Archive of Our Own

1.

Mitya’s drink arrives at the same time as Valeriy does.

He’d timed it that way, of course. One glance at the clock, another around the almost empty restaurant – too late for lunch, too early for dinner, though Mitya isn’t sure what his own meal counts as, given that it’s his first of the day – making it easy to calculate.

The server arrives with the drink and a smile at the same time as the doors open, somewhere over Mitya’s shoulder. He can feel the chilly breeze all the way from here, but he doesn’t turn, just smiles and thanks the server.

By the time Valeriy sidles up behind him, Mitya is swirling his drink, staring down into the orange mixture with a frown.

“Mister Mitya.”

His frown eases at once.

“Sarge!” Mitya replies with a grin. He only means to cast a quick glance behind himself, but finds himself freezing, eyes lingering a moment too long.

Valeriy looks as he always does, orderly and put together, but the cold wind has painted his cheeks red, and his combed hair looks just a little messier than normal. Unnoticeable to anyone who isn’t Mitya.

He has to force himself to look away, shaking his head. “Seriously. How many times have I told you not to call me Mister?”

“When I’m off the clock, perhaps.” The smile is audible in Valeriy’s voice, even if it barely shows on his face. “But I am not, and neither are you. Some decorum must be maintained.”

Mitya holds his drink out toward Valeriy as though in offering – the surface glints strangely under the ceiling lights, he notes.

“Even if I’m on lunch break?” He puts on his best pout. “Come on, Sarge. Relax a little!”

The pout, which would normally have Valeriy flushed, at the very least, goes ignored. His sharp eyes are fixed on the drink, and his hand shoots out to grab Mitya’s wrist, stilling him.

His gloved fingers are cold against Mitya’s skin.

“Mitya”, he says, and there’s a warning in his voice, urgent. It almost kills the delight of hearing his own name without any titles from Valeriy’s lips. “You didn’t drink this yet, did you?”

Mitya’s pout deepens.

“Hey, I’m not an idiot. I can tell when my drink’s been tampered with.”

Valeriy raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

“And you haven’t gone after the server? They could be long gone by now.”

It’s a good thing the restaurant is so empty, or else Valeriy stomping off toward the kitchens would’ve drawn a lot of attention.

Mitya watches him go with a pout, glancing down at his drink again, with its strange, iridescent tint. He tilts the glass, watching the liquid swirl. Then, he sniffs it. It doesn’t smell of much. A little citrusy. Sweet and tangy, mostly.

There’s a commotion coming from behind the kitchen doors, but Mitya doesn’t doubt that Valeriy has it handled, so he stays put, considering his drink instead.

Some minutes later, the kitchen doors slam open with a bang, and Mitya watches dizzily as Valeriy escorts a loudly protesting man out the front doors. He undoubtedly has more soldiers waiting there, ready to take away the offender. That’s how he usually operates. Prepared for everything.

When Valeriy returns inside, now without a would-be murderer in his arms, his eyes find Mitya, and his expression darkens. He speedwalks the last few steps, coming to a stop an arm’s length away while Mitya teeters dangerously on his chair.

“What did you do?” he demands, voice tight. One gloved hand lands on Mitya’s shoulder, and the weight almost topples him over. “You didn’t drink it, did you?”

The glass on the table looks full, and surely Valeriy can tell as much.

But the faint trace on the glass’ edge is new.

“Mitya.” His voice is a heavy mixture of anger, disappointment and concern, all at once. Maybe a few other things that Mitya can’t pick up on right now, not with the way his head is spinning. At least he’s finally dropped the ‘Mister’. “Are you serious?!”

“Tiny sip”, Mitya mumbles, and if possible, Valeriy’s expression grows even darker. He tries to explain himself, because Valeriy really doesn’t seem to agree with his decision to sip: “Good news, know what it is. Bad news… ouch.”

“Ouch”, Valeriy echoes, eye twitching. He clearly isn’t impressed by Mitya’s success in identifying the poison.

Mitya tries to nod, but stops when the entire room starts spinning. He presses a hand to his forehead, trying to make it stop.

“Get up.” Valeriy’s voice cuts through the fog, sounding every ounce the military man that he is. None of that kindness that Mitya prides himself on bringing out. “You’re going to the infirmary.”

“Good idea”, Mitya mumbles, for once not putting up an argument.

As he gets to his feet, he stumbles, head spinning. The very next moment, Valeriy is there, not even asking before lacing one arm behind his back and the other under his knees, hoisting him into the air in a bridal carry.

Maybe, if Mitya was less out of it, he’d be embarrassed by this.

