#Some implied Winnix if you really really squint & read between the lines

[liebgotts-lovergirl]

Fire On Fire: Chapter 27

(Ch. 26.2) ... (Ch. 1)

II Gallery II Symbol Guide II

Summary: "I can accept the idea of my own demise, but I am unable to accept the death of anyone else." - Maya Angelou

WARNINGS: Death, Espionage, War, Survivor's Guilt, the usual

Taglist: @latibvles @softguarnere @brassknucklespeirs @mccall-muffin @lieutenant-speirs @bellewintersroe @emmythespacecowgirl @holdingforgeneralhugs @parajumpboots @hxad-ovxr-hxart @sleepisforcowards @suugrbunz @ax-elcfucker-blog @chaosklutz @mads-weasley @vibing-away @eightysix-baby @ithinkabouttzu @emmylindersson

Contemporary: 11:30 PM, December 2nd, 1944. Liart, France.

“You do know where Liart Station is, right Nix?”

As the pair crept through the thick trees, Alix's whispers were underscored only by the subtle crackling of the frosty ground beneath their feet.

“You’re not going to get us lost agai–” 

“Oh Jesus Christ, let that live forever,” the intelligence officer griped in mock exasperation but even among the chirping chorus of crickets and the occasional crunch of dead leaves, Alix could hear the wry laughter in his voice. 

“How about next time, I complain and you can navigate. How’s that sound, Runt?”

Alix made a vague noise of acknowledgement as they trudged onward, her heart already beginning its heavy drumbeat as speckles of gold began to appear just beyond the treeline a few yards ahead.

The train station.

“Oh ye of little faith,” Nixon remarked dryly and if it hadn’t been for the thick blue lenses, she would’ve rolled her eyes and come up with a snappy retort.

But her mouth had suddenly gone bone-dry, all mirth dying in her throat.

She had bigger problems now.

Under the unforgiving glare of the station lights, there would be nowhere to hide. 

She would be a sitting duck.

It was a spy’s worst nightmare.

Alix’s joints seemed to lock for a split second but she forced herself to catch up with her case officer, slowing only when the hem of her dress snagged on the extended arm of a nearby tree.

“Cazzo!” 

Muttering more expletives under her breath, the spy undertook the arduous task of prying the delicate blue silk from the bough’s stubborn grasp.

The tree's taller branches rustled above her as she worked, showering her in puffy golden blossoms like tiny comets raining down onto her newly-auburn hair as Nixon snickered. 

"Less laughing, more collecting, wise-ass," Alix advised with a cocked eyebrow as she tossed a couple starry blooms in his direction and managed to ease the rest of the gauzy material from the gnarled bark. 

"Saves Donovan some cash on my funeral arrangements." 

“Don’t even joke about that,” the intelligence officer snapped before turning his attention back to the compass in his hand. “You’re going to be fine.”

 Alix would have rolled her eyes but the uncomfortable blue contact lenses stung enough as it was so she settled for an impetuous toss of her hair which launched a few more flowers into the chilly night air. 

“If you say so,” she mumbled but after hiking the skirt of her dress up to her thighs, she forged ahead, trying to ignore the nagging doubts dogging her every step into the night.

No one had told her anything about her mission partner except that they were a floater but that fact alone was enough to fill her with dread.

More of an asset than an agent, floaters were just temporary consultants with highly-specialized skill sets. 

Codebreakers, forgers, interrogators, radio operators, explosives experts, floaters hired by the OSS had talent on top of their respective training, of that she was sure. 

But they weren’t spies and that caused Alix serious trepidation.

How could she put her whole life in the hands of someone who'd never even been in the field before?

What if they froze when she needed them most? Then what?

How did she know they wouldn't sell her out to the Gestapo as soon as they got the chance? 

How did she know they hadn't already done so? 

She didn't, Alix realized as ice seemed to run through her. She didn't know a damn thing. 

What if–

“Knock it off,” Captain Nixon interrupted over his shoulder as if reading her mind. “I can hear you worrying from here.”

