Chapter Text
“How long have you known Vladimir Makarov?”
“... A few years.”
“And how did you two meet, exactly?”
“I… I was-”
A soldier left to bleed out in the cold winter air of the Russian battlefield.
Some fucker on his team he once considered a comrade had decided to betray them all.
Everything hurt. Everything bled.
He could barely move, all he could do was clutch the wound on his abdomen and hope for the best while uncontrollable yet small tears left his eyes.
His body was awfully relaxed for a mind that was similar to a ruined sketchbook full of rips and scribbles.
He didn't want to die.
Not like this.
He didn't want to die by the hands of a traitor.
That wasn't the hero death he deserved, was it?
Maybe this was God's way of punishing him for all the sins he committed that he once thought were small and insignificant.
His nose was overwhelmed by the iron smell of gunpowder, blood and death all around him, including his own crimson red.
“Over here. We got a live one.”
Yuri slowly raised his gaze as he watched a figure walk in front of him, ocean blue orbs meeting mismatched ones as the raven-haired man crouched in front of him.
He could've sworn he heard the man whisper something along the lines of “don't worry,” but maybe it was just his ringing ears making a fool out of him.
With a grunt, the man — who, from his accent, Yuri assumed to be Russian as well — picked him up in his arms in a bridal style.
The soldiers that accompanied him stood calm in an eerie silence, but Yuri was sure their eyes were on him.
As the adrenaline rushing through his veins calmed its flow, an overwhelming feeling of fatigue overtook his limbs, bringing him to unconsciousness against his will.
Yuri's eyes fluttered open as his body forced him out of his — surprisingly energizing — sleep. He immediately sat up from the mattress, panic setting in once he remembered what had happened.
“Don't move too much,” Yuri froze, his eyes scanning the room till they once again met the other Russian, “Your wounds might open up again.”
“Who-” “Call me Makarov.”
Yuri could've sworn he had heard that name before.
“Are you feeling better?” Makarov asked in his raspy voice as he walked up to the bed Yuri laid on.
“A bit… Why am I here?”
Makarov raised an eyebrow at Yuri's question, “Yuri, have you seriously forgotten me?”
Yuri took a closer look at Makarov, and only then did his eyes shine with surprise as they widened.
“Volodya!”
“Rather disappointed, Yura, I recognized you from a mile away-” Vladimir was interrupted by his own chuckle as Yuri nudged him.
“You said you would be my second-in-command back then, did you not?”
“Did you-”
“Soon, Yura. Soon I will be.”
Yuri smiled, “That's… great. I'm proud of you, Vova.”
If Yuri squinted, he would've seen the traces of the faintest smile on Makarov's lips and the lightest glint of joy in his usually cold eyes, but that was all wiped off his face and replaced with that same distant look of his.
A knock on the door snapped the both of them out of their trance. It was followed by the creaking noise of a door opening, revealing a rather grumpy and way older man.
“Is he awake?”
Makarov turned his head in the man's direction, “He is. Thank you again, Zakhaev.”
Zakhaev threw a somewhat nasty but quick glare at Yuri before looking back at Makarov, responding with a simple nod, “Anytime.”
“We can take a break if you'd like, Mr. Volkov.”
“Please, just call me Yuri. I'll be fine.”
“If you say so. Please, don't force yourself through this.”
“Yuri, wake up.”
Yuri slowly but surely forced himself to wake up, rubbing his closed eyes as he pulled his back away from the comfortable space that was the backrest of the car seat.
It had been a few weeks since Makarov had rescued him, and only a few days since his recovery before he was back on the field.
He didn't mind, though, as long as he was next to Makarov during his time there.
“Shit- sorry-” “No need to worry.”
“Zakhaev wouldn't want you to miss this..”
While Makarov went on a rant that Yuri couldn't be bothered to listen to, Yuri directed his gaze towards the window of the passenger seat, a careful watch set on Zakhaev.
It seemed it was his (un)lucky day then because he got the perfect view of the man he worked for getting his arm shot off from the rest of his body.
“Shit…” Muttered Makarov, who had apparently also focused his gaze on Zakhaev's negotiation in the midst of his rant, as he started up the engine while both men watched Zakhaev rush to the car and hop into the passenger seat.
Before a single word could be even uttered, Makarov sped off, not caring about whoever was in the way.
It was nighttime, the moon's light hidden by the curtains that covered its only exit. The only light source present was the barely working lights on the ceiling that gleamed down on the two Russians.
“Are you okay?” “Yeah, still a bit shocked.”
Makarov simply nodded and took a drag of his cigarette as Yuri kept talking, “I mean, I got a full show of his arm just… basically getting sliced off.”
They both sat in silence for a brief moment while Yuri borrowed the cig from Makarov — who gladly handed it to him — and puffed the smoke in and out of his lungs.
Yuri raised an eyebrow at the realization of what Makarov was wearing, his eyes quickly looking at the man's body up and down, “I don't remember you being a big fan of sweaters, why the sudden change?”
He noticed Makarov's shoulders tense up, but figured it was nothing.
“Ah- it's… I guess some things are bound to change.” Makarov stammered, which earned a worried stare from Yuri.
“Are you-” “I'm fine.”
“Let's just… go to sleep, Yura. It's getting late.”
After a moment of silence, Yuri spoke, “Alright.. I was getting sleepy, anyway.”
“I'll be fine, Volkov.” Zakhaev muttered as he threw his cigarette on the ground and stepped on it to put it out.
“Your arm literally-” “I don't need to be reminded of what happened.”
The older man's stern voice "scared” Yuri into silence, deciding to just stare at him with a concerned look.
“Listen to me carefully, Volkov.”
Zakhaev walked towards him, placing both of his hands — his only hand, really — on his shoulders to keep him still and force their gazes to lock together.
“You need to get away from here as soon as possible. Stay away from Makarov.” The elder warned, the air around the two of them suddenly getting colder than it already was. The tension between them was so tense even a knife wouldn't be able to cut through it.
“Wha-” “You need to get out before it's too late.”
Zakhaev took a deep breath and backed away, patting Yuri's shoulder, “Or don't, I couldn't care less.”
And with that, Zakhaev walked off, slamming the door shut behind him and leaving Yuri to just stand there in a puddle of his own anxiety in the dark.
“He was-”
Sirens suddenly blared all over the building, yells just barely being heard over them as people ran throughout the hallways right outside the room the two were in.
The man's comms cackled to life, “████, we got a code red!”
“Shit-” the Brit pulled out his pager with panicked hands, “Do not try to run! I repeat, do not try to outrun it!”
“JUST LOCK THE DOORS AND HIDE!” The man yelled, a bit louder this time, while Yuri was just a mess of thoughts and worries.
“I thought I- I thought…” Yuri murmured to himself with a shaky voice, “I was sure I…”
The other placed his hand on Yuri's shoulder, “It's fine. You did your best. Just… I'll lock the doors and you try to find somewhere to hide.”
Yuri gave the Brit a nod as he stood up from his seat, his legs threatening to give up on him when he hadn’t even taken a step forward.
”You're a danger, Volkov.”
”That, or you're in danger. Maybe even both.”
“You may not realize it now, but you'll see soon.”
His past was back to haunt him.