…Who is he kidding? If anything, he’d enjoy it more if he wasn’t so out of it!

Sure, he might only be here because he kind of, very lightly poisoned himself, but Mitya considers this an absolute win. Being held in Valeriy’s arms, so close to the man’s chest… How could it be anything but?

“Why would you drink something when you know it’s poisoned?” Valeriy asks, voice hard to read.

With his arms laced around Valeriy’s neck, Mitya curls up closer to his chest as they step out into the frigid air. Nevermind the poison; this is the most comfortable he’s ever been! The words don’t do much against his good mood. He wants to save this moment and keep it in his pocket forever.

“‘s only lethal in big doses.” Mitya slurs his words like he’s drunk, and he frowns. Even when he tries his best to enunciate, his tongue refuses to cooperate. “Val. I think I’m gonna sleep a bit…”

Though Valeriy has been careful not to jostle him, all that seems to go out the window. His response comes out laced with panic.

“Don’t you dare.”

Mitya frowns, even as his eyelids continue to grow heavier. He tries to focus on Valeriy’s face, that line of worry between his brows, the fixed set of his jaw, anything to keep himself awake – he may be a menace, but the last thing he wants to do is make Valeriy more worried.

“Not lethal”, he repeats, because the anxiety in Valeriy’s eyes runs deep. Too deep. Mitya needs him to know that he’ll be fine, and there’s no reason to worry so much. “‘m fine. Just tired.”

“I’ll believe that when a doctor confirms it.”

Mitya pouts, leaning his head against Valeriy’s chest.

“You don’t believe me?”

Valeriy looks at him for a moment, and even with the tension all over his face, it’s impossible to miss the fondness in that look. The way his eyes soften the moment they meet Mitya’s.

“I have no doubt in your intelligence, but you have too little regard for your own safety”, he says quietly, with undeniable softness. “You should take better care of yourself.”

Mitya grins, feeling a little loopy.

“Isn’t that what you’re here for?”

Valeriy just huffs, turning his eyes forward again without responding.

That’s alright. Mitya knows, with years of experience to back him up, that Valeriy doesn’t find him nearly as annoying as he might claim.

After all, actions speak louder, and he is currently cradling Mitya in his arms, carrying him close to his chest, like something precious. He may be poisoned, but the meaning isn’t lost on him.

* * *

2.

“Sarge! I was starting to think you wouldn’t make it. Come on, come on, the show’s almost starting!”

Mitya bounces forward, grabbing Valeriy’s bicep and squeezing it, for entirely self-indulgent reasons, before dragging him toward the theater entrance. The fact that Valeriy lets him is less of a testament to Mitya’s strength, and more so Valeriy’s indulgence.

“Mister Mitya”, he says sternly, but the disapproval in his voice is greatly contrasted by how he’s still following Mitya along, through the double doors into the grand showhall. “You are aware that you should be at work right now, aren’t you?”

“Meh.” Mitya waves him off, still clinging to one of his arms as he leads them toward their seats. “Who says I can’t be at work and watch a play at the same time?”

Valeriy blinks at him.

“At work does imply that you are in the physical location”, he remarks dryly.

But he doesn’t protest as Mitya pushes him down in a seat and then sits right next to him. Not at the very front, but close enough that they’ve got a good view nonetheless.

“I don’t need to be in the location to be at work. I happen to be amazing at multitasking”, Mitya states, and even though it isn’t false at all, Valeriy huffs.

Valeriy, who has seen him scribbling on anything from napkins to his own skin, should already know as much. There’s no telling when or where inspiration strikes. Mitya has his best ideas outside the lab, and inspiration is vital to his scientific progress!

“So, what I’m hearing is that your hobbies are also work. That’s not what I’d call a good work-life balance.”

Mitya scoffs, but he can’t deny the warmth he feels at Valeriy’s concern.

“Says you. If it wasn’t for me, you’d still be chained to your desk!”

“I don’t have a desk job.”

Mitya groans. “I was speaking metaphorically!”

Any retorts are cut off with the dimming of the lights, the entire room hushing as all attention turns to the stage – Mitya included, and presumably Valeriy as well, in spite of his complaints. He’s still here, after all. That’s got to count for something.

Vodyanitsa’s vocals are truly out of this world, carrying throughout the theater with an ethereal air, captivating. From the very first note, Mitya is entranced.

But not enough to miss the man that enters halfway through, making his way down the very row where Mitya and Valeriy is sitting with muttered apologies to everyone he passes. It’s a momentary distraction, but Mitya frowns as the man gets closer to them. For one, there aren’t any empty seats on this row. If he’s a latecomer, he’s in the wrong place.

