#mw3 reader insert

You'd expected an entrance something akin to that of a Mission Impossible movie: a loud boom, doors knocked down, guns blazing, venomous words shouted in a language you've hardly begun to understand despite the tedious month of learning to the best of your abilities. Thunder cracks in the distance, rattling the windowpane in the next room; you don't know when the heavy downpour started, but it hasn't given any sign of yield since his arrival only a half hour ago now. Part of you can't help but think back to the myths and legends your husband... husband--your fiance--you remind yourself, mentally scolding as this isn't the first, and you doubt it's the last time you're going to mentally interchange the two words. Part of you can't help but think back to the myths and legends your fiance used to tell you.

The rain reminds you of the the way the Vikings would personify the Norse Gods to Earthly elements. Sure, you know some of the comics, like Thor, and Loki... but nevertheless, with your upbringing, the heavy pounding of the rain against the tin roof and the approaching thunder only makes your thoughts drift back to him. Johnny.

What would he think? What would he do? If he knew you were here... Maybe it's the spiritual part of you that never quite left, possibly having been ingrained from your grandparents when you were younger, or an aunt, an uncle of some sort, perhaps... but you think he'd do something silly like this. Come back as a thunderstorm, manifesting himself as something so threatening and dangerous, symbolizing his distress, unhappiness, and worry for you with torrents of rain, yet trying to protect you from the beyond even with lightning. Yet, you know that's impossible, and certainly not the case. Your heart begins to ache once more as you think of him, not wanting to get caught up, again, in the overwhelming grief you hadn't fully let yourself fall into. This is for him, you remind yourself once again.

"What are you giving her?" The voice comes from the doorway, and you're not entirely surprised by the venom in his tone, albeit taken aback. While he's not loud due to the (presumably) resting woman in the next room, you know that the lack of volume doesn't mean he wouldn't yell if the situation were anywhere else.

"What do you mean? This?" You quirk an eyebrow as you continue to stir in the little additives you'd put into the oatmeal: honey, sugar, and a pinch of salt. "It's oatmeal?" You explain, the confusion obvious in your tone as you hold the bowl up a bit, angling it for him to better see. As if the man has never seen oatmeal in his life; the thought would elicit a whirlwind of laughter from you any other time, or, more accurately, if it were any other person... but this was him. Makarov.

Vladimir Makarov: Thirty-six years old; born in Moscow Russia. Commander of Konni; the ultranationalistic private 'military contractor' group.

You'd done what research you could, found what information you had access to, some you didn't. Utilized what connections, resources, and favors were owed to you. Maybe some of them did it out of pity, out of guilt, or some other sense of failure on behalf of the SAS. Regardless, you'd set your plans into action, intent on making your promise to your late fiance come true. You will kill the man before you. It won't be today. No. After all, that'd be too soon, you have to earn his trust first. Only then, after he's comfortable, and settled, will you pursue your slow and agonizing torture.

"Христос," he curses, "she said you're poisoning her," he speaks slowly, a menacing quality to his tone as he unravels the crossed arms from his chest. Anger is evident in his irises as he stalks toward you with each step, eyebrows in a thick and harsh line. "I ask again-"

"The medication? Is that what you're talking about?" You ask. Feeling your own anger continuing to effervesce in your gut, you turn to face him on the stool, sliding from the counter. While he's still a couple feet away, you have to be more than a handful of feet shorter than him. Of that, you're sure. "Because from what I've deduced so far from being here, she bribed the last caretaker to not give her the medication on the agreement that she'd get more time off!"

He shifts his weight onto his left foot, eyes widening ever so imperceptibly, yet he remains quiet, so you continue. "They gave me her medication, told me to give it to her twice a day, so I'm doing that because she's been prescribed that medication. She clearly needs it, as per her doctor's orders. So unless you think the doctor isn't right, then, that's not my problem! I, however, am not surprised if she's telling you that since she obviously didn't even want me here in the first place."

Rounding the counter, you continue about your--at this point it could be considered daily--routine. Hand grasping your cool blue glass of water, you take a few sips while silently studying him. Despite having infiltrated his life and unknowingly (to him, ethically) disposed of his mother's last caretaker, you haven't officially met your late fiance's murderer till tonight.

