Work Text:
On Christmas day, the safehouse was quiet and still.
In Dimension 8729, the undead had descended upon the town of Meghri, leaving not a single man alive. Every poor soul they devoured joined their ranks, growing their numbers. Only death and decay remained in their wake, leaving the four of them completely alone.
They weren’t meant to be here long; at least, that was the impression Tank had gotten from the Doc and his fucking riddles. As always, he found some vague, ill-defined reason to drag them around without telling them a thing. Probably obtaining some artifact or device that he thought would help them on the path to… wherever they were headed next, or perhaps simply seeking a few days of respite from their struggle. Attempts to weasel answers out of the German were useless, though that had never stopped Tank from trying. He had holed himself up in his ‘office’ (the dusty old attic in the house they’d commandeered), and the three of them never saw head nor tail of him - except when Nikolai hassled him about helping keep watch.
Tank was left restless, a feeling that was becoming more and more familiar to him these days. He was never the type who was content to sit still; for most of his life he’d been always on the move. Exploring, scouting, searching, pursuing, fighting. Always on his guard, always itching to pull the trigger. That was even more the case now, when there was hardly ever a shortage of freakbags to kill. He couldn’t enjoy this momentary peace, and it seemed he was alone in his plight. Takeo had occupied himself with meditating, and occasionally reading whatever material he could get his hands on in this place. Nikolai, meanwhile, seemed to be busy catching up on sleep nearly every time Tank saw him. The rest of the time he was helping Tank scan the area for any errant zombies.
Today, the rations had run low, and Tank jumped at the chance to venture into town. He might find a meatsack or two, and failing that, he’d at least get to stretch his legs. An awakened Nikolai had even offered to join him, and so they departed for what would have normally been the densely populated part of the city. Now, though, it was more likely to be populated with zombies, or simply deserted - and frozen over.
“You hold the fort down, Tak,” Tank had said on their way out. Takeo, perched in the entryway like a soldier guarding Buckingham, nodded sagely.
In the marketplace, every shop was abandoned. On the bright side, that meant no bartering. The first few shops they tried were barren; disheveled storage rooms, barren shelves and empty boxes. Other survivors - probably dead now - had beaten them to it. After a few tries, though, their luck began to turn around. Tank collected a few cans; beans, corn, peas, soup. Nikolai found some bread that was still reasonably fresh, a few bags of rice, and (thrillingly) a pitcher of semi-clean water.
After an hour or two, it was agreed they may as well try the last shop for the sake of completion. Inside, Tank found many more empty cases and shelves; a counter with an empty safe behind it. Dirty, empty cans were strewn across the equally dirty floor. The walls were crawling with roaches, flies, and God knows what else. Tank shrugged it off. Whatever food they’d found would have probably been inedible, he figured.
However, upon a cursory search of a backroom closet, something caught Tank’s eye. A dusty old case containing several bottles, filled with a golden-brown liquid. Immediately the Marine was filled with a newfound excitement at the sight of alcohol. It was a rare commodity these days, something survivors tended to fight over like rabid dogs. To find it here felt almost too good to be true. He brushed the thickly caked dust off the label, finding the words tzi oghi. Moonshine, maybe?
“Hey, Nik! Check it out!” Tank hollered, grinning. Nikolai ambled into the room behind him, curious, arms full of cans.
“Ah, бухло! Good find, comrade!” The Soviet cheered, slapping him on the back. He leaned in closer, eyebrows raised conspiratorially, matching Tank’s smile. “We will have good night tonight, да?”
Upon their return, the sun had just begun to set. To Tank’s mild disappointment, Takeo turned down his offer to join them. (Asking the German to partake would have been a waste of breath, and probably sour the mood.) Nikolai had brushed it off easily, in high spirits for the first time in what seemed like months.
“You have been on edge as of late, Dempsey,” Takeo had told him. Maybe that was him being observant, or maybe it was just him taking notice of the way Tank had lowered his weapon for the past three days. Could be either. “It is one thing to stay vigilant. It is another to take peace for granted.” He decided this was Tak’s way of telling him to let loose, in not so many words.
And so, Tank found himself sitting beside Nikolai in front of the campfire. The seemingly permanent lines of tension around the Russian’s eyes had eased, probably a result of the unprecedented rest period. In lieu of glasses, they had taken to drinking straight from the bottle.
“Try to keep up, American,” Nikolai had told him good-naturedly before they’d begun. His joy was infectious, in no small part due to its rarity, and made Tank feel giddy. “I hope you are not lightweight.”
“Me? You’re kiddin’!”
A quarter into his first bottle, Tank was already starting to feel the effects. As the night went on, as he and Nikolai occupied themselves with talking and laughing and telling ridiculous stories, Tank found himself forgetting everything else. The zombies, his mission, all of it - it was surely ill-advised, to let his guard down this far, but his faculties had become too eroded to care. Together, they took the edge off.
As he reached for a third bottle, he felt on top of the world; and he found himself unwilling to focus on anything but the gruff, rich sound of Nikolai’s laughter. Nikolai was a serious man, perhaps; or perhaps it was that he found himself so often in serious circumstances, much like Tank. But tonight, all of that was forgotten.
“Hey, Nik,” Tank suddenly said, halfway through an exaggerated story about (idk lol). He swayed, falling against Nikolai’s shoulder; he shuddered, spilling some of his drink on himself. “Nikki. You, me. Arm wrestle. Right now.”
“Eh?” Nikolai grunted, perhaps caught off guard - but no less receptive. The arm not holding his fourth bottle snaked around Tank, lying warm and heavy against his back. “You want to tussle with Nikolai?”