Mitya has already pulled his feet back, trying to make space, but right as the man is about to pass him, he stumbles.

It happens very fast. The man careens to the side, straight toward Mitya’s seat, arms shooting up to brace himself, but before he can make contact, Valeriy is there, physically blocking Mitya with his own body, leaning out of his own seat and over Mitya’s lap. All Mitya can see is the back of Valeriy’s head as he catches the falling man.

Something clatters to the floor.

Mitya stares, mouth open, as Valeriy shoots out of his seat, with the man still moving erratically in his arms. Now, with a better view, he can see that Valeriy is restraining the man by the wrists. The man struggles, but it’s clear who’s physically stronger, and his efforts don’t amount to much.

With a clenched jaw, and not a single word, Valeriy begins to drag the man away.

Up on the stage, Vodyanitsa is still singing, voice ringing throughout the hall, but in the seats nearest them, the audience has started muttering, half in worry, half irritated at the disruption.

Mitya casts one final, longing glance toward the stage before he jumps up to follow Valeriy out, doing his best not to get in people’s way.

He picks up a knife from the floor before he goes.

Outside the entrance, in the chilly air, the man has stopped struggling as he comes face to face with the agents awaiting them. They must’ve come with Valeriy, as usual.

“I stumbled!” the man argues, voice loud and angry. Mitya remains by the door a few paces away from them, watching as Valeriy hands him over to the waiting agents, who immediately grab his arms, keeping him restrained. “What’s wrong with you?! I didn’t do anything!”

“And I suppose you want us to think this is a stage prop, then?” Mitya calls out from where he’s leaning against the wall, brandishing his find.

Both the struggling man and Valeriy turn to him, the former with a rapidly paling face. Meanwhile, Valeriy’s expression tightens, like he can read Mitya’s mind.

Before anyone can act, Mitya runs a finger over the silvery blade – sharp, as expected – drawing forth a drop of crimson that slowly drips down his finger. It stings, but he doesn’t let it show. Instead, he hums, tilting his head.

“Doesn’t look like a prop to me.”

“Mitya”, Valeriy rumbles, taking two long strides toward him and practically ripping the knife out of his hand, leveling him with an aghast look.

Mitya quirks his lips.

“Just proving a point, Sarge.”

“You can do that without cutting yourself.”

He grabs Mitya’s hand, staring at the bleeding finger as though his burning gaze might be enough to cauterize it. With the way he’s glaring, he might not be far off. There’s only a couple of drops, but Valeriy seems to believe Mitya is at risk of bleeding out, if his urgency is anything to go by.

He produces a handkerchief from one of his pockets, wrapping it around Mitya’s bleeding finger – a bit of an exaggeration, given it’s already slowing down, and it was really only a few drops.

“Valeriy, I’m fine”, Mitya insists, letting himself be dragged away from the theater, toward the bridge to the city.

Some paces ahead of them, he can see the other two agents, and the would-be murderer between them, not fighting back as much now that he’s seen the evidence against himself.

Valeriy is tense as he responds, eyes fixed firmly ahead.

“Someone just tried to kill you. I’d say that warrants some concern.”

“Right, but they didn’t even get close. Not with you there.”

Valeriy casts a quick glance at him, and Mitya nearly startles at the look in those purple depths. The best way he could describe it is harrowed.

“He got inches away from you, Mitya.”

Mitya, already held in Valeriy’s firm grip, sidles closer, close enough that their sides press together, trying to offer some comfort.

“Hey, I’m fine.” He seeks Valeriy’s eyes, but the other man is back to staring fixedly ahead of them as he leads on. “He was even nice enough to leave the evidence right there!”

That finally gets Valeriy to look at him again.

“You’re joking.” His voice is half disbelief, half irate. “Someone almost killed you, and you’re making jokes.”

Mitya shrugs, but the harrowed look is gone from Valeriy’s eyes, so he’ll consider it a win.

“Maybe he shouldn’t have made his attempt so laughable.”

“He had a knife.”

“In a room full of people. And, really, he should’ve realized that you were right there.”

“That is true.” Valeriy’s eyes remain turned forward, lingering on the man between the two agents up ahead, with a look that is difficult to read. “I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”

Before Mitya can say anything, Valeriy turns to him, eyeing the handkerchief still wrapped around Mitya’s finger, and he huffs.

“Except when the threat comes from yourself, apparently.”

“Sarge.” Mitya’s voice drips with exasperation. “There’s no threat. I’m fine.”