KILLER

Slaughterer...! You destroyed him... You took him away from me. You're the reason he's gone. All the thoughts continue to run through your head rampantly, and you can't help but turn to face the wall opposite of him. Pretending to be busy with some of the drying dishes, you try to calm yourself. Acting on impulse and emotion will get you nowhere, you know this.

A heavy sigh permeates the silence that'd fallen between you, and there are the following taps of approaching dress shoes against hardwood floors. Quickly turning to make sure he neither invades your personal space nor dares to touch you, you're met with the visage of Makarov slumped at the counter, head in his hands.

You don't speak, you don't know what to say. Silence fills the space between you. Seeing him like this is weird considering all the stories you'd heard about him. Though you suppose even the most evil of men are still that... human. "How long have you worked as a caretaker?" He suddenly questions.

"A few years," you answer, swallowing the anxiety that starts to bubble up in your throat. "I started as a nurse and thought maybe I'd become a doctor, but it was... too much for me, and... not what I wanted to do. I discovered I liked helping people better as a nurse." It's not all lies, in fact, most of it is true. The only thing that meets your admission is silence, and that fact only raises the tension building within the cottage. Wincing at the rumbling outside, the sound does nothing to help the obvious discomfort you're experiencing finally facing him in person.

"And would you say you're good at your job?" He asks, eyes slightly narrowed in questioning as he slowly raises his head from his hands. The intensity of his dark brown eyes scream hostility and a hurt you can't immediately place your fingers on. Yet despite it all you refuse to waiver underneath his gaze.

"Yes. They wouldn't send me all the way out here otherwise. Not with a case like hers, Sir," you reply.

"Then what-" he tests, pronouncing each word clearly, "would you suggest I do?" He asks. There's a slight breathiness to his voice; with the thin windows, you can't help but feel as though the torrents of northern lake air through the meadow with its water.

Eyebrow raising in response, you're honestly shocked he'd ask such a thing. You're a complete stranger! A whirlwind of emotions go through you; excitement, bewilderment, shock, curiosity... you can't get ahead of yourself. With a sigh out, you shake your head. It may come across like disappointment to him, but really, it's to clear your head and collect yourself.

"Look... it's not something anyone wants to hear, bu-"

"Tell me!" He interrupts, demanding.

"But..." you emphasize, considering you were only putting up polite pretenses for show anyhow. "Really, family members do better when they're living with the family, even with caretakers to help. Whether you can't do it because you're busy or have other priorities, I understand."

"But at the end of the day, family members usually pass more quickly estranged like this on their own in a separate house because they feel lonely and like no one comes to visit. Maybe they have no one, or maybe they feel like they have nothing to live for anymore? She said you only visit her once or twice a year, if that... and while you write letters, that sometimes isn't enough for people, unfortunately. If you really want the truth."

Finished while your spiel, you shift your weight to the other foot as you place the finished oatmeal on the tray you reserve for his Mother. While, yes, you may despise him to the end's of the Earth... his Mother didn't do anything besides give birth to him. You accepted that the night you met her. Afraid to take another sip of your water, you stand in waiting, observant as Makarov seems to silently process everything you've said, his eyes shifting back and forth for a moment.

"I'll be back," he declares before sliding from the stool and rounding the corner into the small living space his Mother used to use more frequently. Shoulders sagging, a breath leaves you that you hadn't realized you'd been holding in. Onto your nightly routine with dinner, you attempt to distract yourself from the continuous torment of thunderstorm outside, meanwhile inside you can hear urgent demands in Russian faintly from the next room. It's clear he's on the phone... but with who? His goons, of course... right? Who else? But to kill you? To background check you? Do you need to prepare to flee?

As you stir the pot of soup you've just put on the stove, you can feel yourself start to sweat and panic. In an attempt to switch gears, you finish her dinner. Oatmeal ready, medication on the tray, you grab the lemonade you two had made the day prior and pour a glass for her before getting a steady grip on the tray and taking it down the hall. With a gentle rap of your foot as best you can against the doorframe, you announce your presence.

"Привет, Как вы себя чувствуете?" You ask, knowing the word for 'hi' and having figured out early on with the help of technology to ask how she's feeling.

"лучше теперь, когда он здесь." She responds with a soft but tired smile. It's a good sign that she's sitting up and alert at this time of night too. You don't understand the first part of what she says as she's talking too fast and you also don't have your phone out to capture what she says into your real time translation app, however you can grasp the last part. 'He's here.'

