memes are a valid reason to christen a journal right

[lookscouldkill]

There is never a day that goes by when Victoria--Vittoria, she has to remind her self, Vittoria now and no longer Vinciguerra--there is never a day when she doesn't miss her Alexander. He always had the best eye for this sort of thing. Not always for people, for personnel, but that was what she did, anyway, and that was why they'd made a lovely team. It's a shame that they never got a chance to build their own empire, but she thinks he would have liked the one she's built. There are quite a few people who like it, after all, well enough to try and steal it. If they didn't, why would they have sent him?

Of course she knows an operative when she sees one, she isn't stupid. And she knows that everything left behind that could possibly have been incriminating in a court of law would incriminate the good doctor, or her darling Alex, so he's really got nothing at all. Which is why, on this day, when she's most in need (of both a good stylist and also perhaps, a good bit of fun) it's Ilya on the other end of her summoning hand, one finger pointed then curling and beckoning him towards her graciously, like a queen waiting to receive fealty.

"You. You're new. Come, darling, tell me your name again? I'm sorry, I seem to have forgotten it."

Comments

[imperiling]

Why have they sent him? Napoleon would say - has said, frequently, like a buzzing insect - that Victoria Vinciguerra knows him too well. And, Ilya supposes that there's a part of him that recognizes the way Solo's face tightened when Victoria appeared back on the scene.

He neatly compartmentalizes it. His alias is Alexander Smirnov, but he thinks that's a terrible idea. "Misha," he improvised and improvises again. "Do you need assistance, ma'am?"

This entire job is going to be terrible.

[lookscouldkill]

Why have they sent him, is the question of the hour. Obviously they couldn't send Napoleon, not after the last time, she'd have peeled the skin from his bones and worn him like a coat. Perhaps she should consider the same for his companion; after all, he had also had a hand in the murder of her darling Alexander. But somehow it seemed less personal, with this one. Only a job, for him, a cause he believes in like only the Soviets truly can. Kuryakin, she remembers, and most certainly not Misha.

But that's fine. The name doesn't matter, does it? "You could say that, Misha," she answers, and offers her hand to him with an indulgent smile. "You may call me Vittoria. Especially since, I hope, you'll be assisting me today. I trust that won't be too much of an imposition, taking you away from your duties here?" Obviously she knows the answer to this question, but his answer seems to be expected, obviously.

[imperiling]

He wasn't born yesterday; he doubts there's much chance that Victoria Vinciguerra doesn't recognize the Soviet who was playing at being Gaby Teller's fiancé. But he has to play it as if he does. Most would say that's more Napoleon's forte, charming himself out of bad situations, but Ilya has his own charms. His just come with a healthy dose of pragmatism.

Or so he likes to believe. His smile is easy. "Vittoria, I think you know that my duties are whatever you deem them to be." Blunt, perhaps, but why mince words more than he has to? "I'm sure this can wait." He waves at the bolts of bright silks he was tasked with sorting. Drudge work, but that's to be expected. Fashion and the military aren't that different that way, it's only that the style version of KP involves peeling less potatoes and beets.