by me
Rating: R
Notes: Uh...I don't think I have any. I'm sorry I can't write long chapters.
Ilya didn’t shy away from the soldiers’ blows as they led him away. He
couldn’t blame them. They had seen their commander about to be killed.
Except he wasn’t about to be killed because as it turned out, Ilya couldn’t
kill him. He couldn’t figure out why. He’d killed dozens before. But he
couldn’t kill this man, who had treated him kindly with no reason to and
many reasons to not. Who understood loss, understood pain. Who spoke his
language when no one else did.
And he talked in his sleep. It was German, and Ilya didn’t understand much.
But he understood the tone. And he understood the name. That was why
he’d told him about Igor, his words quiet and soft. Told him they had
killed more than his friend, more than his brother. And he knew Dany
would understand, and he told him so.
And now his life was at Heatley’s mercy. Because he should be killed for
attempt to murder, and only Dany knew he had foiled his own attempt. The
sharp pains in his wrists brought Ilya back to reality, and the German who
had tied the restraints muttered something unfriendly and left him alone.
Cold and aching, Ilya closed his eyes and willed sleep to come.
*
*
*
Dany finally convinced Kari that he was fine and to leave him. The young Finn
wasn’t stupid and knew whatever words were spoken had deeply affected his
commander, but he knew better than to push when Dany said it was nothing,
too.
But it wasn’t nothing. Dany knew, of course, that Ilya had pulled away at the
moment at which he had the power of life and death over Dany. And then he
had told him why. “I’m sorry,” the words flowed through his mind like
they were being spoken aloud again. “I’ve never been unable to kill
before. You are like me, you understand. I hear you in your sleep. I
loved Igor, yes, and I will not hold you responsible for his death any
longer.” He had said these things quickly and had been dragged away and
he would not be killed until Dany ordered him to be. Heatley figured he
had about a day to figure how to keep Ilya’s execution from happening.
Because at this point, he hadn’t the heart to kill him.
*
*
*
When Ilya woke up, his shivers were violent, his head and wrists throbbed with
pain, and he cursed himself for his weakness. And then he noticed that he
wasn’t alone.
“I’m going to be ordered to execute you.”
Ilya stared into the blue eyes. Confusion and despair warred for
dominance. “That is not unexpected.”
“I don’t...I can’t...”
Ilya snorted and looked away from Dany’s intense gaze. “You will do what you
have to. It’s war. Do not care so much.”
Anger flashed in the blue eyes, though Ilya wasn’t looking. Dany dropped to
his knees and grabbed the front of Ilya’s jacket, pleased at the startled
look he received. “And just how the fuck do I do that? It’s your
fucking fault. I was fine until you...you...I was dealing fine.” He had
started off with a snarl, but his words had become more and more hopeless
and less and less heated as his thought finished.
“Can I remind you that you captured me?” Ilya snarled
back. “It’s easy to do. Just turn off whatever it is that makes you care.”
“I can’t do that,” Dany said, finally firm in his words, his eyes adopting a
more resigned position. “And from what I remember,” Dany raised his chin
to show Ilya the thin line where the knife had barely broken the
skin, “neither can you.”
Ilya didn’t want to be reminded of his failure. And he couldn’t look Heatley
in the eye as he whispered, “I’m glad you can’t. I wasn’t ready to die.”
“And you are now?”
“It is inevitable.”
“Ilya Valeriovich.”
That caught the Russian’s attention. It was the first time Heatley had called
him by name, and he didn’t spit out Ilya’s family name like he’d heard
before. Instead he was showing him...respect. Ilya looked up to lock
their gazes yet again. He found Dany’s eyes to be dizzying in their
depths, in the many emotions shimmering within the pools of blue. “Yes?”
“I am not going to kill you. I won’t let you die.”
“Y-you promise?” And suddenly Ilya felt eighteen years old and completely
alone. He hated that his voice shook, he hated that his hard gaze
wavered, he hated the taste of fear in the back of his throat.
But Dany’s hand loosened on his collar and instead moved to the back of his
neck, steadying him. The German’s eyes never left his, and that grounded
him as well. “I promise.” His words were firm.
There was no room for doubt in that statement. Ilya had none. He swallowed
and nodded.
He may be eighteen years old. But he wasn’t alone.
TBC...