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October
1984, Scotland
It had been two months since corpses, cave and survival.
Two months since the events that were still coursing
through Dan's mind, unable to shrug their memory off
and forget about the Russian's actions.
Two
months in which he had made his way back to Kabul after
being holed up for days in the shelter the Russkie had
taken him to. Staggering across the mountains once he
could stand on his own two feet, slowly picking his
way along the pass, still dizzy and limping, but at
least fit for survival. Thanks to his enemy. He'd encountered
a friendly Muja patrol from a tribe he'd had dealings
with and whose warlord had made sure he was taken down
to the lowlands on one of the packing mules.
'Never
give up, never surrender'.
Two
months, and he hadn't been able to leave a message with
the tea house owner, before his contacts had insisted
he'd get immediate medical care, as rudimentary as it
was, then bundled up and flown straight out of Kabul
and back to the UK. A week observation in a military
hospital down South, near Portsmouth, and then two weeks
of R&R. 'Relaxation', they'd said. 'Go and rest
up'. Relaxation, my arse, he'd thought. Fucking
unlikely! How to relax without the body of the Russian,
hands on his cock, lips, cock cumming in his throat,
musk and heat, strength like his own, and losing himself
deep within the body of the other.
Two
months minus four and a half weeks and Dan had gone
up to Scotland, sitting in a train from London King's
Cross, staring out of the window for four and a half
hours, while mixing cups of bitter coffee with overpriced
cans of beer. Feeling like a visitor in strange lands
as the English countryside went by, green and entirely
too lush. Even further up North, crossing the wide open
planes of Yorkshire, they seemed like claustrophobic
strips of land after the Afghan mountains. Then York,
briefly wondering as they approached the station if
he should get out, get pissed, and try to get laid,
but in a small historical tourist place? He hardly remembered
tales of where to pick up a whore - since a throat was
a throat -, let alone a rent boy. Knew nothing about
the gay scene in this country - as little as he knew
about what was hidden beneath the women's burkhas, back
in Kabul.
Newcastle
soon, promise of a thriving Northern English city, endless
pubs and bars, enough booze to forget, but fuck it again,
Dan stayed in the train, determined to cross the border.
He'd given his word to his brother he'd come visit their
father whenever he was back in Blighty. The family was
waiting: brother, sister-in-law, three nephews. Felt
hardly like relations, had lost interest in their lives
when he'd joined up, seventeen years ago. Was easier,
for all, in case he died, like that mate of his. John,
and a dog tag his Russkie had brought him.
Dan
stayed, the train passing along what he'd once thought
was a magnificent coastline, now everything in Britain
seemed small. Too many people, grey skies and grey faces.
Grey lives all around him, and his own? Black and white,
but never grey.
Getting
himself another minuscule can of beer in the buffet
coach, after he'd pissed out the others, Dan stared
at the sea and its equally grey waves, crashing against
the Scottish coast. Thinking of his brother, four years
younger and so much better suited to take over the farm,
bringing up kids and all that stuff that men tended
to do in the village. Those were the ones who stayed,
the others found a measly paid labouring job, went down
to England for better prospects, or joined the army.
Just like him, but he was the only one who had made
it into the Special Forces.
Dan
frowned at the drizzle outside, remembering his brother's
words and his 'threat' via Bluey military mail: their
father had had a second heart attack, seriously ill,
and if James Douglas McFadyen was going to die before
he'd seen his oldest son at least one last time, then
whatever little was left of his family would never forgive
him nor speak to him again. Him, Daniel Ewen McFadyen,
the son his father was so insanely proud of, boasting
in the pub for the last fifteen-odd years about his
Dan's exploits across the world, doing heroic deeds
in the SAS.
His
brother was a good guy, and he'd been taking care of
their father's farm and of Dan's money, better than
Dan would ever have. Best he reacted to the 'threat'.
Edinburgh
at last, and he felt like a stranger as he stepped out
of the train at Waverly station. Shouldering his oversized
bergan, some of the voices around him sounded familiar
with their variety of Scottish accents, but most of
them were simply foreign. Listening to a cacophony of
languages from all over the world, thought he'd caught
a snippet of Russian and his head flew around, then
stopped, grinned wryly to himself. Almost a month and
he reacted to a few sounds of Russian like Pavlov's
dog to a bell.
Dan
made his way up towards Princess Street, looking around
himself, while letting the people pass who were busily
going about their lives. A stranger in a strange place
and Edinburgh, fine, genteel, beautiful Edinburgh, was
too fucking perfect. The city felt like a lady, sneering
at him, her long discarded piece of rough. The lover
she had thrown back out of the tradesmen entrance, and
who was clumsily finding his way into a cold and lonely
bed.
He
had almost a couple of hours to kill before getting
into his next train, enough time for a few pints in
Rose Street. Glancing up to the castle he wondered if
he should check if some of his mates were still stationed
there, but there was no point. If they were they'd be
on duty, and he'd figure it out on his way back. Perhaps.
Two
hours and several pints later he caught the train to
Oban, sufficiently mellow to stay in a half-sleeping
state while glancing intermittently out of the window
at the Highland scenery passing by. Thought he'd missed
his home, the glens and the mountains, barren rock and
green covered sweeps, but he'd been wrong. Everything
paled compared to the magnificence of mountains, dust,
rocks and tank-flattened villages and that endless sky,
merciless sun and murderous cold of Afghanistan.
He'd
been there four years; four years too long.
'Relax',
they had said, and Dan tried his best, once he arrived
at the station, phoned his brother and was picked up
in a battered Landrover. Sitting at his family's heavy
wooden kitchen table, he felt taken back into a time
and a 3D moving picture into which he simply no longer
belonged. Perhaps never had, come to think of it, or
he hadn't wanted nothing but leave and join the army.
Soldier. 'Be All You Can' and all that shit. And that's
what he was now, no way back, and he didn't want to.
SSgt Dan McFadyen, SAS.
His
father looked frail, nothing like the tall, strong man
he remembered from a little more than a year ago. Still
dark, hair barely grey, but eyes dimmed and the once
broad back that belonged to a proud Highlander now bent
with disease. No longer fit to work on the farm, the
deed written over to Duncan, his younger son, he still
heftily clapped Dan's shoulder, sitting opposite to
him and urging him to talk tall tales and tell stories
of his exploits. Slamming his fist onto the table with
roaring laughter, calling both his sons 'his bairns'
and cursing them for 'silly fools', while the kids were
playing outside and Duncan's wife Mhairi prepared the
evening meal.
Two
months minus two weeks. Scottish food, home cooked meals,
stodgy and rich, and time for Dan's leg to heal, the
bruise on his head to vanish, and his body to return
to well-nourished strength. Yet his memories never faded.
