#daz writes

“End communication.”

A trap with no escape, under a crumbling roof that shelters her from everything but her sins. What was once a fiery passion slowly dies with the growing tongues of fire that flanks her on all sides.

Trapped. It was all a trap. Not a gift. It was never a gift, not the present wrapped in a big red bow she had believed it to be.

Thoughts careen past her, they race as she paces with a mindless desperation. The heat almost solders her joints together.

I can't. I can't. Not like this. I have to do something, anything— I have to make him proud, anything to make him proud! I have to do something. Something with my life, at least. Something. Anything.

Her once relentless resolve can't help but crumble with the filthy cheap walls, melting with erratic grace under the inferno. What did she do? What could she have done to deserve this life of hers?

A voice whispers the answer before she could even finish thinking.

Nothing.

That's all she's done. Nothing, nothing remotely outstanding. Just average, average, so painfully average. She had nothing to be proud of. Under her sharp, cold, calculating facade—that's all it was, a nothing more than a facade, something to convince herself she knew more than she did—what did she have? Under her wits. Under her poker-face. What did she have?

The man takes off his mask. His face– his face looks familiar. But it can't be. Nobody was ever familiar, everything and everyone that could've been had packed up and moved away. Away from here. Away from her.

He turns for a moment. His eyebrows furrow. Is she imagining it, the way his very flesh almost seems to hesitate, flickering between alive and something that wasn't quite there? The way his eyes held a faint, luminescent pink buried deep beneath his irises?

For a moment, she thinks he'll run, fight, keep her out like he always does. Like he was no doubt told to do. His expression is unreadable. Fear? Disgust? He's frozen in place, it seems, even among this scalding amber.

And then he's not. His shoulders sag. He relaxes. He smiles—why is he smiling? Why is he still here? Get out. Get out! He takes a step toward her. She tries to yell, but the blaze chokes her throat dry. Scare him. Scare him away, away from this hell, away from this torture! Can't he feel it? Can’t you feel it? Why is he still here? Why does she want him to leave?

The voice returns, it rejects, it insists, the icy, blue-eyed beast. No, he has to stay. Stay and atone. He was a part of the plan after all, she remembered now. It's his fault. It's him, all him and the Cassette Man, all his fault, his fault, his fault. His fault for everything! A murderer, that's what he was. A murderer, though they weren't technically alive.

It's a thought tugging at her brain from the deepest, oldest parts of her, murderer, murderer, murderer, yet another voice argues back. Don't you understand! He's all we have. He's all I have.

The man reaches out. His wrinkled prune of a hand tells of a damage wreaked by something more than fire. She almost reaches back. She catches herself.

No, she knew better. She had nobody. Father said she had nobody, nobody but him. A part of her wished that was true.

But she saw no truth, none in the way his father spoke to their endless metal labyrinth like it could answer with anything more than a child's lofty giggle. Never an embrace, not a hug, not a meaningful word to her. Not even her own father could spare her a second glance.

The man’s hand is still outstretched, a defiant glint in his eyes that says she must take it. She has nobody. Amongst the vast universe, she was nobody. But maybe, if even for just a fleeting second, maybe she could have somebody.

She reaches for his hand. The barrier separating them falls. Good riddance, she thinks. She wants a hug. She wants to feel something more than a hand on hers—how long has it been since she’s had a hug?—and he steps forward too. He raises his other hand. A hug. The thought of it makes her smile. She can't feel the fire anymore. It's nothing.

The last of whatever was holding this wretched place together finally gives way, and his hands just fall short of hers before the building crumbles to ashes.

With a final glance into her brother's eyes—they look kinder now, the kindest she's ever seen them—she succumbs to the void as the evening wind whips the rowdy flames into submission.

And then she was nothing.

they live happily ever after right scottt?? right?? .

Price had asked Nikolai to join him over the holidays (something about needing a good drinking partner, if Nik wasn’t mistaken). Nik agreed in an instant, packed his few things, and here they were.

The lights outside John’s block of flats didn’t work. Nikolai stood, a bag in each of his hands, ignoring the slight cold biting at him. He was more than used to the mind (and finger)-numbing cold characteristic of his home country, but he had desperately hoped that it would be a little warmer here. Naive, he realised, as John pulled him inside, out of the cold.

“Traffic bad? Yer late,” John murmured. Maybe it would’ve been courteous to have picked Nik up himself, but he wanted to try and clear enough of his neglected belongings out of the way for Nikolai to have more than a square foot of space in the flat. John looked at the other man questioningly when he didn’t receive a reply, head cocked to the side.

“I walked,” Nikolai grinned as they trudged up the stairs. The stairwell was mostly silent, save for the humming of a bulb above them.

