Set in the Cold War, 1970s, slightly AU.
Warnings: language, violence, my political views (some if you squint, some less so), character deaths (mentioned, implied, not explicitly described). I think I have it all?
Don't Look Through The Curtains
East Berlin, December 1965.
It was cold - so cold, that if it were any colder, the American's blood would freeze and he would become an icicle before he managed to do what he was supposed to do. He had to keep the window open, because if he closed it, the dirt on it would alter his visibility. Why his brother had decided to get this place here instead of a better, cleaner one somewhere else was a mystery to him. Though Alfred had suspicions that the orders came from above, from the stern Brit all of them called a 'stick in the mud'. He readjusted the weapon that was positioned onto the window ledge, the barrel trained on the street. There was some snow on the ground, and a bit more was falling right now from the milky grey sky, the clouds enveloping the city in an almost claustrophobic embrace of ice and dry. The buildings across and around his were mostly worn-down, some almost derelict, a window smashed there, a termite-eaten door over here. Some apartments, that some poor family lived in, had candles at the windows or little decorations. Alfred had forgotten it was nearly New Year's. The year had gone so fast, and so far, it had been perfect. The smell of sewage was prominent, even from where Alfred sat at the ready. The cobbled street was littered with debris, flotsam and rubbish, papers flying with abandonment in the delicate but unrelenting wind. A just-dropped cigarette butt still fumed for a moment before even that died away, withering in the cold. The place Alfred was in was cold, abandoned, lonely, perfect for what he wanted and needed. The furniture was broken or unusable or barely standing, the old rug was half-gone, the wallpaper seemed like there had been a poor attempt made to tear it down from the wall, pieces hanging, scattered and just as abandoned as the rest of the place. Alfred hummed a tune, a soft smile pulling at his lips.
You liar! You sick, lying, communist bastard! You played me!
The old telephone on the nearby table began ringing off-key, a horrible drilling sound in the otherwise glacial silence. Alfred scrambled to get a hold of it, and answered it.
"Keep the position, I can see him. He's coming right onto the street. Just keep the aim steady, and aim to kill. I couldn't get a look at his face, it's hidden under one of those fedora hats, grey, but I know it's our guy. We nearly have him, Al, last month was the last time he slipped between our fingers, yeah?"
Alfred, you are just as sick as I am.
Alfred grinned. "Sure thing, bro. How long?"
"Two minutes out."
"I'll call you when I'm done." Alfred placed the phone back, and turned back to the window. He saw a few people on the otherwise deserted street, and waited for another minute before someone else came onto that street.
The man wore a thick wool coat, and a hat covered Alfred's view of his face. He was still too far for Alfred to get a clear shot, so he waited. The man kept walking, striding leisurely up the street, towards where Alfred was, getting closer to Alfred's range, but then he stopped at the corner of a house.
The man stood there, his violet eyes scanning the surroundings in wait for someone he knew would arrive soon. He leant against the wall, having arrived early enough to just have time for a smoke before he had to move on to the next location and collect the information. He had received a clear set of details and orders, and now he was there. He couldn't see the gun poised at the window, or the man behind it, probably a sniper, but he could guess both things were there - the window was open, there had been an almost imperceptible glint when the light hit the weapon just right. And in East Berlin, at this time of year, no person in their right mind kept their window open, to lose the little heat they had in the house. Ivan scoffed at the professional who had forgotten a detail, and had most likely revealed himself. Even if Ivan didn't know he was there, he was better off safe than sorry, as the English said. At the other end of the street, he saw someone turn a corner, immediately recognising the man he'd been told to meet.
Alfred cursed mentally, keeping his concentration steady. Couldn't the man just keep walking for a bit more? Alfred could try to get the shot now, but it would more likely than not fail, and he didn't want to make his position known. Yet. So he waited some more. The man dug into his coat pocket, and took out a pack of cigarettes, taking out one and lighting it. The tip of the cigarette shone a soft orange, contrasting with the dull, bleak and unlit environment it was in. Alfred focused on that cigarette watching as each drawn breath made it shorter, marking the time of Alfred's shot as closer and closer. It was an artificial clock, counting down to the moment of the man's sudden and unexpected but violent and gruesome death. Alfred adjusted himself, keeping the finger ready on the trigger. Any minute now. Someone was walking down towards the man, and they seemed to recognise each other as the newcomer walked past the man leaning against the wall. They greeted, and the man with the cigarette took off his hat in a gesture of passing recognition. They spoke for a moment in hushed tones. He put the hat back on, and finished the cigarette, slowly beginning to walk.
And Alfred? He froze. His finger on the trigger, his back, his legs, his blood, his thoughts, his mind, everything in him froze. The man was in his range now, but he couldn't move a muscle.
