Work Text:
Being a new recruit was nothing special. Not really. You’d seen many others, same as you, come and go even in these first few weeks. You never thought much of it, the only thing that really set you apart was that you hadn’t joined by choice, not really. You weren’t quite aware of what you were getting into when you signed up for this.
The talk of ‘a better and brighter future for Russia’ had thrilled you. The idea of doing something for the country that had welcomed you so easily. It was all false promises.
None of that mattered though, not here. The dusty room was dimly illuminated by candlelight and a nearly burnt out lamp. There’s a draft somewhere in the room that causes the candle to flicker, casting shadows across the walls with the breeze.
You kneel before your makeshift altar, a rosary clasped between your hands, its golden crucifix dangling from the old chain. The old table is chipped in some areas, dust coating its surface thickly. Unused aside from recently, it works well enough for you. Ignorant to the cold as you keep your hands clasped above your head, whispering soft prayers and empty apologies.
The words drip from your lips like honey coated pomegranate seeds, bittersweet lies, prayers of forgiveness that would soon be washed away by another bout of blood. The words you speak taste sour, spoken low and quiet. They are not meant to be heard. No one would listen, no one would forgive.
You didn’t deserve forgiveness.
On the table sits an offering tray, coins and fruits laying upon the silver platter. A candle flickers dimly in the center, coins lying in melted wax that had pooled. An orange on the outskirt of the tray remains untouched.
In your hands, resting between your palms and wrapped around your knuckles, is a rosary. You adjust the crucifix so that it hangs over your knuckles, laying across your thumb.
Nearly two in the morning on a Sunday, the irony is not lost on you. There is no one awake, no racket of soldiers chattering in the halls and filling the barracks with their chaos. The silence is eerie and heavy on your shoulders, so quiet you could hear a pin drop from down the hall.
And yet in spite of it you feel at ease in the quiet, the darkness in the room doesn’t scare you, not even the man sitting at the other end of the table did. A funny way to spend your morning, you muse softly, lips curling into a half smile.
Vladimir Makarov, your employer for lack of a better word, sitting at the table across from you while looking out the window. A comforting companion in this moment, but a ruthless man at any other hour. The silence had long settled between you both as he drank and you prayed.
You adjust your hands again, palming the rosary until the golden crucifix digs into the soft flesh of your palm, a reminder of your all too fragile mortality. A comforting reminder, you are a mechanism of flesh and blood, just as they all are.
Makarov doesn’t notice your staring, or he doesn’t care. Keeping his gaze focusing out on the winter wasteland of the abandoned urban complex. His lips pressed into his ever constant frown or scowl, one you had grown familiar and accustomed to.
He had given you an occasional glance, keeping his contemplative silence. It was unnerving, the way he never really looked at you but rather through you. As if you were a ghost who had come and taken up residence in his vicinity.
You found that you didn't mind it, simply keeping your head bowed, eyes unfocused as you whispered apologies to a God who couldn’t and wouldn’t save you. There were moments where he would stare a bit longer, typically catching the way your lips would brush the inside of your wrist by accident.
Eventually Makarov poured you a drink, sliding the hard liquor across the table towards you. The same closed off expression on his face as he turned his attention back to the window silently.
“You’re religious.” The statement is painfully obvious and yet a welcome reprieve from the silence.
“What do you practice?”
And that catches you off guard, you pause for a moment, hand twitching while your eyes focus on him. The pitiful lighting makes it hard to see whether he’s looking out his peripheral.
Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, “Ex-Catholic,” your voice is low, a shameful whisper. “And you?”
“Orthodox.” Makarov replies, an eyebrow raised as he looks over to you, “Ex?”
He meets your eyes steadily, taking a drink of the foul alcohol he’d been nursing all night.
“Did someone make you quit? Or did you quit by choice?” He leans back, eyes nearly predatory as they narrow.
You frown, hesitating for another beat. The thought of revealing everything to him made you nervous, urging you to weigh your options before you spoke.