Placing the tray down on her lap, you shake your head and signal behind you with a frown. A second attempt, pointing to her, you give her a thumbs up and a smiling face for a moment, and then do the opposite. With a thumbs down and a sad face, you try again. "как дела?"

With a wave of her hand, she shakes her head now with a chuckle. "хорошо," she responds, lifting the spoon. "мой Володя!"

Whipping your head around, you find him standing there leaning against the doorframe most likely having been observing the two of you. Hopefully not for long... or maybe not at all since she would've said something. "она так просто с тобой разговаривает?" He says to his Mother, walking up to the bed and into her outstretched arms for the hug she craves.

"она не очень хорошо говорит по-русски," she quietly answers, holding him tightly for a moment, rubbing his back before letting go. With a pat on the bed next to her, she looks between the two of you. "My baby," she struggles to pronounce the word, "Vladimir." A proud smile sits upon her lips for a moment as she gestures to him. He smiles at her, too, and you nod.

"Yes, да. I have met your son just briefly. But it is good to officially meet," you tell her, even if you know she doesn't understand all of it. Shifting your gaze, he meets it with animosity. "Vladimir," you repeat.

"My mother tells me you are," he repeats your name, to which you nod, "it's a pleasure to officially meet you. Now that you're both here, I have news."

"News?" The question pops out of your mouth before you can stop it.

"Yes, news. Since you're taking care of my mother, you technically work for me. What you said stuck with me. You're right-" he shifts his speaking from you to his mother. "I've been a bad son to you, Mama. ты собираешься жить со мной." Again, he shifts his focus back to you. "We have to pack. You will both live on my compound from now."

~~~~~~~~

acronyms|translations:

Христос = christ

Привет = hi

Как вы себя чувствуете = how are you feeling

лучше теперь, когда он здесь = better now that he's here.

как дела = how are you

хорошо = good / fine / ok

мой Володя = my voldoya (nickname for vladimir)

она так просто с тобой разговаривает = she speaks to you so simply

она не очень хорошо говорит по-русски = she does not speak very much Russian

да = yes

ты собираешься жить со мной = you're coming to live with me

~~~~~~~~

You have to convince yourself that if you want to be successful... and you have to be, that this is necessary. Otherwise... you know you'll never be able to forgive yourself. He deserves it: vengeance, justice, relief... and hell, maybe you do, too.

While the car ride had been incredibly tense, filled with classical music streaming in through the radio, you were lucky there weren't any guards accompanying him to the residence. Finally lying in the bed you'd been assigned on Makarov's Compound, you stare up at the red ceiling and wonder if you'll ever get so lucky again.

"This is a bit much, eh?" The Scottish brogue elicits a smile from you. Shifting your gaze over to the other side of the bed, you peer up at Johnny's amused smile, canines poking out from behind his lips.

An affirmative hum of acknowledgment leaves your lips as you admire the childlike wonder and curiosity in his eyes as he scans the room. Following his hand as it runs over his mohawk and shaved head, you find yourself yearning to feel his biceps and strong arms under your palms once again. Perhaps you'd roll over on the bed onto your stomach and crawl up onto his lap, making yourself at home, comfortable and safe in his arms.

Home.

"You're a long way from there now, Lass, aren't ya?" He reminds you. Except you know it's not really him. It's not actually your Johnny... just a figment of your imagination; a coping mechanism, they'd called it- a fairly normal occurrence for people who've suddenly and oftentimes, tragically, lost a loved one they were extremely close with. The guilt starts to seep in and reactivate that ever-gnawing ache in your chest. As your eyes begin to well up with tears, you unconsciously clench your jaw in an attempt to prevent yourself from crying.

Shutting your eyes, you place one hand on your chest to feel your heartbeat. 'Ground yourself', they'd told you. With a series of deep breaths, you attempt to calm yourself down, mentally counting your heartbeats to distract yourself. As much as you'd want to cherish and take in these sparse moments whenever Johnny shows up in some way, perhaps as some way to help you mentally get through your day... it won't help you here.

When you finally open your eyes he's gone. With a slight frown on your lips, you dust off your dress before sliding off the bed and immediately heading for the door. Upon swinging it open there's a man there; both surprised by the other's sudden appearance, he steps back while you're more than determined to flee the area. You need no reminders of Johnny, and while the room may not be one, the excuse of exploring and furthering your mission only seethes under your skin.

