Chapter Text
Alfred would have slept much easier at night if war was morally righteous, and the people he made more alive didn't make more people dead. But war was not clear. There was the good and the bad, and the really really bad, but for most people, they were stuck in oblivion. Between heaven and hell, there was only the gray.
Therefore, Alfred could not hold a grudge against others. He was not mad about their actions. Nor was he wasn't happy. He just was.
Ivan had been pacing all day. He was not smiling, which was unfortunate. They were leaving at dusk
The knock at the door came around noon. Ivan, restless, went to answer. He peeped warily through the peephole, and then exploded with unexpected emotion.
"TY CHERTOVSKI SUKA!" He did not open the door. Instead, he took Toris by the throat and slammed him against the wall. The pictures hanging in the hallway clattered to the ground, shattering the portrait of a happy family.
Toris gagged, weakly grasping at the hands on his windpipe. Alfred did not think it was possible for Ivan, who smiled no matter what, to show this much rage. He was a volcano hot enough to melt the Russian winter. His face twisted, and his huge form became impossibly more intimidating.
"Traitor!" He growled like a dangerous snow leopard with a Russian accent.
Alfred tugged at Ivan's arm. "Stop!" He cried. "Ivan, let him down, we have to go!" He did not beg out of concern for Toris. He and Toris were in the same shade of gray. He begged because the Germans outside the door were getting impatient.
Ivan looked over to Alfred, met his eyes, and in a moment that felt like a lot of moments but was really just one, he smiled and dropped Toris. Then punched him square in the face, like an angry Lithuanian mother had done to a certain goose.
They ran.
The door to the house splintered open with the horrible crunch of a dragon's maw that shook the old home to the core. In poured soldiers, snapping with their rifles held high. Horrible shouts of god-knows-what in German echoed around them as they escaped through the back window.
Faintly, he heard Toris' sob. "Where is she?! Where is she…"
Soldiers had already circled the house, spotting them immediately and opening fire, moving in for the kill.
Alfred tried to keep pace with Ivan. One mad dash from the house to the forest behind them and they'd be home-free. Just seconds of no man's lands where life and death existed equally and God flipped a coin to decide which.
The bullets whizzed past their faces, past their arms and legs, but did not hit. They were halfway way there. His crippled leg had made it halfway way and would make it another half, God had flipped heads and soon the pair would be sitting in New York, drinking hot cocoa and hopefully not thinking of this exact moment.
Except- God was not always merciful. Alfred had forgotten, he forgot he worked to make people more alive who made others more dead. Bringer of life to the bringers of death.
The ground was frozen and unforgiving. His crippled leg stumbled on a patch of ice sent by God Himself. Searing pain tore through his legs up to his brain. No bullets landed, but they might as well have. He lifted his head from the mud. He'd called tails and now he will pay.
Except- Ivan was merciful. Ivan who's smiles were too soft for the harsh war. He turned back even after calling heads. His gun, which Alfred did not even realize he'd been carrying, took down two men. He hoisted Alfred up by the shoulder, and escaped to the forest.
They ran. They ran and they ran and Alfred could not run so Ivan ran for him.
Eventually they reached a small settlement, where the fragmented remains of people who called tails remained. Ivan supported Alfred with a strong arm over his shoulder, and they dredged up the dilapidated steps into a stone church.
The church was not much. A couple of rows of pews sat before a humble altar. Ivan led Alfred to the frontmost pew, where the two heavily sat down as if weighted by their sins.
It felt like years had been spent in that forest, when truly it must have been no more than an hour. Each hobbling step he took was so painful, it stretched time itself.
Alfred looked over at Ivan sat next to him on the pew. He was hunched over, hands on his knees, gasping in the frigid air.
Slowly, he turned his right shoulder forward, pawing at something on his back. "Blyad," he hissed through chattering teeth.
"What's wrong?" Alfred asked, unseeing from his spot on Ivan's left. He did not sound frantic or crazy, he was completely calm.
"No worries, Fyredka." Ivan said. Turning away from his shoulder, he fixed Alfred a smile. It was soft and tired and unexpectedly resigned. Yes worries.
"You're hurt." Alfred said. It wasn't a question. It did not want an answer.
