Archive of Our Own

The man before him, Mitya analyses, has a rigid set of shoulders and a slight lift on his chin, his uniform sitting far too neatly over a well-built frame. His eyes are sharp and filled with a certainty that comes with experience. For the first time in a long while, a guard is analysing Mitya back with equal focus.

“So… you’re the new guy?”

Major Valeriy, his mind supplies, because of course many have heard of him and the long list of impressive feats attached to that name— Mitya included. Besides, he would have heard about his bodyguard being replaced when the last one proved woefully incapable of catching him. He’d also started feeling kinda bad after watching poor Maxim descend into increasingly frantic searches while Mitya remained perfectly out of sight. 

The man nods. “Greetings, Major Valeriy, Head of the Special Assignments Battalion, Armory Palace Royal Grenadier Guards 1st Regiment.” His posture remains perfectly straight. “And, as of now, your bodyguard, sir. At your service.”

Mitya smiles. “I’m Mitya. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

Mitya pushes himself up from his seat and ambles forward. “Tell me… that last guy… didn’t get into too much trouble because of me, did he?”

Valeriy shakes his head. “Of course not. He’s been reassigned to standard training with the rest of his division. As requested by the Director, it is our duty to ensure that you are able to keep working on Project Mistilteinn, no matter what.”

Mitya lets out a relieved sigh. “Great!”

And then, unfortunately, there is nothing else to say.

Mitya rocks back on his heels.

Valeriy remains standing exactly as he was before, his hands clasped neatly behind his back, posture so rigid that Mitya briefly wonders if the Royal Grenadier Guards train their officers to turn into a lab stool when conversation runs dry.

“So you’re really gonna stand there all day?” Mitya questions.

“If necessary.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“I assure you, sir, it is not.”

The word sir really isn’t helping much either.

Mitya’s scarf scratches idly at his cheek. “You know, you don’t have to call me that.”

Valeriy’s brow shifts by the smallest degree. “It would be inappropriate not to.”

Mitya shrugs. “Now you’re making me feel old.”

“It was not my intention—”

Mitya raises a hand to cut him off, turning his face aside with his brows furrowed in exaggerated hurt. Behind him, his scarf wags a strand at Valeriy in disapproval. “No, no, you’ve done irreparable damage already! How will I ever recover?”

For the first time, a flicker of uncertainty crosses over Valeriy’s otherwise composed face, before he schools his features back into their usual calm.

Mitya nearly laughs. So the famous Major Valeriy can be thrown off after all.

“I’m joking,” Mitya says, mercifully. He stands on the tips of his toes to pat Valeriy’s left shoulder, while the scarf mimics his movements on the right. “Mitya is fine.”

Valeriy inclines his head. “Mr Dmitri, then.”

“Mitya.”

“Mr Dmitri.”

Mitya narrows his eyes. Oh well, they have plenty of time to get well acquainted. If the Assignments Battalion has decided to personally send him their big guns (their Head) to keep Mitya in check, Mitya has a feeling that things are going to get more stimulating from here on out. Exactly what he needs in such dire times. “Sure, Mr Valeriy.”

“Now that we’ve got introductions out of the way,” Mitya continues smoothly, a grin etched on his face. “I’m sure I’ve made a name for myself amongst the guards.”

“Don’t worry,” Valeriy says, and for a brief moment, Mitya catches  a sharp glint in those eyes. “I am adaptable.” 

Mitya whistles approvingly. He glances toward the far end of the lab, then down at the scattered lab notes on the nearby machine as though something has only just occurred to him. “Well, that’s good to hear. Now, I should really head down to the Western archive. I left some reference material there yesterday.”

“I’ll accompany you.”

Mitya smiles amiably— the corner of his lips lifting till faint creases form at the edges of his eyes; the same smile that had worked charmingly well on every guard previously assigned to him. “No need, no need. You just make yourself comfortable here. I’m sure the reassignment must have been an administrative nightmare, and I would love to show my hospitality… seeing as we are going to be seeing each other for quite a bit.”

Valeriy raises an eyebrow. “I’m your bodyguard.”

“And the archive has tons of capable guards! Same thing!”

Mitya tries to breeze past Valeriy, but the latter stops right in front of him, blocking every single pathway.

Mitya gives a small huff. “I work better alone.”

“I was informed otherwise.”

“By who?”

“The guards.”

Mitya clicks his tongue. Traitors. 

He pivots sharply toward another workbench instead, snatching up an empty vial and scrutinising it. “Actually, never mind. I’ve just remembered I need to collect a resonance stabiliser from the arc-reactor storage.”

“The capacitor cabinet is behind you.”

Mitya doesn’t need to look behind for confirmation. 

But he does look back at Valeriy, whose expression hasn’t changed, but there’s something dangerously close to a challenge swimming behind his eyes.

Confident, competent, and hot while doing so.

Mitya grins. 

Interesting.  

1.

Valeriy is good. Too good!

The moment he finds out pretty quickly that he’s no longer able to sweet talk his way out of the Amory Palace, Mitya changed tactics entirely. Resorting to not mentioning his whereabouts at all. 

But Valeriy had not been lying when he claimed to be adaptable. Not only does Valeriy always have an eye on him— he doesn’t even go to the toilet! Mitya worries about his bladder — but in the instances where Mitya does succeed, Valeriy seems to be able to track him down, even in the most ludicrous places. 

And it has been wonderful to finally be able to think and test out his hypotheses, follow them through, and actually get an outcome from them. Project Mistilteinn’s progress had been crawling at a snail’s pace, and Mitya hates to admit that it’s going a little too slow than what he had been expecting from himself. He understands that patience yields results, but that doesn’t mean that Mitya can’t give his brain a little assistance in getting his gears running. 

But still…!

“You can eat during break, Mr Dmitri.”

