Chapter Text
Dragunov wakes to the sound of music.
He recognized it as a Tchaikovsky piece, having grown up listening to various famous composers all around the world. His father likes to listen to them on his downtime, citing the music as having a calming effect after the stress of an operation; he himself also enjoys them now and then, the music doing wonders to ease his mind after a fight. Or just anything that makes him angry.
He pulls himself out of bed, throws on a tank top and a pair of pants, then heads out.
His father is making breakfast. The kitchen smells of frying bacon and eggs.
“Good morning, Sergei.”
“Morning dad.”
He sits down and starts running a hand through his hair, oblivious to his father watching and smiling quietly at his son.
Just another peaceful morning in the household... the way they like it.
***
“So what do you want to do?”
The question catches Dragunov off guard.
He has been face down on a pillow, spread entirely out on the couch as he listens to music and the random white noise here and there. Most people would not believe that the White Angel of Death has lazy days, but here he is – even if said days are few and far between. Everyone needs a break, after all.
The couch dips as his father gently seats himself down, and Dragunov shifts closer to comfortably nests on his father’s lap. “You feeling alright?”
“Yeah. Just… worried.” Riots have broken out in small pockets across Russia; High Command suspected the influence of the Mishima Zaibatsu, but so far they have had no concrete evidence yet. They handed him his mission parameters before he went on leave, with instructions to start immediately upon return. He’s going to be gone for a long while after this.
“The White Angel of Death, worried? That doesn’t sound like you.”
A gentle hand starts combing through his hair, which has come loose at some point.
“…Are you going to be alright?”
“I will be fine.”
Something nags at the back of his mind. He is quite sure his stint in the previous Tekken tournament net him several enemies at the very least; if his father were to come to harm because of his decision to step into the limelight, he would never forgive himself.
His birth mother somehow managed to figure out their relationship or at the very least knew there is a connection, and he is pretty sure anyone with enough information can put two and two together and harm his father as a way to draw him out. The Mishima Zaibatsu, G Corporation… so many potential risks, and he knows he can’t mitigate them all.
But he can start by punching their faces in, at least.
“I…”
“Yes?”
“…just be careful, dad. The Mishima Zaibatsu might be after you.”
A non-committal hum. “I hope it doesn’t come to that.”
He might just have to see if High Command is partial to the idea of placing his father into witness protection, or at the very least keeps a better eye on the man. He knows his value to the Motherland, and anything that has the potential to compromise him is an appealing target for kidnapping or assassination. A field medic with ties to Russia’s White Angel of Death? Basically a gold mine.
Hopefully the Mishima Zaibatsu doesn’t have his father on their radar. And if they do…
He will personally make sure they burn.
***
“Sergei.”
Dragunov stirs at the mention of his name. He has dozed off at some point; in his defense, he’s comfortable and would prefer to rest up before going back into action in a few hours.
“…Yes?”
His father has somehow managed to move his head to the couch with a stack of pillows, though the man is still next to him. A hand gently squeezes his shoulder, warm and comforting.
“Command is deploying my team somewhere in Japan next week. Barring any problems, you won’t see me for a few months.”
All the fuzziness feeling he’s having drops down a gaping hole somewhere in the pits of his stomach. Of course Spetsnaz would send his father to Japan… preparing for a strike against the Mishima Zaibatsu, perhaps. Considering that he is going to have to stay in Russia for quite a while to fight off the unrest, Dragunov is not comfortable with the idea of his beloved father being in enemy territory without him – or an adequately skilled agent - watching his six.
“When are you coming back?” He would prefer his father to be back here in Russia, under the watch of Spetsnaz. But anywhere else is preferable comparing to the doorstep of the world’s biggest warmonger.
“Details are classified. Not even for your eyes, Sergei.”
A long sigh. “…I know.”
Dragunov has intentionally passed over multiple promotions, mostly ones that would have shoved him into a desk job, in order to remain as an active field agent. He had never given a reason for his actions to anyone other than his father; “keeping my ability to make a change in the world”, as he put it. In reality though, fighting is the best thing he does to contribute to a better Russia… and he can’t watch his father’s back if he is stuck in a desk job.
Right now, though, he hates the fact that his rank keeps him from information that can potentially ensure his father’s safety. It’s not like there is anything he can do other than fight, anyway; uphold the peace and let Spetsnaz allocates their resources towards more important matters.
The couch shifts as his father stands up.
“Do you want to rest until it’s time to return to base? I’ll leave you to it.”
Before his father can get up from the couch and leave him alone, Dragunov reaches out and grabs his hand in a gentle, but firm, grip.
“Don’t… stay. Please.”
The older man’s face softens at his son’s quiet plea.
He returns to his spot on the couch, and fails to hold back a smile as Dragunov shifts closer to seek contact.
It reminds him of the vines with blooming flowers clinging to the walls of their home, unwilling to give up their foundation and stability. Dragunov spent years wrestling with abandonment issues after the death of his father and estrangement with his mother, now he holds to those he cares for with an iron grip. Some might call it suffocating, but he thinks otherwise.
“What do I do with you, Sergei?”
He knows it is not often that his son becomes vulnerable like this, and only in the safety of his own home. When he can get reassurance of his humanity, that he hasn’t lost all of his emotions and turned into a cold, unyielding killing machine. It’s a fine line that Dragunov walks; keeping his cold professional appearance while holding on to the emotions deep inside, and he likes to think that his influence helps his son stay human through all the soul-consuming work from Spetsnaz… though he cannot say for sure.
But he has a moment of pride every time Dragunov opens up to him about feelings, knowing that he’s special to the White Angel of Death in a way that no one else does. And he cherishes every little secret piece that his son entrusted to him, knowing that they will be taken care of them better than anyone else could.
“I’m not going anywhere. Go to sleep.”
No response.
Dragunov has fallen back into sleep.
He listens to the muted winds howling outside the windows, with the gentle rise and fall of Dragunov’s shoulder under his hand.
After what Dragunov said, he has to wonder how the world status quo will change with the Mishima Zaibatsu waging war all around the globe. The upcoming mission in Japan leaves a bitter feeling in his mouth – he’d rather stay in Russia where he is most comfortable and can tend to soldiers that return from the front line – but an order is an order. Whether that order is reasonable or not remains to be seen, and he hopes he’s not getting into too much trouble for it; there are soldiers to tend to, work to be done.
For now he’ll enjoy what little time he has left with his son, before both of them have to head out to another battle.
Back to saving the world.
***
It’s two in the afternoon when Dragunov finally leaves the house to return to base.
“Stay safe, Sergei. I will see you when I return.”
“You take care of yourself too.”
He quietly sighs when his father’s silhouette finally fades away in the distance, and the White Angel of Death slips back in – replacing the quiet, loving child that is Sergei Dragunov – as he drives away.
The scent of pine and spearmint lingers in his mind as he returns to base.
Dragunov hates the thought of his father going to Japan, to the front door of the world’s biggest enemy at the moment. But he has a job to do, and it needs to be done yesterday. The White Angel of Death’s hands are soaked red with blood; blood that he willingly let strain in his quest to protect his home.
And he is going to kill as many of them as is needed of him.
Those that seek to bring harm to Russia deserve no mercy.