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The Bait Shop:

Kostya, blissfully unaware of America's less than savoury purchases, came up to the register armed with a package of home-made pickle chips, sold in a small refrigerator in back. He'd also picked up a six pack of beers, and it was fortunate that his fake ID pegged him (accurately) as 21.

It was his turn to be appraised with a disapproving look, and in turn, Konstantin stared flatly back until she looked away to make his change.

On the Lake

Line out and body relaxed, America alternated between peaceful quiet to impatient teacher to idle comments and random tips about outdoors. She talked about a few of her uncles, and how the uniform scarves were something she truly approved of and went on to listing all the reasons why for a good twenty minutes. There was a twinkle in her eye as she did so, and while he'd likely never get the movie reference, she could appreciate her own humor and that was enough when it came down to it.

By the time the sun had truly passed over the horizon, several fish were caught, a few kept and more tossed back, she was fairly comfortable both with Kostya's company and his general competence with a rod. Speaking of which...

"So...I think Taym's sweet on you."

Cabin in the Woods

Gunther's was not exactly what one would call luxury accommodations. Most of the furniture was either made of wood or hard plastic, though given that they tended to be dumpster finds, the lack of cushions was likely for the best. The inside was all one room, an oversize hammock for sleeping to one side and a tiny kitchen and dining room area to the other. Another hammock was hung on the small porch, and still another from two trees by the shore.

The man liked his hammocks.

He also liked his pin up girls, who gave coy stares from just about every wall inside the place, and a few outside, where he'd chosen to carve a smiling lady. The few boys she'd brought here in high school hadn't minded, but Kostya would likely be another matter.

"Don't go in the house, you hear me?" Closing the door behind her after making sure nothing had changed too drastically from her last visit. "We got food in the coolers, so you won't need the kitchen, the latrine is over yonder," she nodded toward a sketchy looking shack, "...try not to fall in, Gunther's a big man an' he made that hole to match. If you need to clean yourself up...well..." There was an outdoor shower stall, and the water would be cleaner than any either of them had in awhile, but it would be cold as balls and not entirely private.

"We got up early, an I plan on frying our haul as soon as we get back, so we'll be up late, too. You need a nap, grab a hammock."

Earlier On the Lake:

Anchoring the line with one hand and guiding it with the other, America continued, "Just hold, don't wrap the line, got it? You just need to be patient for this an a hell of a lot more patient when you're working without a rod. But you gotta learn this first, I saw those fishing kits of yours. Couldn't believe you hadn't actually fished before." She admonished him with a flat look before turning her attention back to the line.

"Good thinking, half-assed planning with that one. But," she conceded, "...if you're new to this, you're doing pretty well to have them in the first place. Have you been getting most of your know-how from books n such?"

24-Hour Diner:

Pork chops, a cup of black coffee, tiled floors, and an overwhelming sense of being in the USA. He was reading The Boxcar Children, one brief sentence at a time.

"Much time vith minipets," Kostya offered with no small modicum of distaste, "vould trade vorld for kitchen duty."

He looked up at her, over his glasses, and blinked once. Slowly.


He chose not to answer, and instead turned his attention towards his mashed potatoes.

In the Jeep:

She had never asked for his opinion, so Kostya had never given it.

"I know," he replied, quiet, staring out the window. "It vas him. Handwriting, it vas his. Fire is for the clumsy."

It was a lie. Ramona, Ramona. When they returned, Kostya had walls to bleach.

General Store:

The book was one she'd read before, part of the only set of books America had ever read for pleasure, and it was missing a cover to boot. But when she'd seen it, laying down with a stuffed rooster sitting on top, she'd recognized it with a nostalgic pang of familiarity. There was no question of whether or not she'd buy it, just how she could manage without Kostya noticing.

She'd probably never even read it, all told. She had things to do.

But it felt good, just to tuck the battered little thing in her coat pocket.