Chapter Text
Last night he had the dream again.
He’s running up the stairs, taking two… three… even four steps at a time. He can feel the blood thudding in his ears, punctuated by the breakneck staccato of his shoes against the stairwell and the hollow sound of his ragged breathing. He’s surprised he can breathe at all: the tightness in his chest is so excruciating that every breath feels like it’s being punched out of his lungs.
He follows the voice all the way up. Low, gravelly rasp rising above the niggling haze of mechanical whirring:
What is the cost of lies?
...until, at last, the stairs run out and he’s standing at the end of a long corridor, doors on both sides, stretching as far as the eye can see.
He starts to run again, eyes darting from side to side
In the distance, there’s a sharp clicking sound.
Click. Swoosh. Release. Click.
What is the cost of lies?
And again. And again. And again.
What is the cost of lies?
He stops, panting, feeling the taste of blood in the back of his throat, metallic and bitter. The noxious smell of ozone in the air, like after a thunderstorm but stronger, much stronger, makes him sick to his stomach.
“Don’t!” he screams at the top of his lungs, yet no voice comes out.
His eyes fall on his watch.
1:25:38.
“DON’T!!!”
Click. Swoosh. Release. Click.
What is the cost of lies?
He screams again, and, this time, he can hear himself as he collapses against a random door, wailing, sobbing, begging: “Please… don’t…”
The door gives in. Just like it did that night. He can feel its weight disappear under his shoulder.
He falls, hitting the floor so hard the air is knocked out of his lungs. There’s a dark shadow swinging above him. And, right there, next to where his head hit the fading carpet, is a pair of thick-framed glasses.
Blind with tears, he gropes the floor until he’s clutching them in his fist.
Click. Swoosh. Release. Click.
What is the cost of lies?
His head falls back, eyes fluttering shut, thumb shakily tracing the slick plastic.
“You,” he breathes.
And, as if the whole thing’s been nothing but a wicked, elaborate riddle he was supposed to solve, the noises stop, and, just like it did that night, it all goes black.
December 7, 1988, 18:17
Moscow
The shrill sound of a phone cuts through his layers of consciousness with the fierceness of a gramophone needle dragged viciously across a record.
Rolling over the once snuggly and purry, now startled and perturbed, ball of fur in his bed, Andrei stumbles into the hallway where he nearly trips over a haphazardly dropped pair of shoes. In a phenomenal save that could be easily featured in the Olympics (he’s thinking Pommel Horse… or Volt) he manages to twist himself in a manner that safely propels him across the opening, using his right hand to block the fall while his left snatches the receiver.
“Allo?”
There’s a soft click, followed by an unfamiliar female voice:
“Andrei Alexandrovich Olenyev?”
“Yes,” he crackles voicelessly, then, upon clearing his throat and with an undertone of an inquiry this time around, repeats: “Yes?”
“Lieutenant Junior Grade Olenyev with the Committee of State Security?”
“Uhm…” He twists the side of his fit in his eye before rubbing a palm over the rest of his face. As official ranks go, his favorite is still ‘the KGB finest’ (which of course immediately makes him both smile and feel sick to his stomach as his mind flashes back to his dream), but who’s he to—
“Comrade Olenyev?”
He stands straighter. “Yes. Who am I sp—”
“I have deputy chairman Shcherbina for you. Please hold.”
Okkkay.
Click.
“Andrei,” the line crackles. No questions. No formalities.
Still disoriented, Andrei struggles to get his bearings.
“Boris Evdokimovich?” he asks sleepily, sounding a hell of a lot more incredulous than he means to.
There’s a muffled cough followed by the forceful sound of clearing one’s throat. “There’s been an earthquake. In Armenia.”
Blinking his vision clear, he grabs the clock from the cabinet in the corner… How long did he sleep?! At the sight of the little hand skewed just west of six, his mind retraces the thread of events over the last 16 hours, starting from a double shift on duty last night and ending with his passing out this morning before his head even hit the pillow.
“Andrei?”
Forcing himself into full awareness, he stares blankly at his ashen reflection in the hallway mirror.
“How bad is it?”
In a calm, measured voice of his typical gauged and studious manner, the deputy chairman lays out the facts for him: the short version, followed by the long version, followed by the numbers, followed by what’s been discussed by the hastily put together government committee, followed by, eventually, the plan. The latter being—
“We’re leaving in an hour.”
We.
We’re leaving.
Could he really mean—
A hand through his hair, Andrei’s legs fold underneath him until he’s seated next to the phone atop of his small hallway stand.
“Boris Evdokimovich, I—”
“I know. I know. I promised you there wouldn’t be any pressure. And there won’t be. There isn’t. I meant what I said. It’s your decision. Whatever you—” There’s another choked coughing spell. “Whatever you decide. The only problem is, if you want out, you have to decide now. I can have a man pick you up in twenty minutes.”
That’s not quite what—
Pushing the crown of his head through the neck of his sweater while sliding a foot down the leg of his jeans, the cord of the phone stretching miserably across the apartment, Andrei tumbles back into the hallway, this time actually tripping over his snickers, and, well—
“Andrei? What’s going on there?”
“Uhm…” Struggling to an upright position, he tugs on the coiled cord. A gutted - yet surprisingly still working - rubble of Soviet plastic follows. “I might need a new phone.”
On the other end of the line he recognizes the same soft laughter that nearly seven months ago he’d given up on ever hearing again…
...and, in a heartbeat, it all comes back: his own ragged breathing, the excruciating tightness in his chest punctuated by the breakneck staccato of his shoes against the stairwell, the knocking, the buzzing, the waiting, the weight of the door against his shoulder, the deafening sound that it makes as it finally gives way, the tape recorder, the cigarette butt, the glasses.
The time on the clock.
1:25:38.
And, finally, the silence.
He should’ve known.
How could he not know? How could he not *see*?
That day in the park: what he said, EVERYTHING he said…
“Someone will be there in twenty minutes. Be outside. I’ll see you in an hour.”
Andrei snaps back, taking a deep breath. “I— I’ll meet you there. I’m gonna need to—”
“What?” Boris snaps, clearly losing his patience, before he catches himself once again and his tone softens. “Andrei? Is there a problem?”
Andrei pinches his eyes. Always the fixer.
He doesn’t like bringing it up. Every time he does, it’s like a punch in the old man’s gut. And he can’t bear it: watching this imposing, grounded, authoritative man crumble with grief like a sand castle; least of all now.
“It’s just— I need to—” He reaches down to slide his hand under a soft belly, scooping a purring ball up to his chest.
He’s about to make some poor-ass excuse about having to make a few phone calls when Sasha, tucked happily under his chin, decides to nuzzle the receiver with a soft, contented trill.
On the other side of the line there’s a sound of a hitched breath, followed by a long, measured exhale.
The voice comes back with a faint wobble. “Can your sister take her?” Andrei nods, nose buried in the thick fur, then, realizing he’s on the phone, adds a verbal confirmation.
When it comes back once more, Boris’s voice is as low and steady as ever. “Good. I’ll have my man take a detour on the way to the airport.”
And the line goes dead.