bekind/chp2

Nikolai waved him into the chair across from him again, his desk groaning under the weight of all the old paperwork he's sorting through. Pavel sat down, with some trepidation.

"You do good work," Nikolai told him, and Pavel made a noise, encouraging the colonel to go on; and Nikolai said, "You know," and Pavel's trepidation grew as Nikolai paused.

"... I know?" he prompts, after a stretch of silence that unsettled his nerves completely.

"You know," Nikolai repeats, "they're, uh. I might be moving up the ranks, soon."

Pavel lets out a little laugh despite himself, because Nikolai, who has never met a task he wouldn't complete, has been spreading himself thin as grease on a frying pan trying to keep the Red Line running smoothly, and, in Pavel's opinion (not that anyone had asked), was doing a better job of it than anyone else in the past year or two.

Nikolai gives him a quietly quelling look, and Pavel coughs into his fist, pretending he hadn't found that funny. "Major Morozov," he says, softly, "if I-- it seems like..."

"Colonel Vasiliev," Pavel interrupts while Nikolai stumbles, leaning in towards the desk, resting his elbows on its cluttered surface, "I think you should go for it. Sure, you weren't in the old red army, but everyone-- well, fuck, everyone who's paying attention-- knows how hard you've been working, yeah? We, uh, we need someone working hard, at the top. Not like..."

Not to speak ill of the ghosts haunting them, Pavel just waves a hand, describing Maxim, describing Korbut, with a little gesture.

Nikolai laughs, hollowly. "Ahh, you would say that," he says, and the flask, which Pavel has seen more and more often in his office, comes to his hand. He takes a longer pull than, maybe, is wise, but it leaves him with rosier cheeks under his exhausted eyes, and he offers it across to Pavel.

The flask vanishes again when Pavel waves away the awful moonshine.

"I don't know that I have much choice," he says, after a while of letting it burn through his gut. "But... I can't be general all on my own. I don't want some... some new Korbut weaseling in, when I'm tired and need another man at my side, and doing..."

He, too, waves his hand, encompassing the death and destruction across the Metro, and so much of it at Korbut's bidding.

It takes Pavel a moment, and then he says, "Ah!" and props his chin on his fist. "You want me to vet your new brass?" he says, which, frankly, sounds kind of fun, digging into their lives, asking their loved ones about them, interviewing...

"I want you to be my new brass," he says, seriously, and drops a new pair of silver (tin, or steel, maybe) stars in front of Pavel, "Lieutenant Colonel."

"Oh," Pavel says, and stares at them, and sees in their faintly shining surfaces years and years behind desks, behind closed doors, behind the lines, ordering men without being with them, no chances to get out and see what little world was left-- no visits to the theater without planning, no spying on Hansa, no slipping into Polis to see--

"Think about it," Nikolai says, his eyes searching Pavel's face, exhausted and hopeful. What had Pavel ever done to gain such awful trust?

He offers up a waning smile, and says, "I will, comrade," because he doubts he'll be able to think of anything else.

--

Not that he doesn't try; he throws himself into work, hoping to distract himself with business, and takes tasks that take him dangerous places, and slides through the metro like a ghost. But throwing himself into work makes him wonder-- is this what Nikolai saw, to trust him so, saw him trying to drown his thoughts and took it for industriousness? And slipping away, to spy and snoop and remind friends that the Red Line, unfavored though it was at the moment, still held power-- each time he steps up into Moscow, he wishes that there was someone behind him, steps soft in the grass, and each venture through the tunnels would be better with...

He tries not to think about that, either, and he thinks it's working. He dreams of Artyom less, sleeps a little better, avoids Polis despite the hook in his heart trying to reel him in, asks if he can take some new recruits with him to show the ropes of sneaking and stalkering-- "We lost a lot of good men," he says, over Nikolai's flask, handing it back to his tired friend, "so we need to start making new good men, right?"

"And you think you're the one to teach them goodness?" Nikolai asks, with a hint of humor.

"Well, you could send them out with Major Voronin--" Pavel says, and is a little gratified that that makes Nikolai break a smile, rasp a laugh around the neck of his flask. "If, ah, if anyone's going to show them how to survive up there, well, it should be someone who's survived up there, eh?"

Maybe (he knows it's selfish) they'll help him be less lonely.

"Okay, fuck it, fine," Nikolai says, and offers the flask back. "Only volunteers. No more than four at a time. Give me lists of who you're taking before you go."