“Easy for you to say,” she muttered, tugging the thick mink wrap even closer around herself protectively. 

“You’re not the one walking into a trap, Nix." 

"And neither are you," her handler retorted testily.

“He’ll be there. Just remember the recognition phrase and look for the ring. You'll be fine." 

The notorious skull ring. 

The identifying symbol of a Werwolf Kommando, only gifted to the most dangerous of combatants. 

Alix didn’t even want to know how the OSS had managed to get one for her partner. 

“Hey Runt,” Nixon interrupted her musings once again but his expression was one of slight concern, though his usual laughter still put a lilt in his tone.

They were almost there now.

 “Loosen up, will you? Jesus, you've got the same expression as Dick going on and he usually looks like he’s being marched to the gallows.”

“Well that’s what it feels like,” she grumbled, her stomach churning at the thought of being in plain sight of the Gestapo with a 1 Million Franc bounty out for her capture.

“Hey.” 

Her handler gave her a light smack on the shoulder. There was a brotherly concern in her handler’s eyes but he tried to summon a lackadaisical grin anyway, which she appreciated.

“Relax, 'kay? It’s a mission, not a death sentence.”

The shriek of a train whistle cut off her reply.

It was not her train; she still had plenty of time but she still needed to get to the agreed-upon meeting spot before someone else. 

Hurriedly smoothing some fallen pine needles from her dress, her muscles tensed with anticipation as she made her way beyond the treeline and to the station door, leaving her handler behind in the shadows of the forest.

Alright, she said to herself, forcing an imperious posture as she tugged open the door. Let’s get this show on the road.

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If anyone had asked, Alix would’ve told them the worst part of being a spy was the waiting. 

Bathed in the yellow glow of the station lights overhead, she remained frozen on her solitary island, the few passengers in sight hustling past like a flock of seagulls without so much as a glance in her direction.

With every light puff of breath, Alix noticed her fingers twitch slightly with the urge to reach for the rosary that no longer resided there. 

Alix may have been Catholic, but "Tanya" was not. 

Her Nona Lucrezia’s rosary was stuffed into a tiny pouch buried at the bottom of one of her many suitcases, which had already been shipped ahead to Paris. 

In its place around her neck was a weathered golden medallion bearing the icon of Saint Nicholas the Wonderworker, a popular Russian Orthodox intercessor. 

The patron saint of deliverance from misfortune.

She could certainly use some of that right about now.

Feigning boredom, the young agent casually reached into her silk purse and retrieved an ornate silver lighter and her half-smoked pack of Herzegovina Flor cigarettes. 

Instantly, she felt nearby eyes on her. 

Locating the closest reflective surface, Alix clocked the observer: an elderly Frenchwoman in a patchwork skirt who was gaping at her as she shuffled her way past to the fourth bench. 

Of course people were going to stare, Alix reminded herself, trying to focus instead on the lime-green packaging in her lap, the name embossed in glinting gold Cyrillic font.

After all, she was covered from head to toe in diamonds, fur, and silk, not to mention she was smoking the priciest cigarettes in all of the Soviet Union. 

Remembering what Nix had taught her, Alix was careful to pinch the cigarette between her thumb and forefinger instead of how she would normally hold it– casually propped between her first and second. 

"It's always the little things, Runt," the intelligence officer had commented around noontime as he'd adjusted her grip on one of her beloved Chesterfields. 

"The stupidest little things can make or break an op." 

Making a mental note to thank Nix when she got to Paris, Alix took a long drag off her cigarette, enjoying the rich, earthy flavor. 

No wonder it was reportedly Stalin's favorite brand, she mused. The tobacco was of superb quality. 

Noting the time– twenty minutes till midnight – Alix scanned the scene as she awaited the arrival of her contact. 

Liart Station wasn’t very crowded at that hour of the night so he should’ve been easy to spot but none of the men in view wore the distinctive skull ring of the Werwolf Kommandos.

They're going to be late, she thought, gritting her teeth with irritation. This is why I don’t work with floaters.

