majorbonerkiller | FISSIONMAILED: Apartment complex

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FISSIONMAILED: Apartment complex

Well Ivan certainly didn't remember leaving the door to his apartment wide open, just beckoning squatters to come shit on his carpet--or even worse, eat his food.

Not that they weren't all squatters here anyway. Ivan crouched down near the door frame, pulling out his tranquilizer gun. He peered over the threshold, and took a chance, hoping his dog was still here--and still alive.

"Galina! Here girl!"

When he heard the familiar patter and panting he sighed in relief, ruffling her ears when she was close enough, "Good girl." Curse himself for smiling at a time like this.

Slightly more confident now with his canine comrade, Ivan entered the dark apartment, keeping his footsteps quiet and his tranquilizer at the ready.

And he almost immediately tripped over his own dirty laundry, screaming in the process of mid-falling terror. Luckily his amazing acrobatic skills (catching himself on the dresser) came to the rescue.

Moving forward towards the center of the room Ivan could hear--breathing. He baited his breath, trying to hold back any instincts to just start shooting up the place. He was fueled by a sort of cocktail of terror and anger--how dare somebody come waltzing into his apartment thinking they own the goddamn place?!

He padded closer, towards the sounds of life--they must be on the couch, since he just knocked his knee on the coffee table and had to hiss in silent agony a moment before going on.

Finally steadying himself he located the perpetrator's head after several seconds (a whole minute of squinting) and pressed the muzzle of his gun against it, "Get up!"

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"Now, or then."

"Then..."

Volgin closed his eyes.

"... I should have killed him."

"When--when did you have the chance? I-If...Zhenya...it doesn't matter. I'll do...something...," Ivan pressed his face numbly against Volgin's chest again, like before.

There had to be something he could do. He just had no idea what.

The bare hand was gently caressing that white head of hair, slow motions against the strands in soothing strokes. Raikov could feel his warm breath purr along his scalp, the leaning of his torso to nuzzle him.

"Vanya... Vanya... My dearest Vanya. It's too late now."

His voice was hushed, muffled. Raikov could feel pain bleed along the edge of his words, for all of his strength, passion, and ferocity.

"It's been too late for decades. The Cold War is over. The Soviet Union has fallen.

"You were the last thing I heard before I died. It was raining, and you held me."

"N-not for me! Back home, Zhenya...it hasn't happened yet," he inhaled, holding back a sob.

"I wish...," he leant into the comfort of the other man, mumbling quietly his confessions. "That I could help you too, but I can't."

His fingers curled again and uncurled, grasping at trains of thought. Instead of that Ivan gave up on words and wrapped his arms around Volgin's torso in a weak embrace. (But in no way did it lack feeling.)

Tears streamed freely down his face.

"You can't."

Volgin's tone was harsh, he forced that harshness. Had to be strong for the both of them. Can't dwell on the past. Can't change the past. He could never take back all that he lost, not in his lifetime. He was aging, weakening from his peak and fading fast from what was left of his prime. He could never rebuild his Terrible City with what he had left.

He would die (again) a bitter man, unable to stop dwelling on it.

His hold on Raikov tightened. The younger man's face was pressed into that coarse, dull sweater, the hard, well-built pectorals underneath.

"You're all I have left, Ivan!"

(Don't cry.)

The Raikov at the Academy had recalled what happened to him, after his death. The recall made him a shivering heap, a shattered man quivering in his embrace: Left to his men, left to their appetites and desires, circling the man fallen from grace, ganging up on him before marring the snowy perfection he so treasured. Wolves. Wolves not unlike the ones he had once been tasked to cull.

This Ivan he now held was a perfect, clean Ivan, free of desecration.

The ungloved hand tried to slide beneath Ivan's clothing, to feel that back, to once again stroke the smooth skin. He felt it that other night, on that chair, the whole, unmarked person that was his beautiful Raidenovich. Again. He was pure and whole again.

(Don't cry, you simpering idiot!)

Ivan knitted his hands into that sweater like a life raft.

But that wasn't good enough--he needed to comfort. Ran his hand up and down Volgin's back in languid motions; soothing him, and himself.

Was it really so impossible to save his Volgin back home? He wasn't even sure if he could make it back home.

"I can change it," he muttered in his fruitless efforts, sniveling like a child who couldn't get his way.

