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His fingers are in her hair. The dressing room has a terrible smell - that of hairspray - as he works her hair into something presentable for the cameras. Not that he thinks the way Bell usually wears her hair is unpresentable, but rather… unremarkable, if anything. She usually looks neat, if plain. She’s another face in the crowd, exists as a formless, forgettable, member of society. It’s perfect when she’s a quasi-permanent cast member of a gameshow; outside of work, she doesn’t need the attention.
They do have a stylist for this sort of thing, and between Russell’s other duties as host, he always makes time for her hair. Strange, that; she’s not entirely sure why he insists upon it.
She should be used to it; yet each time his fingertips graze the base of her skull, a sensation - electric sharp - jolts through her. He doesn’t mind her flinching, only pauses to regard her coolly through his shades before continuing. Her eyes crinkle when he, without warning, sprays her hair again; Bell doesn’t typically prefer that her hair is as voluminous as his - some people simply… suit the look, and she isn’t convinced that she does.
“Do you have to?” Bell asks a little sullenly, painting her lips red with a brush. She’s not actually complaining, every episode she’s been in has her sporting the same style - makeup and hair - and it wouldn’t make sense to change it now. Next season, maybe - if they’re renewed for one, that is. They have a steady in-studio audience, but she’s not too sure about the actual ratings they receive on-air. Perhaps the live audience is only there for the chance to win that stupid car; something that would take years of waiting in the soviet union to receive. Hm. Americans and their luxury goods overindulgence. She supposes she can’t be too overly critical, she’d left the Reds for a reason. That reason being… because…
Why did she leave?
The mirror shatters, fractals of polished silver-painted glass fall onto the vanity, shards varying in size.
Bell flinches hard, her heart thumping rapidly when through the gaps of the shards, behind the mirror, is another room entirely.
It’s- it’s not possible. She moves her head, eyes glued to the scene behind the glass - and the perspective of the room moves with her. It’s like… there really is a room behind there, yet… she’s been on the other side of the wall and that’s- it’s impossible.
Russell isn’t reacting at all; she wonders if he can even see what she does. Perhaps she’s going crazy.
The room behind is dim, clinical in setting, a tiled and cold-looking room, almost like an operating theatre for a hospital, or a laboratory. It’s something out of a horror film - a chair with straps for the arms and legs, a table with bloodied surgical instruments, and a television set that freezes her blood. She doesn’t know why.
Her heart nearly jumps out of its spot in her ribs as she stares, unmoving.
And Russell - he only scowls, picks at the shards carefully, moving the larger pieces to a waste basket he’d picked from the ground. He doesn’t see it at all.
Sighing at what’s left of her mirror, he turns her head with a light grip on her chin, scarred lips pursed as he scrutinises her. “It’s fine, you’re good, aren't you?”
The phrasing is strange, but she knows what he means - she thinks. She doesn’t overdo it with the makeup. “I- I’m ready.”
Her head turns to the cracked mirror, and the room beyond it, the lab, and her heartbeat adopts a strange painful quality, an inexplicable pressure building under the bridge of her nose.
She’s snapped out of it when Russell mentions the time - and something about a job to do. Her eyes flicker to the clock that hangs on the wall, noting that they are nearing airtime. She’s not exactly sure why they do it live, anyway; lots of shows are pre-recorded, and she’s come to find that authenticity means very little in capitalist America.
Right. She gets up, but Russell stops her with a grip on her lapel.
“You’re forgetting something,” he intones, voice smooth and casual despite their time running out. She blushes when he presses an object into her palm, a red star-shaped pin.
She fastens it to her lapel, an empty feeling taking over when the edges of it dig into her fingertips as she pokes the needle through the cotton. Red star, a clear reference to her soviet history; a lingering sentiment.
Because that’s the character she plays. She’s here to act in a way that represents, and makes a mockery of, the soviet union. The Americans like to laugh - and fear - that of which they don’t understand, that they perceive as foreign and wrong. It keeps the ratings up, Russell had once said. It’d been uncomfortable, at first, being the only ‘red’ in the room, but now she’s mostly used to it.
You don’t have to be uncomfortable, he’d told her. Russell has a strange philosophy in that sense, something about perceived circumstances, permission, and being uncomfortable. She struggles to recall the exact details of it, always rather nervous before going on air, but she remembers scoffing. As always, his pragmatism proves to be unsustainable for normal people, but that doesn't mean she can’t admire it in him - even if she suffers at the consequence of it.
His lips twist into a bitter smile when the pin’s in place, and it makes something in her stomach pinch. “Perfect,” he says, and it really does sound earnest.
A sour feeling bites at the bottom of her oesophagus, and she can’t help but to steal another glance at the broken mirror.
The lab is still there.
“Russell - ” Bell falters, but he’s quick to reassure her with a warm hand on her shoulder, his disposition even.
“Just answer the questions.” He makes it sound so simple, like she’s new and hasn’t been playing this game for… well, a rather long time. “Come on, we don’t have any time to waste.”
The first studio bell rings; she and Russell are quick to get into positions. He’s behind a podium, under a huge sign with the name of the show. What do the numbers mean?
A charisma, which Bell knows is an act, falls over Russell. He knows how to play an audience - knows all the right words and gestures that render him naturally likeable. Their viewers love him, and the persona he puts on, only having ever seen him through the static of their screens.
He introduces Bell, like every episode, along with the rest of this episode’s featured cast. Helen Park from London, Lazar from Tel Aviv, as well as a few familiar faces. Hudson, a huge pain in Bell’s arse, and Sims.
