; it had been a long week and it would be good to relax for a couple of hours. Also, it had been a long time since she had been out with a man as a friend, with no romantic obligations. A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.
"Doctor Weir?" Dmitri called. "Are you ready?"
She slipped on a shawl and grabbed her purse, checking herself one last time in the mirror before opening the door.
"Dobri vyecher, Dmitri."
"Smotretye krasevyeoysheme," Dmitri breathed, making her blush. "Ah, Doctor McKay is waiting at the ministry."
She took his proffered arm for the short walk to the ministry. As they came into the ballroom, she found herself searching for the familiar face Dmitri told her should already be there. In the sea of tuxedos, though, it was difficult to spot anyone.
A black-clad figure five feet away snagged a waiter and grabbed two hors d'oeuvres from his tray, asking, "Limon?" When the waiter shook his head, the man popped both appetizers in his mouth with hardly a thought. Elizabeth smiled slightly, thanked Dmitri, and made her way over.
"Rodney," she greeted him, tapping him on the shoulder.
"Ewivabef!" he choked, turning halfway towards her and swallowing. He completed his turn and stopped cold, gawking openly.
"Rodney," she prompted gently after a few moments. "Rodney, you're staring."
"Wow," he finally managed, blinking. "You, uh, look really...nice."
"You clean up pretty good yourself," she returned, smiling. It was true; shaved, hair combed, in a tuxedo, and even wearing a splash of cologne, he was new man.
He glanced uncertainly at himself, tugging at his jacket. "I feel like a penguin," he groused, though with little real acerbity. "And, uh," he frowned, "Dmitri wouldn't tell me where he got it. It's not stolen or anything, is it?"
Elizabeth chuckled. "No, just...borrowed."
"Oh, great," he shrugged with false brightness. "I feel so much better now."
"Ladies and gentlemen," the Minister Ivanov greeted. "Dabro pazhalovat!" Obligatory applause followed the welcome. "It has been a long week in the world of politics. Tonight, we celebrate!" More enthusiastic clapping this time. "The last thing you want to hear is more of my voice," he smiled indulgently at the somewhat canned laughter, "so I say only: Dinner is served."
Rodney applauded loudly with everyone else at that news, following Elizabeth to a table. He was almost in his chair before he remembered that he ought to seat Elizabeth first, causing an awkward moment as he tried to stand and pull her chair out at the same time. Once they were all seated, the food came. Now this he knew what to do with.
"Limon?" he asked the waiter, just to be sure. The waiter responded swiftly by dropping a lemon slice into his water. "No, wait--!" Rodney cried, too late. "Never mind."
Elizabeth discreetly traded water glasses with him before demurely returning to her own meal. She was far better at this sort of thing than he, understandably, and it was making him uncomfortable. Regardless of how little importance he placed on social rituals, he did not like being second-best at anything. Not a problem, he thought wryly. I'm probably closer to hundredth-best.
"How are you holding up?" she asked quietly as the first course was cleared.
"Fine," he lied, giving a pained smile.
"These things are a bore," she admitted, smiling graciously at their table-mates, "but I'm glad you're here."
"Oh," he replied, surprised. "Well."
He was saved any further awkwardness by the arrival of the second course, which he promptly dug in to with great fervor. He only looked up when his plate was half cleaned, suddenly realizing that his manners were probably not the best. Normally he wouldn't have cared, but Elizabeth had been nice enough to invite him to this thing; the least he could do was not disgrace her by eating like a pig. On the other hand, he was starving...
"The music is lovely," Elizabeth noted, to no one in particular.
"Maybe to the untrained ear," McKay mumbled, wincing even as he spoke. Elizabeth frowned. "I meant," Rodney backtracked, "I've always been a very technical person. My piano teacher said I should give it up because I was too 'clinical.' I just have a thing about mistakes," he finished lamely.
"You play piano?" Elizabeth asked, surprised.
"Played," Rodney corrected. "I listened to that teacher and went into science instead. Hey, dessert!"
It was amazing how much people revealed about themselves when you let them, Elizabeth pondered. As dessert was cleared, she watched Rodney give an animated explanation of some obscure branch of physics to one of their tablemates. The vodka that accompanied dessert may have loosened him up a bit but she suspected there was more to it than that. He absolutely loved...whatever it was that he did and when his neighbor had asked a casual question about his work, he had pounced on the opportunity to discuss his first love. The rapturous expression on his face as he gestured, drawing something in the air with his hands, spoke to his true feelings -- surprising, since he rarely displayed his emotions so openly.
Of course, the Russian who had initially broached the subject understood little, if any, of what Rodney was so passionately describing and the one-sided conversation eventually died. The three couples at the table sat, staring at one another or down at the tablecloth, fiddling slightly with their napkins.
"This reminds me of The American President," Elizabeth whispered to Rodney, suppressing a grin.
To her amazement, he stood. Muttering something that sounded like "That's my cue," he walked around her chair until he stood facing her. Clearing his throat and concentrating, he slowly said, "Mozhna vas priglasit na tanets?"
Shocked, she couldn't even phrase her response in Russian. "Yes," she answered simply, taking his hand. He led her on to the dance floor and gently wrapped an arm around her waist.
"When did you learn Russian?" she asked, voicing only one of the myriad questions flooding her mind.
"Dmitri taught me that," he admitted, smirking slightly at having awed her so. "He thought you'd like it."
"He was right," she commented as he twirled her. They danced in silence for a moment before she remarked, "You're a very good dancer."
"Dance lessons with my sister," he explained. "She was almost as much a perfectionist as me; made me practice endlessly with her until we got it right."
It felt surprisingly good to dance with a woman who wasn't his sister. As he held Elizabeth and moved around the dancefloor, he was suddenly very grateful she had stopped to give him directions a week ago. Had it only been a week? It felt like he had known her for years.
The song ended and he walked her back to their seats. He almost hated to admit what a good time he'd had. Not that it had been particularly interesting, but Elizabeth's company made up for the numbness of the rest of the evening. He was stunned at how she was able to meet him on his level, something he rarely found in...anyone.
Suddenly, the room became too small. He needed to escape, like Cinderella, before something happened to ruin the evening. It was late enough; he could reasonably beg off with the excuse of an early morning.
"I should go," he told Elizabeth.
She nodded. "Let me walk you out," she offered. He didn't object and they walked silently to the front steps of the ministry. He barely noticed the cold as he turned to face her.
"Elizabeth," Rodney swallowed hard. She probably wouldn't understand all he was trying to say but that didn't matter. "Thank you."
Impulsively he leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek. Drawing back, he saw through her unshed tears that she did understand. Smiling crookedly, he turned and walked into the night. His image lingered in her sight long after his black dinner jacket had melted into the darkness.
"Thank you, Rodney," she whispered.
Vwi znayetye vwi dyelalye? - Do you know what you've done?
Pazhalstah - Please
Dabro pazhalavat v' Rasiyu - Welcome to Russia
Dobraye utra - Good morning
Ochen rada - Very happy to meet you
Gavaryu paruski? - You speak Russian?
Balshoye spasibah - Thank you very much
Dobri vyecher - Good evening
Izvinitye - Excuse me
Nichevo - It's nothing
Smotretye krasevyeoysheme - You look most beautiful
Dabro pazhalavat - Welcome
Mozhna vas priglasit na tanets? - May I ask you to dance?