His grip tightened again, hand pausing at what seemed like such a...desperate thing to say--Ivan smiled sadly.

"...And I'm not going anywhere, Zhenya," he kissed whatever was closest. "I'm right here."

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.

Ivan let his arms slide away with Volgin's; they suddenly felt very empty.

"Of course, Zhenya," he ran a palm over one of those strong arms. "But so do I...I can't let you do all the work," Ivan's brow knitted, a serious frown on his lips.

He didn't want to see that sort of look on Volgin's face. Not over some Yankee dog--not over him over things he can't change...as much as those things hurt him to the core.

Volgin shook his head, laughed. Forcing himself to laugh. (Don't...)

His eyes were avoiding Raikov's face.

"You... do plenty. You served beautifully. There are few men suited to run things in my absence, even Ocelot..."

(False pedigree traitorous scum! Fit to be quartered and drowned!)

"It was inevitable. The world did not see things my way, and...

"What's done is done, Ivan."

He swallowed.

"I can't do anything about it."

Ivan hated when he couldn't get his way. However, he felt a swell of accomplishment knowing he served his Colonel well.

He hung his head, looking down at his hands clasped together in front of him. His voice was near a whisper.

"I...," it hurt, "I guess so," it really hurt.

One hand reached out to take old of Volgin's, to try and draw him back into the room.

"You don't know."

Raikov had taken the ungloved hand. It made motions to close, but did not quite.

"I should have known. I would have never told you.

"You can't stop it."

I tried.

"I knew...," he mumbled, standing there. Unable to move.

Volgin's hand closed tightly around Raikov's, almost painfully so; the other hand was making a fist.

"Why did you make me tell you."

Ivan winced from Volgin's forceful grip, "I...didn't want to believe it."

A fling of his powerful arm, with intent to send Ivan to the floor.

An outburst: "Don't make me cry again!"

Surprise caught him more than anything, and Ivan went stumbling back, just barely managing to catch himself on the armrest of the couch.

He looked up at Volgin, remorseful. Swallowing his pride--both literally and figuratively--he said, "I'm sorry."

Volgin held his arm for some time before slowly lowering it, realizing what he had done, something usually only reserved for Raikov when the giant was coming to his senses after losing his temper.

Death and Hell did nothing to dull his temper.

The angered expression softened into something dull, a mutual remorsefulness. His shoulders, his aggressive posture relaxed.

"You're forgiven, Ivan."

Noting his bare hand, he stepped away from the doorway to search for his glove.

He sat down on the couch with a soft sound, hands resting in his lap, eyes steady on Volgin before drifting back down.

He kept his words to himself.

Doubts, concerns--a lifetime of regret. What could have been done and what didn't happen. A future of riches and romance, power and tyrannical dictatorship burned to pieces.

Almost everything he ever wanted and aspired for crumbled to pieces before him.

Ivan let his head rest in the soft palm of his hands as he mulled that it wasn't the power or greed--or the dread of what he knew his future would hold--no; there was really only one thing in his whole shattered utopia that he couldn't imagine losing:

And that was Volgin.

And he would lose him too.

It suddenly felt very cold and empty in his apartment. Like a weighted loneliness. Even with Galina eagerly licking at his foot, it was like she wasn't even there.

Amazingly, the damn dog did not go for his discarded glove on the floor during their episode. Volgin scooped it up, looking it over, before sliding it back on and tucking the end beneath his sleeve. A flex of his hand with the satisfying heavy strain of rubber, he turned towards Ivan. That damn dog's pink tongue was slobbering against his foot.

The ex-Colonel gave the dog a look.

Raikov could hear approaching footsteps. Soon, Volgin was standing over him, not even a foot away. A large hand then rested on his shoulder, slowing trailing towards his hair in a gentle caress.

"Vanya." His voice had recovered its strength, once again a low, confident sound, something perceptively unshakable again. "I will return.

"They killed me, but half of a century is only a minor setback."

"Half a century?" Ivan shook his head. "Back home...," he choked, "I can't wait that long."

Volgin's voice prickled: "Are you going back?"

Ivan didn't dare look at him yet.

"I don't know. I--," fear and confusion, "I don't know how I got here in the first place!"

(Internally, Volgin wanted to know if he could go back himself, correct himself. Kill that worthless American dog before he could...!)

"You don't know."

The hand curled, slowly stroking Raikov's hair with the backs of his fingers.

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