“Cut me some slack! Can’t think on an empty stomach.”

Just as he was about to show Valeriy this really cool trick— tossing a slice of smoked sausage into the air, spinning three times, and catching it perfectly— his scarf suddenly comes to life, winding itself around his arm. 

Before he can protest, it yanks his arms upwards with enough force that he nearly stumbles, his shoulder jerking along with it.The sausage remains pinched between his fingers, now dangling directly in front of Valeriy’s mouth

For a split second, Mitya's eyes widened in surprise, before he quickly recovers. He smiles, deciding to play along. It’s always more fun to take things light, and Valeriy’s often far too tightly wound. Even if he has to resort to such antics. “Once you try this, you’d understand the joys of food, Sarge. Say, ah!”

“I do understand,” Valeriy refutes, expertly tilting his head to avoid his hand. “Just not during working hours.”

“Come on, not even an exception? I guarantee you these sausages are divine.”

Valeriy stays silent. 

“Oh well, your loss.” Mitya shrugs. 

Suddenly, the wind carries a sudden sharp whistle through the air, followed by the soft rush of something cutting fast through the snowfall. His scarf whirls to life, prepared to block it— 

—but Valeriy is faster. 

All Mitya sees is the sweep of Valeriy’s arm across his vision, specks of white bursting against dark fabric and scattering harmlessly to the ground. 

Mitya munches on another sausage. “You know I could have stopped that, right?”

“My duties include preventing unnecessary injuries while escorting you back to the Amory Palace,” Valeriy replies evenly, brushing the last flecks of snow from his sleeve, “and that also includes keeping you from getting pelted with snow. Lest you catch a cold.”

Mitya looks around him. “Snezhnaya’s in a perpetual state of winter—”

“I’m sorry!” 

A shrill of a child’s voice snaps them both out of it. She runs towards them, caught between wanting to apologise and wanting to turn tail and run. For someone that small, accidentally pelting a Royal Guard with a snowball just feels like a crime of catastrophic proportions, regardless of rank.  

A placating smile makes its way onto Mitya’s face, as he prepares himself to defuse the situation—

“Um— oh no,” Valeriy stutters. “It’s alright.”

— Okay, pause. 

“... I’m fine,” Valeriy reassures her, spreading his arms slightly as though for physical proof.

“... Really?” the girl whimpers, staring up at him with wide, doe-like eyes.

“Really,” he says, gentler, this time. “No harm done.”

And Mitya should absolutely use this chance to scoot away.

But something about this scene just has him pausing mid-step… just watching.

Watches the way Valeriy bends down and continue the conversation smoothly, checking up on her, the sternness easing from his face. Watches him try to make himself less imposing, shoulders relaxing, posture softening just enough that she stops looking like she might burst into tears.

And when all is said and done, when the girl is full of bright smiles again, radiating enough warm, childlike energy to counter Snezhnaya’s winters, Valeriy’s hands compresses the snow on the ground into a snowball and passes it to her. “Here.”

The child gasps, eyes lighting up in mischief. “Thank you, Mr Guard!” she giggles as she hurries off. 

Valeriy straightens, dusting the last traces of snow from his gloves as his familiar, disciplined expression settles back into place. He raises a brow.

“Let’s go.”

Just like that, the dichotomy between this Valeriy and Major Valeriy has Mitya wondering if he’d just hallucinated that entire interaction. 

Huh. 

Looks like Valeriy has a sweet side to him, after all. Awkward, trying his best… and surprisingly sweet.

(That sight stays in Mitya’s head for weeks to come.)

2.

Having a third arm is advantageous in a multitude of ways. Sometimes, when he really gets into the flow, it saves him from having to interrupt his train of thought just to reach for a pen or sift through a stack of papers in search for the relevant data and statistics.

Naturally, he holds out his palm, waiting for the familiar swish in the air before the deposition of his favourite navy coloured pen into his grasp. In the meantime, he uses his other hand to highlight important notes.

He knows something is amiss when it takes slightly longer for his scarf’s assistance to arrive. Even more so when his fingertips brush against smooth leather. His eyelids flutter as he turns to see Valeriy. He seems to have upgraded from staring at Mitya across the room to doing it up close. 

Mitya flashes an amiable smile as thanks before shifting his focus back to the work on hand.

“Don’t you have other duties to fulfil? I’m not gonna run away this time, trust me,” Mitya mumbles when Valeriy remains rooted to the ground. He raises his palm again, this time itching for a red pen, and tries to not let confusion show on his face as Valeriy completes the task instead.

“That’s what you said the previous seventeen times,” Valeriy says, distant, as though mentally replaying each one to remind himself exactly why he shouldn’t fall for Mitya’s words again.

“And I’m a changed man now, Sarge.” Mitya winks. 

“You said that on the twelfth.”

“Did I?” Mitya hums, tapping the end of his pen against his chin. “Well, clearly I was still undergoing character development back then.”

“Then explain the sixteenth.” Valeriy gives him a sort of look that would probably make a lesser man reconsider every decision he’s made in the past week. Mitya, unfortunately, has never possessed that particular survival instinct.

Instead, he  smiles wider. “Oh come on, that one was hardly even my fault.” 

“You ran out through the tunnel. That hasn’t been used in years. Meant for emergencies.”

“The main door was occupied.”

“By me.”

“See? I knew you’d understand.”

A muscle in Valeriy’s jaw twitches.

“So…” Mitya nudges him. Even though he really does have no intention of sneaking out for today, it doesn’t hurt to give it a try. Between analysing research papers against Snezhnaya's beautiful backdrop and this dull place, it was clear which would be the winner. “Trust me on the eighteenth?” 

