He can barely see her face across the long table, but he knows just what is looking back at him. She is a monster, a crone, an old soul with veins deep in the Earth and grudges just as long, and he know he owes her his very being. He isn’t the first nor is he the last, a copy upon copy upon copy of long won conquests and the man standing by his side is no exception.
They’re dutiful in this moment, separates operating toward the same goal, but he knows the itch that lies just beyond what even Baba Yaga knows, and when they leave, no consequence to be found, he can't help but flick his eyes over - not to his bodyguard or enforcer, but to his love.
He doesn’t move - not even when he feels the weight of her eyes upon him, watching and waiting for him to elicit a response unfitting of his designation. They’re unwanted, after all - emotions - and even in the nondescript confines of the room, he feels them welling up: Anticipation, anxiety, worry that something bad would happen with the wrong answers.
“What is it like to hold the hand of someone you love?” His hands feel sweaty, nervous, but he doesn’t move them from where they have rested since sitting in the one vacant seat in the room. He wants to rub them off on his slacks, wants to hide them, wants to grip onto his hand for some sense of security.
“Interlinked.”
“Do you feel that there’s a part of you that’s missing?” Always. Every day, every night, every mission he sends K-SH31 - no, Kostyra - on, uncertain now of what future lies beyond the crack of gunfire or quick slice of a blade, all meant to serve those which watch from behind closed doors and darkened screens; and he feels lonely in that moment.
“Interlinked.”
“Do you have a heart?” It is then the defiance shows, aggressive pangs born of anxious thought and no desire to play such games - no matter how familiar he was with the routine.
“Yes.”