Mountains, over and over again; heat and freezing cold,
endless skies and sheltering caves. Blood, pain and
an all surpassing lust for one man, settled so deeply
into his bones, the need had become part of him. Bottomless,
like the touch he craved.
Only
relaxing when he could finally walk without pain, hiking
up the hills and mountains on his own, looking over
the Scottish Highlands. Sitting or walking for hours
on end, watching. Thinking. Smoking cigarettes and following
the smoke with his gaze as tendrils curled up into the
cloud-torn sky. Scotland, his home - once upon a time.
Two
months minus a week and a half, and Dan knew when he
left his family's farm that he'd never see his father
again. Yet he felt hardly anything. Hadn't mourned much
when his mother had died, shortly before he joined up,
couldn't grieve now, had seen too much death and decay,
and death had lost its meaning. What did they have in
common? A name, their hair and eyes, and a fierce temperament.
What did that old man mean to him? Blood relations.
No more, no less. Of no consequence to his life.
His
finances once more settled with his brother, all accounts
squared and explained, investments, interest, savings,
payments, rent and bills, and most of all the properties
that Duncan had bought on his behalf, bringing in money
slowly but steadily. Dan didn't care about his finances,
as long as he had enough and what did he need? Back
in Kabul? Hardly a place to march into the nearest bank,
get out a few quid and storm off to the next pub. Glad
his brother dealt with it all, happy to pay him percentages
for his troubles. Surprised when checking the sum below
the line, where all that money had come from, and what
to do with it one day. The day he dreaded thinking about:
retirement after twenty-two years of service. He had
five more to go, he'd worry about the abyss when he
stepped over the edge.
The
way back down to England was just as unspectacular.
Stopping over in Edinburgh, he remembered to check in
with his old mate, still stationed up on the rock, spending
the evening in the Sergeants' Mess in the castle compounds.
Drinking pints with Infantry blokes, swapping more of
those tall tales of danger and escape within hair's
breadth. Boozing while settled on proverbial sand bags,
pissed and loud, raucous and big. All of them. Real
lads, just like him, envious of his SAS job, and none
of them knew that Dan couldn't help but notice tight
arses in black trousers and broad chests beneath polo
shirts.
Finding
himself down South the next day, with pounding head
and fragile stomach, Dan stepped through the gate of
the military camp that would take him back to his job
when his hangover had receded. Ready for the usual round
of briefings the following day, before he'd be flown
out in a Herc.
Two
months minus one week, and Dan was finally back in a
troop carrier. Ear plugs kept the worst of the deafening
noise away, yelling at comrades above the mayhem of
engine and air, and pissing into a sand filled bucket,
spending the final hours curled up beside his bergan,
on top of the sleeping bag. Conked out despite the hellish
noise, being carried back into a wilderness that was
so goddamned familiar, if he understood the notion of
'home', he'd know he was flying home to the mountains,
heat and cold, skies above an endless expanse of nothing.
Unkempt bands of goat-fuckers, flea infested caves,
guts, fear and danger, and the familiar mosaics in an
unexpected oasis. Shade, green, over-sweetened tea and
sticky pastries, in the very centre of Kabul.
Afghanistan,
his fate, his life, and probably his death. Afghanistan
- and his Russian.
Two
months minus three days, and Dan's first action after
checking in with his contacts was to leave a message
for Vadim with the tea house owner. Welcomed back like
a long-lost friend; a friend with money and practical
gifts from lands in the West. The search for a safe
house had become easy, four years and he knew Kabul
better than his village up in the Highlands. Sleep,
food, re-acquaintance with waning heat that was turning
into autumn, and dust. Always dust in the lowlands.
No matter the heat nor cold.
Two
months, almost to the day, and Dan sat in the shade
on one of the tattered cushions, sipping strong tea,
stuffing himself with honeyed nuts and pastry, while
watching the tea house patrons come and go. Face partly
hidden beneath a rag, sporting the same light colour
as his native clothing. Sandals, long, loose coat, and
the Western clothes beneath. Safer to stay native for
the time being, even though his contacts had reassured
him there would be no repercussion for being the only
survivor of the massacre two months ago.
Two
months, and he was sitting, waiting. Waiting and hoping.
October
1984 - Afghanistan
Vadim's
only way of dealing with the nervous tension was to
exhaust himself. That meant gathering favours with the
other officers, getting stuff done, in essence volunteering
for all kinds of work that they couldn't be bothered
to do.
Pulled
shift after shift, working like a madman, he hardly
managed to squeeze in the time to answer any of the
letters. It was difficult to pretend. Yes, darling,
I'm missing you, too. He wondered whether Katya ever
actually meant it when she wrote about it. Their letters
were almost genteel, well-written affairs, with the
tenderness understated - at least if he compared their
letters with the raucous missives other married men
received, or sometimes wrote - but she made sure to
include allusions to her 'cold bed' and 'missing him'
in every one of them. Just to ensure that whoever read
them thought their married life included sex. Katya,
in her strange ways, did her duty, but he missed her
like a sister, while every other thought focused on
Dan. Dan, beaten up, Dan looking up from a steaming
mug of tea, flashing a grin, Dan, naked, glancing over
his shoulder, checking on him.
Work
did help. He dreaded the moment when anybody would mention
they'd found a western mercenary, or see Dan's kit show
up on the barrack's black market. Dreaded Dan had been
found and interrogated, and used as barter against the
Brits. A scandal: British soldier in a war that was
the Soviet Union's internal affair. Of course they were
involved, but the Soviets were still keen to be able
to prove it - to play the game of finger-pointing and
political blackmail, use Dan to make a point in diplomatic
circles. But they'd need a confession and needed to
verify whatever Dan would give them.
And
Vadim just couldn't stand the thought of Dan beaten
up, chained to a chair and interrogated. He'd have to
commit suicide if it ever came to light - he wouldn't
survive either way, Vadim knew that much, and he was
determined to not give them that much power. Suicide
was the only act of treason that they'd ever be able
to prove. Removing himself from the army of faceless
henchmen his one act of defiance. If it could have worked
out with Richard. But he was no fool. No true option.
No real choice. The puppet could only sever the strings
and refuse to walk, not walk of its own free will.
His
thoughts remained dark, and he showed his brooding and
reserved face for weeks, which turned into months. Paperwork.
Exercises. Inspections. Working out. Last few thoughts,
alone in bed, of Dan's smell and Dan beneath him, and
how Dan sounded when he came. Sometimes he lacked the
energy to jerk off, just remembered, pulling those thoughts
up like a different kind of blanket.
Kept
up the habit of checking the tea house. One day, two
months later, Dan was there. Vadim fought hard to keep
his face a mask of disinterest, and was pretty sure
he fooled nobody - he wondered what the tea house owner
thought of them, why they met and why they left after
a few brief words. It was clearly not about the conversation.
