#makarov

https://archiveofourown.org/works/88380136/chapters/234402106

being Vladimir Makarov’s wifeknowing that his name is already somewhere in classified 141 files, and yours is right beside it, even though you have never held a weapon.waking up in different apartments and never asking why you suddenly cannot use the phone that was working perfectly yesterday.his rare appearances at home always look almost normal: his coat over the back of a chair, gloves on the table, a cup of tea at two in the morning — except for the fact that he might disappear before sunrise and come back three weeks later.never asking about London, Warsaw, Verdansk, or the people whose names he never says out loud.knowing that “we’re leaving. Now.” does not mean a vacation, but a new country and one suitcase.knowing that they might come for you not because you have done anything, but because you are his weak point.and the worst part — never being sure where his love for you ends and his need to control everything begins.

versus

THE CITY UNDER SNOWSaint Petersburg, sometime in winter

CW: religious imagery · crime · violence · death · grief · morally gray characters

Vladimir Makarov / female reader.

Saint Petersburg, sometime in winter.Saint Petersburg froze overnight.Yesterday, the snow was still gray at the edges — soft with slush,carved through by tires, dirty with sand.By morning, the city looked sealed shut.

White.

Still.

Almost silent.

The cold was vicious.

Dry.

Sharp.

Unforgiving.

The kind that made frost gather on her eyelashesand turned the air so clear she could see every columnacross the street.

She was on her way to church alone.

The driver didn't speak.The radio was off.Inside the black car, everything smelled of leather,cold air, and something expensive —the particular scent of a car that had never spent a night outside.She sat in the back, wrapped in a long white fur coat.

It was almost absurdly impractical for Petersburg.

Heavy.

Old-fashioned.

The wide collar made her face look even thinner.

Not girlish.

Something older.

Something her grandmother might have called proper.

Her scarf was cream-colored silk,patterned faintly along the edge.

Her grandmother had given it to her.

She wore it the way her mother had.

The way her grandmother had.

Tied beneath the chin,with a few strands of hair left loose at her temples.

There was something almost painfully out of placeabout a twenty-one-year-old woman sitting in an expensive carin the middle of Petersburg dressed like someone's photographfrom another century.

A small gold cross rested against her chest.

She touched it without thinking.

Outside, snow-covered facades drifted past.

Black streetlamps.

The Neva somewhere beyond the buildings.Petersburg looked stripped down to the bone.

Stone.

Snow.

Dark water.

She had always thought that was why she could never quite leave this city.Petersburg never promised you anything.It simply endured.

Like a person who had survived too muchto bother proving anything anymore.

“Here we are.”

The church was small and set back from the road.

Not one of the famous ones.

Not somewhere tourists came looking for beauty.

She preferred those.

Less spectacle.

More silence.

“I'll wait,” the driver said.

She nodded.

“Thank you.”

The cold hit her the moment she stepped outside.

Snow settled across the white fur.

She didn't brush it away.Inside, the warmth was almost suffocating after the street.

Wax.

Incense.

Old wood.

Wet wool.

She removed her gloves,crossed herself,bowed her head.Only then did she look up.The icon was to the right of the entrance.

The Softener of Evil Hearts.

The Virgin looked straight ahead.Seven swords pierced her heart.Three on one side.Three on the other.One from below.

Her grandmother had explained it to her years ago.

Not evil people.

Pain.

What happened when someone carried so much of itthat eventually they began to resemblethe very thing they had once feared.

She had always thought her grandmotherwas talking about the war.

Now, standing in front of the icon,she wondered if she'd been talking about them.

She lit a candle.

Then another.For a long time, she said nothing.It felt almost ridiculous to begin.As though God already knew everything.

He knew who she had come for.He knew her husband hadn't called in three days.He knew she hadn't asked where he was.He knew she woke at every sound of the elevator at night.He knew the suitcase was still hidden in the wardrobe.

Half-packed since autumn.

Just in case.

They had a lot of things prepared just in case.

Documents.

Cash.

Passports.

Medicine.

Chargers.

A few changes of clothes.Once, her husband had told her:

“If I call, don't ask questions.Just pack.”

She had laughed nervously.

“What if I'm not home?”

He'd looked at her.

“Then we'll find you.”

He'd smiled when he said it.

So calmly.

As though he were talking about ordering a taxi.

That was the first time she'd understoodthat her husband could frighten herwithout ever meaning to.

She closed her eyes.

