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"Oh no." The grin was audible. He was, probably, ducking his head even though there was no one around to see it. "I've been waiting for this. I'm taking notes for Cee's Russian spin-off. You have my undivided attention."

He laughed (a real laugh, not a bark). "Maybe he's into that."

"Oh no, that's a good ********' strategy when it works. Interdivisional rivalries! Jealousy traps! Violent makeout sessions and imaginary b***h slapping. This is pretty prime material. You gonna meddle? You usually can't resist."

"If they'd known what they were missing out on I'm sure they'd have met you at the door with champagne and fresh cookies," he said consolingly and not even a little sarcastically. "Is everyone else pretty nice besides Romeo and Juliet and Boris?"

A long pause, and were it not for the background hum of falling rain maybe she'd think that the call had dropped.

"Fine," he said finally. "Counting down the days til it's over with," he added flatly. "Maybe if it somehow doesn't bomb terribly there'll be enough people clamoring to lord it over newbies that I won't have to do it after this month."

The pause this time was even longer, and broken with a tiny, exhausted sigh. "Something else I ********' suck at, probably. I talked to Edith about specialization and I just--I don't know." Another pause, the sound of a second cigarette being lit. This one took longer; it was marked by a fumbling that America had seen in person often enough, probably, to conjure a frustrating mental image to accompany the soundtrack. "You're supposed to--get used to the weird s**t, eventually, aren't you? Like everyone says 'oh you get used to it.' And I just--I don't know," he repeated tiredly, and in an uncharacteristic moment of honesty he finished: "I can't ********' figure out how to act after anything more traumatic than inexpertly replacing windows and scrubbing floors, maybe they just need to put me on a permanent janitorial roster."

It was more than he'd meant to say. Transparently, he turned it around. "What're you gonna do, once you get back from Russia? Can't believe how well the town's comin' along."

The temptation was there to just break down like he had for Mary, brought low by her delusional assessment of his abilities and by her constant optimism, put side by side as if to emphasize how truly out of touch with reality the both of them were: her being proud of him as stupid and short-sighted and young and idealistic as the idea that this could ever be a place with a future.

"I love you," he said finally, irrelevantly, because he needed to. "You should tell Bashmet to get somewhere dedicated for the library, but he was telling me about his bunker plans and I think he's probably prioritizing that, pragmatic ********' Russian b*****d." It was not without strained fondness.

"I won't hold my breath, America Jones," he answered, because it was better than saying you are Konstantin Bashmet's hidden depths; you are his exception because he so ******** loves a person for whom to make exceptions, and you so ******** love a person to make exceptions for you.

"Rain's let up," he observed; the background patter had subsided. "I should probably go attempt to get the fence back up in time for someone else with a volatile charge to put a hole through it again." He hesitated. "Send me bathtub selfies," he demanded. "And buy me an ushanka and feel really bad about leaving me and Tubs all by our lonesome and starting rumors you got a fat-a** bearded American boyfriend and I don't want to get off the phone," he confessed, "like a ********' teenage boy. Probably I've been swimming more recently than I've done this. I miss you. A whole ********' lot."