-Chapter Two-

Milla allotted herself two hours to get ready. Two hours turned out to be not nearly enough. At five till seven, she was still brushing on another layer of eyeliner and checking her hair for imperfections. Plastic bangles? A must! Hoop earrings? But of course! Belt… belt… belt! Certainly!

She left still putting bangles on her wrists. She didn't want to overdo it, but she had changed, at least. Hoping to appeal to Sasha's sense of order, she'd picked out a dress in squares. Okay, so it wasn't exactly orderly… the squares were uneven and colored randomly, in the mondrian style. Well, she'd tried. It wasn't her fault she didn't have anything boring in her wardrobe.

She was late by ten minutes. She hurried into the parking lot where Sasha was already waiting, arms crossed, a pair of keys dangling from his hand. He was standing next to a black car—a government car. Of course. Milla hadn't even thought about how they'd get to dinner. Leave it to Sasha to call in a car and plan the evening.

She was pleased to see he'd dressed up for her. He was wearing a dark green turtleneck. Probably the most colorful thing in his wardrobe.

"I'm glad you came," she greeted him with a kiss on the cheek. "We'll have a great time, Sasha, I know it."

"Hmm," said Sasha non-committally, casually unlocking the car over his shoulder. Milla didn't bring up her attempt to infiltrate his brain, and neither did he. She was genuinely sorry and wanted to say so, but knew that once Sasha started he would be unable to end.

"You look really good in that," she said, nodding toward his sweater.

"Oh. Thank you," he said. She was even more pleased to see he was slightly—ever so slightly—embarrassed. Good. It was time he loosened up, anyway.

Sasha drove. Milla kept up a constant stream of chatter over the radio station she'd chosen. He had picked out a nice restaurant; he'd even made reservations. Milla was impressed.

"Isn't this nice?" she wished happily, leaning over their table. The candle between them, lit, flickered with the sudden movement.

"I've heard they have an excellent mignon," said Sasha.

"From who?"

"Whom," corrected Sasha. He busied himself with the menu. Milla followed suit.

They ordered. Sasha folded his hands neatly in front of him. Milla reached over the table and put hers over his. "Why don't we do this more often?" she asked. "This is so romantic, isn't it, darling? We've never done this before…"

"We're partners, Milla," said Sasha, looking acutely uncomfortable. "The things we do together are done on a strictly professional level."

"Do you plan to be professional our entire lives?"

"You're a very close friend," conceded Sasha.

"You're my best friend," said Milla quietly, squeezing his hands. Sasha didn't react.

"You're mine too," he said simply.

Milla decided to switch topics. He wasn't ruffled, and she'd only paint herself into a corner if she kept on. She kept her hands over his. "Are you feeling any better?"

"No," said Sasha.

"You should have ordered the chicken soup…"

"I don't like chicken soup." Sasha was starting to bristle. Milla took her hands away. She wouldn't push him. She knew he'd said yes. She knew he felt the same way. How many times had they dived out of explosions, only to land in each other's arms, to look into each other's eyes for just a second, a magical adrenaline-pumped sooty second, before they remembered they were on a mission and had to get moving. She missed those times, those youthful fun days of never knowing whether they'd come out alive and on top, before Sasha wore his sunglasses and when it was much easier to forget all those haunting little corners of her brain.

Released from Milla's grip, Sasha warmed up again. He became pleasant, even a little casual, as casual as he ever got. They chatted about the old times, the missions into the minds of madmen, the occasional physical recon mission. They talked about the kids at camp and remembered fondly their own training. She told him about the latest fashions, and he told her about his hopes for his equipment. They left feeling full and content.

"Thanks for taking me out, Sasha," purred Milla, holding onto his arm as they walked down the dark street.

"You coerced me into it. But you're welcome. I had a good time."

Milla looked up. Sasha wasn't looking at her. He seemed more concerned with keeping his cigarette lit in the breeze. Old newspapers, gum wrappers, and grocery bags blew past.

"Oh, look," said Milla as several colorful pieces of foil skittered across their path.

Sasha looked down. He put out his hand; the foil stopped, along with every piece of trash in the immediate area. A twitch of his fingers, and it swirled up into a miniature tornado of trash, as tall as Sasha himself.

"Sasha, what on earth—" began Milla. She stopped; the tornado split into two, and two figures emerged, a man and a woman, silhouettes of paper. The man bowed; the woman curtsied. Then all their manners were abandoned; the man grabbed her waist and tossed her into the air; they swung around; the man dipped the woman to the floor. For a moment the two silent figures hung in air, the woman's body in a graceful arc, bending toward the ground, supported by the man. Then, a breeze came, and both blew apart.

Milla looked in surprise at Sasha. He'd lowered his hand, and was taking a drag on his cigarette.

"That was beautiful," said Milla.

"It was made of trash," replied Sasha with another long drag on his cigarette. He lowered his hand; the cigarette remained over his shoulder

"Sasha, why aren't we—"

"This job entails a certain amount of professionalism," said Sasha, not allowing her to finish the question. "Our partnership has been successful. But if it ever came down to… a choice…"

"I'd choose you," said Milla softly.

Sasha reached up and pulled down his glasses, glaring her over the top of the rims. "Then you see how it's already posing a threat to your performance."

"A threat to my performance?" repeated Milla, angry. She jerked away from Sasha, crossed her arms and glared at him. "Sasha, we teach children."

"We teach children because we're the best!" snapped Sasha back. "We have the skills and the experience. And even if there's no current threat, that doesn't mean one might not pose itself. In which case it is our responsibility to assume our old duties in addition to protecting the children. We cannot allow our feelings to get in the way of those loyalties."

"Well you know what I think?" hissed Milla, her speech becoming more and more rapid as she became more and more angry. "I think you're just scared to be in a relationship and too uptight to admit it."

Sasha's face went completely blank. Milla cursed herself. Sasha had closed up and she'd lost control by yelling at him. And now he'd never listen.

"Come on," sighed Milla quietly. "It's getting cold. You'll get sicker."

She took his arm and the two turned back. Slowly, by degrees, they began to speak again, small little nothings. They talked about the dinner and about their plans back at the camp. They reminisced. Neither brought up the two dancing paper silhouettes.