Valeriy sighs. “It’s been three minutes since this conversation started, Mr Dmitri. If you don’t go back to work within the next minute, you’ll lose whatever momentum you had. When that happens, leave me out of your sulking.”

“I don’t sulk,” Mitya grumbles under his breath. Valeriy is definitely upping his game. The first time Mitya made such an expression, he remembers the way Valeriy had fumbled with his words, a trace of anxiety slipping into his tone. It has also been the moment Mitya realised that, beneath all that military discipline and intimidating composure, Valeriy wasn’t as unshakable as he made himself out to be. He even remembers poking fun of Valeriy’s flushed ears! Fun times, fun times.

Now he appears to have gained immunity to that, as well.

It’s about time Mitya revised his tactics.

Nevertheless, Valeriy’s words do ring true. He whistles, turning back to his work. Talk about dedication. 

Nonetheless, it doesn’t just stop there.

“Elementals… elementals…” he mutters under his breath, scouring the myriad of books stacked on top of one another.

“This one?” The slight hesitance in Valeriy’s voice speaks volumes about his uncertainty when the book appears right under Mitya’s nose, flipped to the right chapter and all.

Mitya takes a step back, surprised,  and his back hits something sturdy and warm.

His breath hitches, shoulders going rigid. Woah. Mr Valeriy’s awfully close, isn’t he? Close enough that Mitya suddenly becomes painfully aware of every inch between them— or rather, the distinct lack of it. 

Valeriy peers over his head, attention fixed on whatever lies in front of him, seemingly oblivious to the way Mitya has stopped functioning altogether. If he concentrates hard enough, Mitya swears he can feel the faint brush of Valeriy’s breath stirring the hair near his temple, warm and soft enough to send an inconvenient little shiver down his spine.

He swallows, throat dry, and forces his lungs to work. 

It would be much easier if Valeriy would stop smelling so nice, too.

Awkwardly, he steps to the side, a laugh slipping past his lips in hopes that it’s enough to drown out the pounding of his heart. 

Then, he sends a traitorious glare to his scarf.

“Hey…” Mitya nudges it. “Are you good there?”

The scarf doesn’t respond to him, seemingly content to appear as an ordinary scarf, as though it hadn’t been mussing up Mitya’s hair just fifteen minutes ago. 

For a split second, worry starts to bubble up at the back of Mitya’s head. As though sensing his mild distress, the scarf immediately whirls to life, bestowing him with a thumbs up, before fluttering back down. 

Ah. Well. Mitya chalks it up to it just being playful. 

“Sorry, Sarge.” Mitya shrugs, not sounding very sorry at all. Valeriy did mention that he was at Mitya’s assistance. “Scarf’s out of commission. Looks like I’ll have to count on you today.”

(Turns out, his scarf is only out of commission when Mitya’s the one asking for help. It seems perfectly functional when it comes to discreetly pointing Valeriy toward Mitya’s review article— and Valeriy, helpfully, follows its lead.)

(It happens again. And again. And again.

Mitya could get used to this.)

3.

“Do I have to remind you about the deal we made, Mr… Mitya?” Valeriy begins, rolling the nickname around on his tongue.

Mitya pretends it isn’t affecting him as much as it does. Multiple people have addressed him as Mitya. So why does it feel so different when it comes from Valeriy? Was it because it felt as though he had finally accomplished something? 

Valeriy is unfailingly polite, strict when he has to be, and the sort of man who seems to follow every rule down to the letter. So hearing Mitya instead of Dmitri from him feels strangely significant— like some boundary between them has shifted. 

(Even if he had to use some tricks to get it. No, the fact that Valeriy even agreed in the first place...)

His stomach flips unpleasantly in on itself, and Mitya can’t quite decide whether it’s from the thrill of victory or something far more troublesome.

… Or maybe it could be due to the position he was in.

“Hey, do you know just how much I’ve toned it down? I even had this brilliant plan of— mmph!” He vigorously shakes his head, trying to get his scarf to release its hold. It makes his head spin and his stomach lurch. Thankfully, his scarf shows him mercy.

“You know lunch break just ended half an hour ago, right? You might soon find yourself facing the wrath of indigestion,” Mitya says petulantly, not appreciating the new strategy Valeriy has decided to try out. He’s currently tucked securely under the arm of his bodyguard, feet off the ground. 

Again, his stomach twists uncomfortably at the thought that Valeriy had been able to manhandle him so effortlessly, scooping him up with a single swoop, like he’d weighed nothing at all. 

Well, he thinks begrudgingly, don’t say I didn’t warn you, Sarge. 

“If you had the energy to run away with that cheery attitude of yours, I’m sure your stomach can survive this,” Valeriy replies, unamused.

Fine,  Mitya thinks. If Valeriy wants to play difficult, Mitya can improvise.

He flicks a glance toward his scarf— his most reliable companion of getting Mitya out of such sticky situations. Usually that’s all it takes. A little tug here, a distraction there, and Mitya gets the opening he needs. His scarf perks up, and Mitya smiles in approval.

Then, instead of doing whatever it's supposed to do, his scarf wraps itself around the back of Valeriy’s waist, even daring to snuggle up against Valeriy.

While Valeriy did not comment on it, it didn’t mean that the way his arm tenses up— damn those muscles are big— just slightly around Mitya’s waist went unnoticed.

His stomach flips over on itself. Again.

“Can you at least let my arms breathe?” Mitya whines. Seems like he’d be escaping on his own. “I’d like to retain some circulation before you put me back in my glorified cell.”

“No.”

“Leaving my precious limbs for the dead, I see. Interesting tactic.” Mitya tries to crank his head up to meet the Sarge’s eyes, but wisely decides it was not worth the neck pain and flopped his head back down. “But there is a crucial flaw. Who’s gonna take responsibility for these new ideas that are just begging to be penned down?”