*
* *
Watching.
Waiting. The shade comfortable, and yet the age old
game of patience was starting to turn stale, when Dan
looked up, stilled. Slow smile spreading across his
partly hidden face as he made a negligent gesture towards
the cushions in front of him.
Shit,
the eyes smiled, no, the whole man smiled at him. See
Dan alive and smiling. Vadim felt an odd tightness in
his chest that didn't belong there, similar to the worry
and fear, the concern. Vadim nodded a greeting and grinned
back, approaching like to a friend. Wanted to take both
his hands and shake them, press the other into a hug,
kiss his cheeks, the whole thing, and held back. They
weren't friends, but he was so glad to see Dan alive.
"Long
time no see, Russkie." Dan said in Russian, while
one of the waiters was approaching. Whatever the tea
house owner thought, he was getting a good deal out
of all of this.
"Oh
yes." Vadim sat down, glanced at the waiter and
leaned forward, studying Dan. "You look",
good, "rested."
"Aye,"
Dan grinned even wider, part of his lips shaded by the
rag, "they told me to 'relax'. Not an easy feat
without the proper means to 'relax'." Suggestive,
flashed his teeth, nodded at the waiter to bring more
tea and baklava.
Vadim
inhaled, then grinned. Why did everything Dan said go
straight to his cock? "So. How did you … fare?"
"They
shipped me off straight away, couldn't leave a message."
For two months he'd felt guilty. "Got the whole
hog: hospital, observation, then family. Home cooked
food, exercise, sleep." Tilting his head in the
way peculiar to him, looking Vadim up and down, "in
short, bored to fucking death."
"But
at least it was proper food." Vadim shrugged, and
leaned back, trying to find the calm place, the relaxed
place, get out of this need, this craving, this wanting,
this missing thing. Pondered saying something that was
cool and banter, better than: fuck, I missed you, better
than: I knew you couldn't be dead, something that wasn't
anything that jeopardized his face. "Hope you're
healed alright?"
Dan
nodded. "Fully healed. De-wormed, de-loused, de-nitted."
He smirked, "must have had more poison inside and
out than the average grunt during a gas attack."
Vadim
gave a dry laugh and shook his head.
The
waiter brought the tea and a fresh plate, setting it
down at a nod from Dan, who took one of the glasses,
handed it to Vadim without thinking. "Got poked
and prodded, fingers down my neck, up my arse, needles
stuck in my flesh, blood sucked out, and x-rayed to
hell and back. In short, I'm fit as a fiddle."
"Good."
Vadim took the tea glass and kept his eyes on the Brit.
Didn't want to look away - had long since stopped watching
his hands for a suspicious motion towards weapons. Looked
at him glad he was there, that he was alive, and looked
as healthy and rested as he did - underneath the native
rags. "I … just worked. Usual things. Nothing
… exciting."
Leaning
forward, Dan slipped a piece of baklava between his
lips, chewing the honey sweet concoction of greasy pastry
and nuts with obvious delight. "No more genocide
for the last two months, I reckon." Odd how such
a word could be used in light-hearted banter, but he
was reckless enough.
Vadim
shook his head. "Nothing what's not already going
on." Drive the Pashtuns from their villages, hundreds
and thousands of refugees. If one ethnic group refused
to yield or cooperate, get rid of it. Even if they were
the majority in this country. Just as insane a plan
as anything Stalin had cooked up.
"Which
brings me to something else." Dan was pondering,
watching intently, before relaxing once more, leaning
back and taking the fresh tea for a sip of the hot,
strong liquid. "I've been thinking." He pushed
a corner of the rag away that had been partly obscuring
his lips. Lips that were curving into a minuscule grin.
"I want to know if you can do anything other than
what you did." Leaning forward once more, close
enough to talk quietly, in Russian, Vadim leaning forward
as well.
"What
I did?"
"I
want to know if you can do anything but rape men,"
Dan's hand slashing the air diagonally, "stroke,
me." Dark eyes betraying an odd glint, intense
on the other's pale ones, which darkened as the Russkie
frowned. "So, can you? Can you fuck men without
going into raping mode? Or, should I rather ask, can
you fuck me without raping?"
Dan
leaned back again, casual, slouched on his cushions,
against the wall. Watching Vadim with undisguised curiosity
tinged with cynical amusement.
Can
I? Vadim tightened his lips, felt strangely challenged
and accused, in broad daylight. Platon. Hardly any force.
No, no true force. Platon hadn't had much of a choice,
but rape? Rape was the wrong word. Coercion? Dan had
triggered it, deliberately … well, as deliberate
as a wounded, shell-shocked man could be … he'd
tried to go slowly, gently, fuck, had tried hard to
make Dan enjoy it. "I … am not sure."
"That's
why I want you to do it again. Because after last time
I'm inclined to go back on my word, but I want to know.
Get me?"
Vadim
was numb with surprise, but nodded. Dreaded another
loss of control, and wanted nothing more. Felt strange
whenever he thought of last time, like he'd taken advantage
of a wounded man, which was partially true, betrayed
trust. Not guilt, just uneasiness. Had decided to keep
that thing, fucking Dan, shackled in the back of his
mind, a fantasy, and nothing else. "What if it
goes wrong again?"
Crossing
his arms, Dan pulled his legs up, knees bent under the
robe, resting. "Well, if I figure you can't do
it," didn't repeat the word, not from the distance,
"then it's back to square one and trust me, Russkie,
I will kill you …" lowered his voice,
barely audible, designed for the other to just about
make it out, "if you tried again after that."
Didn't mention fingers, though.
A
challenge and a threat. Reluctance to accept either.
Could he? Could he control himself enough? Control that
dark flood, the rising waters? Impossible odds. Wanted
Dan, needed Dan, even wanted him wounded, hurting, struggling
to throw him off, but also wanted him wanting. The paradox
could only be explained by accepting that he wanted
Dan in whatever state, whatever way, whatever opportunity.
"Do you have a room?"
Dan
nodded, smiled with the self-confidence of someone who'd
known how the odds were going to be. "Of course."
Pushed another piece of baklava between his lips, talking
while chewing. "How long do you have?" Added,
before washing the honeyed pastry down with the rest
of the tea. "Been a while." As if that explained
anything, and yet it did. All of it.
Vadim
felt lust rise to the surface, moving with all the purpose
of a glacier. "To curfew." Six hours. He just
couldn't resist the offer, would never be able to. Back
to their games. Stakes rising. It had got so much more
complicated since the beginning. Too many thoughts,
dangers of a different kind these days.
Dan
nodded. "Remember the hotel? Got a similar one,
close by, top floor. Two streets parallel and to the
East. Doesn't have a sign on the door." Chewed
on another pastry, could never get enough, even with
the slow-burning lust beginning to rise.