That hair, those eyes, those lips - he recognised them all. He had only gotten a glimpse, but a glimpse was enough. He'd know the man anywhere. When he stood alone in an empty room, or stood surrounded in a crowd of hundreds, Alfred would always know where to find him and how to find him. A glimpse was more than he needed, there was no mistaking what he thought he'd seen. They belonged to only one man on this planet. The way his hair fell gently in almost silvery strands, they were personal. The stance, the tall build, it was all one man. That violet hue of the eyes glinting amethyst was unique. And the violet eyes looked up at the surrounding buildings, locking suddenly onto Alfred's steel-grey ones, an icy blue glint flaming in the American's, shock flashing in the Russian's, who could not believe his eyes either. What was he doing there? He was not supposed to be here, he was supposed to be on a trip, or had Ivan miscalculated? Or-? He couldn't believe that Alfred was sitting there, a gun aimed at his heart, and he was standing there, having almost whipped out his pocket gun.
Of course Ivan would just happen to be standing there. And of course Ivan also happened to be the same man that Alfred happened to have fallen in love with years ago.
I will kill you, I swear to God I will.
Of course Ivan just happened to be Alfred F. Jones-Braginsky's husband.
Alfred, we are both dead men walking, are we not?
New York, January 1966
It had been a long, long trip back home. From Berlin to London, to explain himself to a fuming Englishman and a bewildered Canadian, and then with his brother to New York. Matthew had been eyeing him suspiciously.
"He never showed up! He probably took another way, or something, I never saw the guy!"
His explanations were poor, and he knew it, but they were enough to get him off the hook, and get him across the border and back to the States. Back home. Back to his husband, whom he would have a few select words with. On the plane, he had tapped his fingers and sighed and scratched the chair so much that the passenger next to him had had to ask him to tone it down.
The events after the landing were a slight blur, Alfred having been too busy being angry and feeling betrayed and preparing his few select words carefully to care about what was going on around him, which taxi he whistled, how long it took for him to manage to tell the driver his address, how many streets and cars and parks and people and hosues the car passed on its way to Alfred's building, or how long the journey took , how much he overpaid the driver. But what he did know, was that he was now standing in front of the entrance to the building where Alfred's comfortable flat was, and he was absolutely fuming.
On his way up to his apartment, he slammed every single door shut after banging them open, letting every single person in a five-mile-radius know just in what kind of mood he was. Standing in front of his flat's door, he dug out the keys from his pocket and jammed them into the door. He'd had too much over the last week or so, too much shock, explaining, false calmness, lies, and on top of that, there just had to be deaths involved. There always were deaths, always, every single time. But now, it had suddenly, for some god-forsaken reason, become personal. Well, if he made it personal, Alfred would just as well retaliate. And he just had to get it out on someone, and it was even better if that someone was the man who fucking caused it all.
"Braginsky!" Alfred shouted, calling for the other in the seemingly empty apartment. No response came, but Alfred doubted that the apartment was perfectly deserted. He scanned the living room and the kitchen/dining room. The place was perfect, as clean as Alfred had left it. The grey couch was undisturbed, the TV screen was a dull grey, the glass-topped coffee table reflected the sunlight from the clear, shut, floor-to-ceiling windows, the tall lamp was standing proudly next to the television with a smaller lamp on the other side of the screen. The tall bookcase that went around the walls of the room was still full to the brim but arranged neatly and in alphabetical order. The dark wood dining table was polished, clear, the fridge had the necessities Alfred had gotten before his trip, the cabinets were half-full of this and that. He went through the living room into the study, where two desks still were cluttered with books, and it was a wonder the tables did not croak and collapse under the weight of the mountains of documents, files and books that were piled on them. The bookcases were just as overflowing with books, and each of them seemed in the right place. Alfred growled low, knowing there was one more place he could look, and he had an odd feeling in his gut and mind that the person he was looking for would not give him the warmest welcome on the planet. He stood in front of the door to the bedroom, straightened his tie and suit and felt the handle of the gun tucked into his trousers behind his back. He flung the door open, and was met with the sight of an empty room. Where the hell-?
It took Alfred a split-second to realise that the walk-in closet was right behind him, that the door to the closet swiftly slid open, and he was attacked from behind by someone much larger than he himself.
It took Alfred off guard, which he rarely was, and it gave Ivan the perfect opportunity to seize him from behind into a choke-hold as he laced his arm around Alfred's throat, at the same time kicking the back of Alfred's knee to make him collapse. Alfred let out a guttural scream, not about to go down that easy. He struggled against Ivan's iron grip, fighting back with the same vigour as Ivan held him. Suddenly, he managed to place his leg between Ivan's, and kick his balance from under him and throw him to the ground. Ivan let his grip falter only slightly, and so Alfred toppled on top of him, coughing hectically as he gasped desperately for air. Alfred threw a punch at Ivan, who moved his head just out of the way, letting Alfred's fist connect with the floor instead. The string of curses that had Alfred occupied for a moment gave Ivan just enough leverage to shove the American off of him. Alfred stumbled up onto his feet, his eyes burning fiercely.