Lies. Thoughts about research experiments had been facing a roadblock lately, dissipating into the air quicker than he could catch them. He expects to find himself back at the Korolevskiy Theatre soon; hopefully the mesmerising performances of Vodyanitsa and Odette could clear the fog in his mind.

What he hadn’t expected was for his scarf to move. It slithered up from Valeriy’s waist, before winding itself snugly against Valeriy’s other arm. And Mitya felt it give three deliberate squeezes. Damn, those are some tough muscles…

His scarf squeezes again, as though in agreement.

Hear him out. He has spent (perhaps way more time than necessary) observing (admiring) the other’s physique. All in the name of science, obviously. Otherwise, how would his success rate remain hovering at 65.45%? There’s so much fun calculation involved. Like how many steps it takes for Valeriy’s long legs to cross the room, or how to recognise the exact moment Valeriy’s weight shifts before he turns, the subtle roll of muscle beneath fabric that signals which direction he’ll move.

Then, his scarf wagged a thumbs up in front of both of them, before going back to feeling Valeriy up.

Even so, isn’t this kind of touch going against workplace boundaries?

“Mr Dmitri.”

“I—I’m so sorry, but it’s not me, I swear!”

What is going on?

4.

Mitya loves his scarf. 

Can’t reach the top shelf? Scarf!

Need an extra hand for pictures? Scarf!

Want to test how long he can go for without air till he starts feeling lightheaded and the thoughts cease to exist? Attempt spilling confidential information! 

To sum it up, his scarf is an extension of him; something he can count on in his daily life. And being an extension of him, Mitya has gotten pretty confident at reading its movements. Unless it’s an attempt to stop Mitya from running his mouth off, he’d say they're very much on the same page.

So why?

Mitya pulls his scarf, but it remains tethered to the hinges of the door.

“Don’t play around!” he grits. Taking a deep breath in, he gives it a harsh yank, and the scarf finally lets go, albeit reluctantly. From the corner of his eye, he spots the exact moment Valeriy recognises him amongst the sea of patrons. He feels the oncoming sense of dread from being caught and ending this chase a little way too quickly for his enjoyment. 20.7 seconds, his mind processes quickly. Nope, make that 17.5! “We gotta go!”

So why has his scarf been acting up! Like some rebellious teenager!

“I never knew you’ll wish for my demise!” he pants. That had been close. He’d barely evaded Valeriy. It pains him to know that his success rate has gone down to 60.7%! He’s supposed to grow with experience, but he seems to be stunted with the way this new obstacle has popped up. “It hasn’t even been fifteen minutes since I got out of there!”

“What is up with you these days?” Mitya mutters. Lately, it’s almost as though it wants him to get caught. It no longer tugs him towards side passages, or gives him the slight warning when Valeriy is closing in. 

“We have to work together to ensure optimum success!” Mitya insists. “Why are you doing this?”

The scarf points to him.

“Me?” Mitya asks. “For me?”

His scarf launches into a frantic series of twists, jerks and emphatic little flicks that would have made anyone confused. Anyone except Mitya, of course.

He carries you, he translates in his head. In different positions.

“Pfft—” the sound that escapes him is too forced to be genuine amusement. “So?”

His scarf gives another pointed little twitch. You like it.

“It's an easy mode of transportation after constantly running and being on the lookout,” Mitya clears his throat. “It accelerates my metabolic recovery.” 

It curls around his shoulders. You like his arms.

“That was simply an observation.”

It slithers down. His chest.

“Quit it.”

His hands—

“You’re dangerously close to being stuffed into the closet for time-out.”

Then his scarf freezes… before flipping him off.

Mitya raises an eyebrow. “Seriously? You know, the proper way to do this is to raise the middle one. Which, you do not have. You don’t have five fingers! You don't even have fingers!”

His scarf wraps around his neck affectionately, poking his cheek teasingly.

Admit it, it seems to say. You like him very, very much.

Mitya catches the offending end of it between his two fingers. “I like plenty of people.”

He feels the coil of his scarf tighten around his throat, daring him to continue this roundabout way of—

“Okay—!” Mitya chokes out, failing to make it release its tight grip. “Slightly more! Slightly more than plenty of people!” 

He gasps, his lungs appreciating the oxygen that it had been deprived of. He rubs his neck, unamused. 

Mitya hadn’t expected Valeriy to become anything more than a guard assigned to keep him in line. Certainly not someone whose footsteps he could recognise before seeing him, whose presence became thoroughly woven into the rhythm of his days. Between all the chasing, the banter, the small smiles that Valeriy had assumed went unnoticed, and the subtle reminders for Mitya to take care of his wellbeing in the most hectic of days… Valeriy became someone far more important than Mitya was prepared to admit. 

At this point, Mitya doesn’t know what he’d do without Valeriy. 

Nonetheless…

“So what? If  anything, he probably views me as a hassle.”

Sometimes he lays awake in his bed, pondering about the aftermath of Project Mistilteinn, how that had been the common thing tethering them to each other. After that, what happens? Valeriy will probably go back to his duties, and Mitya would be sent back to the Royal Energy Commission headquarters. Their days would stop overlapping so naturally.

Mitya can find many reasons for Valeriy to stay by his side.

Whether Valeriy would choose to stay once duty stopped asking it of him— that was another matter entirely.

His scarf nudges him out of his stupor. 

It wags a strand at him disapproving, before grazing his lips and forming a heart.

This brings a chuckle out of Mitya. “Come on, you know it's rude to give someone false hope, right?”

You’ll never know, it gestures, unless you try.

Mitya knows his scarf has always been perceptive. Too perceptive. It knows when to interfere when Mitya talks too much, when to pull him back when he does something stupid, and most importantly, it always has Mitya's best interests in mind.

Which means that it is probably sensing something Mitya isn’t. 