"I said no worries, Fyredka- agh!" Involuntarily Ivan cried out when moving his right arm. The adrenaline was wearing off and their wounds were beginning to be felt as intended.
The cry was a bullet to Alfred's own heart. "It's okay." He said. "It's okay, I'm a doctor."
He got up from the pew, and hobbled around Ivan to his injured side, ignoring the pain gnawing at him from his leg.
The back of Ivan's brown civilian coat was stained red. It was freezing, but he'd have to take it off to treat the wound.
"Your jacket needs to come off." Alfred said. His voice was weak. His fingers were already frozen and stiff. These were no conditions for a surgery. "I'll cut it off, with, with something. And then I'll use your knife to scoop out the bullets, wrap it with my shirt." There were options. It was fine. "You'll be as good as new in no time." It was completely fine.
"Nyet." Ivan said. "Nyet, Fyredka, listen." He pulled Alfred tight with his good arm. Alfred tucked his head into Ivan's neck, into the soft cloth of the tattered scarf. "I leave this church, and you go to Amerika. Promise? You go to Amerika, have big life. Say privyet to brother Matthew. Love good girl."
Alfred shook his head. The tears on his face froze before they fell, stopped before they could even begin their journey. "No, no Ivan. It's only a scratch. I'm a doctor…"
"Hey, Fyredka," Ivan said. Alfred looked up.
They kissed. They kissed and it was everything a kiss should not be. It was sad. It was cold. It was perfect.
After what felt like centuries, longer than the forest, longer than Alfred's time on earth, they pulled back. Ivan smiled at him, and it was happy. The emotions of his smile were for once, not enigmatic. It was the happy smile of someone in love. It was the embodiment of his love songs, his laughter, his soft voice.
Alfred returned it. God, he smiled and he was happy too. He could no longer feel his face, but he knew somehow that it stretched into the biggest smile he'd possibly ever smiled.
Then Ivan coughed. He turned away and coughed and happy red phlegm came out. It was the happiest moment of Alfred's life and Ivan was coughing blood and dust and ash and death.
He looked down. Ivan's middle was stained with red. It wasn't just his shoulder, it wasn't just Alfred's leg, and it wasn't just the cold. The organs that made Ivan more alive were making him more dead.
"You fucker." Alfred gasped. "You stupid son of a bitch. Why did you come back. Why didn't you keep going?!" He clutched at Ivan's sleeves, held on and didn't let go. His hands were frozen, his heart was on fire.
Ivan wheezed. "Ya lyublyu tyebya," he clutched, equally as frantic, at Alfred's shoulders. "Ya lyublyu tyebya fsyem syertsem."
"I know. I know I know I know," Alfred whispered. "I love you too."
Alfred wasn't sure how long he sat there on the pew, clutching Ivan and freezing to death. Time froze from the cold. Ivan's guttural wheezes slowed, as did his own rasping breaths.
With bleary eyes, Alfred stared at the crucifix mounted atop the altar.
Forgive me Father, for I have sinned, in what I have done, and in what I have failed to do-
Up above, through the holes in the roof of the decrepit church, the stars were faintly flickering in the dark sky.
Temnaya noch' razdelyayet lyubimaya nas.
…
Alfred Jones woke up. He was back in the windowless room with the paper sunflowers. The comforter was tucked tightly around his legs.
His eyes peeled open reluctantly, but when he reached for his glasses there was only dead space. He jerked his arm back in surprise. It hit the metallic pole of the bed's headboard, letting off a clinical ping.
Alfred opened his eyes fully. Blurry vision scanned the room. This was not New York, this was not the volcano, and it certainly was not the windowless bedroom in Toris' old house.
It was a field hospital.
"Oh, the Amerikan is awake."
A gangly officer stood at Alfred's bedside. He wore a cap proudly brandishing the red star.
He was tall and skinny, with a hard expression and hard bones visible through his skin. Nothing like Ivan. Nothing like him at all.
"What…"
"You're in field hospital, in Stalingrad. Our scouts found you half frozen to death, with ID in jacket. We have reclaimed much of land stolen by Nazis. Is that not great news, comrade?" The gangly soldier adjusted his cap with a satisfied smile. Alfred couldn't care less.
"What happened… the man I was with?"
"The deserter? Got what he fucking deserved."