The crowd, although seemingly rendered faceless by the lighting - overly bright studio lights - are aplenty. She can distinguish clothes, though. Some wear labcoats (doctors, most certainly), and others wear neat office attire. It makes sense, Bell supposes with a bit of scorn, terribly homesick; blue-collar workers can’t afford to sit in a live audience. Capitalism. All of them donned an identification lanyard - likely their audience passes.
They’re not reactive, and some appear to be… taking notes? What the…
The show starts with a few warmup questions - things relating to the other personalities to really cement their roles - giving their audience a reference point. Park finishes up a recount of her recent trip to Australia, something about collaborating down under, and Lazar rounds it off with a flirtatious quip. It’s quickly becoming a light-hearted back-and-forthing between them that Bell knows the audience will likely appreciate.
A few rounds of accumulating points later, Bell’s team is met with a question that has nothing to do with numbers at all. She’s hesitant to frown, wary that the camera has panned over to her.
“Bell knows this one,” Sims jokes lightly, jesting as he nudges Hudson with his elbow, who doesn’t look like he has much faith in her. She’s mildly offended, but reluctantly agrees with the notion; what Russell had asked her… she’d hardly even heard - well, that’s perhaps a little disingenuous. She’d heard the words he’d said, but her brain refused to cooperate when processing what he’d meant, what he’d asked after.
“Ah. Простите,” she apologises with a dip of her head, a reddening of her cheeks. The audience seems to lean forward, little notepads and pens ready, prepared to write. “Might you repeat that?”
“Of course,” Russell smiles. There’s an almost… cruel quality to it. She tilts her head, wondering. “For $5000, where is P̷̹̈́͗̕ȇ̴͙̀r̸̤͖͖̀s̶͚̭̠̆ẽ̶̙̲̈́u̷̮̫̐̚ş̵̩̹̑̽?”
Bell blanches, the colour seeping from her cheeks and tongue leadening in her mouth. She turns to the camera, which she knows is panned at her, and she freezes a bit more when… the camera is wrong. It doesn’t look like a digital camera used to air live footage, but to record film.
“I don’t know,” she manages to say, finally. Her team, Sims and Hudson, look disappointed with that. Sims has more of a pitying look, whereas Hudson seems to not be surprised at all. She shrugs helplessly.
She really doesn’t know - how could she?
She’s feverish when she wakes, disoriented when she turns her head on the pillow, the world spinning with the movement. Her nausea spikes and her stomach clenches in an attempt to vomit something up. Nothing but bile fills her mouth, and she starts to choke on it, violently.
“Hey, hey,” a voice snaps, tone urgent. She feels large hands grip the sensitive skin of her biceps, and it’s warm, too warm, but she can’t fight it off. She’s too weak, her muscles ache, and whoever grips her arms succeeds in pulling her upright from the mattress - into a sitting position. The bile in her mouth shifts with gravity, and she’s still choking, but it’s a lot less overwhelming, now.
Coughing and clearing her airways becomes manageable with somebody delivering even pats on her back. She splutters before finally breathing.
God, she feels sick to her stomach. And cold. Staggeringly, bitingly cold. Goosebumps rise along her skin, nearly painful, and she shivers, teeth clattering together, sweat sticking her hair to her forehead. Fingers - not hers - graze the skin there.
“Shit,” the voice from before - Russell - swears. The miasma of sleep drips away from her, bit by bit, and an awareness slowly steeps in. “Bell, you’re burning up.”
She very much disagrees, shivering as she leans into him; the pain of her overly sensitive skin touching his is superseded by the comfort of his warmth. He flicks the lamp on, and the light makes the ache in her head so much more noticeable. She winces, squeezing her eyes shut in protest. If she breathes, focuses on his warmth, the need to vomit subsides, if only a little bit.
He moves out of the bed - and the lack of his warmth is immediately noticeable. It plunges her back into the biting cold of the safehouse, and pulling up the blanket only makes her skin prickle, uncooperative with the material of it.
The few moments of solitude allow her to think. She frowns in confusion, she had a dream… a strange, strange dream… she remembers it so clearly, but even now the details are starting to fade. Bell blinks harshly, cycling through her thoughts. Something about it had been important, she thinks, but fails to remember what.
Hm. Russell returns with a wet towelette, a cup of water and a handful of pills; five of different shapes and colours. Her eyes widen - surely it’s overkill for a simple flu… but, he’s the one who knows about this stuff - medicines and first aid and whatnot. She takes the medication, minimising her scrutiny. Swallowing the water is a pain - it’s akin to the burn of napalm in her throat. She vanishes that thought when it only serves to make her feel iller.
Russell begins to dab at her forehead with the damp cloth, ignoring how she swipes weakly at him. It’s cold.
“You’re overheating,” he explains as if she’s incapable of working that out herself, his voice low. She figures it must be the early hours of the morning, still, and sound echoes in the safehouse.
“Let me overheat, then,” she scowls, but she knows it’s irrational.
He makes an exasperated noise but obliges - puts the cloth aside. “Alright.” Seemingly confident in the medications he’d supplied her, he lays back down satisfied that he’d done his duty in making sure Bell doesn’t succumb to a fever.
He pulls her back against his chest, their bare skin pressing against each other. “You’re warm,” she notes, drowsily.
Russell hums. “You’re warmer.”
It’s early enough that they’re both adequately tired to easily fall asleep again. Bell inches closer to that line, and thoughts of her dream start to fade. What she wants to say next gets caught in her throat.
I had a dream about you.
Only, she can’t remember it.