“You cut yourself.”

“I was making a point.”

Valeriy sighs heavily, but the corner of his lips twitches. He shakes his head, looking unimpressed and vaguely amused.

“For someone so smart, you certainly make stupid decisions.”

Mitya opens his mouth, but closes it again. He finds that he has very few arguments against that.

“Good thing you had a handkerchief”, he says instead. “I didn’t know you carried one.”

With that, they both move on, the earlier topic quickly forgotten.

Still, Mitya remains pressed to Valeriy’s side, and Valeriy has not let go of his hand. All the way back to the Armory Palace, Mitya revels in the warmth, the comfort. The safety.

* * *

3.

He has a room at the Armory Palace, but sometimes, Mitya just wants to enjoy a night in a bed with a mattress that doesn’t feel like concrete. Besides, his home isn’t far. Ten minutes on foot, if he walks fast.

It’s late, the streets dark and empty as Mitya turns down a badly lit alleyway, leaving the safety of streetlights behind in favor of a quicker trip.

Footsteps behind him. Mitya speeds up his pace, but so does the second set of footsteps. A quick glance over his shoulder reveals a Volkodlak, his form broad and dark against the backlight, hands in his pocket, and walking way too close for comfort.

Get to the end of the alleyway, Mitya tells himself. Once he’s back on the open streets, under the light, someone will see them.

But it’s too far away, and the man is too close. Sparks are already jumping between Mitya’s fingertips when the Volkodlak leaps forward, grabbing his shoulder and slamming him against one wall.

Even though he’s prepared for it, his neck isn’t. His head hits the wall hard.

“Hand over your money.”

The voice is low, almost a growl, and Mitya isn’t sure if the other is doing it to seem more intimidating, or if it’s the adrenaline of what he’s doing right now. He’s at least a full head taller, and many times wider, but all Mitya does is click his tongue in disappointment.

“Trying to rob someone half your size in a dark alley late at night? How terribly unoriginal of you. Do you earn a lot, doing this?”

He’s pressed harsher to the wall in response. Clawed fingers dig into his shoulder, and Mitya sighs, gearing up to blast this guy with electro. It doesn’t seem like he’ll listen to reason.

“Don’t play smart with me!” the half-beast growls.

Mitya is just about to attack when the sound of sprinting footsteps ring out in the night.

The Volkodlak turns his head in time for a dark shape to rush straight into him, toppling him, and what follows can barely be called a fight, not with the way the beast is so clearly at a disadvantage. He doesn’t get a single hit in before he’s handcuffed and pressed to the ground.

Valeriy stares down at the fae with obvious distaste, one boot braced on his lower back to keep him in place, even as he himself stands upright, adjusting a glove as he straightens.

“Hey”, Mitya complains, rubbing the shoulder where the Volkodlak had been gripping with enough force that it’ll probably bruise. “I had that!”

Valeriy glances at him.

“My duty is to keep you safe. That includes keeping you out of jail.”

“Oh. So you weren’t underestimating me.”

Valeriy huffs, and if Mitya isn’t mistaken, amusement brims in his eyes.

“You had sparks coming from your fingers. I’ve seen you paralyze people with those, and I doubt the courts would like it if you made that permanent, even by accident.”

“I wouldn’t do that”, Mitya mumbles, but Valeriy has already moved on, eyes zoning in on the way Mitya tries to roll his shoulder and winces at the way it pulls on sore muscles.

“Did he hurt you?”

Mitya pushes the pain down with a smile, the worry in Valeriy’s eyes weighing heavier than any injury could.

“I’m right as rain, Sarge. Thanks to you.”

Though the urgency dims, Valeriy still levels him with an unimpressed look, crossing his arms.

“A moment ago, you claimed you were fine without me. So which one is it?”

“Why can’t it be both?”

He pushes away from the wall, and the move pulls on his shoulder more than intended. Mitya tries to suppress a wince.

Unfortunately, stepping away from the wall also means he has to balance on his own two legs, and he might’ve hit his head a little harder than he thought, because the ground swims beneath him.

Immediately, Valeriy is there.

“You’re injured”, he says, no longer a question.

Mitya still does his best to disagree.

“It’s a slight headache. Nothing to worry about.”

His argument is undermined the moment Valeriy grabs his shoulder – the uninjured one – and Mitya lets himself be propped up, going so far as to lean into the contact. The ache isn’t that bad, but his head pounds. That was a brick wall he just got slammed into.

“You’re swaying.”