"ждать!" While you march off toward the front of the house, the way you'd come in last night, you don't see the man fumble with your luggage. "говно," the man curses, shaking his head. "Wait! You speak English, right?"

It takes you aback. Not many people you'd encountered here have spoken English to you outright, though you know it's not uncommon for people to learn the language. Turning on your heel slowly, you meet the man properly this time. "Yes... how did you know that?" You ask with a slight tilt of your head.

The shaggy haired man's adam-apple bobs as he swallows, no doubt anxious as he straightens his posture and uniform. He's young, couldn't be older than his early twenties--if that--and you mentally curse the man in charge. "Erm, I may have overheard them speaking of it at breakfast," he informs you. Mirroring your tilted head, the curiosity in his eyes doesn't go unnoticed by you. "I was sent by the Commander to retrieve you."

While you process the words coming out of his mouth, the thick accent he has somehow warms your heart. His English isn't perfect, but it's understandable, and that's something to appreciate. "Should I be worried?" You ask. Searching his eyes gives you a hint toward his answer; a taken aback look appears across his face before there's a speck of fear written across his irises. A sigh pushes its way past your lips as you hang your head. "If I'm bound to get in trouble, would you mind giving me a tour first at least?" You ask, meeting his eyes as you raise your head again with a saddened smile.

"The Commander does not like to be kept waiting, Miss," the messenger responds, straightening his posture once more. While his eyes run over your body taking in the details of your civilian outfit, he remains still. Giving him your name, you extend a hand. He hesitates for a moment before returning your offering, his soft but larger hand providing a loose but firm shake. He tells you his name is Mikhail, but that everyone calls him Mischa.

It only takes the questioning of where everyone is to convince him of a tour. With the Commander busy in a meeting, it makes no logical sense to interrupt it, you jecture. With the unintentional information of lunch being in only a half hour, you're able to persuade him. It's that simple. After all, doesn't the Commander have more pressing matters to attend to than you?

Perhaps it's the fact that you're still not over the reminiscent vision of Johnny that'd encroached on your free time. Maybe it's the fact that you dread facing your fiancé's murderer more than anything. It's not necessary, not yet. You know you'll kill him eventually- that's the whole reason you'd come here... yet the superfluous time spent in his presence will do nothing but aggravate you and send you into another spiral. This, you're sure of.

Having followed Mischa throughout Makarov's little makeshift Konni Compound, the heels of your flats quietly clicking against the tile in the ground floor's foyer, you'd only been going through the motions. Unaware of your surroundings and lost in thought of what this closeness to your enemy will unfortunately bring upon your plans, it's the rusty creak of the glass paned wooden door being opened into the next room that draws you from the stupor you'd found yourself in.

"This is the-"

"You have a greenhouse?" The joyous curiosity evident in your tone elicits Mischa's gaze. While you may have interrupted him, he doesn't say anything as you gently push past him and lean against the old doorframe.

The space is obviously long deserted as weeds litter the garden beds and vines grow within the cracks of the cobblestone, up the sides of the glass. There's broken glass and concrete scattered around the house, the remnants of what once was a statue toppled over, cracked, and broken in pieces. It smells like a mixture of Earth, mildew, and rot. Of course, you suppose it's not uncommon for fungus to grow in the abundance of dead organic material. In this case you can only hope it's what once was plant life. Overall, the scene before you in unwelcoming.

"No one comes here, but it is the last of the house." Mischa shifts uncomfortably before turning and heading off back toward the stairs.

"They don't grow anything?" You ask, unable to fathom having a greenhouse you wouldn't use. Turning to look after him, he simply shakes his head and motions for you to follow him, a look of thought on his face.

"Perhaps once, but not in the time I have been here." As his heavy boots thud against the worn wooden steps, he looks straight ahead as you begin down a hallway you'd hadn't fully ventured yet. Taking in the ornate green wallpaper, you admire the brocade style dark green pattern. The bottom half of the wall is paneled, offering a sleek look. All together, you're surprised that Makarov lives in such a wealthy looking and finely furnished home. Eventually the feeling of someone's eyes garners your attention and causes you to look back toward the soldier beside you. Already watching you, Mischa speaks. "Do you know if she... what is the word in English," he whispers the latter half to himself. "Grow plants? Here?"