"Roger that, Colonel," Pavel says, and takes a sip before leaving, the stars still in Nikolai's desk left unmentioned.

--

"Major," Savva hisses, voice muffled through his gas mask, and points at a figure, dark in a dark doorway, mask dusty enough that it doesn't reflect the weak sunlight. He's wearing a Spartan uniform.

Pavel says, softly, "Hey, good eye, comrade," and keeps a finger on his trigger. He didn't realize there were still rangers going out-- not after-- shit, maybe he should tell the kids to get back--

He gestures, slightly, for them to hold their place, and steps forward a little, raising his open hand in a jaunty wave to the spartan, who's still as ice for a moment before his head tilts, a little, in a nod back. "Lovely day out, eh?" he calls, pushing a friendly tone, hey there chuvak nothing to worry about, nothing to shoot about... "You need us to go around the other side of the building? It's no trouble, we don't want to get in your way, eh?"

One of the kids behind him titters nervously, and is hushed; the ranger's posture has stiffened, a little, but he shakes his head no, and steps out into the open, his own gun held at his side,

(Pavel's heart jerks in his chest--)





and waves them to go onwards, like it's no worry at all that there's reds hanging around

(the way he moves, carries himself--)

and oh, shit, it's Artyom, he can tell, there's still twenty paces between them but he can <i>tell</i>, and he swallows, feels like an idiot as his feet freeze and his heart races, it's <i>him</i>,



and then in an instant Artyom melts back into the shadows of the building, leaving Pavel feeling stupid and stuck in place for a few seconds as his friend vanishes like he was never there. Like a ghost.

"Ah," he says, "well, uh, keep an eye out, boys, but I don't think he'll bother us-- hey! Knowing there's a ranger around should keep you on your toes, yeah?" He turns, grins at the kids, eyes crinkling between his helmet and mask.

Savva straightens up under his gaze, and Lev giggles nervously again, and Georgi's eyes look a little bewildered, a little worried; he asks, "Weren't we fighting the Spartans, Major? Should we really just-- just leave him alone? What if he tells his officers that we were here...?"

"Hooo! Do you think you can take him on yourself, Georgi? Oppa, so brave!" Pavel teases, waving for them to start walking again, falling into their group. "What would you do to keep him from reporting? No, I'm not going to give your lives just so the rangers don't find out we're running training missions. Everyone's always running training missions, you know?" He rubs the top of Georgi's hat, gives him a grin that shows in his eyes, tries not to think about what Artyom was doing up here-- "It's not exactly sensitive information. Now, if we'd run into a Nazi, that might be another thing-- but hope we don't!"

Savva, on his other side, nods fervently, and recounts, "One, uh, one time, when Ma and I were coming to the Red Line-- we were being smuggled under a train, in the floor boards, and the Nazis stopped the train, and we could hear them above us, telling people to take off their clothes for inspection-- they shot a guy for having a birthmark on his ass, and his blood dripped on us for the rest of the ride..." They all shudder or shiver or make sympathetic noises, and Savva says, with surprising heat in his sweet voice, "I'd never let a Nazi get away with something like that. If I'd had a gun. I'd have shot him first."

Pavel pats his shoulder, says, brightly, "That's the spirit!" and tries not to think of-- of-- the noose around his throat--despite himself, he says, "I've been caught by Nazis a couple times, and, and, and it's a fucking terrible time. I wouldn't have gotten out without my teammates-- which is why it's important to stick together out here."

Lev whistles, low and impressed, from a couple steps behind the rest of them, then asks, "Blyat, Major, are you pulling our legs? How'd they get you out?"

<I>With Artyom, with him, with my musketeer, it was easy, he came back for me--</I> Pavel's heart sings, and he rubs his neck, through his scarf, and tells them, "It's true! But, eh, maybe it's a story for when we don't have to worry about watchers, yeah?" He nods ahead, to where one of the beasts is seated atop the rotting shell of a bus, its tail lashing slowly and head raised-- and then it's all business again, Pavel whispering advice and orders to the trainees, guides them to avoid conflict-- it's nice. It's soothing, in a way, that he knows what to do, that he can distract himself from Artyom, that he can sweep the ranger out of his mind and forget him, at least for a while.

