aimedforthemoon

from here:

Esfir's room looks more like a home, now. The bookcases have been stacked and arranged against a wall, and while they aren't yet full, there are more than enough books to indicate how much she loves them. Her pin-up board of photographs is still up on the wall, and there are still models on the table (new ones - the orignals got blow up alongside the Liberty), and it is still neat, but...

There is more of a sense of someone living here now, instead of just staying for a while.

Of course, the first indication of this is her, "Boots off," once they walk through the doorway. Her own shoes are slipped off and put neatly by the doorway.

from here:

Esfir leads Cal into to her room and shuts the door behind them. Her room has changed from the last time he was here - she's been building bookcases, and even though one is incomplete with tools and pieces of wood on the floor, the room looks more homey.

On the wall is pin-up board, complete with both black-and-white and colour photographs of her old life, but the model aircraft are gone from her desk.

"Um, mind the mess."

Esfir was born and raised a city-girl. The city in question might have been a bombed out ruin for most of the time she was there, and there might be too many nomads in her background for her to ever shun the wide open steppes and forests, but when all is said and done, she's a city-girl.

Of course, her grandfather was a stubborn man who thought cities were the height of foolishness and, yes, it was all very well for Shostak to do well, but look what leaving the farm did for him? Crashing his plane into those fucking Germans above Moscow, that's what, and leaving you an orphan, Fira, being raised in a city. Not that the old man ever said as much all in one go. Unless he was telling stories, he barely said a word. She'd always wondered what he was saving them for. But she'd spent enough summers on the farm to know her way around animals and Vovka the mixed-breed, stubborn horse who had somehow managed to survive Nazi-occupation.

Probably the same way her grandfather had - by being too stubborn to die.

And it's partly homesickness for that collective farm and grumpy old man and stubborn horse that has the tiny pilot perched on paddock fence, watching the Milliways horses.

When Esfir arrived at Milliways, it had been after several years of cosmonaut training and, no, it wasn't all maths and computers. They had to be able to withstand the g-force of a launch, had to be able to push their bodies until they knew exactly when they started to pass out. She was, in short, exceedingly fit when she arrived, and even if staying in shape wasn't a habit by now, it at least passes the time.

It's not surprising that she's far, far more in shape than one Calvin Chandler, and this fact has just been made effortlessly clear.

A fine early autumn morning, a moderate jog at a decent pace (she wouldn't be cruel enough to race him, just set the speed), and it wouldn't be complete without some mockery.

It's another thing she's good at, which is why the tiny woman (dressed in sneakers, shorts, and a t-shirt) is currently cocking her eyebrow at her companion.

Even though they've reached the starting point again, she doesn't say anything.

Possibly, she doesn't need to.

Esfir's room is a normal, hotel-style room. Plush carpet, plain curtains framing large windows, of which one is open. But it's also neat. She's an astronaut, and they are always neat.

Her bed is made, her books and manuls either neatly stacked on her desk, or neatly against a wall, but in a slight divergence she also has models on her desk.

A MiG-21PF.

A Soyez rocket.

An RZ-1 A-wing.

And after she ushers Billy in, she locks the door behind them without even being aware of it.

The Russian astronaut's room is plain and neat. Her bed is nearly always made, her things put away, her windows open to let in the air. There are models on the desk, or rather there were; the Soyuz rocket is looking lonely without the MiG-21 to keep it company.

Esfir herself is lying on her bed, on her back with her feet braced against the wall.

The odd position can be explained by the fact that she's studying, and everyone knows that studying means you are allowed to act a little odd.

(It's her excuse, and she is sticking to it)

She'd had a shower, after. Washing off the sweat of space and panic far more than the mess of sex. Combed out the snarls from her long, almost curly dark hair. Felt human.

Felt alive.

~

When she fell asleep, exhausted, she'd curled in close to him. It's not that she'd subconsciously follow if he moved, it was just...

She needed to touch someone.

That was all.

~

She dreamed, naturally.

~

Nightmares, from the faint whimpers and and half-audible pleading.

~

When she wakes, sometime around dawn, circles under her eyes but mind awake, well.

As far as her memory is concerned, she didn't dream a damn thing.