WHAT. 😳 I Need More Details. Immediately.

ugh, but, aaah

I don't really understand this webzone. But, as an old, I don't really want to fully engage with fandom other than to give people kudos. I do wish I could communicate with others how much I appreciate their artistry and competence in their contributions to fandom (specifically fiction), but I'm useless at the words.

So! If you end up here somehow, hello! And please excuse my hit-and-run type "interactions". I enjoy everything you do and am cheerleading your efforts!!

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.

Very clever. This will work for us.

#when bae looks spiffy

Margo Madison vs the longest day of her life

FOR ALL MANKIND | 2.06 "Best Laid Plans"

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.

Keep Reading on AO3!

#when bae looks spiffy

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.”

This is exactly how I feel about the fic writers I follow here. 😘

Do you ever binge read someone's work on ao3 and get the urge to serenade them, like, hello my fair fic author you have wooed me with your excessive flowery metaphors and complete lack of plot, even your messy 3am fics with very visible flaws are gorgeous, your self indulgent dynamics have enchanted me, please accept my kudos

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.