October 1971 | July 2003 Working The Problem

Margo being cute - S1

Soft warm light filtered into their bedroom and illuminated Sergei stretched out in bed, reclined against the pillows with the weekend edition of the local paper.

Sergei contemplated their lazy Sunday morning with joy in his heart. As open and cloudless as the sky outside their window, he rejoiced in their time together. The woman he loved would be at his side in only a moment.

Margo interrupted his reverie when she entered the bedroom with two mugs of coffee. Sergei sat up smartly from the bed and lifted the blanket to allow Margo to slide back into the warmth under the covers with him.

Handing him his mug, Margo harrumphed when she saw the discarded section that featured news of the asteroid orbiting Mars. He set his mug aside and snatched the paper away from her, holding it out of her reach.

“Nyet, Margo,” he chided as Margo clicked her tongue, “Work can wait.” Sergei braced himself; Margo did not like to be handled.

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I don't remember this scene AT ALL, but by golly they clearly needed the time to eye-fuck each other a little. Why, show, why?!?!

"THANK YOU FOR COMING"

As if, Margo, he would stay away.

Thank you for coming. Oh. Of course.

That was, uh, certainly lively. I’ll take that as a compliment. As I intended.

Sergei awoke mid dream. It was beautiful. Sunlight bathed him, but the source of light warming his body was his hand intertwined with Margo's. He caressed her fingers, soft skin over delicate bones. The smooth skin and strong fingers of a mathematician.

Sergei rubbed his fingers together, trying to conjure the feeling of her hands and fingers caressing his. Chagrined at his indulgence, he smiled nevertheless. She was the thought behind his smiles these days.

He checked his watch for the time, he had forty minutes. Standing from his desk he stretched his back and then shrugged into his coat. Nodding to remnant staff and security, Sergei made a smooth exit.

He easily managed a solemn facade as he made his way to his appointment, but inside he was beaming. When he began walking to the phone booth, his battle to keep a straight face was lost.

He noted little of his cold surroundings, instead focused on his destination. A smile quirked at the corners of his mouth and his pace quickened. Sergei checked his watch again and adjusted his pace, slowing down.

His mind was buzzing with idle questions: how was she doing, what would she think of his latest record selection, what new detail of her life would he learn about. Other thoughts, pernicious though they were, he shoved aside. He was a practiced and careful party man; he could hold two opposing ideas in his head easily. Yes, the KGB needed him to work Margo for information, but he also wanted to do right by her as a friend.

When he got to the phone booth, he checked his watch again. Stepping inside, he closed the door and waited. The phone startled him from his musing.

He eagerly picked up the phone, “Hello?”

“Sergei! How are ya?” Came a smooth southern drawl.

“Margo! I'm cold, but well. You?” Sergei couldn't keep the smile out of his voice. Pleased to hear from her as ever.

“What record should I expect today,” came an eager reply.

excellent work. He's just so gorgeous. Such a nice portfolio to wake to. 🤣

This scene is beautiful for its subtly. 

In the last episode, these two had said some angry words: “You’re so afraid to live alone!  / “And you’re afraid to die that way!”

We needed to see them make-up, right?

Of course Laura will not die alone. Bill will be there, reading to her at her bedside, during every treatment. 

As always. 

The acting here is brilliant. GIFs cannot show this. There’s no dialogue beyond what Bill is reading in the book. But you can see Laura is grateful he’s there. He was right. She is scared to die.

And Bill is sorry. He’s telling her - through the book’s words - how much he loves her. 

She will never be alone. 

Because of him. 

She understands and smiles. 

Oh and the book?

Love & Bullets, by Nick Taylo, Chapter One. 

“It started like it always did. With a body. This one was in the river. I could tell she had once been beautiful, but this bullet and fast current had taken away from her. All we are, all that we think we are. All that we are certain about is taken away from us. 

When you’ve worked the streets and seen what I’ve seen, you become more and more convinced of it every day. Caprica City had been my teacher, my mistress. From the moment I open my eyes, she’s in my blood, like cheap wine.

Bitter and sweet, tinged with regret. I’ll never be free of her, nor do I want to be.

For she is what I am. All that is, should always be.”

I am becoming aware of the effect a lack of trust in the media has had on people, paired with a dearth of research skills.

I was searching for this, lolz. I remember reading it before I watched For All Mankind and I was absolutely intrigued. This and all the wonderful gif sets got me to watch. So, kudos to all you fic writers who expound on characters and create such delicious explorations of character. ❤️

Sergei absently exchanged the blue marker for another colored marker from the tray, began shading in the sine wave. Orange. In lines like strands of hair. Margo’s hair. The memory of it soft through his fingers, of the scent of her hair, her skin, clean and warm, the sweet, strong smell of the brandy on her lips.

He moved to the negative half cycle, the white of the board again alternating through a fall of orange hair. He wondered when her hair had turned white. Did it happen slowly over the last eight years? Had the long, cold, lonely winters she wasn’t used to, hadn’t, couldn’t have prepared for, slowly leached the color from her hair, from her life? She was not meant for a cage, no matter how gilded.

Automatically, he filled in the last positive half cycle, the orange strands thinning and fading as his mind continued to wander and his pressure against the board slackened. Or had her hair turned white all at once in a shock? Was it upon learning of the bombing? Worry for her colleagues? Aleida? Did she blame herself? Was it something that happened after? Something they’d done to her? He froze. Lefortovo…

“Uh, Mr. Bezukhov?”

Slowly, he blinked, the whiteboard and the classroom refocusing around him.

“Mr. Bezukhov?”

Sergei turned, taking in the students behind their desks, their faces, some smirking, most disinterested, a few studious. Right. He had a class to teach. A life she’d paid for with her own. He owed it to her to live it. This thought had sustained him through the years, kept him moving forward, moving on. It didn’t matter that she was alive. It shouldn’t. It couldn’t. 

“So, as you can see, the current is not always constant.”

imma just going to spend WAY TOO MUCH time sighing and staring at that middle gif. 😭

O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do. They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.