While his scarf continues its explanation, his mind is already running. 

Mitya is a being with feelings. Feelings so strong that he might just be content with keeping them to himself.

But before that, Mitya is a scientist starving for an answer.

5.

Through thorough observation over the next few days, Mitya came to form two hypotheses.

He flips through his notebook to the page where the main research topic is circled and underlined many, many times.

Underneath it lies...

H₀ : Valeriy’s behaviour towards Mitya shows no evidence of personal affection beyond what is expected of a high achieving, exceptionally diligent bodyguard.

H₁ : Valeriy’s behaviour towards Mitya shows evidence of personal— and possibly romantic?— affection beyond what is expected of a high achieving, exceptionally diligent bodyguard.

Progress has been slow, but Mitya understands. Feelings are delicate, and he wouldn’t want to mess up such a precarious relationship. 

Besides, it gives him more reasons to observe Valeriy’s face, which is always a win in his books.

Valeriy stares back at Mitya for the nth time, holding his gaze for a full minute. Mitya tilts his head, squints, and even wiggles his eyebrows. No reaction.

Mitya nods to himself satisfactorily, jolting down really passionate gaze??? in his notebook, completely unaware of the way Valeriy tries to inconspicuously search for a reflective surface.

“Mr Mitya?”

Snapping his notebook shut, he comes face to face with his fellow researcher, who is holding a stack of papers in her hands. 

“Here’s the data from yesterday’s trial,” Sasha states, pointing to the numbers. “Though there was a slight improvement in speed, problems with the depletion of reserves still persist.”

Mitya sucks in a deep breath. “Still a no go, huh.”

“Unfortunately,” she sighs, dragging a hand down her face. “This absolutely sucks.”

“Tell me about it,” Mitya grumbles, briefly scanning through the statistics, mind immediately getting to work— computing and analysing the information.

Her gaze softens at his pensive expression, and Mitya nearly tumbles forward from the firm, unexpected pat on his back. 

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. We wouldn’t have gotten this far without your input,” she reassures, pinching his cheeks.

He can’t help the smile that breaks across his face as he makes a half-hearted attempt to pry her hands away. 

“I know, I know—” Mitya bites his lips. “It’s just…”

It doesn’t help that he’s fairly certain he’d been on the edge of some kind of breakthrough, before an overwhelming wave of exhaustion hit him out of nowhere. Then he woke up with his mind as blank as a slate. Which was extremely unlike him, especially when Mitya knew he could spend days cooped up in the lab with barely any rest when something had properly caught his attention, especially something this important.

Alas, such is the hurdle of life; but Mitya is anything but a quitter.

Though that didn’t mean that perhaps he’d been a little harder on himself than usual, which equated to sneaking out more often… which might equate to Valeriy getting white hairs before he turned forty.

Right, what has he been doing? It’s not like studying Valeriy any longer would magically manifest the solution to Project Mistilteinn.

He needs to get his head in the game. A breath of fresh air will definitely do. His gaze flickers between Sasha and Valeriy, from the way she reads through his newest findings to Valeriy watching the both of them, curiosity in those hooded eyes.

Passionate gaze, the stray thought hits him like a lightning bolt. He presses his lips into a thin line. Mitya can multitask. In fact, he’d kill two birds with one stone.

“Miss Sasha, did you know that recreational activities have been shown to improve an employee's work-life balance and overall productivity?”

Sasha tilts her head, confused. “Uh— I’m currently sewing a sweater for my cat, if that’s what you’re referring to?”

“During work,” Mitya elaborates. “You know… to pass the time when faced with a hurdle.”

She shakes her head disapprovingly, hands on her hips. Nevertheless, she tries to keep her voice down as she chides, “Is this another one of your side experiments? Again? You know the Director wants this report by the end of the week.”

Mitya clasps his hands in a prayer, pleading, “Please, I’ll owe you one, really! I’ll even let your child play with my scarf, alright? For ten minutes!”

Sasha smirks, her eyes glinting under the artificial lights. “Make that twenty.”

“Fifteen!”

“Are you sure you’re in a position to bargain?”

“Fine, fine, fine,” Mitya concedes. “Now, all I need you to do is to grab your Spiced Honey Brew, go over there, ask Major Valeriy to hold your cup, then complain that the drink is too hot and make him blow on it.”

Sasha deadpans. “You want me to flirt with him?”

“How is that flirting? All I need you to do is to see how he reacts. I’m sure he’d do it, but I want to know the response time, whether he says anything back, if he smiles, if he frowns— you know what I mean.”

She narrows her eyes. “Why?”

“I’m trying to see how he reacts under the same conditions when the independent variable changes.”

Sasha rolls her eyes, like she has long given up on trying to read whatever goes on in Mitya’s mind. “Are you sure he’d even agree to this?”

“You’re under me, so he’d entertain you,” Mitya says with utmost confidence.

“He might kill me for wasting his time.”

“No, he won’t! If you look past the stoic surface, he’s a pretty patient guy.”

“Amongst the researchers, it’s only towards you, Mr Mitya,” she teases. “During working hours, you’re the only one he ever seems to soften around.”

“I need actual evidence!” Mitya insists. “Not your instinct!”

The expression she makes is the same one he’s seen her give her adopted daughter whenever she’s feeling shy and has to depend on her mom for help— even if Mitya’s only younger than Sasha by four years.

Mitya makes a sweeping motion, and watches as Sasha heads over. The moment Valeriy’s attention shifts to Sasha, Mitya seizes his opportunity and quietly slips away.

“I didn’t know conspiring with your co-worker was on the table.”

“That was a separate thing. It just so happened to coincide with the time I was planning to leave,” Mitya explains. Then, he looks at Valeriy from the corner of his eye. “I hope you didn’t give her too much trouble for it.”