"You liar!" He shouted, his voice hoarse from the choking. He coughed at the strain to his voice. "You sick, lying, communist bastard! You played me!" He lunged at Ivan, this time his punch landing square on Ivan's face. "A KGB agent - under my fucking nose!" Ivan caught Alfred's arm as he drew it back for another throw, and sent the lighter American flying out of the room. The Russian laughed hollowly as he saw the American groan as the lenses of his glasses shattered and sliced his skin, the frame digging at an uncomfortable angle.
"Alfred, you are just as sick as I am." As Ivan aimed a kick Alfred's way, he dodged and rolled out of Ivan's reach. He felt behind his back for the pistol that had just been there, which Ivan was now flaunting in his face from where he stood. "You have a minute to get out of the house, or I promise, I will blow your brains out." Ivan pointed the gun at Alfred, who debated for a moment a course of action.
"Oh, like you did to Matt? Like you did to Arthur? Hm?" Alfred bit back viciously, attempting to find a vantage point.
"Exactly like them, Alfred. And exactly what you did to Natalya," Ivan snarled his voice rising a tone in loudness. Alfred could see the Russian's nerves being drawn to an edge.
"I did only what she deserved for being a traitor, a communist, a Soviet spy, that's what she was! That's what you are! You're a corrupt, amoral, unprincipled, evil, communist swine!" Alfred listed, firing name after name. "You killed my only father-figure and my only brother in cold blood. Did you even look back? Did you even glance at their bodies? I honestly wouldn't be surprised if you didn't."
Ivan laughed at the names. "Is that all you've got? You really are pathetic. And honestly, if my little sister deserved the treatment you gave her, then I can safely say that everyone in this god-forsaken country deserves the same treatment as you gave her, and as I gave the two meddling, blundering,-!" He was interrupted by a swift kick from Alfred to his gut. He fell in an ungraceful heap to the floor, as Alfred scrambled for the gun Ivan had let slide from his grip. And though Alfred was swift and fast, Ivan was closer, kicking the gun under couch and out of reach. Ivan grabbed a hold of Alfred's ankle, pulling him violently down and pulling himself up at the same time. Alfred dug his nails into Ivan's calf, after that landing a heavy punch on the same leg. As Ivan was tugged down again, Alfred rolled on top of him before Ivan threw him off and rolled them around, only for Alfred to dodge his way out of under Ivan and quickly pinning him down before reaching for the gun again. Ivan stood, gripping the collar of Alfred's ripped and blood-dotted shirt, some his own, some Ivan's. He threw at punch straight on Alfred's jaw, sending him tumbling onto the glass coffee table that smashed and shattered under the weight. Alfred hissed at the feeling of glass digging into the skin of his back, but nevertheless grabbing one of the bigger shards and driving it straight into Ivan's left arm - the one that was closest to him, too bad it wasn't the weapon arm, but the curses Ivan let out were good enough. Alfred then reached for one of the broken legs, aiming to hit Ivan with it. Ivan grabbed the other end of the leg and twisted it out of Alfred's hands.
"You love this don't you?" Alfred asked, a dangerous glint in his eye. "Blood, weapons, fights, this is your arena, isn't it?" Alfred sneered. Ivan grabbed Alfred's hips but threw him onto the couch, and as Alfred went over it, the couch toppled sideways.
"Don't lie, Alfred, this is also right in your playground, too."
Alfred groaned as he lifted himself up from the other side of the couch. Ivan had grabbed the gun when he had the chance, and instead of taking aim he fired it haphazardly - he didn't really have a choice, if he waited, Alfred would just throw himself at him again. Who knew where the gun would land then. The bullet lodged itself deep into Alfred's abdomen, and Alfred screamed from the pain, faltering momentarily, but recovering faster. Ivan had to hand it to Alfred, the man was young and had a lot of strength. Ivan loaded the gun again before lifting it up again, only to have it snapped out of his fingers when his elbow was twisted the wrong way. He let out a guttural growl of pain, the sound sending a grin to Alfred's lips. Alfred kneed him in the gut, before sending a kick to his chest. Blood was gushing out of Alfred's wound, but he'd tend to it later. He wiped the blood from his cheek, before looking down at Ivan, who was still on the ground. Alfred turned to reach for the single weapon in the house, before his legs were grabbed and he almost landed face-first into the debris of glass. He managed to catch himself, though he did let out a pained sound at the dislocation of his elbow. The medical bills for this would be high. Alfred rolled onto his side, before attempting to lift himself up as Ivan passed him. Alfred jumped on him, sending them both to the ground. Alfred clipped Ivan's nose again, a he heard the definite "crack" of broken bone or cartilage. He sent a punch flying again, this time at Ivan's eye. The next one was not as successful, as it was once again caught - this time, Ivan twisted viciously, and Alfred snarled at him, twisting his wrist back to himself and moving off the Russian agent. He had barely a moment's respite before he was smashed head-first against a wall.
"Do you ever tire, or are you a fucking American, brainwashed, violence machine?" Ivan hissed into his ear as he grabbed Alfred's arm and twisted it deep between his shoulderblades, pinning him against the wall.