"I
do." Vadim remembered his tea and took a sip. Didn't
feel hungry, his stomach a knot of tension.
Dan
licked his fingers, glanced carefully to the sides before
nodding at the other. "I meet you at the old hotel,
aye? Will guide you to the new place. Safe house. Safer
than you'd think you could be in the centre of Kabul.
No one asks questions, no one cares."
"I'll
be there, waiting." Shit, that had come out wrong.
Vadim stood again, thought he should move before too
many people saw what sitting near that man did to his
body. He'd have enough time to calm down. "Finish
your food." He grinned, made it sound generous,
mocking, when all he wanted was to rip the clothes off
Dan's body right there and then.
"Cheers,
Russkie, I'll hurry." The grin that was growing
on Dan's face left no question as to what he thought
about the generosity.
Steadily
working his way through the sweets, Dan watched Vadim
leave, tried to take his time but failed miserably.
Couldn't help but eat faster and faster. Baklava still
in his mouth, chewing, he left money on the plate, as
usual paying at least twice as much to keep the owner's
discretion going, and went on his way.
True
to Vadim's word, Dan saw the tall and broad figure standing
close to their erstwhile hotel. He turned around a corner
with a barely perceptible nod, expecting the other to
follow. No more than five minutes, and they entered
a dark alley. The door to the building no different
to all the nondescript others they had been in before,
but this one higher than any other. Not two stories,
not even three, but four stories built out of something
more substantial than mud and shit.
Vadim
debated with himself all the way, knew that was dangerous,
he couldn't be very alert and thinking about how to
keep in control, what would happen if he failed, and
what Dan would smell and taste like. Relieved and nervous
when they'd reached the place, heading upstairs in Dan's
wake. Couldn't help the thoughts, and wondering why
the recklessness. Why did Dan want that? Was it some
kind of game? But what a strange stake, there. Allow
him that to prove a point. What was the reason? The
gain? He doubted Dan had taken much pleasure the last
time. And before that, no. Then why?
Pulling
out a rusty key, Dan unlocked the door, pushed it open.
Similar room to the one before, but the bed was bigger.
Grimy, tattered, dirty, with a ceiling fan that was
lazily making its rounds, chopping the air to give a
semblance of a breeze on that still-hot autumn day.
"Here we go." Dan stepped inside and out of
the way, making space. Waiting until they were both
in the room, then locked the door and pushed a nearby
chair in front of it. At least it would make a noise
to warn them.
Vadim
smirked. Exactly what he would have done.
"Water
seems to work as well. Luxury, eh?"
"Yes,
Soviet engineers have repaired some damage. I read report."
To keep the population happy. To show it wasn't all
bad. To curry favours, as usual.
Sitting
down on the bed, Dan started to unwind the rag from
his head, and shook his hair. Still as long as it had
been, but cut into shape, and in better condition than
ever. No vermin, no grease, dark and thick, it looked
well cared for, and Vadim was curious what it would
feel like. Smell like.
Vadim
realised he was too dressed and pulled the rag free,
rubbed the burn scar under his throat with an odd feeling
of reluctance. Wanted Dan, wanted to win time with washing,
nervous almost about getting naked. And enter that strange
competition, take the challenge. Opened the vest, belt,
pulled off the shirt, placed them near the bed.
"Do
you know that British saying 'curiosity killed the cat'"?
Dan flashed a grin at Vadim.
"Yes."
Vadim paused. Cat. Tiger. Who was calling the shots?
Was Darren right? Dan had set down the rules, despite
him being the one who would get fucked. Then why had
he never put down any rules when he was getting fucked?
Just allowed himself to be washed away? No control,
certainly not over Dan when he fucked him. "Won't
be that bad." I promise. I won't hurt you this
time. "What was it again? Three time's charm?"
Dan's
eyebrows had raised, won't be that bad, he couldn't
recall everything since he'd woken from being wounded
and shell-shocked, but he sure as hell remembered that
promise. Hadn't forgotten either how he had not been
able to bear the care, the lack of speed. How he had
remembered, and couldn't abide remembering.
"Charm?"
He suddenly laughed, leaned over, let himself fall onto
the side to reach over to the floor, right beneath the
bed. "You're one charming bastard."
"First
one ever to call me that. Even in joke." Vadim
gave a smirk. True. Charm was one of the things he was
decidedly lacking. Not quite what he'd been getting
at, but in no mood to argue the point.
Still
fully clothed, Dan pushed himself back up and dragged
his bergan from under the bed. Pulled it close, opened
the flap and undid the cords that were keeping it shut.
Pulling out a plastic carrier bag, strange sight in
the dusty and dim surroundings, he dropped the full
bag in front of Vadim. The colourful writing across
the white announced the supermarket brand, its gaudiness
obscene in this place.
"Here."
Pushed the bag closer to the other. "I depleted
your stocks. Fair's fair." Added with a grin, "you
won't even lie if you claim it's from a turkey."
Vadim
reached for it, reluctantly, didn't like presents, made
him feel strange, especially now, knew that was stupid,
they'd given each other more than this kind of stuff.
Food, water, care. Sex. Of course, sex above all else.
He
sat down to check the contents. A glass bottle of Balvenie
'single malt' whisky, half a litre, a pile of bandages,
good stuff, looked sterile and new and clean, Dima would
love those, packs of pills, seemed to be generic antibiotics
and penicillin, then sprays and creams that were antiseptic,
another small pile of plasters. Vadim took the bottle
of whisky and put it down on the floor, right next to
the bed, then checked the rest. A bumper pack of peanut
butter energy bars. He gave a dry laugh at that, and
shook his head at Dan. "I'll never get to eat different
flavour from this, eh?"
"Nope,"
Dan grinned, "that's because you're such a weird-ass
who likes that creepy flavour."
Two
tins of chocolate, 'Assam' black tea, and dextrose tablets.
Vadim went carefully through this small fortune in barter
and survival, then returned everything to the bag. Thinking,
over and over, how valuable the gifts were, and that
they were gifts and that they, in turn, showed much
more care than he'd anticipated. Felt too self-conscious
again to say much, too aware what it meant, and struggled
with the words. "Very … useful."
"Aye,"
Dan nodded, lifted his arse off the bed while pulling
on the long native gown, "figured it was only fair.
You're not particularly flush on useful stuff."
Struggled out of the garment, caught halfway while pulling
it over his head. "Besides, you bought me food
and left me dollars, when I got caught out with nothing.
Surviving would have been real shit without your help."
Still trapped, all that was seen of Dan were olive green
clad legs in faded BDUs, bare feet, and glimpses of
a t-shirt, its cotton worn thin.