Valeriy sighs. “Who do you take me for? My regiment is responsible for every researcher in the Armory Palace involved in Project Mistilteinn. As the commanding officer, of course I fulfilled the request in a cordial manner, no matter how… unique it is.”

Sometimes, with the amount of time Valeriy spends with him, Mitya kinda forgets that Valeriy is also in charge of everyone. Something sharp and sour curls under Mitya’s ribs. Which is so childish, because he was the one who asked Sasha to do it in the first place, and knowing her, he can trust that she delivered it with perfection. So why does the thought of Valeriy indulging her so easily make him feel this way?

“But you’re mine— bodyguard. My personal bodyguard, right? No one else’s?” Oops, that was close.

“Yes. You’ll always be the priority.” Valeriy raises an eyebrow at Mitya’s lit up expression. “Seeing as you’re aware of that, could you please stop acting like I’m your captor?”

Mitya whines, “But you are! You’re capturing me and sending me back!”

“No. I’m guiding you back.”

Mitya looks pointedly at the fistful of fabric bunched at the back of his coat.  “Is that what we’re calling this?”

Valeriy follows his gaze.

“You’re dragging me around like your tower shield, Sarge—” Mitya argues. “No wait— you handle shields more delicately than this!”

“You tried to bolt.”

“It’s a shortcut! Which you would have known if you’d explored with me.”

“Save the exploring for after-working hours, Mr Mitya.”

Valeriy gives a rough tug to the side, and Mitya can’t help but let a small noise of discomfort slip. Valeriy pauses in his movements. 

Immediately, Mitya takes his chances. “See? There’s nothing remotely guiding about this. Guiding is supposed to be gentle.”

Something flickers in Valeriy’s eyes. He presses his lips into a line, draws in an exasperated breath, and…

“Is this gentle enough?” Valeriy asks, unamused. 

Oh. 

Mitya looks  down.

Their hands are clasped together.

Which is a ridiculous thing to notice. Nothing against hand-holding— in fact, Mitya even encourages it, having been proven to reduce stress responses and reinforce social bonding. Purely beneficial from a physiological standpoint, really. 

But now, all Mitya can focus on is the rough leather of Valeriy’s glove against his palm, the strong pressure of his fingers curling around his own, as though ready to react if Mitya pulls some funny business.

So much for physiological benefits. If anything, whatever calming effect hand-holding is meant to have has clearly decided not to apply to him.

Scientifically speaking, he should apply triplicate testing, just in case this particular result was an abnormality.

Personally speaking, Mitya doesn’t know if he’d be able to survive all three rounds. 

Before he can let go, though, his scarf wraps their hands tightly, binding them together. Mitya lets out a small curse under his breath, trying to untie it, but the scarf stays firm in its decision.

“My scarf really likes you, Sarge,” Mitya blabbers when the silence begins to stretch on way too long for his liking. “Won’t you just tell me how you managed to win it over?”

Valeriy huffs in amusement. “At least I’m not the only one who knows how important it is for you to get back to your post.”

How can a man be so wrong? 

“Nah.”

“It is true. You are very valuable, Mr Mitya. That’s why your wellbeing is of utmost importance.”

“Because you’re my bodyguard?”

Valeriy hums. Then, he gives Mitya a pointed look. “Who else would have the patience to constantly keep you in check?”

“Hah…” This is familiar. This is easy. He follows it up with a joke. “Careful, Sarge. Another word and I might start assuming that I've somehow managed to worm my way into your heart.”

“Well, it is to be expected with such constant close proximity.”

Uh oh. Reject the null hypothesis. No, no, no scratch that— that would be too soon to say. The sample size is too inadequate— he’s not ready yet— Mitya is not ready to give his conclusion—!

Then, as though that wasn’t enough, Valeriy says something that completely throws Mitya off-kilter. “And in your assessment, Mr Mitya, I do hope that, despite our differences, I’ve been fulfilling my duties well.”

He feels his cloak shifting, and Mitya can practically feel it thrumming excitedly, with a stern, underlying warning of don’t fuck this up. 

“Yeah. You’re like a door.”

“A… door?”

“...”

“...”

“... Yep.”

Mitya slams his head on the table. Papers flutter around him, scattering across his desk. Not even an Oh, you’re a great friend! Or a You’re so reliable and probably the only person I’d trust to protect me from all the dangerous situations I willingly walk into. 

Or, better yet:  I wanna make out with you badly can you feel the sexual tension or is it just me? Actually nevermind— it’s obvious enough that my scarf, of all things, has started putting in the effort for us to get together so shall we at least have the decency to show that its hard work has not been put to waste and put on a good show?

“Are you okay, Mr Mitya? Do you need me to—”

“I’m fine, Sarge!” Mitya yells back, swatting his scarf as it busies itself patting his head in consolation.

What was his brain doing? A door? A door? There were so many different directions that he could have gone from there! Even something simple along the lines of A door, because somehow you’ve managed to become the entrance to my heart would have sufficed! 

He slams his head into the desk once more.

“Mr Mitya!” Sasha calls out, a lilt in her tone. “I’ve organised the results you requested!”

Mitya’s ears burn. “Thanks, Miss Sasha! I’ll retrieve it later!”

Mitya is definitely sneaking out to watch the rehearsal at the Korolevskiy Theater tomorrow. Anything— anything to forget about this!

+1. 

The distant crunch of boots against packed snow slowly filters through the haze of Mitya’s thoughts, tugging him back to awareness.

“There you are.”

Mitya lifts his gaze from the ground. Valeriy stands at the entrance of the run-down shelter. Each breath leaves him in a pale cloud, one hand wrapped around a Kresnik’s torch. His brows are drawn tight, concern etched across his face as his eyes settle on Mitya.