"I'll take that... as a goddamned compliment!" Alfred hurled at him, the ring on his left hand feeling more and more constricting. He kicked behind him, missing the first time but landing another one on the leg he had already injured enough. When Ivan backed away, Alfred sent him flying back to where the couch was, finding another shard and stabbing Ivan's leg with it, extracting an excruciating scream from the Russian man. Alfred went to the television where the gun had landed, but before he could find it the wind was knocked out of him as his small lamp was smashed against his ribs, with such force it probably broke two or three. Alfred was sent against the bookcase, books and manuscripts tumbling down from above and around him. Alfred grabbed one from the shelf, hurling it at Ivan. It gave him enough of a momentum to get another swing at the Russian, though not enough to succeed in the hit. However, he grabbed the Russian's scarf, securing a tight hold on it and pulling, effectively managing to momentarily choke his partner, his enemy. Alfred sent Ivan to the floor once more, before putting all of his weight behind his leg and stepping and breaking the bone in the Russian's calf. At this point, he was too far gone in the pain and anger that he didn't need to remember what they were fighting about, just that he wanted to cause the other as much pain as possible. Not that he wasn't in any considerable pain either. But now, with Ivan laying incapacitated on the floor, Alfred reached for the gun and aimed it at Ivan.
"I will kill you, I swear to God I will," Alfred said, his voice strong for now, a waver settling in, his mind tiring out. He had the gun lifted to eye level, aim straight at Ivan's heart. If there even was one. It was before Alfred heard the words Ivan said that he knew what he was going to say.
Ivan shook his head. "Alfred, we are both dead men walking, are we not?"
Neither of us say a thing. There's nothing to gain either way.
It's a game for time.
Moscow, February 1968
Blue eyes blinked heavily as a bright, sterile light hit them. They electric eyes opened fully, a blurred room slowly coming into view. He felt his head throbbing. His heart was pounding, his legs aching, his arms just as much. He groaned as he tried to move his sore neck, the pain in his back like ants crawling beneath his skin and digging into his flesh. He attempted to move on the metallic, hard, uncomfortable-to-the-extreme chair, only to find his movement restricted. He immediately stopped moving, and felt around as much as he could his hands were tied - no, handcuffed - behind his back, his legs were both tied to a chair leg, his body not otherwise restricted. He guessed his glasses were not on his face from the appearance of the room. He saw greyed walls, a metal table next to him, a white, sizzling light on the ceiling, and probably a tile floor. There may have been a door at the end of the room, a metallic one. And just as he saw this, the door opened. A silhouette entered, then another. The latter one shut the door and remained stationed there. Alfred was torn between screaming and shouting at them or just remaining silent. He opted for the latter one, and the officer sat across him in another chair. Alfred simply lifted his chin higher, and engaged in a silent battle.
He was mentally cursing every single god that had ever been and would ever be, and even more so cursing himself out for his lack of planning ahead.
Moscow, February 1968, three hours earlier
Alfred sat at the window of the room, observing the landscape of tall apartment buildings spreading around him. His view was mostly blocked by the concrete, the only things he saw being the worn buildings of small apartments, covered in snow and sleet, the dull, grey street two storeys below him slippery from the ice. He himself had slipped enough times on the street below him to safely testify of its slipperiness. People were huddled in second-quality coats, thick enough to keep them from hypothermia. It was one of the less beautiful parts of Moscow, nearer the edge of the city, but he thought this better than being at the centre. Here, his more... shady acts would be less thought of as important, there were a number of criminals in the area. Anything out of the ordinary in the middle of the city would be thought about less over here. His cover was safer amongst the people who didn't care what happened around them as they tried themselves to avoid trouble or being heard or seen by the Party's all knowing ears and eyes. Alfred knew the danger, and he knew that if he thought himself much better than the secret police, then he'd sink knee-deep into their trap. He knew enough not to become cocky, get his mission done and over with, shoot the target, and move on to the next one. Ivan knew he would not be home for nearly a year, and it was only a month since Alfred had left New York. Alfred snorted. Ivan probably had a long mission of his own, so neither needed to care if someone was home or not. Alfred had utterly devoted himself to his job now, for about a year he had risen through ranks faster than before. Of course, he left that out at the dinner table. Not that he didn't know that Ivan was ranking higher and higher, too.
Alfred left the room and began making his way into the small space that was his living room and dining room and kitchen, when heavy knocks came at the door, accompanied by a command. "открыть дверь немедленно!" Alfred froze for a minute - why was he being ordered to open the door at this time of night? - before the knocks and the order sounded again. He knew he had about five seconds to get out of the room and out of the apartment before he'd be knee-deep in trouble. He turned on his heels as fast as his mind could process this new information, and immediately began mapping out his escape.
