These were familiar motions. The curl, the embrace around Raikov was defensive, maybe the smaller of the two Soviets would have recognized it, but it was relaxing. His hold was still tight, still desperate, but his overwhelming drive to protect was diminishing, stressed and heightened since the American's assault on the silver-haired Soviet decades ago.

(He did not slice his throat. He was in the locker, still alive. Still breathing. Intact. A bruise or three, but intact.)

He... ...

He slowly pulled away.

"I have to be strong for you." His voice cracked, low. It was getting harder to speak. "I can't be weak like this. I'm not this weak."

Volgin was looking towards the wall, a trembling shimmer glazing his eyes.