“Not even the mountains can stop Operation Showtime, huh?”

“How did you—”

“It’s a long story.” Mitya waves him off. “Or is it… just you?”

“Over here, it’s just me,” Valeriy replies, glaring at Mitya. “Do you have any idea the number of guards scouring Snezhnaya for you right now?”

Mitya presses his lips into a thin line, averting his gaze. “Sorry.”

There must be something else in Mitya’s expression, because Valeriy just sighs, the tension in his frame giving way to weariness. He takes care to step around the Snowball Flowers before lowering himself beside Mitya and setting the torch between them. Warmth spills out immediately, chasing the bite of the cold from Mitya’s fingers and settling pleasantly on his skin.

Valeriy takes off his gauntlet, before removing his own gloves. “Your hands.”

And before Mitya could protest that the heat emitted was just fine, Valeriy is already taking one of his hands into his own.

He slips the glove over Mitya’s fingers carefully, tugging it into place one finger at a time before smoothing the leather over his palm. Then, he does the same with the other hand, precisely with a slight hurriedness, adjusting the cuffs until no strip of skin is left exposed to the cold.

Only then does Valeriy reach into his back pocket and pull out two heat packs. “Hold these.”

He places one into each of Mitya’s newly gloved palms, then folds Mitya’s fingers over them himself, pressing his hands closed until the warmth is safely trapped inside.

“That’s excessive,” Mitya quips.

“Your fingers are turning purple,” Valeriy mentions. “Not to mention the red on your nose, cheeks and ears.”

“Scarf’s got it.” As the words leave him, his scarf wraps around the lower half of his face and shoots a peace sign.

“Pardon my words…” Valeriy says, “but it’s unlike you to be this unprepared.”

“It was an impromptu plan. I wanted to test whether there’s a temperature cold enough to make my brain shut up without shutting down.”

Valeriy sighs. “Does this have to do with why I woke up on the floor?”

Mitya hums, feigning confusion. 

“The Traveler told me to ask you after you’ve been found.”

Mitya perks up for a second. “The Traveler?”

Valerity nods. “Said it’ll be better if it came from you.”

“You disappear for a day, and no one in Snezhograd could get ahold of you,” Valeriy continues. “Then I find you out here trying to freeze yourself senseless.”

“I told you, it was an experiment.”

“That’s an absurd claim.”

Mitya’s smile comes automatically. “Aw. Are you doubting my scientific integrity now, Sarge?”

“I’m doubting your judgement.”

“Ouch.”

Valeriy’s expression tightens. “If something happened that put you in danger, you should have told me.”

Mitya’s finger curls around the heat packs. Of course Valeriy would worry; would care to search for him in such freezing weather.

Mitya is his responsibility after all. 

Nonetheless, this is something that none of them could do about. Not yet, at least. 

“You know,” Mitya says, “there are some things even you can’t protect me from.”

Valeriy’s brows draw together. “Are you doubting my abilities?”

“Of course not—” Mitya immediately protests, taking offense to such words. He laughs bitterly, the fire in his heart flaring up. Another race against that damn Grim Reaper, and he’d lost once again. “It’s just…  how much power do humans really hold, when something greater has already set its will against us?”

“While I agree that there are limits to what we can control,” Valeriy says, “I can at least offer a listening ear.”

“It’s absolutely unhinged.”

“I deal with you everyday. I can handle it.”

 A laugh escapes Mitya before he can stop it. “Meanie.”

Silence settles between them.

Mitya could leave it at that. He could change the subject, say something ridiculous enough to steer them away from everything sitting heavy inside his chest. Valeriy would probably let him, and Mitya could keep pretending that everything was fine.

But it’s not. 

And Mitya feels as though Valeriy deserved to know the truth, too.

So he opens his mouth and spills everything, from the moment the lights begin to flicker in the theatre, to everyone suddenly dying, to Ronova revealing herself, all the way to the end, when he’d been certain that their technological progress was being sabotaged.

“I told myself to stop thinking about it,” Mitya sighs. With every project and experiment temporarily halted, one would think that there was nothing left for him to do. Unfortunately, that didn’t make the miscellaneous reports— all of which had nothing to do with Project Mistilteinn—  magically complete themselves. 

So Mitya had taken it upon himself to write them up, because he knew he might just go crazy if he couldn’t keep his mind stimulated and his hands busy.

That didn’t mean he hadn’t taken precautions. With everyone out of the research base, there was hardly anyone that would get dragged down with him. And he’d sworn it wouldn’t take that long. Just two days. Two measly days to scratch that intellectual itch before he officially finds himself unemployed.

Valeriy had decided to stay of his own accord, unmoving like the mountains in the harshest of weather, no matter how many times Mitya suggested (pleaded) him to wait outside. (Though, considering Mitya’s less-than-stellar track record when left unattended, he couldn’t exactly blame him for refusing. Well, if it wasn’t the consequences of his own actions.)

(If Mitya thinks a little deeper, of course Valeriy would have stayed. He likes to think he’d done a pretty good job at keeping the mess of his feelings under wraps— especially the guilt of causing everyone in the Korolevskiy Theatre to go through so much. But if anyone was going to notice the cracks, it would be Valeriy. He had spent more time at Mitya’s side than anyone else, after all.

 So Valeriy stayed. He stood there, beside him. To make sure he was okay. Because that’s just the kind of person Valeriy is.)

Honestly, who knew that even a measly report about— no. Don’t think about it, Mitya. Don’t you dare think about it.

“But it happened. Again. And it wouldn’t have been that bad if—” The fire in him fizzles out, leaving a hollow, sinking feeling in its wake. “— you hadn’t been affected.”

There’s silence, before Valeriy says, quietly, “It’s not your fault.”