Mitya squints. Even in the dark of the alley, half cast in shadow, Valeriy’s face is unfairly handsome.

“I’ll sleep it off”, Mitya insists, the injury more of an annoyance than an actual problem.

“Or”, Valeriy counters, taking a step back. Mitya almost topples when he lets go, and not even a second later, Valeriy’s hand is back, stabilizing him. He arches a pointed brow. “You spend tonight in the infirmary.”

Mitya pouts.

“Why?” He’ll never admit how close he gets to whining. “Just because my head hurts?”

“Because you have a concussion, and your shoulder’s bruised, at the very least.”

“You can’t know that for sure”, Mitya says, and really, Valeriy shouldn’t be making such claims when he’s not a doctor – hasn’t even examined Mitya. All he’s done is notice that he swayed on his feet for, like, half a second. That barely counts!

The Volkodlak is still on the ground, hands cuffed behind his back, shifting awkwardly but making no move to get up or run away. Valeriy barely seems to remember that the guy exists, his full attention on Mitya.

“Then lets ask a doctor. If you’re not concussed, fine, you can go home. But if you are…”

He trails off.

Now, Mitya may stress him out on a daily basis with his unplanned outings and on-the-clock escapades, but he’s never intentionally malicious. The moment there’s genuine worry in that guarded face, he folds, and though Valeriy is good at hiding it, Mitya is equally good at reading him.

Right now, he’s anxious.

“Okay. Yes. Fine.” Mitya’s eyes find the figure on the ground, and he frowns, nodding toward the robber, then immediately squeezing his eyes shut at the motion. He’d already forgotten about the pain. “What about him?”

Valeriy levels the stranger with a look that not even Mitya would dare disobey.

“He will stay right here until my agents arrive, if he knows what’s good for him.”

With those words, Valeriy leads Mitya away by the shoulder, his carefulness completely at odds with the cold expression.

Despite the obvious concern, he walks slower than normal, presumably for Mitya’s sake. Every step feels like the ground is trying to slip away beneath his feet. He appreciates the care, but more than anything, he’d like to go home and just sleep.

“That man wasn’t trying to kill me”, Mitya mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut as they make it back onto the main street, where the lights, though still low, are much brighter.

Valeriy, of course, notices at once. He shifts their position, keeping himself between Mitya and the streetlights, and though not even his tall and broad figure can’t block them all, the gesture offers some much needed respite.

“I could tell as much, yes.”

“And I’m not on the clock right now. Neither are you.”

Valeriy looks at him, frowning.

“What are you trying to say?”

Mitya isn’t entirely sure himself, anymore. His head is getting more and more fuzzy by the second.

“You don’t always have to save me, you know.”

The look that Valeriy levels him with is difficult to read.

“You think I’m only doing it because I have to?”

Mitya doesn’t have a good response to that.

“I’m sure running after me is fun and all”, he says, only half joking. “The best part of your day, I’m sure. But it’s gotta get annoying after a while. Doesn’t it?”

“No. Not really.”

The response is definitive, and there isn’t an ounce of hesitation on Valeriy’s face. Mitya just blinks at him.

“Oh.”

Something warm blooms in his chest, a familiar feeling, though he wouldn’t dare put a name to it. Not just yet.

He leans into Valeriy's side, and the guard puts an arm around his shoulder, bringing them closer together.

In the end, it turns out that Mitya does have a concussion. He almost pouts about it – almost! – but then Valeriy offers to stay the night with him in the infirmary, and even in his concussed mind, Mitya can’t help but think that maybe this wasn’t such a bad night, after all. The only way it could get any better would be if Valeriy shares his bed, but unfortunately, the infirmary cots are way too narrow, and Mitya is way too dizzy to make the request with any sort of dignity.

Having him nearby is enough, Mitya thinks, before he drifts off to sleep.

* * *

+1.

Mitya has been complaining about the new recruits for a while. One of them, in specific.

To Valeriy’s credit, he always hears him out. Takes it all very seriously at first. Until Mitya tries to explain his suspicions, and can’t come up with more than “He’s got bad vibes”.

In Mitya’s defence, bad doesn’t even begin to describe it; the man in question has awful vibes.

“I can’t fire someone based on... vibes”, Valeriy tells him, a small furrow between his brows that lets Mitya know he’s definitely questioning his judgment right now.

“I know, I know. And I’m not asking you to fire him! Just… keep an eye on him, will you?”

Valeriy stares at him for another moment, clearly not convinced, but ultimately, he gives a curt nod. Even with his doubting of Mitya’s sanity, Mitya has no doubt that he’ll listen. Valeriy always keeps an eye out. He would have done so even without Mitya asking.