When they reached the flat, John elbowed open the door (he’d given up locking it, given that the building’s door locked as well) and kicked off the trainers he’d shoved on.

Nikolai hesitated before following suit, waiting for a slight nod from John before removing his own tattered boots. He set them down neatly against the wall before following the other man properly into his home. It was sparsely decorated (he assumed the Sergeant simply hadn’t the time or means to go further than year-old Christmas cards and a battered guitar abandoned in the hallway), but he looked around appreciatively nonetheless.

“Right, uh, there’s— I’ve set the sofa up for you, if that’s alright, shouldn’t be too uncomfortable, but if it is, just gimme a shout, and help yourself to the kitchen, ‘s all yours, I don’t mind, and— just dump your shit there, yeah.” At that, Nikolai dropped both his bags by the side of the sofa, settling down onto it in such a way that John swore it sunk under his weight.

They’d only worked together for about a year, but it should have been enough time for John to properly register just how big Nikolai was. He spread himself out, legs spread apart, an arm across the back of the sofa and another on the armrest, but that didn’t explain the sheer size of him. It was rare he felt small. But, as Nik stared back at him with those big brown eyes of his, John couldn’t help but feel more than a little nervous.

“You still drink? I’ll get you some vodka? I got some of the good shit,” John lied. What he really had was a half-emptied bottle of Tesco’s finest (read: worst) Imperial, but he’d found that Nik didn’t really complain unless it came back up after he’d drank it. Anything that left that little burn in their mouths was good enough.

“Nyet! I— I have a gift. For hosting,” Nikolai said, quickly reaching for one of his bags to retrieve a bottle of Macallan.

John prided himself on stoicism. He prided himself on maintaining the same facade of semi-disinterest no matter what was put before his eyes. But that quickly collapsed as he read the label on the bottle thrust into his hands. “Macallan, fuck, Nik, ‘s worth more than what I make. You kidding?”

The man shook his head in reply. “You are host, so I have a gift. Why would I joke?” He said, smiling until it was eventually reciprocated by the Sergeant. Nik pulled his knees up beneath himself as John left for the kitchen, presumably to fetch a couple of glasses.

“Assume you just wanna sit ‘n’ rest, but tomorrow, you up to going out somewhere?” Nikolai looked to his side as the man started speaking, a little startled by John’s presence back at his side. Nikolai took the tumbler with a smile, lifting it to his lips as he mulled over his answer.

“Da. That would be nice. Could we visit the, uhm, what is it… the Norway tree?”

John just blinked back at the other man, glass frozen halfway to his mouth in sheer confusion. “The fuck is a— Nik, come on. What’re you on about?”

“You know. The tree. From Norway. In… Tranalgular?” He attempted. John quickly realised that place names were clearly not included in self-taught language learning, and almost cackled as he realised what Nik was actually getting at.

“Trafalgar, mate. Trafalgar Square. Sure we can,” John laughed, louder this time.

They sat there, talking for the majority of the evening, until eventually John withdrew back to his room.

-/-

The next morning, Nikolai went to the kitchen without a word, searching the cupboards for ingredients.

John woke shortly after, to the clattering of pans. He pulled on the closest clothes to himself (some joggers and a baggy tank from a gym trip he had yet to wash the kit from), and walked through the flat best he could with bleary-eyes. “Nik, fuck’re you doing?”

“Cooking,” Nikolai replied, voice still thick with the blur of sleep. “So you can eat. Just eggs,” he smiled, cracking one, two over the pan before jabbing them with a spatula.

“I didn’t… ask you to do that, mate, but…. cheers. Yeah. Let me know if you need any help.” John was going back to sleep. He was decisively not dealing with this at seven in the morning.

Nik finished cooking after ten minute’s dedication. The eggs were a sweet yellow, save for the spots of green where he had mixed chives through as he scrambled. 

He abandoned his work to go and wake the other man, shaking him by the shoulder. People spoke against trying to wake soldiers. Something about it being dangerous, that it could put you at risk, whatever. But Nik couldn’t see any real anger in the man’s eyes, nor any fear, as John slowly rose from his slumber. Only slight sleepiness.

“Nik, what?”

“I am done cooking. I made you toast as well, I hope that is okay,” he smiled, reaching out to squeeze John’s shoulder again.

“...thanks,” John murmured, ignoring the sudden blush that arose as Nikolai touched him again so gently, as if he was something to be treasured.

The food was, of course, stellar. Couldn’t be anything else, really.

John ate quickly, shovelling the eggs down as Nik made a mental note to check the other man had ever eaten food before this moment.