---

His peace is shattered by the sound of massive wings, catching them halfway across a nearly-open plaza, and Pavel and Lev swear, guns up before Georgi and Savva even pin what the noise is-- Pavel hisses, "Demon! Guns up! Find cover!" and bumps his shoulder against Savva, pushing him towards the nearest building; Georgi is shouldered along by Lev, and the kids make a mad dash, Pavel glancing along their path to make sure he won't trip if he turns, trots backwards to keep an eye on the skies--

Lev's bastard gun shouts against the walls, the noise bouncing back against itself, and Pavel swears as he spots the demon almost straight above him. He doesn't have time for cover, he realizes, as the demon starts to swoop-- instead he throws himself back against the ground, firing wildly with one hand and the other going for his knife, ready to fight back if it falls upon him, heart hammering.

He could die-- he can die, he was ready, he is ready-- but he can't die <I>here</i>, not with the kids watching, not with them relying on him--

A few bullets connect, clip past wings and limbs and not one buries itself in flesh, stops the demon or fells it before it falls upon Pavel, though it howls in fury at what little connects as its claws find Pavel's parka, tries to hoist him from the ground-- Pavel swipes at its arms, its throat, but his head spins as he's yanked up from the ground, terror coursing through his veins-- its horrible teeth tear into his shoulder and the knife drops from his fingers-- he's too close to fire, but he tries, a scream rising in his own throat as he riddles its wing with holes--

<I>Not like this, not like <b>this</b></i>, he prays, he can't tell if it's his blood or gunfire ringing in his ears, and the demon shudders in the air, with one more heavy wingbeat--

Then Pavel's falling, and he had no time to pray again before the earth rises to crush him between it and the beast.







The world

seems to take an eternity

to come back into focus,

the grey sky bright with the distant warmth of the sun,

and between him and it is the demon's face,

an arrow's shaft bursting from its temple, its blood already cooling on Pavel's skin.


Slowly, a voice filters in-- Georgi is sobbing, somewhere, asking, "Is he dead? Is he dead? Oh, oh, oh-- blin--" and Pavel would laugh at the mild little swear if his entire body wasn't slowly being set aflame, burning from his mauled shoulder outwards. Savva's masked face enters his vision, as blurry as if Pavel was drunk, paler than the sky, and Pavel blinks dazedly at him, trying to bring him into focus.

"He's alive," he says, "stop crying, Gosha, help me move the demon--" and the weight crushing Pavel to the unfriendly earth shifts, freeing his lungs to gasp desperately for air. Lev is laughing, thin and scared, as he helps the other boys push the demon off Pavel. The lightning-bright pain that ricochets through Pavel keeps him from lifting his head, so he speaks to them from where he lays, his voice knocked breathless.

"Thanks," he says, first, and then has to close his eyes and catch his breath; a gloved hand wipes the blood off his face, and someone else gingerly peels back his ruined jacket from his shoulder, and he says, "Should find-- safe-- lotta noise we made, yeah, chuvaki?" He feels a little scrambled, but he knows-- too much noise-- too many mutants--

"Right, right, I got it, Major," Lev says, and his hands haul Pavel up to sitting-- he asks, "Help me out?" but Pavel's legs shake too much, and more hands find his elbow, his back, under his armpits, all the recruits helping him upright, someone sliding in under his unhurt arm to keep him on his feet.

He makes a noise of appreciation, and struggles his eyes open, to watch where his feet are going, trying to hustle without bowling himself or-- or Savva, apparently-- over. Lifting his head makes him hiss, the burning of his shoulder shooting up his neck, but he can check that Lev and Georgi are ahead of them, that they have their guns out and eyes open, even if Georgi is still snuffling with upset-- good kids, they're all such good kids, he's so proud of them--

"You gonna be okay?" Lev asks from behind his shoulder, and Pavel jolts, stumbles, struggles not to take Savva down with him--

ahead of him, Artyom turns around, and his heart chokes in his throat.

He stumbles another couple steps, meeting Artyom's eyes, says, "Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine," and coughs out a laugh that makes his lungs burn. "I've been through worse, blyat, I'll-- I'll live..."

Artyom tilts his head, his eyes smiling at Pavel, and he turns forward again, guiding them to safety; a bowgun swings from his hand, casually, like it hadn't just saved Pavel's life. Like Artyom hadn't saved him again.

---

Pavel's head is spinning, his heart is spinning, his gut is spinning-- but all of that, the boys seem happy to blame on the demon, and after a few nervous minutes of following Artyom, they start to joke about it. He huffs little laughs when he can, limps along on Savva's shoulder, watches Artyom as the ranger leads them somewhere... unknown.