And for almost two weeks, everything is good. He doesn’t have much to do with Valeriy’s security team, even if they’re technically here to guard him and the other researchers. Most, he recognizes from the times they’ve been called out to get him from his impromptu outings, but usually, Valeriy is at the head of those.

At the labs, Mitya has other researchers to talk to. The security guards aren’t nearly as willing to entertain him, even if he sometimes catches them grinning at his jokes. They were picked by Valeriy for a reason. They’re all too good at their job to let themselves be distracted.

These new hires are… different.

Well. One of them is.

He comes up and introduces himself to Mitya on his very first day: His name, apparently, is Sasha. The introduction isn’t a weird thing by itself, certainly not for his first day, but unlike the others, Sasha continues talking to Mitya in the following days, while they’re both on the clock.

Also not concerning on its own, but there’s also the fact that he waits until everyone else is out of earshot. He never, ever starts a conversation while Valeriy is in the room.

Sasha doesn’t say anything weird. Innocent questions about the cafeteria food or harmless gossip about the other guards, even some polite compliments about Mitya’s scientific competence – or, on one occasion, how pretty and soft his hair looks.

That one is admittedly a bit weird, but Mitya brushes it off as social awkwardness or, Archons forbid, some poorly timed flirting.

He really hopes Sasha isn’t flirting with him.

One day, when Valeriy isn’t there, he sits with Mitya in the cafeteria – a place he rarely visits, usually relying on someone (read: Valeriy) to bring food to his lab, or skipping it entirely – and he almost regrets going on this specific day. The conversation remains lighthearted, but there’s something about Sasha’s prodding that strikes him as odd.

Bad vibes, like he tells Valeriy later.

Then, there’s that time Mitya tries to sneak out for a quick walk around the neighborhood. For once, he actually means to be quick about it, genuinely, and he fully expects to be back before Valeriy notices he’s gone.

Instead, he finds Sasha blocking his path in front of the bridge out of Glupov.

“Mitya”, he says, and even the way he says his name makes Mitya’s skin crawl. His grin is crooked, voice raised in surprise that sounds decidedly fake. “Where are you going? Lunch ended half an hour ago.”

Even though Sasha is a whole head taller than him, he’s all lanky limbs. Strong when it counts, probably, but Mitya has managed to run from bigger threats. With his stellar linchpin, the man wouldn’t be difficult to subdue, but Mitya would rather not use force against one of Valeriy’s agents.

Still, Mitya is nothing if not polite, even if this man makes him grind his teeth. He still hasn’t been able to put his finger on why.

“Just getting some fresh air.” He grins. “This weather’s too nice to be cooped up inside, don’t you think?”

Sasha doesn’t seem to care. His wry grin is practically dripping with sarcasm, and his voice isn’t much better.

“But Mitya, you can’t leave. You’re our most important researcher, aren’t you?”

With his own smile threatening to become strained, Mitya decides to cut his losses. The look in Sasha’s eyes is starting to concern him, an almost manic glimmer as he stares Mitya down, more reminiscent of a hunter with a prey than a guard with his charge.

Mitya sighs, feigning nonchalance that he absolutely isn’t feeling.

“Ah. I guess you caught me.” For some reason, Sasha grins even wider at that, and Mitya’s discomfort grows. “I’ll get back to work.”

Sasha stays uncomfortably close, practically breathing down his neck all the way down to the lower levels.

As Mitya enters the lab, he catches Valeriy’s eye from across the room. His eyes flicker between Mitya and Sasha, a questioning frown between his brows, but Mitya just gives a subtle shake of his head.

For the rest of the day, he doesn’t see Sasha, but he does make eye contact with Valeriy several more times, even though he must have duties elsewhere. It’s like he’s looking for excuses to stop by the lab, even though he isn’t stationed here today, exchanging words with the other guards and casting quick, but unmissable, glances at Mitya.

For once, Mitya ends his day at a reasonable time. Valeriy hasn’t even taken over the guard shift yet, two other familiar faces standing on either side of the entrance, and they nod to Mitya in farewell as he leaves.

He debates whether he should find Valeriy before he leaves, but ultimately decides against it. Mitya wouldn’t want to rush him. The guards should let Valeriy know that he’s left for the night, so he won’t worry.

Mitya makes it all the way to the elevator, lost in his own thoughts, before Sasha shows himself.

He looks no better than he had when they met earlier today. Though Mitya tries to offer a polite smile and nod, Sasha doesn’t return either.