There was a place he'd found nearby, where he could hide out until he managed to get a message out through a messenger back to the States, and where he could await for further instructions. He hated doing that, but it wasn't like had many options any more, did he? He dashed to the bedroom when the door was broken down, thrown off its hinges by a powerful kick, and grey-uniformed officers forced their way into the narrow apartment. By then, Alfred had flung one leg over the windowsill, hoping to hell that jumping from two floors' height would not kill him - an extravagantly uninteresting way to go, and completely unheroic, breaking his neck by jumping out like an idiot. Though he did not really have a choice. He let himself go, feeling the rush of air and hearing the harsh and loud commands given by the Russians. His landing was violent, and as his knee gave out he ended up thrown into the snow before he collected himself and made a quick map to the safe location. He should have learnt the route by heart, but now he just had to hope he didn't take a wrong turn that might cost him his life. He stood, no major injuries visible except a few cuts and bruises from the icy asphalt. Alfred stumbled and tripped as he began half-running, half-sliding down the street, turning corners being complicated by the sleet. He could hear the running footsteps behind him, and turning another corner - it was a dead end.
How cliché, Alfred thought as he located an open window above him and started climbing a fire escape ladder. He saw the Soviet officers turn the corner, guns poised at him, and fire. Each one missed, clanging against the steel of the ladder or bouncing from the red brick wall. Alfred kept on climbing as gunfire rippled around him, before one of the bullets grazed his leg, and soon another lodged itself into his shoulder. He lost his grip, the frozen steel quickly slipping from his grasp as he plummeted down to earth, landing onto his back, his head hitting the hard ground and the even harder ice. He saw black stars, the edges of his vision darkening and blurring as he heard an ominous crack (his glasses? Hopefully - his bones? More likely), and then he felt someone grab his arms and lift him up, staggering and straggling, before he could gain his balance, a fuzzy voice -
And now, he was in this bleak and barren, very protocol-like interrogation room in the middle of nowhere, the middle of Russian winter, the middle of enemy territory. He was gone from the map of the world before he even was caught. He was unreachable. But he would not give in at any price, no matter the cost or the pain.
"Mr. Jones, yes?" The ash blond interrogator asked. His teal-coloured eyes were hard, glaring at the American. Alfred scoffed, this was ridiculous, and he had to admit, he was a bit nervous about being on the receiving end of this special treatment. The man was also wrong.
"Jones-Braginsky," he corrected, though he wasn't sure why anymore. They're marriage was gone, it was a stupid piece of paper anymore and a ring on his finger. Their marriage was unhealthy, their lives were ruined, but they were still, for some goddamned reason, in love with each other enough to live together, and trying like children to act like nothing had changed a year ago. And though they ate the same food, they hurt each other. Though they loved each other, their hate was just as strong. Though they slept together, it was more about revenge and pain and passion than love and sincerity. They were honest with each other, though they lied more than probably anyone else ever had.
When their apartment was trashed, time after time, they would blame it on spring cleaning, or a silly argument, when they explained it to the neighbours. When they both showed up somewhere with a black eye, or a limb in a cast, it was a car accident, or an ice-skating incident, or Alfred falling off a ladder, or Ivan having an accident with a lawnmower when they helped friends out in the suburbs. He'd lost count of the lies he'd told different people, were they acquaintances, friends, coworkers, anybody really. And when they both smiled an almost sickly sweet smile, no one asked further questions. Neither asked questions about the other's trips anymore, neither told the other to be safe, neither was gentle and loving and domestic, no. Both had hardened, frozen, violence and hate having clouded their minds, both called each other more and more vicious names, both had issued more threats to each other than their respective countries added together. But all this had not snapped the glimmering string that still somehow held them together. They were killing each other, but as Ivan had said, they were both dead men the moment they began on the payroll of their governments, weren't they?
"Braginsky? Isn't he one of-"
"Yes," Alfred deadpanned flatly, no emotion in his voice, having more and more suspicions about why he was here and how he had even ended up here. Who had sold him out. There weren't many options, were there?
"Well, Mr. Jones-Braginky," the man said with obvious distaste in his voice - maybe he hated the knowledge that one of the most respected and one of the best agents and officers in the country was married to his American counterpart - a match made in hell. Alfred laughed to himself at the ridiculous and ironic metaphor, a pathetic imitation of Romeo and Juliet, that which their lives together had become. "I think there are two ways we can go about this, no?" The man said in a thick accent, though Alfred could not say it was Russian. His voice rough and grating, his accent so similar to Ivan's in the early morning, yet so different, so far away, untraceable. Alfred hated that he couldn't place the voice. He could know more about the man the moment he knew where he was from. "I think you know both options already, don't you? I believe you've been in such situations already, though usually you are not the one tied to a chair, are you? I believe I remember the case of Natalya Arlovskaya, a very pretty and talented girl - Braginsky's sister. She had her way with knives. But from what I know, you used knives even more talentedly than she did, and got yourself some interesting information because of it, yes?" The interrogator sighed, and Alfred had half a mind to just shout at the officer to simply get down to the bit where he would be tortured, because the sooner that part came, the sooner death came. The sooner he could get out of the absolute nuthouse the place had become, and go to another type of hell - hopefully more pleasant.