She could practically hear her handler’s teasing sing-song in her head:

“One-time assets are just as necessary as full-time operatives, Runt."

Only the ones that take the job seriously, Alix thought bitterly. Which this one clearly didn’t, seeing as they had not received any word from them and it was rapidly approaching midnight.

With a huff of irritation, the spy went back to surveying the scene around her.

The gray-haired matron was now hunched over a book whilst a pair of businessmen stood nearby, commiserating about the late hour.

Moments later, a small gaggle of young women bustled past, causing one of the men to let out a rude wolf whistle.  

Clearly working girls, there were about four or five in the bunch, all with tousled hair piled high and splotches of rouge coloring their gaunt cheeks. 

Three were her own age, the other two a bit older, but they all had the same rings of exhaustion around their eyes that even heavy makeup couldn't camouflage.

No doubt, their workday was just beginning but the windy French night had no pity, battering them with icy gusts that their flimsy chemises and torn stockings couldn't hope to combat. 

The call-girls were shivering uncontrollably as they reached the 4th bench, the older two gathering the younger ones to them in a futile attempt to ward off some of the chill. 

A pit formed in Alix's stomach as she watched them.

It was a miserably cold night, the bitter wind nipping at her face, and she had a luxurious coat to protect her. 

The call-girls had nothing, nothing but each other.

How could she help them while still maintaining her cover? 

Hearing raised voices, she glanced toward the sound, where a harried-looking teenager in an ill-fitting blue uniform was scurrying two stairs at a time down to the platform below while an older man in the same uniform was shouting after her, shielding the edge of his coffee cup to prevent spillage as he made his way down the stairs.

The poor girl looked scared to death, nearly in tears, and seeing her supervisor bellowing at her over what was the most minor of mistakes was really pushing Alix's buttons.

Taking a languid puff of her cigarette, the spy yawned and nonchalantly stretched out a leg at the last minute, just as the supervisor was hurrying past her bench to no doubt continuing bullying his employee.

 

The Three Stooges could not have timed it better. 

The man's boot caught the hem of her dress and he stumbled forward, accidentally releasing the cup into the air like a baseball. 

The container’s soaring arc gave Alix ample time to briefly flee the bench, ensuring that while the occasional droplet sprinkled down on her coat like a soft rain, the supervisor was completely doused in his own coffee.

Howling, an expression of confusion and outrage flashed across the middle-aged Frenchman’s face but before he could get a word out, Alix seized the opportunity to round on him first, stepping towards him and snarling expletives in Russian with such vehemence that spit practically flew from her red-painted lips. 

"You idiot," she hissed, switching to heavily-accented French as she examined her clothing with melodramatic horror. "My favorite coat-"

"Madame, I-"

The supervisor had reached out, presumably to assess the damage, but Alix slapped his hand away with a glare so scathing that it would've made even Lady Macbeth run for the hills.

As the spy tore off the offending article, she muttered expletives in Russian before hurling the mink coat to the cobblestones and taking an intimidating step closer to him with a shrewish stomp of her foot. 

"The station will receive bill," she intoned with a final sneer before smoothing off her dress and stalking back to her bench, leaving the priceless mink in a heap on the cobblestone and the station supervisor fuming behind her. 

Noticing one of the shivering women inching her way toward the coat, small puffs of breath escaping her chattering teeth, Alix glanced away at the giant clock mounted on the wall. 

Ten minutes till Midnight. 

She had time.

Affecting boredom, Alix took a long drag off her cigarette and rose from her seat, heading toward the tiniest, most decrepit-looking newsstand she’d ever seen to give the callgirl an opportunity.

Keeping an eye on the last remaining travelers trickling their way into her periphery, the spy flipped through the latest edition of Le Figaro for the benefit of whatever prying Nazi eyes might be watching.

5… 4…

As she counted down in her head, Alix fought the urge to turn around and check.

Pick up the coat, she urged the prostitutes silently, still keeping her eyes trained on the newspaper in front of her as she loitered. Take the damn coat.