Vadim
barely resisted touching him now, or kissing him, or
both, put the bag down on the floor. "Yes, only
fair." He shook his head. "Fair play, eh?
Very British thing, that's what my teachers said."
He bent down to untie his laces and pull off his boots,
distracted by the sight.
"Guess
it is damn British." Dan grinned when he finally
wiggled out of the garment, the t-shirt coming off at
the same time, discarded both on the floor beside the
bed and reclining in just the trousers. Chest bare,
slightly filled up, yet despite the muscles and strength
his body always remained on the lean side, increasingly
with every year. Hand on the fly, looking up and watching
the other. He stalled suddenly, gaze intense.
"As
I said, Russkie, I had time to think." Popping
a couple of buttons on his fly, the shadow of dark curls
visible, "why the fuck are you so desperate to
fuck me? It's good stuff, when I fuck you, but with
you … it's somehow different. It's more than that.
It's something that eats you up."
Vadim's
eyes were on the buttons. On what was being bared, slowly,
not fast enough, tantalizing. Cock, hair, the skin contrasting
the BDUs, the hair. He found it hard to look up and
meet the gaze, because the hand there transfixed him.
"What … do you mean?" Hunger. Wanting.
"I
mean that fixation of yours. You got me, overcame me,
raped me." Dan shrugged as if it meant nothing.
"That's past." Was it? Didn't matter. "That's
four years ago. I still don't understand, though, what's
going on in your head when it comes to fucking my arse."
Lifted his hips off the bed, pushed the trousers down.
Almost baring his cock, half-hidden beneath fabric.
"You're fixated. Why. Why is fucking me such a
big deal for you. Fucking me with your cock,
that is."
Vadim
stared at Dan's body, aroused just from looking, from
it being there, and being so fucking strong. Why. He'd
never thought it was strange or wrong or any kind of
exaggerated. He took the BDUs with a hand and pulled
them down the rest and off Dan's feet. "Nothing
else … no, wrong. Because I want to have you, completely.
Your strength. Your … pain. Every motion of your
body. Everything."
"What?"
Dan shook his head as if he hadn't heard correctly,
too taken aback at the answer and what it could possibly
mean.
Vadim
swallowed dryly. "Would you not fuck me if …
I didn't like it?"
"No."
Dan looked up, eyes widened. Surprised at his own answer.
Had he been too indoctrinated by shagging girls for
the first thirty-one years of his life? "Don't
think I would." Shrugged, frowned, "at least
not like that. Would try to fix it. Make you like it.
Can't bloody expect to continue fucking around with
the same person if I keep doing shit that this person
doesn't like, right? That's bollocks. Nobody would be
that fucking stupid."
Naked.
Without a shred of self consciousness. Dan lay back,
one hand across his taut stomach. Pulled the grubby
pillow under his head. "And what the hell does
that mean, having me completely. Sounds like a cannibal.
Complete, what? My body? Me?"
"Yes."
Vadim answered. Didn't make sense. Both answers were
good. As if there was a difference between the man and
the body. He knew only too well that having the body
meant having it all. There was nothing besides. A body
could be forced … coerced … and tricked into
yielding any response. All it took was control over
the flesh. The mind was nothing but chemical and neuronal
responses to outside stimuli. "All. All there is."
Dan
was shaking his head again, slowly this time. "When
you have me, what then? And why? And what is it that
you have when you have me? What difference does a cock
in my arse make to a fist? To tongue and fingers inside
my body and your cock down my throat?"
"It's
stronger." I can feel you break. I can feel you
yield. Not just one muscle, but your whole body. Your
mind. And I can lose myself. Fuck. That was what Darren
had said. He didn't actually want control. Did he? "Pure
poison, not adulterated stuff. Having you is like …
owning you." Shit. Too much truth there.
"Owning
me?" Frowning, Dan's face darkened, then let one
leg, bent, fall to the side, opening. Open. "Why
the fuck do you want to own me?"
You're
lying there like that and still ask, thought Vadim,
staring at the body. Shit. Groin, ass, legs. The scar
from the wound still fresh, but well healed. Owning.
One of his favourite fantasies. Dan as his prisoner.
Completely at his mercy. His to fuck, his to punish,
his to touch and kiss and do whatever he pleased. Still
strong, nothing like Gavriil. Resisting him at every
turn. Strong and clever enough to turn the tables, take
him instead, just as uncompromising and brutal as he
had been treated. Shit. That struck deep. Somehow, that
was just as good. Slave material. No. No fucking way.
He couldn't even think that without being disgusted
and appalled, and worse - aroused. Fuck. Dan, of all
people, prodded his mind into regions that he didn't
want to explore. Not like this. Not now. Not when his
face could give too much away. He shook his head. Needed
focus to remember. Owning. Why.
"So
I can keep you", Vadim murmured. "So it doesn't
end."
"It
won't." Dan answered, firmly. "Why should
it." Letting his eyes move slowly down the other's
body, back up once more. "Not as long as there
is Afghanistan, the war, and our bodies aren't rotting
anywhere yet."
"Two
of those aren't going to last forever." Vadim smirked.
Dan
shrugged, gestured onto the bed, "right now, we
seem to be pretty alive and there's Vaseline in my bergan."
Vadim
nodded, glad to be able to push the thoughts away, concentrate
on the sex. On something he did want, was ready for.
More than ready. And still strangely reluctant. Too
aware of the cost, the stakes. Too aware of knife and
pistol, but those were part of what they did. Blowjob
at knifepoint. Rape with a pistol to the back of the
neck. Cutting his back open in revenge. He leaned over
to pull the bergan closer and opened it, digging around
to find the tub, then placed it on the bed and stood
again to pull down his BDUs, removing the rest of his
uniform. Apart from the watch. The usual.
Stood
there for a moment, in the reddening light of the afternoon,
what little found its way through the shutters, tensed
his body, looked down at Dan, who was watching him intently.
Pretend, maybe, that there was more to it. What if?
Did he have any words for the thing they shared? He
couldn't define it, measure it. Only knew he didn't
want it to end. Climax set them free, it meant Dan could
leave, and that he himself could leave, of course, part
ways like tigers after the mating. No other way. Not
meant to be.
Dan
said nothing, waited, let his leg slide down, both parallel,
still open. Vadim climbed onto the bed, on hands and
knees above Dan, dipped down to take Dan's cock between
his lips, while his hand reached for the Vaseline, opened
the tub while awakening Dan's interest.
"Damn."
Dan murmured, jerked. First touch, sensation, of lips
on sensitive skin, tightness and wet heat, right there,
where the other reduced him to nonsensical sounds within
seconds. "Two months … fucking long."
Lifting his hips towards that mouth, the reaction immediate,
he was fully hard within a few heartbeats. "No
whores." Lifted his head, stared down at the sight.