“I have a rather,” your face twists with discomfort, “complicated history with religion.” You mumble, looking the slightest bit uncomfortable by the prodding into your past.
“Hm, I see.” Makarov swallows another mouthful of alcohol, looking back out the window towards whatever lies beyond them. “Is it something you’d be willing to talk about?”
For a moment you both sit in silence, tension in the air as you process his question. He sighs, done with his gazing and turns his eyes back to you.
“If not I understand, I’m just curious.” His voice is even, the ever constant rasp of it familiar.
You avert your eyes, discomfort lingering under your skin. Distrust for this man and yet an understanding that this likely less an option than gentle force. Again it feels as if he doesn’t see you, doesn’t truly care for this conversation past what information it may yield him.
After your internal debate you sigh, frowning and meeting his gaze with a solemn look. His eyes never falter as they search your own intently for an answer.
“Not particularly fond of discussing my past.” You shrug, groaning as you move from your kneeling position. As you stand your knees crack, a sign of aging. He watches as you sit with him at the table, your knees ache as you stretch your legs.
One hand is still holding the rosary while the other wraps loosely around the glass he had slid your way.
“Orthodox, tell me what that’s like?” You yawn through your words, stretching again and grunting when your back pops.
There’s another tense moment of silence, your eyes half lidded as you lean back in your chair. Makarov looks out the window, seeming to ignore your question.
"It's hard, and it's disciplined. There are prayers, there are fasts, there are ceremonies and processions.” His voice stays even, still not looking at you as he speaks.
“One has to have a strong constitution, both physically and mentally. Otherwise,” Makarov shrugs. “You fall out.”
He seems to be talking about more than just religion, but doesn't elaborate. His hand stays wrapped around his own drunk, fingers tapping against the glass softly before he takes another drink from it.
“Do you know what I did in the army?” As he asks this he looks towards you, eyes as emotionless as ever. He looks away again after a moment, still thinking.
You hum softly, thinking it over. You vaguely remembered some men talking about it, hushed voices and paranoid glances.
It intrigues you, curiosity had tugged at the corner of your mind for days after that. “I’m not completely familiar, if I’m honest.” Which wasn’t a complete lie.
You drink after you speak, making a face at the foul taste but swallowing the alcohol down nonetheless.
“Tell me about it?”
“It’s not a pleasant story.” Makarov rasps, the same stoicism and cold expression that's accompanied him since you arrived.
That makes you snort sardonically, “It’s never a pleasant story. Such is life I suppose.” You frown, looking at him now. Interest gleams in your eyes as you observe him.
“Tell me? I’m aware it won't be pleasant,” you bite your tongue, mulling it over a beat longer. “I don’t mind sharing some of my past if you share with me yours.”
Makarov looks up at you, eyes narrowing as he contemplates it for a moment. A soft hum leaves him as he considers the weight of the exchange.
“Alright,” he sighs, eyes closing before he opens them to look at you. “In the army, I was stationed in Chechnya twice. I committed actions there that most would find unpleasant, ones that I did in the name of my country.”
Makarov pauses for a moment, taking a drink and exhaling deeply.
“And afterwards, they discarded me. Tried to charge me with crimes that they wouldn’t’ve cared about had I been American. ” He spits the last word with such venom, such deep hatred for that country and its people.
You hum quietly, sliding your glass away from you while leaning your head back. “I suppose.” You agree softly. “Sometimes horrible circumstances make horrible men. It’s just the way it is.”
Looking over at him with a shrug, leaning your chin on your palm despite the discomfort the crucifix causes you.
Makarov’s face twists, bitter and angry. He sighs and his expression melts back into the familiar stoic look, cold as ice. “That may be so, but what I did, I did for my country. For my home. And at the end of the second campaign, I was discharged. They had planned punishment for me. I ran."
“There you have it.” He leans back in his chair, watching you now. “Tell me your own, don’t worry, worst I’ll do it make a face.”