“It doesn't make the result disappear,” Mitya sighs deeply, running a hand through his hair. “I wonder how many times this will keep happening.”

“It won’t,” Valeriy reassures him. “I’ll think of something to keep you occupied.”

And he says it so confidently that Mitya wants to believe him. 

He teases, “Don’t tell me it's about security assessments and operational reports. Both of us know you’re gonna disapprove all of my suggestions."

Valeriy frowns deeply, as though deep in thought. “I’ll… think of something else.”

“So… try not to worry about it,” he continues. “You’re not alone in this. I’ll be there, too.”

“Even if, hypothetically, it happens again?” Mitya asks.

“While it’ll cause a mess in the schedule, I’d rather have that than see you try to isolate yourself.”

“Ah, you’re nice,” Mitya chuckles. “Best bodyguard ever.”

Valeriy gives him a small smile.

“Speaking as the ‘best bodyguard ever’, I suggest we head back. Do you know how worried everyone is?” Valeriy says. “Miss Vodyanitsa even promised to give you free tickets to the next rehearsal if you return soon.”

“You know how to joke now!” Mitya laughs, patting his shoulders with much enthusiasm. “Man, I love it!” 

His grin only widens at Valeriy’s terrible attempt to stand up and walk the whole thing off. 

“Hey, how did you even find me, anyway?” Mitya asks. Before he scrambled off in a hurry— too distraught to think about the consequences— he’d only left a simple note beside Valeriy’s unmoving body,  informing him that he’d come back in a day or two. There was nothing more about it that would have given Valeriy enough clues.

Valeriy pauses. “You mentioned you wanted to study the Snowball Flowers during lunch the other day.”

Mitya gasps loudly. “Using my ramblings against me? That’s unfair, Sarge.”

Valeriy shrugs. “I’m just making full use of my resources.”

“Don’t tell me you went on a hunt for all of them in Snezhnaya.”

“If I couldn't find you here, I was supposed to head to the opposite mountain,” Valeriy admits, his voice low, quiet and soft.

It catches him off guard, leaving his throat a little tight.

“What an adventure,” Mitya hums, as feelings of warmth and tenderness blooms quietly in his chest at that revelation. 

“I’ll be around the corner,” Valeriy says. “Let me know when you’re ready to depart.”

He doesn’t manage to take another step, before Mitya’s scarf shoots out and winds itself around Valeriy’s waist, holding tight. 

Mitya stares at it defeatedly.  

“Sorry about the scarf,” he says, suddenly very interested in the heat packs. “It just wants you to stay.”

“Do you want me to stay?”

Mitya stares at the ground. There it is again. The quickening heartbeats, the way his breaths shake. His grip on the packs tightened up immensely. “I— yeah. Just a little longer. I don’t want to go back so soon.”

“Of course. I’ve sent Corporal Maxim to apply for a leave of absence for you on my behalf. I'll escort you home and you can rest up.”

Mitya blinks at him, incredulous. “You can do that? Doesn’t that need approval?”

“Of course I can,” Valeriy replies. “My titles aren’t just for show.”

“But you’re so strict with my work schedule!”

“I’m not that unreasonable. I’m like that when I know you’re making an excuse to bend it.”

“Even when it’s obvious I don’t have another breakthrough left in me, you still won’t give me a break?”

“You are a scientist of the Royal Energy Commission, an important figure in Project Mistilteinn, and someone whose knowledge knows no bounds. My trust and belief in your abilities are precisely the reason why I've been strict with your schedules.”

“Ugh, you’re terrible.” Mitya pouts. Then, he leans to the side, head resting on Valeriy’s arm. “Thanks.”

Then, his scarf wraps around both of them, tugging Valeriy closer until the two of them are pressed into one tight inescapable embrace. 

“Your scarf is really lively,” Valeriy comments.

Mitya chuckles. “What would you say if I told you that this was its attempt at trying to… set us up?”

There’s a pause, before Valeriy speaks slowly, as though testing the waters. “I would say that it deserves to be compensated.”

“… In what way? Mora? Extra food? Free control over my limbs? Or— ”

He doesn’t get to complete his sentence, before there’s a light pressure on his lips.

“Like this.” Valeriy’s gaze flickers away from Mitya, shoulders drawing just a fraction tighter as he diverts his attention to the snowy scenery. A good thing, really, because it’ll sure be a little embarrassing for Mitya if the Sarge sees the red in his face reflected back at him.

But you know what? Fuck it. Mitya has found something even better to extensively research and fixate on.

(Mitya had been surprised by the results given by Sasha. While Valeriy had helped her without hesitation, there wasn’t any exasperated sigh, no little back-and-forth before he gave in. He apparently didn’t even check with her if the temperature was to her liking after fulfilling her request— completely different from what Mitya had been expecting.

And Mitya did not like that smug expression on her face. 

“Trust me, Mr Mitya, when I say he cares for you. Perhaps a little too much, if he lets you get away with so many things.”)

“You know... it’s been trying to set us up even before this.” Using both hands, Mitya gingerly grabs Valeriy’s cheeks, turns his face back towards him. His gaze flickers to his lips. “So…”

The same pressure returns to his lips, steadier this time, lingering for several breathless seconds. Warm presses against the icy cold, deliberately gentle, until the contrast sends a faint shiver through Mitya’s spine.

“Is that enough?”

His heart beats a frantic staccato, so loud and hard that Mitya thinks it’s going to leap out of his chest. “That— that’s compensation for the navy pen. There were a million other instances.”

“Looks like I’d have to work extra hard.”

“Mhm.” Mitya nods. “But just because you eventually clear the debt doesn’t mean you’re off the hook.”

Valeriy raises an eyebrow. 

“You’d still be in charge of my feelings.” Mitya grins. “Guard them well too, okay, Sarge?”

In response, Valeriy leans in once more.