He could never get enough of watching how his cock vanished
between those lips, sucked in, cheeks hollowed, jaw
muscles working, strong, moving, neck and fist.
Vadim
glanced at him with a touch of irony. Whores. Couldn't
imagine Dan with women, didn't want to. Pondered to
make him come as his fingers dipped into the tub to
gather some of the thick grease and warm it in his palm.
But while that would relax Dan, the aim was to get him
ready to get fucked. The sole purpose. His hand moved
between Dan's legs, shoulders low and brushing Dan's
thighs, while he worked on Dan's cock, liking the tension
that built, and the warmth, the silky feeling. Allowed
the cock to slip almost out, then sucked it back in,
harsh, with strength, and breached the muscle with two
slick fingers, causing Dan to hiss out, "Shit!"
hips lifting on their own, towards the throat, and without
meaning to, further down onto the fingers.
Giving
Dan a wink as Vadim pulled back again, kept his lips
tight, pulled away from the neck, resisting it as the
cock slipped out. "Been two months for me, too.
Not very patient."
"No."
Breathless, Dan lifted his head even higher, neck muscles
tense and abs creating a hardened pattern. "Neither
am I. So, get fucking." His shoulders moved, intent
to turn around, wouldn't do this on his back.
Vadim
pulled back to allow Dan to turn, preferring that position
as well. Greased hand slowly pumped his own cock, going
slow enough to keep the lust simmering, forced himself
to hold back, just for a few moments longer. On his
stomach or on his knees, he'd have Dan. With the distinct
possibility to ruin and break it, waste the other's
… generosity. Or game.
Turning,
lying on his front, all fours and doggie style was what
Vadim did, but not Dan. Not ever. Arms bent, face resting
on his hands, no, fists. Already clenched. Dan wondered
for a moment why the hell he'd planned this? Remembered.
That logic, had all made sense back in Scotland, sitting
on top of Ben Nevis and staring into the distance. Wasn't
so sure about the logic right now. Said nothing, just
spread his legs. That 'fucking' thing was strange. Penetration?
Why the hell would anyone want to have anything shoved
up their arse, but … fuck. He remembered another
life, each and every of his usually drunk attempts to
get his birds to take it up the shitter. Had been obsessed
with their sphincters, breaching, taking, tight and
virginal, and owning and wanting and … possessing.
Vadim
ran fingers from between Dan's shoulder blades, tracing
the spine under the muscles, down towards his ass. Rounded,
powerful, some dark hair, exactly what he hadn't seen
the first time. If it became anything like the first
time, it was the last time. Just don't fucking ruin
it. He glanced to where the knife was, on the ground.
There would most likely be no knife involved. They were
beyond that kind of security. Shit, and why was he feeling
nervous about it. He lay down on top of Dan, kissed
the back, rubbed his forehead against the tense muscles,
while working more grease into the other, listening
for any signs of panic or discomfort. Again.
Dan
tensed even more. That kissing ... was strange. Faint
recollection of what he had tried to do with his girls.
Soothing, talking, to get what he wanted. Dan murmured,
"If you start telling me I'm beautiful, I'm the
one, and I'm special and you'll leave your phone number
and you'll want to see me again, I'll fucking kill you
after all." The gallows humour eased Dan's tension.
"No.
None of that." Vadim slowly moved, to spread the
cheeks further apart and press in. Slowly. Shit. Too
slow for his taste, too slow for what he really needed.
Could feel sweat on his temples, as he inched inside,
every muscle in his body coiled to control the hunger.
Dan
didn't like it. That 'thing' was an invasion that didn't
- couldn't feel good. Filled, spread, strange sensation
of needing a dump but he pushed back. Stopped. Stilled.
Waited, then tensed. Had been easier for a moment, but
fuck, he was far too sober. No booze, nothing. Just
a grimy bed in a shitty hotel cum secret brothel in
fucked-up Kabul. Fists clenched, but heck, he'd had
worse, and he'd given his word, would feels this, test
it, whatever, not sure why and didn't matter just that
thing and the man, the weight and heat, and a
desperately controlled tension emanating from the body
on top. Inside.
He
was rapidly getting soft, but fuck, he'd do it. Would
stay true to his word. And he'd come with a whole fist
up his goddamned arse?
"But
I need you", murmured Vadim, not knowing where
that came from. Maybe from the tension and revulsion
he could feel in the other. The fight. But there was
nothing to fight against. No anger, no rape, no nothing.
Just that kind of uneasy, barely controlled lust. "Always
fucking need you", Vadim breathed, pushing further
in, could feel no softness, no yielding, saw the fists
on the mattress.
"I
know." And Dan did. Four years of pain, hatred,
lust, mercy, greed, and decency. Fuck, he'd even been
walking through the aisle of a fucking supermarket in
fucking Britain while thinking of the bastard, fucking
shopping for him and yet … couldn't. Didn't
want that cock inside his arse.
No.
Dan wouldn't yield. Didn't want this. Was about to just
suffer through it, nothing but an exercise in willpower
and endurance. Vadim would have preferred real torture.
At least, no mixed signals there. Not a man that lay
spread out under him like the most stoic victim he'd
ever had.
Dan
buried his face in the grubby blanket, right between
his fists, pushed his hips up, moving his arse towards
that cock. Fuck, if he was going to do this, he'd get
it done and over with in a proper way. Wasn't a simpering
bimbo who laid back and thought of England, he was special
forces, and if he got his arse fucked, he'd do it SAS
style. Discomfort, dislike or not. Breathing out, he
pushed again, this time harder. He wouldn't just take
that cock like a passive victim, he'd do something with
it at least.
'Never
give up, never surrender' took on an entirely new meaning.
Vadim
bit back a groan when Dan suddenly moved, moved as if
demanding. Stopping was no option anymore, the strange
queasiness left him as he concentrated on the feeling.
Dan almost fucking himself against his cock, maybe tried
to speed it up, but without asking for it, just did.
Strength, and power, and Dan giving him a rhythm, which
forced groans out. All he did was fall into the rhythm,
move against Dan's motions, slowly, but with a measure
of force, began to sweat, felt the pressure build, wanting.
Shifted his weight back to allow Dan more freedom to
move, to go slowly, controlled. Thought for those moments,
maybe that Dan liked it, wanted him, and he bit into
the other's shoulders, murmuring nonsense in Russian,
knead the tense shoulder, kiss and bite the neck, feeling
the heat rise, his body gleaming with sweat.
"Ah,
shit." Dan's voice muffled from the bedclothes.
That bite, right there, fuck, that was … different.
Lifted his head, twisted his neck back to glance into
the other's face, lips. Wanted teeth, again. There.
Something
changed, shifted. Not a mountain of epiphanies, no sudden
switch to see stars, not even a re-found lust that had
been hiding somewhere, but the sensations had changed.