3… 2… 

She couldn’t wait any longer without seeming suspicious. 

1…0…

When she began to head back toward her bench, just as she’d hoped, the coat was being used by the older women in the group to shelter the others, all huddling to take advantage of the fur's warmth like chicks under a mother quail’s wing.

One of the callgirls–  was gazing over at her with tear-filled eyes, seemingly unable to find the words to express her gratitude.

Chewing on her bottom lip to avoid smiling, she let her eyes flicker away just as a couple sailors hurried through. 

The thin gold rings encircling both sleeves marked one of them as an Ensign, a junior officer probably just graduated, and Alix felt as though a boulder had been dropped onto her stomach.

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5 Years Ago: 30th Street Station, November, 1939. Philadelphia, USA.

"You're going to send Helen Astor into fits, you know," the eighteen year old teased as she jogged after her brother. "Leaving without saying goodbye when she's been pining after you for years." 

"Well I've been avoiding her for years," Giovanni countered, slinging his canvas knapsack over his right shoulder with a grunt, causing his uniform to rustle. 

"It's Dad who wants me to go steady with her, not me. She's not my type." 

"Have you told him that?" Alix inquired as she wove through the onslaught of servicemembers and their families, all crying and hugging as they said their final goodbyes. 

"Right," Gio snorted skeptically.

"Because that would go over so well. What would I even say?!

'Sorry Pops, I know you had big plans for me but I'd rather get eaten by a shark than marry any of the Astor girls so I’m going to run off to the South Pacific instead! Take my inheritance and shove it! Sincerely, your firstborn’.

Yeah, that’ll go over splendidly.” 

“You’re still the favorite,” the girl reminded him doggedly, a tinge of resentment creeping into her voice.

“Between being valedictorian, track team captain, and an altar boy, I think you could start robbing banks and Dad would still say 'Alix, why can't you be more like your brother?'"

She had expected a breezy chuckle and one of his usual witticisms but her brother let out a long exhale instead.

"I’m sorry about that, Passerotta. I know it can't be easy–”

“Don’t worry about it,” Alix interrupted, her tone sharper than she’d intended it. 

Gio raised his eyebrows but acquiesced and continued the dutiful trudge ahead. 

Jostling past a cluster of other officers, Alix gave her brother a wan smile as she tried to lighten the mood.

"Don’t let this go to your big head but we’re all gonna miss you.”

“Don’t I know it,” Giovanni remarked with a grin. “Between your crying and Mom’s, I thought we were all going to drown before we even got here!”

“Can you blame us?” Alix retorted, trying to keep her voice light. “You are going to be over 4,000 miles away.”

“Yeah, in Hawaii.” Her brother barked out a laugh. “Do you know what happens at a duty station that nobody's ever heard of?” 

Alix shook her head and her brother readjusted his grip on his knapsack, heaving the canvas bag over his other shoulder.

“Exactly,” he grunted, dark hazel eyes twinkling as they continued their walk.

“Nothing happens. I'll be bored to tears."

Alix quickened her steps to keep up with Gio’s long strides.

“You’ll have liberty though, won’t you?” she asked and he shrugged. 

“Once a week supposedly but how many times can a guy watch the same four pictures? Benji says-" 

Alix cocked her head inquisitively.

That was a name she hadn't heard before.

"Benji?" 

"A friend," Gio replied too quickly and Alix swore she could see his cheeks reddening slightly. "At OCS. He was…We were–" 

The train’s piercing whistle cut him off. 

“Well, that’s my cue!” he piped up with a tone of false confidence but she could see the sadness just behind his eyes. 

Noticing her expression, he gave her a light smack on the shoulder and yanked her into a tight hug.

Alix wished she had hugged him for just a little bit longer... But before she knew it, her brother was boarding the train.

Hanging his head out the window, he shot her that trademark million-dollar grin of his, and called out a joke that would still haunt her even 5 years later:

“Relax, 'kay? It’s a three-year contract not a death sentence."

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