Nikolai dressed in a leather jacket and cargos, thin t-shirt beneath, he tied his hair back with an elastic band which had been poached from John’s CO’s desk weeks ago. John joined him at the door, thick trenchcoat and wool scarf not enough to stop him from shivering as he stepped outside.

Similar to breakfast, their journey was also one of little note. Nik blanked at the tube maps, leaving John to decipher them alone. Nikolai got several dirty looks for talking about how much he hated 

Once they disembarked, John wrapped an arm around Nikolai’s waist. “Gets busy, Nik, don’t want you to disappear,” he murmured, checking his face for any sign of discomfort before walking him down the road. It was crowded, of course, but John kept his place at Nikolai’s side as the pair walked. 

“Nik, fuck’s sake, sit down,” John rasped. Nikolai had been pacing up and down whilst listening to the other man talk, and it was driving John insane. That, and the officer watching him was making the Sergeant a little too uncomfortable.

“I am sorry. I am just.. energised, da? I like this time with you,” Nik replied, coming to a halt and dropping down onto the steps to sit beside John.

“You… like time with me?” John repeated. Maybe it was naïve, but he would kill to have someone care to be with him. To go on walks with him, to talk to him. No elaborate gestures.

“Da. I like this time. Thank you for coming,” Nik grinned. He squeezed John’s shoulder before looking back across the square, to the tree that was the centre of their plans for today.

“It is unique,” he commented. The only other comment he had to hand was that it was “Уродливый до упаду”, and he knew damn well John wouldn’t understand what that meant.

“It is fucking horrifying, Nik.” The tree was a hulking thing, with yellow string lights draped directly towards the ground. It lacked any other decoration, sans the small star that sat at its point.

“It is important,” Nikolai retorted. He didn’t even know why he was defending the thing. Traditional decoration? Sure. Historical significance? Sure! Tree that looked more like a skinned pipe cleaner than plant life? Fuck off.

“It is an abomination to this country, mate,” came the reply. John attempted to lightly elbow Nikolai, but froze when Nik only drew him slightly closer instead.

“Da, maybe so. But so are you with that hair.” Nikolai used the other man’s pause to snatch the beanie off of his head. leaving the half-grown out mullet visible to the world.

“Oi, you fucking bastard, Nik, give that back.” 

“Ask nicely,” he smirked. Maybe he was being too mean, but how could he help it when John’s face went just as red as his ears had in the cold?

“Nikolai, please ever so kindly give me my hat back or on our next mission I will put a bullet through you,” came the ever-so-nice request.

Nik obliged. He pulled the hat back down over John’s hair, before patting the top of it patronisingly.

“There you are, John,” he crooned. “Now, can we eat? I do not want to look at this tree anymore.”

“Sure, there’s this little place that does walk-ins a few minutes away. Good spaghetti.” John was more than glad for the change of subject.

-/-

John pored through the menu, trying to settle on what to order.

But the more he thought, the more he looked around. And the more he looked around, the more he realised just how very out of place they were.

“Nik, do you— you happy here? Comfy? It’s cold, there’s somewhere back home that’s got heating?” He was scrambling, and he knew that damn well, but John clung to the hope that Nikolai wouldn’t notice and would just agree.

“Nyet. I can never be cold with you, you are— you are like fire, da? It is fine here. Are you okay?”

John certainly wasn’t okay after that statement, but he wasn’t about to admit that. He, carefully, nodded his head, smiling at Nikolai as he tried to calm his racing heart.

“Yeah, ‘s just… you reckon they think we’re on a date? We’re two guys, at Christmas, in a restaurant, together.”

John lowered his head as Nikolai laughed, taking one of John’s hands into his own.

“Would that be so bad? I have seen worse couples,” Nik smirked, using his free hand to gently lift John’s jaw to face him. “And you are not so bad looking, hm?”

John laughed harder, hoping that would distract from the fact he was practically glowing red at this point. “You’re not half-awful yourself, Nik. But what’re you getting at?”

“I would not.. mind to be on a date with you,” Nikolai said, leaning slightly further across the table now. He smiled at the way John seemed to squirm under his gaze, bright red at the very prospect of Nikolai paying him attention. “If you feel the same, of course.”

“…Promise you ain’t joking?”

“If I were, Laswell can rip my heart out for you. Okay?”

“Okay,” John replied, though only half of it got out before Nik had John’s face pressed against his own in a kiss. Nikolai was half on top of the table to reach, and John’s hands took too long to find their way to Nik’s face, but it was good enough for the both of them.

After what felt like an hour (but was still too short for Nikolai), they separated, John grinning as he took great interest in the menu again.