The feeling, stretched, filled, the discomfort was gone.
As if his arse had just accepted that cock, just like
that, suddenly. Another bite, his Russkie seemed to
get the message and Dan hissed, drew air into his lungs
between his teeth. Good, more.
"Shit,
shit, shit." Dan caught his breath, forgot to notice
the cock, just the teeth and hands, body heat and weight
and the strength that was behind every movement - matching
his own. Arching his back, head far in his neck, he
hadn't noticed he'd pushed himself up on his fists.
Muscles coiling-rolling between shoulder blades down
his back. Tensing. Clenching. Taking that cock in stride,
just another one in his arsenal of weapons.
Vadim
groaned into the muscle he kept between his teeth, lips
pulled back while biting on the flesh, Dan's sounds
and motions better now, responsive, how Dan lifted from
the bed as if to get closer, greet him right there,
in all the places that mattered, and the bared throat
especially. His hand came up to touch the throat, to
pull him back further, feel the ragged breath, the pounding
pulse, bit into the side of his neck and elicited a
growl, while his body just kept on going. Concentrating
on Dan more than any need to come, more on biting than
pushing, which was good, great even, free hand moving
around to take hold on Dan's cock.
Friction
suddenly. Dan felt his cock taken, stroked, he was hardening,
not fully hard. Took the bites, though, and relished
the abandon. Shuddered, swallowed, that hand on his
throat pulled his head further back and created pressure.
Pushed into the hand and at same time backwards, arching
between body - groin and hand - force. "More."
Rough voice, demanding. Pressed his throat against the
hand again, pushed himself up, almost slid onto his
knees.
Vadim
tightened the grip on Dan's throat, on instinct, that
was what Dan wanted, moved the fingers up to press into
jugular and against the throat, knew too well where
he could put pressure and where it was too dangerous.
Knew all about killing, about what the body did when
there was a lack of oxygen. "Sick … bastard",
he breathed, groaning with every thrust now, into increased
resistance, Dan's strength that did half the work for
him, could feel Dan was still not quite into it, but
it strangely didn't make much difference - not to what
he felt. Wanting. Needing. Possessing. Getting close.
Dan
didn't answer, just a strangled groan, sounds made no
sense, felt pressure, danger. Body went into fight mode,
attack, defence and kill. His body tensed, moved faster,
harder. Pressure building inside his head and chest.
He felt like climbing those goddamned mountains and
struggling in the thin air. Brutalised himself on the
other's cock, but it wasn't about that 'thing' anymore,
the intrusion hardly noticed. It was simply about being.
Forgetting. Fight and fuck. He was getting hard, not
enough, but damn, that struggle for air made his body
buck and thrash wildly, turning his mind blank.
It
was impossible to keep up, Dan's body struggling, but
the man still working with him, against him. Vadim thrust
harder, and harder still, unleashing the force slowly,
but with no regret, no compassion, knew Dan could take
it now, had taken the decisive step, like in the cave
when he'd been barely himself. With a few more thrusts,
he came, and just about managed to not collapse on top
of Dan, instead stayed inside and pulled him back, up
into kneeling position against him, hand stroking that
bared throat, the other slipping away from his cock,
ran up Dan's stomach, up to his chest while he fought
to regain his breath, panting near his ear.
Dan's
breath just as ragged, eyes open, unseeing, he felt
hands, body, cock, heat, all rolled into one assault
of sensations. Pulled his head back, coughed, moving
his body and throat snake-like back into the hand. Sitting
on his heels until his back touched Vadim's chest, sweat
on sweat, skin touching, still connected. There. In
that point. That … sensation. Pushing Vadim's hand
from his chest back down to his cock. Bodies. Arms,
hands. Heat. Dan's voice rough from the choking. "Jerk
me off."
"Aye",
murmured Vadim, grinning, grinning like a fool, Dan
demanding in this situation was just too precious. His
right hand slipped down again, remembering how Dan liked
to touch himself from so long ago when he'd seen his
technique up close and personal. Took hold of his cock,
felt it twitch when he bit into the neck again. Interesting.
Left hand was still against Dan's throat, to keep Dan
under control, keep him upright, just perfect, their
bodies close and tight, hot, sweating, and one. Nothing
could be better.
Harsh
breathing, lips parted, Dan's eyes almost closed. A
hissed breath caught in his throat at another bite,
expelled, then drawn back into his lungs. He shuddered,
felt more passive than only a few moments ago. Held
between body and hands, and fuck, he couldn't move away,
even if he had any brain left to try. Chained to the
spot, with nothing but skin, teeth, touch.
Vadim
was stroking him, with strength, but still slow, enjoying
Dan like this too much, at the same time placing small
bites on shoulder muscles and throat, especially the
side with the jugular, tight and smooth and powerful,
Dan's hair brushing his face. "Now … right
now you're mine."
Words
didn't make much sense, all Dan could hear was mine
and you and fuck and lust and want
and mine again. Body, mine. Yours. Whatever.
Lust, ours, each. Growing, increasing. Covered in a
sheen of sweat, heat between their body culminating
in that one connection. Burning, intense, no longer
a softening cock that had filled his arse, but an extension
of the man whose hands and mouth were making him whimper
like a pathetic, helpless creature.
If
I could only touch that sound, that low, needy sound,
thought Vadim, and stroked Dan's throat, wanted to feel
as much of him as possible, felt that throat move and
vibrate under his hand, especially as he gripped him
harder there, moving up to the jaw bone, feeling the
adam's apple jump under his palm when Dan swallowed.
Wanted to keep him like that, put something around his
throat, something like chains or rope, and going faster,
stronger, pushing him on, feeling generous as he did,
and couldn't wait to feel Dan come.
Took
longer than it should, not as fast and desperate as
expected with two months of nothing but Dan's own hand,
but the orchestra of sensations proved an over-stimulation.
The hand, more force. Closing around his throat once
more, the other stroked harder, faster. Pressure building,
and the intensity made him groan between the whimpers
and sounds of need. Unseeing, unknowing, nothing but
body, no mind. Seeking both hands, body struggling-fighting
backwards, against the unwavering chest, and he cried
out, spasming, thrashing, coming. Noticing nothing more
than that hand closing around his throat, choking him
fiercely, for just one moment, that very moment of orgasm.
Vadim
reluctantly released Dan's throat, remembering to leave
no traces, no marks beyond a slight reddening. Professional
courtesy, if nothing else. That thought made him smile.
Hand was safer than a garrotte. He licked a drop of
sweat from his skin that was running down from his temple
as he kept Dan close against him, and wiped his hand
against his thigh, then ran the fingers down Dan's flank.
Not daring to speak, not daring to let him go. Not just
yet.