Tank laughed, because everything was funny right now, and Nikolai joined in. His eyes were focused not on his companion’s face, but on the impressive musculature that was visible through his clothing. His willpower was vastly decreased, and he couldn’t resist imagining those arms wrapped firmly around his neck. One of those hands under his shirt, pressing against his chest.
(These were thoughts the Marine tended to have when under the influence, and he considered them perfectly normal; he had always enjoyed the company of other men. Everyone had strange thoughts when they were under the influence, Tank reasoned.)
The Soviet saw fit to humor him, and moments later they both found themselves lowered to the ground. Tank removed his glove, for some reason unknown to him, and Nikolai followed his lead. Their hands interlocked. Nikolai’s thumb prodded his own, teasing. Tank’s breath hitched, and for a few moments he was preoccupied with the calloused warmth of the hand holding his. Nikolai’s grip was firm and solid, like the earth beneath his feet.
“On one, да? три… два…”
As was typical for Tank, he went on two. With a grunt, he pressed all of his weight against Nikolai’s. He heard a soft breath, like he’d managed to catch him off guard, before his opponent began putting up a fight. As expected, the Soviet’s grip was firm; enough to momentarily steal Tank’s breath, before he regained his footing (arming?) with a thrust. They struggled for a moment, as Tank was overcome with a strange, boyish need to win. Maybe to prove himself, or maybe to obtain the bragging rights associated with winning an arm wrestle against a man who fought bears and won. He grit his teeth. “Nngh…”
There was a lapse in his concentration; an odd glimmer in Nikolai’s eyes. In an instant, Tank’s elbow was sinking into the dirt. His arm was suddenly slammed against the ground, and despite the considerable force the action seemed almost gentle.
For one long moment, Tank could hear nothing but his own breaths. Then he became aware of Nikolai’s laughter; loud and boisterous and genuine. The man clapped him on the back with enough force to hurt, before the American found himself laughing as well.
“Was good match, comrade!” Nikolai told him in between bouts of laughter. “You are almost as strong as Nikolai!” For one reason or another, Tank couldn’t collect himself enough to respond for a long while. The giddy feeling in his chest made it impossible to resist the urge to laugh. His first attempt at speech came out unintelligible, as he playfully elbowed his companion in the side. Nikolai elbowed him back, and they traded jabs until Tank ended up collapsing into the dirt. Nikolai collapsed on top of him.
“I want a rematch!” Tank demanded, still grinning broadly. His cheeks ached, as he had not stopped smiling once over the past few minutes. He rolled over slightly, pushing into Nikolai. Feeling the warm body next to him. “That was– haah– just a warm up!”
“And yet American got headstart,” Nikolai remarked; far less inebriated than Tank, but slurring his words all the same.
“Aww, that was a fluke,” he moaned. “C’mon, Nik. ‘s Christmas.” His arm nudged Nikolai’s side coaxingly. Nikolai huffed, but obligingly pulled himself into an upright position.
This time, Tank was taking it seriously. Nikolai had every ounce of his focus as he drunkenly began to count down. He studied the rumpled sleeve of the Russian’s uniform… the way the muscles bulged through the fabric. He studied those burly hands and thick fingers. The sinew pulsing beneath the wrists. “Three… two… one.”
Their dance resumed. Once again, they struggled against each other. Nikolai huffed noisily as he shoved against Tank, but the Marine remained mostly silent; fully concentrating. A sheen of sweat dotted his brow.
They fell into a steady rhythm. Hand in hand, they thrusted into each other, for a minute that felt like an eternity to Tank. He jerked forward, as Nikolai faltered for a moment. His entire body felt warm, despite the frozen ground beneath him. They drew closer; Nikolai’s face consumed his field of vision, and Tank noticed his cheeks were flushed.
He pushed as hard as he could. It wasn’t about winning anymore; Tank didn’t know what it was about. Everything felt slow, like moving through molasses; and warm. Maybe it was about feeling skin on his.
“Говно,” The older man grunted. A shiver ran down Tank’s spine. A fight was put up, but the outcome was the same. The American jolted as once again his arm was slammed down; the snowy ground a shock to his system. He noticed just how freezing his skin was, icy to the touch, despite the liquid fire that was coursing through him.
Nikolai exhaled firmly. Tank only realized how close they were when he felt the warmth of it on his cheek, and smelled the alcohol on his breath. He turned his head slightly and found their faces only a few inches away from each other. (When did they end up on the ground again?) Beside them, the fire had long since gone out, but Tank didn’t mind the cold.
“You have powerful grip,” Nikolai said, in a soft, dreamy tone. Tank felt the inexplicable urge to reach out and touch him.
“You too,” Tank said, suddenly feeling out of breath. His heart was beating fast, as if he’d just run a marathon.
They laid there for a while longer. Time felt like it had stopped as they laid there, staring up at the stars. There were many things Tank felt like he should say, most of them horribly sappy, but luckily he managed to keep his mouth shut. The sky was clear tonight, and looking at the stars the Marine was filled with a similar sense to the one he got staring into Nikolai’s eyes. Peace. Awe. Warmth.
It could have been a few minutes or a few hours before Nikolai stirred again. Tank did the same, pulling himself from his trance. “We should go inside,” the Soviet grunted as he pulled himself up. Swaying, he clumsily dusted some snow off of himself. He hiccuped. “Cold night.”
“It’s Christmas,” Tank said again. He wasn’t sure why, but it earned him another drunken laugh.
“Да.” Tank was offered a hand; he took it, pulling himself up. He stumbled, and nearly toppled onto the ground once more, before Nikolai steadied him with an arm around the shoulders. His arms were warm, and Tank suddenly felt weak in the knees. “Merry Christmas, comrade.”