Alfred thought of every single reason there possibly was to him being here, why Ivan would have betrayed him, why he would have decided to do so now? Was there a hefty sum in the game? Or his other sister? Well, no matter what the reason was, here Alfred was, making a slow and painful death because his husband didn't seem to value his word in any of its sense or meanings. Apparently never had, and apparently never would.
"What if you return us the favour by telling us what you know?" The sweet, almost sultry voice asked.
"I won't tell you a thing. You don't even know if I am who you think I am. And why do you delude yourself into thinking I would tell you anything?" Alfred spat in the Soviet officer's face, or in the general direction of it, earning a resounding slap straight across his cheek for his troubles.
"Mr. Jones," the interrogator continued, dismissing the last part of his surname. Alfred did not care to correct him this time, it would be useless anyway. "You will come around, one way or the other, I will personally make sure of that."
Alfred snorted. "That's not much of that threat if I don't know who the hell you are, is it?" He knew he was just searching to get hurt, but he found himself not caring any more. He'd been betrayed, what did he have to lose, really? His homeland could afford to lose a spy. He could afford to lose himself. Ivan didn't care for him. Alfred could find some consolation in that thought, knowing that now he had no excuse to love the cold-hearted son of a bitch.
"Ah, yes, introductions, how silly of me to forget my manners. My name is Nikolaï Kovalenko, and I suggest you remember that name, because you'll be seeing me a lot." Alfred knew the name from somewhere, he just couldn't- "Katyusha's husband."
Alfred steeled his eyes. So Ivan's entire family and extended family was employed within the beating heart of the Soviet machine. This fact would make it even easier for him to hate Ivan all the more. "Well, then your brother-in-law might have told you things about me. I'm not stupid, and I certainly hate fucking commie bastards like you." Alfred's words were a simple statement, but even that earned him a punch in the face. He tasted iron in his mouth, his jaw aching as he felt blood trickle down his cheek from a new cut.
"Mr. Jones, this is going to be a long stay." Nikolaï circled Alfred. "I suggest you consider staying the night," he finished with a bitter tone. Alfred was not about to let himself be outdone by a communist half-wit.
"It would be my absolute delight," Alfred snarled, his eyes narrowed and teeth gritted. "If you can afford it, that is."
"We can afford to do much more than just that," the man assured with a sadistic glint in his eye. Alfred held the eye contact, unrelenting, unwilling to give in. "Mr. Jones - if you don't mind me calling you that, it's much shorter and simpler." Russian would be easier, or is it a disgrace that a Russian name has been tainted by an American? "Don't you find that the fight has already been lost for you? There is nothing you can do at this point to change anything that may or will occur. You will not get out of here," Nikolaï stated. "This is to be your deathbed."
Alfred chuckled. "I don't care where my deathbed is any more," he assured just as strongly. "I knew that at some point it would probably come to this. Can't we just get down to the bit where you torture me? Or just skip straight ahead to my oh-so-unheroic death? I honestly think that'd save us both a hell of a lot of time."
The other man laughed openly. "Dear me, Mr. Jones, you are rather hasty, aren't you? I am in no hurry, and nor is anyone here to visit you." Alfred rolled his eyes. "But if you were to give up the information, it would make it simple on both of us. You'd get one wish - get out or be killed, whichever you should choose, or even defect, if you so wish - and we'd have the information."
"I will never defect, and even less will I give you any information," Alfred hissed. "I'm not stupid," he continued. "I know that you think my country's in the wrong. But then again, that's what we think of you. I don't think it's a matter of being right or wrong, it's about who to believe, trust, and fight for - which it is."
"But now, you no longer have anything to fight for, Mr. Jones."
Alfred shook his head, a maniacal smile coming on his beautifully dangerous features. "But you're wrong, Mr. Kovalenko. A man lives for, what, seventy years? But as long as that man has passed on his beliefs, his ideas, these ideas live. And I don't pretend to know my ideas are better. But I will fight for them and I will die for them, just like my brother did, just like my best friend, my father, everyone around me did. It's a question of honour, of discipline, of loyalty, of worth, and I am a man that values all of those things. However many people I've killed, as long as I know I've killed them and I accept that fact, as long as I remember their faces, that is repentance for me. And I don't think you'd care to disagree much with me." Alfred sighed. "Or if you would, then I guess I was wrong - some men and people just are better than others."
A short while afterwards, Alfred remembered being knocked out again - foul-mouthing was not a good idea.
Washington D.C., March 1968
"Mr. Jones-Braginsky," a cold, deep voice spoke, heavily accented - German, Ivan placed it. He glared at the blue eyes, a lighter shade than the blue Ivan had found himself falling in love with. Even at their coldest, however, these eyes were no match to the hardness and the ice that reminded Ivan of the Siberian tundra that sometimes lived in the American's eyes. Someone else in the room shifted, but Ivan did not care enough to look who it was. "KGB agent, arrested and interrogated for breaking, entering, attempting to steal government documents, charged for spying against the United States of America, additional charges of murder, kidnap, torture, theft, relaying information to the Soviet Union of United States classified information."
