Disclaimer: Wow, I think this is the first K-19 fic... Well, I don't own K-19 or James Ginty (Anatoly). I wish I owned them both. A whole bunch more Russians would be alive right now, and a certain blond would be in my bed… Wait, did I say that out loud? Anyway, this could be interpreted as slash, but so could a lot of things, so I guess whatever floats your boat. Please R+R.
*
We're going to die.
Chills sweep through me, and I swallow hard, fighting down queasiness. My hand tightens around the cloth in my hand and I stare into the sparks. It's been five minutes; five out of ten, and I can already feel the radiation in my skin, my blood, my bones.
We're going to die.
Pavel knows. I can tell by the shake in his hand as he works. I think he knew the moment we volunteered. Or maybe it was when Captain Polenin said so firmly, "It's only ten minutes." Either way, Pavel knows. And he blames himself.
The weight of the world has always landed on his shoulders. He tries to right every wrong, to please everyone. That was why he said nothing about the broken gauge. And its killing us.
I don't blame him. I never could blame him for anything. Not the toys he broke when we were children, or the shirt he tore last night, and certainly not the uranium below us, sending deadly waves of radiation into our bodies. Pavel's been my best friend, my comrade, my everything. If I could chose to die with anyone, it would be him.
"One hour, Anatoly. One more hour," he whispers.
I swallow hard again. One hour and our watch would have been over. Pavel thinks its fate. He thinks we're cursed; cursed for everything we are, and everything we're not, from Soviets to a country of atheists.
Its coincidence, and I know it. I don't bother saying anything. It doesn't matter what I say; Pavel never changes his mind. No matter the argument, no matter the logic or the emotion, he sticks to his decisions. It's the only thing about him I dislike.
There's only two minutes left, and the sickness is coming. My body's burning, cooking with the heat from the radiation, but still I feel cold. My skin itches, but I can't scratch it through this damn useless suit. A wave of nausea hits me again; I bite down on my lip to keep from vomiting.
Pavel's head swivels toward me. His goggles are fogged up, and the mask looks ridiculous. I'd tell him so, except I know under that mask lies another. One of pain and of guilt and of heartbreaking sorrow. It's not fair that he bears this burden alone. That's why I'm here.
And so I wipe the moisture from goggles, and smile. He can't see the lifting of my lips, can't see the flash of teeth, but he sees my eyes. And that's all he needs to see.
"It's only ten minutes," I murmur. "That's not so much."
*
We're going to die.
Chills sweep through me, and I swallow hard, fighting down queasiness. My hand tightens around the cloth in my hand and I stare into the sparks. It's been five minutes; five out of ten, and I can already feel the radiation in my skin, my blood, my bones.
We're going to die.
Pavel knows. I can tell by the shake in his hand as he works. I think he knew the moment we volunteered. Or maybe it was when Captain Polenin said so firmly, "It's only ten minutes." Either way, Pavel knows. And he blames himself.
The weight of the world has always landed on his shoulders. He tries to right every wrong, to please everyone. That was why he said nothing about the broken gauge. And its killing us.
I don't blame him. I never could blame him for anything. Not the toys he broke when we were children, or the shirt he tore last night, and certainly not the uranium below us, sending deadly waves of radiation into our bodies. Pavel's been my best friend, my comrade, my everything. If I could chose to die with anyone, it would be him.
"One hour, Anatoly. One more hour," he whispers.
I swallow hard again. One hour and our watch would have been over. Pavel thinks its fate. He thinks we're cursed; cursed for everything we are, and everything we're not, from Soviets to a country of atheists.
Its coincidence, and I know it. I don't bother saying anything. It doesn't matter what I say; Pavel never changes his mind. No matter the argument, no matter the logic or the emotion, he sticks to his decisions. It's the only thing about him I dislike.
There's only two minutes left, and the sickness is coming. My body's burning, cooking with the heat from the radiation, but still I feel cold. My skin itches, but I can't scratch it through this damn useless suit. A wave of nausea hits me again; I bite down on my lip to keep from vomiting.
Pavel's head swivels toward me. His goggles are fogged up, and the mask looks ridiculous. I'd tell him so, except I know under that mask lies another. One of pain and of guilt and of heartbreaking sorrow. It's not fair that he bears this burden alone. That's why I'm here.
And so I wipe the moisture from goggles, and smile. He can't see the lifting of my lips, can't see the flash of teeth, but he sees my eyes. And that's all he needs to see.
"It's only ten minutes," I murmur. "That's not so much."