Awkwardly, Mitya shuffles to the side as Sasha steps in beside him, mentally debating if he should jump off at the last second, pretend that he forgot something back in the lab.

Before he can make up his mind, Sasha is slamming on the button to start the elevator, and the grates rattle shut.

Great. He’s locked in with a mad person.

As the elevator begins its noisy ascent, Sasha turns to him, and Mitya instinctively takes a step back. The look in Sasha’s dark eyes is nothing short of deranged.

“You’re the scientist in charge”, he says, and even his voice sounds strange. Like he’s had way too much caffeine – or, more likely, something worse than caffeine – and can’t get himself under control. “Aren’t you?”

“For now, yes.”

The surprise is enough to stop Sasha in his steps, and Mitya breathes a quiet sigh of relief. He’s already pressed as close to the wall as can be, and with how Sasha towers over him, he’s starting to feel a little boxed in.

“For now?”

“Well…” Mitya smiles. “Everyone’s replaceable. Even me.”

Sasha’s eyes sharpen.

“But if I had… complaints, for instance. You’re the one I would turn to, aren’t you?”

Mitya shrugs, trying to look more unaffected than he feels.

“Depends on the nature of your complaints.”

Sasha’s patience snaps. He closes the distance between them in a few short steps, forcing Mitya even closer to the wall, until he’s fully pushed up against it, and Sasha is breathing down his face, one hand on either side of Mitya’s face, caging him in.

His breath kind of stinks.

Mitya supposes he should keep that to himself, lest he piss Sasha off further.

“Without you”, he snarls, “this whole project would fall apart. You’ve got no guards here. This is my chance.”

His eyes glimmer dangerously.

He’s already spent a notable amount of time talking, so Mitya isn’t surprised when he jumps into action.

Unfortunately for him, all that talking means Mitya has had time to prepare.

The battle is over before it even begins.

* * *

“Some help here?” Mitya calls, stumbling out of the elevator and into Glupov’s stony courtyard, where several agents are lounging, enjoying the evening air.

Lugging around a guy who's not only an entire head taller, but also significantly heavier, is no easy feat. Especially not with a still-bleeding stab wound on one arm.

He’s relieved when the three closest agents jump up to help.

”Thank you”, Mitya groans as two of them take the unconscious man off his shoulder, balancing him between them, and he immediately clamps his free hand over the stab wound to stem the bleeding.

”Where’s he going?” one agent asks.

Mitya just shrugs, as best as he can with his injured arm.

“He tried to kill me. Wherever that means he should go.”

They barely manage to conceal their surprise, glancing at the third agent – or rather, officer, now that Mitya pays closer attention – who has stopped next to them with a severe face and crossed arms.

”Holding cells”, he orders, and they set off with the unconscious man at once. He then turns to Mitya, who’s starting to slump now that the adrenaline is leaving him, assessing. ”You’re Valeriy’s guy, aren’t you?”

Mitya supposes that he is. He nods.

The man hums, then he turns, looking toward a group of agents sitting a bit further away, and who have been watching the whole thing with cautious expressions, as though unsure whether or not they’re needed.

”You!” the officer barks, and they all sit up straighter. ”Go get Major Valeriy.”

One man, a pyroslinger, jumps to attention at once.

”Sir, yes sir!”

Mitya wants nothing more than to sit down, uncaring of how cold or hard the ground is, but the moment he starts to bend down, the officer is there with a firm grip around his uninjured shoulders, propping him up.

”You better get to the infirmary, kid."

Going anywhere right now just sounds like the worst idea, and besides, someone had said they were getting Valeriy, hadn’t they? Mitya doesn’t want to go anywhere. Not unless Valeriy is there.

He almost whines. Almost. He’s got enough awareness to stop himself in time, but a grimace still slips out.

”No”, he grumbles. ”Valeriy…”

”Is gonna take you straight to the infirmary the second he gets here. Why don’t we make his job easier for him, hm?”

But Mitya stubbornly shakes his head, slouching even further, and with a sigh, the officer gives up. He helps Mitya down to the floor – it’s just as cold and hard as expected – and then, rather than let him go, starts pulling on Mitya’s arm.

Binding the wound, he realizes belatedly. He hadn’t even noticed the man grab… whatever it is he’s binding it with. His own bloody hand is removed, left hanging uselessly by his side, now without anything to do.

It feels like he sits there for years, and simultaneously no time at all, before a familiar footfall, rushed and hurried, comes up behind him.

”Mitya!”

Suddenly, Valeriy is on his knees in front of him, his whole face tense, eye rapidly scanning over Mitya’s form, while Mitya himself breaks into a loopy smile.