“Sometimes you have to run. Sometimes it’s all that you can do.” You sigh and nod.
“If I’m honest, I don’t remember much of my childhood. I remember glimpses, flashes that haunt me at night.” You lean your head forward for a moment, lips pressed against the beads of the rosary, “I was brought up in a small town, cult country. The people I called my family were most likely not my own kin. But I knew nothing else.” You swallow thickly, eyes closed as the memories swim to the surface. “I was taught to hunt, and provide. As I got older, they tasked me with more than just that.” You hesitate, looking down at the rosary wrapped around your knuckles.
“It’s an unpleasant story, one that doesn’t have a happy ending.” Your voice is low, eyes downcast as to avoid his piercing stare.
“Continue.”
You take a deep breath, rubbing your temples and shaking your head quietly.
“As I said, I don't remember much. Thankfully. I just remember flashes. I diverted from that path and I don't want to remember. I decided to do something else with my life. I work for you now.”
You feel no pride in this achievement, no sense of victory for spiting the people who had made you what you were. You know what you do is awful, you know what Makarov is. You know exactly what he’s capable of, that you are a means to an end.
Makarov nods at your explanation, pouring himself another glass while sitting in deep, contemplative silence. A moment later, he puts a cigarette between his lips, and begins to pat his pockets for a lighter.
“I see,” he finally speaks despite the cigarette on his lips, though his voice is quiet. His words seem like a meer whisper. “For me?”
The guilt you feel is crushing, silence deafening as you sit up to rest your head on the wall next to you. Restless contemplation and constant unease. This guilt would gnaw at you forever, no amount of prayer could wash away the blood on your hands. And yet you find yourself drawn to him no matter how awful his actions. You wouldn’t forgive him, or yourself. You think about it for a moment as you watch him pull the lighter out.
You meet his eyes when you hear him hum, watching him and waiting until the silence stretches just a beat too long.
“For you,” Your voice is soft as you assure him, cracking with guilt and none too subtle exhaustion. Sounding older than you had ever felt, older than you may ever be.
Makarov lights his cigarette, takes a drag off of it, the cherry brightening as he looks at you over the flame of his lighter. There’s a look in his eyes when he looks at you, it’s not a loving look, or even a friendly look.
But your existence definitely registers.
Makarov exhales a thick cloud of smoke in your direction, his hand reaches forward and he grabs the orange off the silver tray. Holding it in his palm for a moment before he tosses it to you.
“Peel it.” He sounds as tired as you feel.
Your hands work steadily, nails digging into the rough skin, peeling the orange with a feeling of warmth that you hadn’t felt in ages.
“Hm,” Makarov’s voice is rough, smoke clouding his features and your head. The scent of nicotine adds to the unusual ease that sits between the two of you.
“Here,” you split the orange, offering him half of it.
Makarov looks up, cigarette still on his lips as he takes his half of the orange. You watch his fingers pry apart the segments, nails brushing over the pips and popping them out. You do the same, setting them onto the silver tray.
“An offering I suppose.” Makarov muses softly, nodding towards the seeds you had set onto the tray.
You give a slight smile, voice soft as you speak “why an orange when you can have a tree?” The crucifix has been set aside so as to not make a mess. Forgotten by the both of you as silence settles easily.
The only sound is the quiet sound of teeth digging into the flesh of the orange as you both eat your halves. It is sweet and soft in your mouth.
“I’ve noticed” Makarov starts, pausing as you look up at him. “You have a tendency to lay into others when they kill without reason. You’re very vocal about your morals, even in this trade.”
You finish your last section of orange, noticing the last of his remains untouched, you make eye contact, voice flat as you reply with complete sincerity. “I wouldn’t consider this a trade. There is no demand for war. And I don’t entirely agree with what we do, though I will follow my orders. I will not be quiet and stand by as innocents are murdered. I will not be quiet as to allow others comfort in their actions. It’s cowardly. I’ve spent enough of my life choking on my tongue for others’ comfort.