"Gardener?" You offer, the words tumbling off your lips as you think on it. Sure, there'd been a plant here or there within the small cabin the two of you had been residing in the past month or so... but that didn't mean she was really a gardener. Unfortunately you hadn't gotten the chance to really explore outside the cabin, really, as Vera had often scheduled the groceries for delivery anyhow. "I don't think so? But I could always ask, I guess." When you look up at him you find a small smile on his lips.

"Gardener," he whispers to himself in an attempt to remember the odd word. "It would be nice to know." Though it sounds more like a suggestion, you can't deny it would interesting to know.

As you wander down the long hallway you find it's filled with still life paintings hung across the walls, the mahogany paneling completing the embodiment of a dark manor's hallway. In any other circumstance you'd be intrigued by the mysteries the large Compound might hold in your favor, the oddities and secrets hidden in the crevices of these rooms, but the fate that belies you inside one of them has you unconsciously holding your breath. After all, Makarov's been one to hold a reputation of being nothing if not cruel and unusual to his soldiers. Whether your strange link to his Mother serves in your benefit or not is up to time, and him.

The sound of chatter drifts from the door at the end of the hall. Approaching the double doors, Mischa comes to a stop. "We are here." Swallowing whatever fear lingers in your spine, you spare one last look at Mischa. He looks unfazed and put together, but you know that as a solider there's no chance he'd hold any sympathy for what you're possibly walking into. With a few sturdy rapts of his fist, the chatter comes to a silence. A moment passes before someone shouts something in Russian. You assume it was their approval of your entry. Mischa pushes open the door and steps in, revealing you.

Your eyes immediately lock on Makarov's. Sitting at his desk on the other side of the room, his hands are clasped upon the sleek black writing mat. "Enter," he orders. You hadn't moved, something you only noticed upon his words. Mischa gestures for you to come in, you obey. Door closed behind you with a loud click, you suddenly worry you're locked in here. To the Commander's right stands his second-hand in command. You don't know his name, but you've seen his face often in the photos you'd recovered with Nikolai's help.

On either side of the room in the middle stand two guards in a similar uniform to Mischa. They don't even look your way upon entry, in fact, they stand stock still, almost as if they were statues. Apparently Makarov's gang is trained a little better than you'd thought. "Where were you?" The cold and emotionless voice garners your attention once more, your eyes snapping back to the man in front of you.

"Just now?" You question, mindlessly gesturing as you turn to look at Mischa. "I was with your soldier... that you so kindly sent for me." Your explanation apparently isn't satisfactory as you watch the corners of the Commander's lips slip from even and straight across, downward into a frown.

"I will give you the benefit of assuming you're not playing daft," he insults. "This morning. Where were you at breakfast?" As your lips part to speak, Makarov tilts his head, shifting in his seat. "You were not there, you were not anywhere to be found. I can assume that if you weren't at breakfast you would also not be found with my Mother earlier either." He lets out an unpleased exhale through his nose. "Which might I remind you is the only reason you are here."

You go to open your mouth again, assuming this time he'll actually let you speak. "Um... I don't know what time breakfast was or where, but... we've had our own way of doing things for awhile now."

Makarov seems to take this in as he listens, meanwhile you're simply grateful you get the chance to explain yourself. Eyes rolling, he lets out a sigh. "Mm," he hums, leaning back in his chair as he eyes you up and down. "I understand you have been sleeping till all hours of the afternoon, and that you are going through a lot right now, but it does not entitle you to forgo your duties. I expect nothing but the best from everyone I employ; and that includes you."

"And what duties have I forgone exactly?" You ask, head tilting slightly as your brows furrow. The manner you'd been attending to his Mother, Vera's needs, had been agreed upon weeks ago between the two of you. Now that Makarov's in the picture, apparently, it has to be to his content too?!

A sigh rumbles from deep within his chest as he places his hands on the table once more, sitting up. "You are to be at her side from the moment she wakes until she sleeps! Unless otherwise dictated, she needs your assistance. She needs someone with her, and I hired you! Why would I bother to hire you if all you're going to do is be nothing but a waste of our time and money?" He hisses, slowly standing from his chair. "I need you with her, consistently, making sure she is tended to! The only exception to this is if she does not want your presence and allows you leave. Do you understand? I do not care what you did under her roof. This is mine, and what you have been doing so far is unacceptable!"