Coughing,
drawing in breath, Dan collapsed, resting against the
other. His eyes were closed, unheard of. Too dangerous
to let go and blind himself, but not now. Trusting the
Russkie with his body, his life. Kneeling. Returning.
His slow-moving mind, sluggishly dragging itself back
up to the waking surface.
"Guess
I won't have to kill you, after all." Voice raspy,
dry, Dan felt he could do with water or something stronger.
Vadim
gave a toneless laugh. "Damn, and I thought you
keep me alive because I'm so tight." He wanted
to hold him like that, but as the seconds and moments
stretched, the position became too close, too awkward,
too much demanding words and explanations and acceptance
that he had no idea how to provide. It opened up a whole
new can of worms, and Vadim decided that 'snuggling
like poofs' was done and they should move on to resting
up. He pulled back and Dan let himself fall forward,
sprawled spread-eagled on the grimy bed.
Vadim
stepped off the bed to straighten out his legs, and
bent down to pick up the bottle of whisky, opened it
and took a swallow. Not bad. He offered it to Dan.
Turning
his head, glancing up one-eyed then frowning, Dan mumbled,
"You should be shot for drinking Balvenie out of
a bottle. That's one of the best fucking whiskies, you
peasant!" Slowly turning over onto his back, despite
his words holding his hand out for the bottle. He was
sticky, but the damp was cooling his skin.
"Peasant?"
Vadim pulled the bottle away again. "You said you
were born farmer. I'm from Moscow. No peasant."
"Oh
fuck off, Russkie," Dan grumped, too mellow to
argue, his hand flopping back down on the bed beside
him. "Anyone who doesn't worship a good Scottish
whisky the way it should be worshipped is a fucking
peasant in any true Scotsman's books." Baring his
teeth in a lazy flash of half-grin, he thumped his hand
on the blankets. "Now be a good Muscovite and give
me the bottle."
"Might
be that Scottish whisky is not exactly staple in Red
Army shops." Dan rolled his eyes while Vadim sat
down on the bed and handed the bottle over, just now
realizing that Dan was about to break his own rule.
"So, you're drinking from bottle yourself."
"Aye,"
Taking the bottle, Dan raised his brows the same time
he raised his head from the bed. Mighty effort. "That's
because I'm a fucking peasant. You said so yourself."
Smirking, set the bottle to his lips and took a generous
mouthful. Keeping the whisky inside his mouth for a
while, his head dropped back, bottle in his hand floating
in mid air and his eyes closing with an expression of
bliss. Swallowing bit for bit, slowly. Relishing every
moment. Dan let out a deep sigh. "Not quite as
good as an orgasm, but getting there."
Vadim
grinned and shook his head, relaxing as well, but facing
the door, wondering if they had been loud, if anybody
had noticed. If anybody cared. "Getting there?
You are strange man, Dan."
"The
whisky, Russkie. The whisky's getting there." Opening
one eye, Dan peered at the other, handing the bottle
back. "This is a twelve year old single malt whisky,
Doublewood. Means it's matured in two casks." He
closed that eye, opened the other. "First one,
traditional whisky oak, second one, sherry oak. Makes
for that rich, mellow flavour with a hint of sweetness
from the sherry oak, and undertones of spice."
The second eye closed as well before both opened and
he grinned. "Mark my words, Russkie, if you ever
taste a fifteen year old, you hear the heavenly chorus
singing, but if you'd be so lucky to get your hand on
the twenty-one year old? Your taste buds will explode
in hints of vanilla, cherry and the whole fucking force
of Scotland's finest. And that, my very own cunt, that's
as good as an orgasm."
Vadim
gave a laugh. "There. And I thought you had not
line of poetry in your body." He took the bottle
and smelled the whisky, trying to smell anything of
that stuff that Dan had described. Maybe that was all
just imagination. He took a small sip, actively listened
to his tongue and mouth. The heat seemed mellow, rounded
somehow, several different leagues from the rough jagged
spikes of moonshine.
"Ahhhh!"
Dan exclaimed, waving one lazy hand about. "I can
see it in your face that you're getting some of what
I told you. Perhaps I can make you an honorary Scotsman
after all."
And
why should you want that? Vadim didn't want to pursue
that thought, not that he could have been … something
else, a traitor, double agent, spy, and could have earned
enough money to buy this, even the older ones.
Shifting
slightly on the bed, Dan frowned. "Bugger. Fucking
sticky mess. Got to get rid of that." Only way
was to get out of that room, two stairs down and to
that stinking hole that was used as the loo. He grunted.
Vadim
nodded, pulled his legs up on the bed, reached down
for his pistol and placed it on his stomach. Felt the
need to piss, too, but was too lazy right now. Looked
at Dan's throat, but it only seemed reddened, not bruised.
Shit. Strangling. But it made so much sense. As much
sense as the blade, the pistol, the rope. Natural. "Thanks
for trying", he murmured.
"Trying
what?" Dan was in the process of rolling out of
the bed, had one foot on the floor.
"Trying
me. Trying it again. Was as … good as I thought."
Vadim shook his head. Couldn't have said what was better:
Dan fighting him or Dan wanting it, losing himself.
Two different things. Having him, that was it. That
was the connection, the thing that gave everything meaning.
"Next time, your turn."
Dan
shrugged, then nodded. "You fucking bet on it."
He had had to know, and know he did, now. Looking around
for something to half-dress with, the trousers would
just get soiled, he pulled the native long coat close.
Turning his head he flashed a grin before pulling the
'dress' over his head. "Besides, unless you'll
be sent out," His dark-haired head pushed through
the neck opening, shrugging the garment down while standing,
"I'll be here in Kabul for a few months."
Leaned to the side, fished about in his webbing and
the sound of his pistol being uncocked was heard in
the room.
"No
idea. Can't say where I'll be, but I won't try getting
out of Kabul." Vadim leaned his head against the
wall, regarded the other from under heavy eye lids.
"Don't
go anywhere right now." Dan grinned, slipped bare
feet into the sandals, hand and pistol hidden in the
folds of the garment. "There's always round two."
"Already
waiting", murmured Vadim in Russian and smiled.
Round two. He still didn't have any words for it. Not
happiness, not joy, but maybe an odd peace, despite
what they did, because they bled the poison out of their
veins and minds like this. Hanging on to sanity in all
this filth and senselessness.
Dan
flashed another grin before he left, carefully moving
the chair to the side. Not long before he returned,
to have another wash in the trickle that came out of
the basin. Luxury, that room, and the best he could
get that was safe enough and still standing. No way
he could be seen anywhere near a place that had any
semblance of luxury left.
Their
bodies once more drawn together after rest, banter,
and some food Dan had brought. Forever able to raise
lust another time, for the last time could be too soon.
And
then rest, before the hours were over, once again.
|
Special
Forces