You don’t try to hide the disdain in your voice. Bitter and hateful, your eyes flick down to the cross that lays on the table, gleaming in the lackluster lighting.
"I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again. You have a strong moral compass." Makarov says, as close to praise as you’ll get from the man.
You pause, nodding and wiping the juice from the orange off on your cargo pants. It gets quiet again, the comforting and calm type of quiet. His eyes have flickered away from you once more and you find yourself relaxing. A sigh leaving your lips as you wrap the rosary around your knuckles again and bow your head, once more whispering apologies in vain. Words that will haunt you even as guilt hunts you, ever nipping at your heels.
You hear more than see Makarov take another drag off his cigarette, likely looking out the window again. “Would you trust me with a gun?”
The question grabs your attention, startling you out of your dazed prayers. His eyes are already on you when you look over at him, his posture is relaxed and open.
“A loaded one.” He clarifies, no hostility in his tone. No friendliness there either, but you can tell he's genuinely interested to hear your answer.
You nod and hum softly, looking away as you reach for the holster on your thigh. The pistol in your hands is uncomfortably familiar, resting easily in your grasp. You feel its weight and look over at him as you hand the gun over.
“It’s loaded.” You affirm, leaning back comfortably again.
Makarov takes the gun, twirling it around in his hands as if it’s a toy, the man has respect for weapons but not enough to fear them. No doubt having faced down the barrel of something far larger than a sidearm.
He finishes his cigarette, eyes flicking to his still full glass of whatever he’d been drinking. After a moment Makarov sets the pistol on his lap, exhaling the smoke in his lungs and flicking the filter away.
“I know you’re religious, or rather, you were religious previously.” Makarov finally says after minutes of silence, eyes closed, his thumb caressing the gun in his lap.
“Do you pray? To God?”
“I used to.” The words are faint, your eyes turned down to the table as you exhale slowly. Relaxing yourself and allowing yourself to think. “Why?”
He doesn’t look at you, hands steepling as he rests his head on them.
“I pray. For you.” Makarov says, his tone sounding solemn and genuine, though he seems reluctant to elaborate further.
“Do you regret it?” He moves a hand to set the gun on the table, exhaling as you inhale. And before you can answer, he adds onto the question. “Do you regret having to do this?”
“I think. I think I regret it. All of it. But I can’t undo what I’ve done.” There’s a pleasant numbness in your mind as you speak, eyes closed. “May I ask why you pray for me?”
Now you look up at him, the dim lighting makes his mismatched eyes look wrong. Something about them doesn’t belong. Hauntingly ominous.
“I’m afraid for you. I worry that you’ll suffer, and that you’ll become a worse person.” His voice is weary, soft and almost regrettably too human. A whisper of the man you've grown so accustomed to.
“I worry that you’ll end up like me.”
For a moment you ponder the idea of it, of being him. Feared, powerful and everything everyone aspired to be. And you wonder how lonely that must feel, how lonely it must be at the top with everyone looking up to you for guidance and no shoulder to lean on.
“Would that really be so awful?” Your voice cracks, shaking with stifled emotions as you look at him.
Makarov laughs, a bitter sound, shaking his head and leaning back in his seat as his eyes meet yours. “Yes, it would be. You have a lifetime ahead of you.”
“War corrupts, it takes and consumes the men it touches.” You whisper, voice low as you look out the window with him. “I have long accepted my own corruption, I have played my part in this. My hands are stained with blood and I have no right to feign innocence and back away from this. I am just as guilty as you are.”
That has him pausing, his voice dragging as he hums and drinks from his glass. It’s quiet as you look out at the silver bathed snow, eyes eventually flicking up to the moon.
“I suppose you are, and it’s just how it is. Such is life.” Makarov whispers, tossing the rest of his drink back with a slight wince.
You nod, once more bowing your head and beginning prayer.
“Such is life.”