Swallowing your anger and spite, you grit your teeth, jaw clenched shut. With a deep breath, you go to respond. A bell rings out, startling you as you try to pinpoint the source. "What's that?" Your voice comes out louder than you intend, a look of worry etched across your face.

"It is the lunch bell," Mischa explains quietly from beside you.

"Your saving grace," the Commander remarks. With a wave of his hand nonchalantly you watch as the guards stationed around the room shoulder their guns and begin to move toward the exit.

As Mischa passes you, there's a look of pity in his eyes. Yet, the penetrating and unwavering glare of Makarov's gaze keeps you in place. "Make no mistake, Girl, this is your only warning." With a swiftness that leaves you taken aback, he rounds the desk and strides past you, stopping by you only for a moment as he whispers. "You're dismissed."

As you hear his leather dress shoes click against the wooden floor, you know he's exited the office, still, his personal guard lingers. Whatever had just happened, you feel as though you'd underestimated the grasp Makarov holds on his soldiers. He rendered you speechless in a matter of minutes, leaving you with the feeling of being nothing more than a puppet meant to do his work.

It only takes a minute or so to gather yourself. Upon exiting the office, you're met with the sound of receding footfall. You follow the sound down the ornate hallway until the sound of chatter increases, indicating, you think, the direction you're supposed to go.

When you turn the corner, you walk into the room only to stop at the sight before you. All around the long table in the center of the room are people sitting, talking, enrapt in their own conversation as they laugh, pass the food, and eat. The lightheartedness in the room is a sheer contrast to the fiery intensity you'd just experienced in the office.

"приехать, сидеть," Mischa beckons you with a wave of his free hand. The other holds a bowl of something that looks akin to potatoe salad. Slowly entering the room, you don't miss the one or two looks in your direction, however most mind their own business. Taking the empty seat next to the soldier, he hands you the bowl he'd been holding.

"What is this?" You question, looking in his direction after eyeing the other assortment of food at the table.

"салат оливье," he answers, gesturing for you to pick up the spoon and serve yourself. A smile unconsciously displays itself on your lips at the look of enthusiasm on his face. You can't say you've ever had this, but it looks good! With a few small scoops onto your plate, you place the bowl in the middle of the table.

A look around the table tells you there are a few other small dishes to be had. Some sort of dumplings are sitting on the other end, along with a platter of bread and jams. You spot Makarov sitting next to his guard with a smile on his lips as he listens to some sort of story you're not privy to. If only you knew more Russian. The scene is a little eerie considering he'd reemed you just minutes ago, and now he's happy?! Argument aside, the fact that you're witnessing the man who'd murdered the love of your life smile, seemingly happy as he converses with his friend? It makes you feel ill in a way you haven't felt before.

The clink of a glass set before you draws your attention back to Mischa. He'd poured you a glass of juice? Placing another filled glass by his plate, he sets the pitcher down in the middle of the table, nodding as the man next to him asks him something in Russian. It's only when he notices your gaze that he offers you a smile and lifts his glass in your direction.

As he returns to his conversation, you begin eating in silence, eager to take in the utter... what is it? The feeling--aside from pinpointing Makarov--is... reminiscent of something you've felt lacking in the past few months. Jovial? Friendly? It's more than that, it's... almost like... a family.

The thought wrings your heart and causes a deep pain to spread throughout your chest at the implication, the realization, and your memories.

Memories of Captain John Price sitting around the table lifting a glass in cheers of your boy's successful mission. The comradery as they'd tell stories and jokes around the table, nursing another pint. Gaz teasing Johnny about the fact that he couldn't even manage one boy's night out without bringing you along, not that he minds. Simon sitting across the table silently listening to his Captain tell a story while he watches Gaz entertain you with a funny, tragic tale from their latest mission, much to Johnny's chagrin. The way Johnny would have his arm tucked around your waist holding you close, every so often whispering the things you'd only dream of hearing into them as the night went on.

The last part might not be present, exactly, but the realization that all the times you'd felt right at home with Johnny's squad, with his found family, safe in the light atmosphere of the pub having a Sunday Roast with them... there's something here akin to that.