"And what if I'm not? How can you be so certain?" Ivan asked, though he knew that by now, it was useless. This was the third interrogator that had come to him - or fourth, if the other man was also one.
"We have our sources." So he had been found out because he was betrayed? Three guesses by whom. The German man turned to the other man in the room. "Here it says that your husband is Alfred Fitzgerald Jones-Braginsky. This seems to be an acquaintance of yours, yes?"
"I believe so, yes." The other person advanced, this time Ivan turning to look at him. When he saw the shoulder-length blond hair and the sky blue eyes, he let out a low laugh.
"Bonnefoy, yes, I remember you. We've met more than once, last time was Alfred's birthday, no? Oh, but I do remember you being alone then. Whatever happened to the uptight Englishman... Kirkland was his name, I believe? I hope he is alright, he was such a polite man."
Francis' eyes flashed. He whispered something to the German, that made the other give way to the Frenchman. Francis stood facing Ivan, his eyes boring holes into the Russian. "I believe that you know exactly where he is, no, Braginsky? I believe that you know exactly where you dumped him after you murdered him, in Berlin." Francis threw a punch that landed straight on Ivan's nose, which started bleeding almost immediately.
Ivan took a moment to recover before answering. He'd be dead by morning if he kept going like this. "He gave me a rather nasty dislocated knee, in fact. I wasn't able to 'dump' him," Ivan shrugged. "Couldn't drag his body." Another punch landed on his cheekbone, but he made no sound. "You will not get anything out of me." There is nothing you can do or say to change that.
"Is that right? Tell me, with your experience, you must have seen multiple occasions like this one. You should probably then also know that most, even the most head-strong and accomplished agents give in at some point."
Ivan looked Francis square in the eye. "I also know it is not about being accomplished, or being head-strong, or stubborn, or whatever else you might wish to call it." Ivan's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "It is about having a cause worth fighting for, believing in that cause, and fighting for it until the end." The Frenchman raised an eyebrow. "I'll have to admit," the Russian continued. "Neither Matthew nor Arthur gave in. I knew from the start they would not, perhaps they would have lived longer had I seen they were less honourable and true to their cause. It is a shame, really, that the cause they were fighting for was the wrong one."
It was the German's turn to interject. "And you believe you are fighting for the right cause? You believe that fighting for a corrupt government that has stripped its people from basic rights is what is good in the world? You believe that fighting for an elite that tortures and kills and destroys while families starve is right? My friend, you have a twisted sense of justice."
Ivan laughed coldly. "And you do none of those things? You have never tortured or killed anyone? What am I then doing here? Are you saying that your people are not in pain? Are not starving? Go take a look at the less pretty parts of New York sometimes, wouldn't you? I've seen the pain in my country, and the only reason it is there is because your people refuse to even try to live with us - not that we do not fear and hate and wish to destroy your country, too." Ivan steeled his violet-shaded eyes, staring right at the German man. "What you don't understand, but I have understood, and Alfred - though he refuses to admit it - has understood, is that our countries are the flip-sides of a single coin," Ivan stated calmly. "Yes, there's a different image on each side of the coin, but it's still the same material and the same glint and the same unity."
"Perhaps that may be true, Braginsky, but what you don't understand is that your politic views are here only to be snuffed out. Nothing more, nothing less," the Frenchman hissed.
December 1968, New Year's Eve
"For God's sake, I won't tell you a goddamned thing!" The prisoner shouted, his voice straining from all the effort it had been put through the last months. Screams, pain, blood, gritted teeth, insults, orders, shattered bones and burns and ice and -
"I suppose we can ask your husband, can't we?" The threat in the interrogator's voice made the underlying meaning clear - we can make you speak. He couldn't count how many interrogators he had seen, how many questions he had been asked, how many questions he had not answered, how many insults and snarky remarks and rude comments had earned him a beating or a session of torture. And they still thought they could make him speak.
The prisoner barked a cold, hollow laugh. "Have you not listened to a word I have said?" Another hollow huff, before defiant eyes burning with fire rose to look at their interrogator. "I don't care what happens to my husband! He can go die, for all I care. He can be locked up, and he'd know not to count on me to bail him out. He could be wherever the fuck he wanted, and it would not be my problem. My husband works for you. My husband works for your twisted, corrupt government! My husband is my enemy!" His words rang out in the stone-walled room. The words were a white lie, a partial truth, but each prisoner thought that saying it would help them believe it - holding on to the hope of being able to let it go, forget it all. Incarceration had not helped either realise anything they did not already know, anything they did not already feel. They had both clung to the hope that knowing they had been abandoned by the other would help them hate them just that bit more, just enough to not love them any more.