It's off the path for where Pavel meant to take the boys, but he's in no condition to lead them elsewhere, and... and...

There is no and; he shouldn't trust Artyom, even though he wants to, even though Artyom said he forgave him, even though Artyom saved his life, before and now. Even though, every time Artyom checks over his shoulder, every time his eyes meet Pavel's, greener than anything else in the barren hell of Moscow's surface, his heart does somersaults despite itself, despite their last meeting being cut short by Artyom's-- by his... someone. He shouldn't trust the man, any more than Artyom should trust him.

When Artyom leads them into a dark little room, deep inside a dark building, and closes the door behind them, Pavel's almost too tired for his nerves to lurch; then Artyom pulls out his Geiger counter, waves it around the room while looking at them, and when the machine stays silent, pulls off his mask. <I>It's safe here,</i> he might as well have said, and the boys follow suit, Lev and Georgi first, and Savva after they've taken a couple solid breaths without gagging or coughing.

Pavel pulls away a couple steps, leans against the wall, pulls off his own mask, and takes a breath of stale but unpoisoned air. Ahh, it's nice getting the gas mask off, it almost distracts him from the pain in his shoulder and the chaos in his gut, and he rests, letting his eyes fall closed for a few seconds. Just-- just a few. He'll need to figure out what Artyom's playing at, what he and the boys are going to do, how to get back home from here...

With a jolt, he catches himself starting to tip, gravity taking hold of his tired body-- his unbitten shoulder is caught in a gentle hold as he straightens himself out and blinks his eyes open, and beside him, Artyom is there, supporting him, his other hand clutched around a medkit.

"Uh," he says, tongue caught in his spinning head and tangling in his mouth, as Artyom tugs at his jacket. In the rest of the room, the boys seem to have already settled in, Lev and Savva having a whispered argument and Georgi cleaning his gun with nervous focus, all three of them casting nervous and hopeful glances at the ranger, at their officer. A more demanding tug and a jerk of Artyom's head sends Pavel sliding obediently down the wall despite himself, and once he's seated on the floor, Artyom gestures impatiently for one of the boys to hand him his flashlight.

Lev says, "What?" and none of them move to hand it to Artyom, who sighs, turning away from Pavel to go get it himself, taking it from where he'd set it in the middle of the room; he clips it back onto his armor, comes to Pavel, and kneels beside him, casting the boys into shadow. If it wasn't for Lev making a complaining noise and resuming his hissed argument, the faint brush of fabric against gunmetal, it could almost be like Pavel's dream, just the two of them, all alone together--

Artyom is unfastening his jacket, which definitely didn't happen in the dream, and Pavel jokes, tongue untwisting enough to let his foot into his mouth, "Ahh, moving fast, aren't you, priyatel?"

Lev lets out a startled giggle in the darkness, and Artyom, light cast up under his chin, is unreadable for a moment; then he gently bops Pavel's head with a loose fist, rolls his eyes dramatically enough that even in the poor light Pavel can see it, and Pavel laughs, hoarsely, even though it wakes the burning in his shoulder, brings an ache to his ribs. It rouses the sweet chuckle he remembers so well from Artyom's throat, too, and his heart is soothed, even though his mind knows he should be cautious. But what can he do, right now? If he tries not to trust Artyom, to what end would he be struggling?

A concerned little touch to his cheek brings his unfocused gaze back to Artyom's renewed frown, and he offers up a lopsided grin in return, which doesn't seem to reassure the ranger in the least; if anything, his frown deepens, and he holds up two fingers-- ahhh, cognitive tests, clever Artyom. "Two," he says, and reassures Artyom, "my head's fine, chuvak-- I mean, no worse than usual, eh?"

Unconvinced but amused, Artyom gives him a furrow-browed little smile, and starts unbuttoning Pavel's shirt, though he glances up like he's expecting Pavel to crack another joke about it. But the boys seem strangely quiet, now, and instead  Pavel calls out, softly, "Hey, you guys doing all right? None of you got hurt, did you?"

"No, Major," Savva says, out of the darkness, and slips closer, into the faint light cast back off Pavel, squats just over an arm's reach away from Artyom. His angelic curls look dirty and sweaty, but there's no pain on his face that Pavel can see. "Except Gosha has a bruise where Lev pushed him."

"Oh, well, he'll live, I'm sure," Pavel says, leaning his head back against the wall again, letting his eyes fall shut, letting Artyom peel the cloth away from his wound and click his tongue concernedly. Ahhh,