They may be the enemy; they may be foreign to you, their language going far above your head as you only pick up a word every once in a while here or there... but the kindness they show one another? The care? While you'd like to think it dawned on you beforehand, outside of the landscape of war, that regardless of the 'side' they're on, or the region they originate and stand behind... it's only hit you in the face now. They are a family.

As you chew, continuing to eat and more than content to simply observe and listen in, considering your lack of ability to contribute, someone notices. "What you think?" Mischa asks, nudging your shoulder gently with his own as he looks down at your plate.

"It's good," you respond immediately, still slightly foggy as you'd been lost somewhere between between memory and thought. With a quick swallow and clearing of your throat, you correct yourself, attempting to broaden your horizons. "это хорошо."

"хороший," Mischa answers with a chuckle. "You like?" He urges you to continue right before he takes a big bite of the potatoe fritter.

"да," you affirm. Tempted to venture further in search of not only practice, but an attempt to get to know someone, you try your hand. "что... ты любишь?"

"какой мой любимый?" He corrects, and you know what he's saying, luckily. 'What's my favorite?' Repeating the question back to you in an attempt to help you learn. "наверное Котлеты," he answers. While you don't know either of the words, you're determined to try and look them up later if you can guess how they're spelled. All of the sudden he's laughing wholeheartedly, and you can't help but feel yourself fluster under the loud and boisterous sound. "I am saying probably Котлеты. It is like... курица? You know?"

A shake of your head and he's nodding in response, his laughter having finally calmed down. "And you?" He turns your question back on you. It's not something you've thought of often, so you think for a moment.

"Maybe... chicken alfredo?" You respond in English, seeing as he'd started to speak it first.

"I do not know this," he speaks slowly, giving you his undivided attention in case you try and explain it or make some gesture with your hand. The man sips on his juice as a few others at the table begin to clear their plates and take the leftover food away.

Lunch went by rather quickly, and truthfully, it was good. You couldn't find any complaint as you rejoined Vera after, finding the rest of the afternoon much more calm than the morning had been. With the rest of the afternoon and evening passing in a haze, you can't help but find yourself acting on curiosity and impulse as soon as you bid Vera goodnight.

It's quiet now, and you're sure most of the soldiers have been dismissed from their stations tonight in favor of bed. With this in mind, you retrace the steps you'd taken earlier that day in search of Makarov's office. Surely, there must be something in there that'd prove your case to the United Nations, to the English Government? Whether it's proof he'd killed Johnny by his own hand, or plans that show he was there and committed the crimes you're all well aware was his doing, there has to be something valuable in his confines!

It's easy enough to find his office again. To your luck, there doesn't seem to be anyone around at this time of night, and you're thankful that the door is unlocked. While your cynical mind begins to question whether or not the Commander--as they'd referred to him this afternnon--would have traps set in case of an intruder, you decide to try and risk it with a step into the office. Closing your eyes, you take a generous step into the polished area, arms close to your body just in case a trap decides to spring on you. Fortunately, nothing happens. You open one eye, and then the next, slowly, before you continue your venture into the room.

Soon enough you find yourself rifling through his desk drawers in search of anything. Rummaging through the files and rooting through the papers, you can only make out a handful of writing. God damn language barrier! You hadn't even considered that. Nevertheless, you're reading a file that's cryptically titled, yet has a load of information you do recognize. Across the pages are things scattered; 'Task Force 141', 'Simon Riley, the Ghost', 'Kyle Garrick', 'Captain Johnathan Price', and finally, the one you were dreadfully looking for: 'John MacTavish'.

There's the mechanic churning and click of the doorknob that alerts you to someone's presence. Heart accelerating its thump in your chest, you quickly shut the drawer as the door begins to open.

"What do you think you're doing?" Makarov's angry voice leaves you stuck still with baited breath as you slowly turn to meet his laser-focused gaze.

~~~~~~~~

translations:

ждать = wait

говно = shit

приехать = come

сидеть = sit

салат оливье = olivier salad (which i made the other day and it was... 😘👌scrumptious)

это хорошо = it's good

хороший = good

да = yes

что = what

ты = you

любишь = love (though reader is more trying to ask 'what's your favorite? it would be different words, but she's trying lmao)

наверное Котлеты = probably cutlets

курица = chicken

________

Forever taglist: @ohdamnadam , @safarigirlsp , @jynzandtonic , @moonlightsolo