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Dieter blinks at the closing vault door, his chest heaving. The soft boom of it snapping into place echoes around. Good news – they’re safe from imminent death at the hands of zombies. Bad news – everything else. Dieter recalls some statistics about suffocation and enclosed spaces that he’d rather not recall, but which his mind helpfully supplies, either way. A flare of panic ziplines up his spine. They’re not very good statistics.
He spares a glance at Vanderohe, who’s still on the floor exactly where Dieter pushed him, already looking back at him. Dieter’s fluent in four languages, but reading Vanderohe is not yet one of them, and so the blank stare remains unknowable.
Outside, something – someone – shrieks. If Dieter had a single ounce of energy left in his body, he’d startle. Instead, he turns to look at the vault door. There’s banging and scratching and hitting, but the steel won’t budge, and so eventually, there’s footsteps scuffling away, and then, silence.
Dieter slumps to the ground. His shoulders refuse to drop down. His jaw, he’s sure, will never unclench itself.
“Well,” he says. It sounds too loud and sudden. He looks at Vanderohe again, trails over his body for any obvious or urgent injuries. The thinnest of silver linings is that there appears to be no life-threatening ones.
“Well,” Vanderohe repeats. He leans backwards to lie down on a pile of money, and gazes up at the ceiling. “Fuck.”
“Yes, that– that summarises it,” Dieter agrees. He fidgets with the hem of his shirt, looking away. “But… we are alive, yes?”
Vanderohe nods distractedly. “That we are. For now.” The sigh he lets out is weary and resigned, at the same time. “You didn’t have to do that.”
He’s wrong, of course. Because what else was Dieter supposed to do? He has no one, back there in the real world. No one to come back to, come back for. He’s lonely and alone (there’s a difference), in a country he doesn’t particularly care for, where people don’t much care for him. But now, this.
He came here to crack the vault and get something for his troubles, but now he has this, this something that he found in Vanderohe’s disapproving gaze and fleeting touches and proud smiles. It’s been a while since Dieter’s had much of anything to hang his hopes on. This, he thinks, might be something. Could be, with time and effort. Or maybe he just wants it to be.
“Ah, but who else would you rather suffocate to death with?” Is what he says aloud.
He gets a huff of laughter for the sorry excuse of a joke, which eases some of the tightness in his chest. “Yeah,” Vanderohe says. Dieter can hear the smile, even if he’s still steadfastly staring at the floor. “Let’s pretend that’s what I meant.”
Dieter hesitates for a moment – but what does he have to lose, really? There’s suffocation or a nuclear explosion or suddenly innovative zombies capable of breaking into their sanctuary. “Mr. Vanderohe–” he starts, and looks up. Again, he finds his gaze already returned. “I just wish to say… I would not change this.”
Vanderohe lifts a brow. “This?”
Dieter shrugs, gesturing around them. “I was thinking, what you said before – about time and loops and– and death, rebirth, all this. If I could– if it were– what I mean is, if I found myself at the beginning, again, I would not change my mind about coming here. Even if I knew where it ends.”
Vanderohe’s carefully unreadable expression returns. “Why?”
“Would you?” Dieter counters, but continues before he can answer. “Because if I did not agree to this mission, I would not have met you. And– this may seem silly to you, and maybe it is, but I’m glad to be here. With you.”
There’s a soft thud as the back of Vanderohe's head connects with the stack of cash again. Dieter catches a muffled, “Fuck”. An exasperated sigh and some silence later, Vanderohe says, “It’s not stupid.” He pauses. “Actually, it is, it’s so fucking stupid, but I’d be a hypocrite if I said I’d do anything different either, given the chance.”
Dieter smiles to himself. He lifts a knee and props his chin on it, absently drawing circles on the dusty flooring. “I’d do some things different. For instance, I think this–” he gestures at the way Vanderohe’s holding his clearly fractured elbow– “I would prevent.”
“Oh, yeah?” Vanderohe laughs quietly. “I was thinking I’d like to feed Martin to that tiger. Or, I don’t know. Could just snatch you and cut loose, skip the heist bit. Go on a roadtrip, drive into the sunset. Bonnie and Clyde, you know?”
Dieter stills for a moment, blinking at a spot somewhere around Vanderohe’s left shoe. Then he resumes drawing his circle, lips tugging upwards. “America,” he pronounces with mock gravity, “such a dangerous country. My mother was right.”
His words seem to spark interest – Vanderohe glances at him, then pushes himself to sit upright with his good hand, cradling the injured one to his chest. “Your mother?”
Dieter hums affirmatively. “When I moved here, she told me it was a bad idea. But, she thought everything was a bad idea.”
“You keep in touch?”
“No.” Dieter shrugs at Vanderohe’s questioning look. “Sometimes, people drift apart. I assume she still lives in Dresden with my father and sometimes misses me, but not too much, and in any case, I do not think she’d think to ask after me.”
Vanderohe frowns. “But you’ve got people, right? Friends, something?”
Again, Dieter shrugs. There’s something embarrassing about admitting one’s loneliness, but he doesn’t think Vanderohe will count it as a flaw, or flaunt it against him. “Colleagues,” he says. “Bekannten– what’s the word– acquaintances? Those, yes, some. Friends, family? I don’t know.”
A not entirely comfortable silence stretches between them. Eventually, Dieter decides he’s had enough. “You should put that in a sling,” he says and nods at Vanderohe’s arm. “I can help.”
Vanderohe looks down as if having forgotten the injury entirely. He doesn’t say, what does it matter if we’re dead in a day, tops? Or, are you using that as an excuse to touch me? Or anything else reasonable, and correct. What he says, instead, is, “Yeah, probably a good idea. C’mere.”
As Dieter’s twisting his scarf into something passably comfortable and useful, Vanderohe stares. Dieter knows, because he sneaks glances every few seconds or so, and each time finds curious looks cast towards his curls, the torn collar of his shirt, the specks of dried blood on his neck.
He breathes carefully through his nose, and focuses on tying the scarf up.
No one’s paid attention to him in a long while.
Satisfied it's not going to get any better than this, Dieter maneuvers Vanderohe’s arm into the sling. He ignores the quiet thank you in favour of trying to block out the sudden rush of nerves coursing through his veins. His fingers are brushing Vanderohe’s shoulder, needlessly light and careful. He should let go and move away – should, and will, is going to, but as he goes to withdraw, Vanderohe's free hand reaches out to wrap around his wrist.
Dieter looks at where he’s being held in place – or rather, where he’s being silently asked to stay. Then he looks at Vanderohe. He’s not fluent, no, but Dieter’s a fast learner, and he thinks what he reads in the eyes meeting his is, don’t go.
“Okay,” he says, letting out a shaky breath. “Okay,” he repeats. Then he leans forward to rest his forehead on Vanderohe’s shoulder, presses his nose into the crook of his neck. Vanderohe’s free hand wraps around his shoulders, drawing him closer.
Dieter closes his eyes, and wonders if a nuclear explosion would be enough to tear him from the man he's breathing in, right now.
He thinks probably not.