“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”

Her voice barely carried.She crossed herself again.

“Holy Mother of God…”

Her voice broke.She swallowed and started again.

“Holy Mother of God, protect him.”

Not bring him back.

Not change him.

Not punish him.

Protect him.

Her fingers tightened around the cross.

“If you can…”

A breath.

“Protect him.”

She swallowed against the tightness in her throat.

“And don't let him become worse than he already is.”

It wasn't really a proper prayer.She knew that.She didn't care.

Sometimes you had to tell God the truth before you could say the right words.

“For the health of the servant of God…”

His name caught in her throat.

She whispered it anyway.

“Vladimir.”

The first time she'd said his name in three days.

“And everyone with him.”

A pause.

“Even if they don't deserve it.”

She immediately felt ashamed.She didn't take it back.

“Keep them from death.

From madness.

From fear.

From hatred.”

Her thumb rubbed over the cross.

“And from themselves.”

She lit another candle.This one for the dead.That was harder.Faces surfaced in her mind.Some she knew.Some she knew only from stories.Some she had never seen at all.Men whose names weren't spoken around strangers.Men who had once sat at her husband's table.Men who had stopped coming.Men who had disappeared.Men remembered only when someone had been drinking.She knew some of them had been guilty.Some had chosen their lives.Some had picked up weapons first.

None of that made death easier.

“Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord…”

She whispered the names.

One.

Then another.

Then another.

Until she reached oneher husband had never spoken aloud.

She knew only the surname.

She said it anyway.

“And him too.”

The candle flame trembled.

“And those I don't know.”

Her voice became smaller.

“Those no one remembers anymore.”

Her lips shook.

“Forgive them, Lord.”

She wasn't sure who she meant.

The dead.

The living.

Her husband.

Herself.

Russia.

Maybe all of them.

“Forgive them for what they did.”

She breathed in.

“And forgive me for what I knew.”

That was the hardest part.Not confessing to what she'd done.Confessing to what she hadn't.

Hadn't asked.

Hadn't left.

Hadn't stopped.

Hadn't wanted to know.

She was young.She could tell herself she wasn't responsible.That it had all started before her.That she was only a wife.She could tell herself she'd never killed anyone.Never threatened anyone.Never carried a weapon.Never given an order.She could tell herself all of that.

And sometimes she did.

But standing there beneath the icon,every excuse sounded strangely small.Sin, she'd realized,could be terribly convenient.You could choose not to ask.Not to notice.Not to hear.You could accept an expensive giftwithout asking where the money came from.Get into a carwithout asking why the driver was new.Hear the phone ring at three in the morningand pretend you were asleep.

You could love someoneand hope love would somehow cancel outeverything else.

She closed her eyes.

“Lord…”

The word came out almost soundlessly.

“Don't let me become like that.”

She didn't say like what.

The icon already knew.

“And don't let him disappear completely.”

She stood there for another moment.Then, almost desperately:

“If he can still come back…”

Her voice failed.She tried again.

“Bring him back.”

A pause.

“And if he can't…”

She couldn't finish.Because finishing that prayer meant asking for something she was more afraid of than death itself.

Outside, snow was falling heavily now.The city had almost vanished beneath it.

White.

Silent.

Endless.

The driver was waiting beside the car.

“Everything all right?”

She looked at him.

“Yes.”

He opened the door.She climbed insideand untied her scarf,folding it carefully into her lap.Snow melted against the white fur.Her phone lay beside her.She stared at it.Then the screen lit up.

UNKNOWN NUMBER.

For a few seconds,she didn't move.

She had learned one thing in this city:

The worst things never began with.“I need to tell you something.”

They began much more simply.She answered.

“Hello?”

Silence.Then his voice.

Calm.

Tired.

Alive.

Everything she'd just saidin front of the iconsuddenly felt inadequate.

“Pack a bag.”

She closed her eyes.

“Where are we going?”

“I don't know.”

Her eyes opened.

She looked at her reflection in the window.

Young face.

Gold cross.

White fur.

Her grandmother's scarf.

Snow.

And suddenly understood that perhaps this had always been her life: learning to live as though tomorrow would look exactly like today,while always being ready to disappear before morning.

She put the phone into her bag.The car began to move.

Petersburg kept falling silent beneath the snow.

SOME PRAYERS ONLY COME TRUEWHEN IT'S TOO LATE.

Was talking with my dear friend about Makarov the dark chocolate lover. Somehow it brought us here.