”Hey, Sarge. Took you long enough.”

Then he lists dangerously to the side, almost toppling over.

A warm, firm hand stops him from falling.

“What happened?”

“Someone tried to kill him in the elevator”, the officer responds when Mitya doesn’t say anything. His mind is drifting, and all the words feel too far away for him to catch any. “That’s all he told us.”

Maybe Valeriy gives some sort of response. Mitya isn’t sure. All he knows is that, the very next moment, he’s being picked up again, into Valeriy’s strong arms, and then they’re moving.

Pleased, Mitya burrows closer to his chest, humming contentedly.

“With that reaction”, Valeriy mumbles, chest rumbling as he speaks, “I might start thinking you get yourself into these situations on purpose.”

He should probably defend himself, but instead Mitya considers it with a seriousness that the accusation definitely doesn’t warrant.

“I mean…” he starts. “Your arms are very comfortable. Can you blame me?”

They step into the elevator, and Valeriy stares down at him, worry and disbelief swirling in his eyes.

“That’s not a reason to get yourself stabbed.”

Mitya pouts.

“Well… you could always kiss it better?”

“How much blood have you lost?” Valeriy asks, his voice a mixture of disbelief and, if Mitya isn’t mistaken, shyness.

“Not enough to be delirious”, Mitya mumbles. “I’d be saying these things even if I wasn’t injured.”

For a moment, the only noise is the clamour of the elevator. Mitya is leaning his head against Valeriy’s chest, fully relaxed in his arms, and though his heart beats faster from his own admission, he isn’t particularly bothered by it.

If anything, it’s been a long time coming.

“If you wanted to be carried”, Valeriy eventually says, and when Mitya peeks up, the tips of his ears are red, and he’s pointedly avoiding Mitya’s gaze. “You could’ve just asked, you know.”

Mitya perks up a little.

“And if I wanted you to kiss me?”

That gets a flush to spread over Valeriy’s cheeks, and Mitya is quietly delighted by the effect his words are having on the normally so composed Major.

“Going by the previous question…” Valeriy muses, eyes flickering down to meet Mitya’s. The purple goes well with the red of his cheeks. “The same logic would apply, wouldn’t it?”

The giddiness is almost enough to dull the sharp pain in his arm. Mitya is beyond delighted.

“So you’re saying all I have to do is ask?”

Valeriy’s eyes settle on him. They soften, in that way they only ever do for Mitya, fondness seeping into his gaze.

Mitya doesn’t doubt what the answer would be if he did.

“Maybe you should try it, when you’re not actively bleeding out in my arms”, Valeriy says dryly, immediately crushing all of Mitya’s hopes and dreams.

This time, he will admit it: He whines.

“Valeriy!”

“Mitya.”

“You’re so mean to me!”

“Maybe next time, don’t go getting yourself stabbed.”

Mitya pouts.

“Kiss me?” he asks.

Valeriy looks at him, then his eyes flicker down to Mitya’s lips, and the whole world around them seems to blur. He doesn’t immediately give in. The conflict is warring on his face, clearly torn between desire and duty.

In the end, it is Mitya who leans up and locks their lips together, slowly, giving Valeriy ample time to push him away, should he wish.

He doesn’t. In fact, the moment Mitya leans in, so does he, meeting him halfway.

The position is a bit awkward, with Mitya stuck in Valeriy’s arms, but the kiss is not. It ends all too soon for Mitya’s taste. He chases after Valeriy’s lips as the other pulls back.

“As much as I’d love to stay here”, Valeriy mumbles, his voice huskier than normal, breath warm against Mitya's face, “you’re still bleeding.”

“Just one more time? Please?”

Unfortunately, his puppy eyes are useless when Valeriy refuses to look him in the face, fixing his focus ahead of them.

“The elevator hasn’t been moving for several minutes”, he remarks. “Let's wait until you’ve had that wound bandaged, at least.”

Mitya brightens.

“So you’re saying you’ll kiss me again?”

Valeriy levels him with a look. He’s clearly trying to be serious, but it’s laden with too much affection.

“When we’re not at work, yes.”

That sounds a lot like a promise. Mitya settles down again, contented, as Valeriy starts down the hallway toward the infirmary.

"Maybe I should get stabbed more often, if this is how you treat me after."

"Mitya." But the exasperation in his voice is undoubtedly fond. "Again, you could just ask me instead."

Mitya leans his head against Valeriy's shoulder, smiling to himself.

"Alright. Maybe I will."