Instead, every bruise that had blossomed on their skin reminded them of the flowers Ivan regularly brought home. Every cut was reminiscent of the food Alfred used to cook for them both, while he softly hummed or simply belted out his favourite tune of the moment. Every broken bone reminded them of the fights they had had in the last year, but also of when Ivan had rushed Alfred to the hospital because he'd tripped down the stairs, or of when Ivan had swerved his car slightly off the road and Alfred had fussed over his broken leg for weeks. Every command that was yelled at them reminded them of the other when they got angry, but then they made up. Each insult was nothing they had not already thrown each other at some point. Each punch landed somewhere that had been once sacred in the other's eyes, each kick breaking something that had been touched softly once. Each threat barked, hissed and spat at them reminded them of the later days, while each false hope made them dream of long-lost days.
"See, that is the problem. Because your husband is your enemy, he is therefore your government's enemy. Your husband was caught by your government, a number of months ago - did we forget to tell you? Oh, silly us, isn't that? But we'd very much like him back. However, they're not very willing to exchange him, have him on the loose again, even in exchange for you. He's a very efficient man, isn't he? The files that he was ever assigned to are the fullest and most useful files. But see, our problem is, we're not sure we want to hand you back to those bastards across the pond. That would be too simple, you'd just come right back here, wouldn't you? It's a shame if we lose one of our best men in the process, but one less son of a bitch on their - your - side is one man saved on our side. So, you have an easy choice: you can tell us what you know, all of it, and walk out of here, get on a plane and fly all the way back to your country - and never come back." The interrogator circled the prisoner, almost reflecting the movements in the other interrogation room so many miles away.
Eyes narrowed, lips unmoving. Hardened gazes looked straight at each other, the coldness as unrelenting as the palpable and beating tension in the room that could be made to bleed red if cut with a knife. And the prisoner wanted to drive that knife in deep, have the crimson colour of time drip around them until there was nothing left. The interrogator wanted nothing more than to draw it out until it snapped, thin and frail and weak - like the prisoner. Except the prisoner was not giving in, never was going to.
"I guess that because we have no response from them yet, even they don't want you. They don't seem to need you anymore. Maybe they've found someone else, maybe you're just a nuisance now." His voice was so deep with snark and smug satisfaction, so happy and giddy in a dark and twisted way. And he knew that this man also had a family outside of this room, a human life where he became a normal person and lived a happy life in a perfectly normal way. Which was the act?
"Is that supposed to frighten me?" The throaty voice laughed. "Shake my feelings into spilling my guts to you? That's pathetic."
"Well, then." There seemed to be a sigh of consideration, although everyone knew that the fate of the man sitting in the room, chained to the chair once more, had been sealed the moment they signed their employment contract, the moment they met the one their ring belonged to, the moment their lies no longer worked. "I suppose that because you haven't said anything yet, and we have had no word from your government either, that you're of no us to either us or them."
So, you betrayed me, and now I'm here to die. Funny isn't it? Truly, I hope you're happy, because you got what you wanted all along. Ha! Too bad it backfired on you.
"Any last words?"
I hope that you die in the most painful way my country has to offer you. But darling, even after you betrayed me one too many times, still I love you so much, I ended up once more hating you.
For the last time those burning eyes looked at the world, looked at the eyes that they did not see, looked into the interrogator's deadly eyes in search for the ones they loved within their hatred, finding them in the moments the gun and its shining steel barrel glinted in the white light.
"Tell my husband that I'll see him in hell."
A/N: Hello, I am back, yet again, with another one-shot. This one happened to become a tad longer, even after I had to delete a load of it (which was absolutely lousy and utter crap, the whole bunch irrelevant to the story). My IGCSEs have now officially started - I managed to get this done, and I am working on progressing with MAD - it's coming along, it's coming along, just this chapter seems to be a bit longer, so it's taking a bit (lot) more time than the other ones, especially with the workload I'm collapsing under. Note about the hyphenated last names: I did a lot of research for that, and I still don't get how they work. I saw somewhere that what you could do was have your own surname first, then your spouse's, and the same went for your spouse - therefore they'd have two different last names, which seems odd, but... I'm a writer, I can sort of bend reality, so I'll just go with that. I know it's a lot more Alfred than Ivan or the two together, but I prefer to write from one point of view than switch around too much. Though I also do *sometimes* do that. Oh well.
This story came from a lot of things. It was a combination of my history studies, from an idea that popped into my head, from a bunch of inspirations I saw on Pinterest or stuff, and of course, songs and music. Listen to Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This), Emily Browning's version. Though her voice isn't the best for the song, the violins and rhythm and build-up themselves make up for that fact. I love the rising tension within the version, and though the original song is better in terms of music, and I feel it fits well with the dark and deepening ambiance of the story, maybe?
That wasn't the only song I listened to, there was a whole playlist of about ten hours constantly playing while I wrote this. Well, thank you for reading this, and also apparently getting through all of my ridiculous and useless and space-wasting ramblings. And I am still getting on with my story, I promise, cross my heart and hope to die. Until next time!