by me
Rating: R
Pairing: none yet
Notes: Blame Fi for mistakes 'cause I rushed in finishing :-D
Disclaimers in previous parts.
Ilya started awake when his fever broke, and suddenly the blanket was warm.
Sighing, he shifted and about that time realized the German wasn't asleep
either. His voice was soft out of the darkness. "You feel better?"
"Yes," Ilya said, and after a moment added, "Thank you."
"Mm." There was more silence. Heatley finally said somewhat nervously, Ilya
thought, "Where are you from?"
The Russian decided, after a minute, that it didn't matter if the Germans knew
where he was from. "Tver. Not very large." And as an afterthought, "You?"
"Freiburg. Near Dresden. East. How long since you have been home?"
"Three years. There is nothing for me there now."
"Oh. Where is your family?"
"Dead."
"Oh..."
Ilya did not like this. The German was way too...friendly. He wanted to be
callous in return, but he was remembering the soft, sure touch that
Heatley had used to treat his wound last night. And he hated it because
his touch reminded him of Igor's and he didn't fucking want to like the
German but...he cared, Ilya could tell. He wasn't like the other officers.
Russian or German. He wasn't even like Igor.
Fuck.
Heatley reached over and untied his wrist restraints again, and Ilya slowly
unbuttoned his jacket. He shied away when Heatley reached out, causing the
German to give him a quizzical look. "I'm not going to hurt you."
So Ilya relented and let him use his soft hands again, inspecting his earlier
care. "Why?" he asked softly, and Dany looked up at him in surprise. That
was not a question he expected.
The kid's questioning eyes bore into him and he sat back. "Because," he said
slowly, speaking without really meaning to, because there was something
about Kovalchuk that was dragging it out of him, "this is...worthless."
"The war?"
Dany closed his eyes. "The war, yes. Everything."
"But...you are German. You are the ones that invaded."
Dany laughed shortly, bitterly. "You think I started this? You think there was
a vote? No...if I was not here, killing people, ordering soldiers to kill
people, then they would send me and my family to the death camps. What
choice is that to make?" Ilya didn't say anything, but no longer was his
gaze fixed on Dany. Instead, his eyes were focused squarely on the ground.
Dany sighed, and his hands clenched into fists, which Ilya noticed because
one of them was still resting on his ribs. "I'm sorry...I should not talk
this way. Please forget I said anything."
Ilya covered the German's hand with his own, intending to move it. But the
fist relaxed slightly under his touch, and Dany's hand was warm against
his skin, and he just...didn't. A lot of things were running through his
head, and he opened his mouth to speak. Don't tell him, he told
himself furiously, closing his mouth again. He doesn't need to know
anything about you. It isn't important. He is the enemy. Enemy. Enemy.
But even while this mantra ran through his head, the words he'd been
suppressing poured out anyway, albeit in a voice Dany had to strain to
hear. "My father was a professor at the university in Moscow. He was
against the communists, quietly, but they found out. When I was 13 they
killed him. I lived with my sister until I was old enough to join the
army. But they were afraid I would not because of my father. So they
threatened my sister. Of course I joined. One week later, I heard she had
been murdered. I do not think it was a coincidence." Furious at himself,
battling with anger and old pain and confusion over why he'd even say
anything, Ilya kept his eyes on the floor.
Dany turned his hand over so their palms rested together. The Russian didn't
move, and Heatley could see how heavily his losses weighed on him. "We
have more in common than you think. My best friend was killed because of
his faith." He had to be dead, Dany had to think of him that way, because
he couldn't fathom Wil having to live in the camps, living through that
horror. Yes, he was better dead.
Ilya didn't say anything, but the words struck him hard. Igor was dead. Dead
because of this German. He shifted his eyes and they fell on the hilt of
the knife in Dany's belt. He locked eyes with Dany. "My best friend is
dead because you killed him."
And, quick as a flash, the knife was in his hand. Dany was fast, very fast,
but the young Russian's strength was more than Heatley realized. In but a
second, the knife blade was pressed to his throat. He could feel Ilya
trembling because their bodies were pressed together, but the hand
clutching the knife was steady. Dany stopped struggling, swallowing
against the cold steel. If he was dead, he couldn't kill anyone else. It'd
be a lot easier that way. He leaned his head back, until it was almost
resting on the Russian's shoulder, exposing his whole throat. "Kill me,"
he hissed.
Time slowed down. The pressure of the blade grew. The Russian's breath was hot
against his cheek. His hand shook, just the smallest amount, and Dany
closed his eyes. A trickle of blood traced its way down Dany's neck, he
could feel it make its way under the collar of his jacket and soak into
his shirt. And then the pressure was gone. Heatley opened his eyes to see
the knife several inches away from his face.
Before either of them could say anything, 4 soldiers burst into the tent.
Three of them grabbed Kovalchuk, ripping the knife out of his hand. He
didn't struggle until they were almost out of the tent, and then he just
stopped walking and looked directly at Dany when he spoke.
And the Russian words so surprised Dany that he didn't notice the Finn
pressing the cloth to the shallow cut on his throat. In fact, it wasn't
until about 5 minutes after Ilya was out of sight that Dany managed to
answer Lehtonen's inquiries about whether or not he was all right.
TBC.