Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Cherepakhy plavayut u varenni.”

Serena glanced up, a frown on her face, but Bernie, who had muttered something that sounded as much like a sneeze as anything, was lost in whatever she was doing on her side of the office, and Serena wondered if she even knew she’d spoken. She glanced fondly at her colleague as she peered at her screen, then jotted something down in a notebook.

She rather liked these moments when Bernie was utterly absorbed in something, for it meant she could watch her without fear of being caught. Ever since that heart-stopping moment after Fletch’s surgery when Bernie had kissed her, she had been mulling over her own utterly unexpected response, and trying to work out what it meant for her. Despite the awkwardness of the following days, and Bernie’s assertion that they should keep whatever it was they had confined to theatre, she couldn’t stop thinking about it - about kissing Bernie.

Did Bernie think about it too, or had she brushed it off as easily as it seemed? Perhaps it was de rigeur for her - goodness knew she was an attractive woman, and could probably have her pick of interested women. Women were probably kissing her all the time. She frowned again, shook her head as though she were shooing a fly, and turned back to her screen.

“U sovy moyi shtany.” Bernie was at it again. “Helpful,” she muttered, scowling at the screen as she scribbled again.

“What’s that?” Serena looked over again, but Bernie was only half listening, if that.

“Hmm? Oh, nothing, nothing...” and she was gone again.

Serena found herself gazing at Bernie again, and without knowing she was doing it, she shifted her chair round a little so she could watch Bernie’s long slender fingers tapping at the keyboard - well, not so much tapping as caressing, she thought - she hardly seems to touch the keys at all - and she swallowed as Bernie picked up her pen, then thoughtfully rested it on her lower lip.

I kissed that lip, Serena thought, her face flushing with the memory of it. She had very particular thoughts about those fingers, too. She closed her eyes and gulped. How on earth was she to get anything done sharing an office with this infuriating, irresistible woman? But then again, how on earth could she possibly raise the question, when she had been so very kindly but firmly rebuffed already? She dragged her chair back to her desk and her eyes back to her work.

“Zanadto bahato cholovikiv, nedostatnʹo zhinok.” Bernie snorted at this one. “Well, they’ve got that one right, at least!” she laughed.

Serena sighed and looked up again.

“Bernie, what on earth are you doing? You sound as if you’re having a stroke!”

Bernie came to and looked up with a start.

“Oh - did I say that out loud?” she asked.

“You’ve been muttering away for the last ten minutes, though goodness knows what you’ve been saying. What are you doing?”

Bernie flung her pen to the desk with a pout. “It’s this stupid owl!” she exclaimed, leaving Serena none the wiser.

“Owl? Bernie, do you think it’s possible you might be having a stroke? You appear to be having trouble finding the right words.”

“Funny. It’s this app, the language thing. It’s teaching me the most stupid things.”

Serena relaxed. “Oh, that owl. What language was that, for goodness sake? And why are you learning it in work time, hmm?” she added sternly.

Bernie picked up a folder and handed it over the desk. “Henrik gave me this earlier, thought it might be a little project for me. I thought I’d see if I could pick up at least the rudiments of Ukrainian before I decided - no point going if I can’t communicate,” she said.

Several responses occurred to Serena, each more scathing than the last, but she held her tongue as she leafed through the pack in dismay. This did indeed look very much Bernie’s kind of thing, and she could see that the project would potentially take her away from Holby for weeks, if not months.

“I see,” she said. “And what’s your verdict - is conversational Ukrainian a sine qua non, do you think? Or this project - is it a fait accompli whether you can pick it up or not?”

Bernie huffed, her fringe raising and falling with the puff of her breath. Serena tried not to remember the feeling of that breath on her neck.

“I don’t know. They say there’s no need to speak the language, but I don’t like working in a place I can’t make myself understood, or have an idea what’s going on. I’ve got a little Arabic and Farsi, a tiny bit of Russian - I thought I wouldn’t find it too difficult to pick this up, but the app’s giving me the most stupid things to say. Listen to this.”

She squinted at her notebook.

“The turtles are swimming in jam,” she read aloud. “Is that a Ukrainian proverb, do you suppose? Or this: The owl has my trousers. It’s all just nonsense - or else it’s a hangover from the Cold War. you know, The snow is late in Moscow this winter, all that cloak and dagger stuff.”

“Perhaps not the most practical vocabulary for surgery,” Serena agreed. “What else - the giraffe is in the mini cab? My postillion has been struck by lightning? What was the last one, that made you laugh?”

Bernie rolled her eyes and coloured up a little. “Too many men, not enough women,” she muttered.

“Ha! More to the point for you, perhaps, though I imagine you could have a positive smörgåsbord at your disposal if you wanted.” Serena laughed in spite of the little stab of unease she felt at the implications, though she couldn’t deny that it was spiked with schadenfreude - she really didn’t want Bernie to go, and if she couldn't learn the language.... But then she had an idea.

“OK, so this app’s a non-starter. But there are other options.” She opened a new tab and typed quickly. “Aha! - here we are. Try this.” She turned up the volume on her monitor and typed something, then clicked, and a robotic voice came forth.

“Ya khotiv by pohovoryty pro te, shcho stalosya.”

Bernie made a passable attempt at repeating the phrase and cocked her head, looking so absurdly like a Labrador puppy that Serena had to bite back a laugh.

“Well, ya means I, and khotiv sounds a bit like khochu... I want something?”

“Not bad,” Serena nodded, bracing herself. “It means, I’d like to talk about what happened.”

Before Bernie had time to process this, the voice spoke again.

“Ty potsiluvav mene, ale ya potsiluvav i tebe.”

Bernie was looking at her notes. “Something about you and me...”

“You kissed me, but I kissed you as well,” Serena translated, and clicked again.

“My povynni buly b pohovoryty pro tse bilʹshe.”

Serena had all of Bernie’s attention now.

“We... talk?”

“Very good, Major - we should have talked about it more. Last one - try this.”

Their eyes were locked now, and Serena didn’t even look at the screen as she clicked.

“Ya khochu shche raz potsiluvaty tebe.”

This time it was Serena who attempted to repeat the phrase in Ukrainian, and Bernie, who really was a very quick study, translated more certainly, wonder in her voice.

“I want to kiss you... again?”

Serena was flushed, her breathing shallow, her eyes bright. “What do you suppose the Ukrainian is for shut the bloody blinds?”

Bernie rose to her feet, already reaching for the cord.

“Doesn’t matter,” she mumbled. “Not going.”

She locked the door for good measure, and turned to find Serena standing right behind her.

“Enough theory,” she said. “Time for the practical.”