White Feathers
Only five weeks since his return to Siberia, and already Misha felt like he'd never really left. His family were happy to have him back in the fold, though naturally the girls had changed somewhat as they grew, which took a little getting used to as he had never really stopped thinking of them as cute little children. His mother doted on him and kept him steadily supplied with odd jobs and gentle suggestions about a return to his academic career. Autumn settled in around them and brought the first of many snowfalls.
He didn't know what he was going to do with the rest of his life now, but it didn't matter. The vast wastes of Siberia had much in common with the barren desert he had lived and worked in for so long, but where the extremes of temperature in the desert felt oppressive, the opposite extreme, the clawing chill in which he had been born and raised, invigorated him. He could do whatever he wanted to, as soon as he figured out what that was.
Five weeks, and he had even managed to accept his sisters' assurances that they were safe now, their home so remote and well defended that people would think twice before they came for them again. He had stopped looking over his shoulder at every noise, glowering with suspicion at every hunter he glimpsed in the woods, every party trekking through the mountains.
Until the day he returned home from hunting to see the distinctive tracks of a snow mobile leading up towards his house. He had the two boars he had caught with him, back legs tied together so he could carry both over one shoulder, and had dropped them to the ground to run as fast as possible after the tracks, convinced with every step that the worst had happened.
Then he reached the top of the small ridge that hid the house from the track coming down from the pass, and saw that the front door was open, his mother standing just inside. She was talking to a man who stood on the door step, a broad shouldered, straight backed man, wearing a long coat with the hood pulled up and a satchel slung around his shoulders. The snow mobile stood fifty feet away from the house, the engine off, a large wooden tea-chest secured behind the seat. Still out of breath from his run, Misha steeled himself and made his way down the ridge as fast as he dared.
His mother spotted him right away, but didn't look at him directly, giving him a chance to get as close to the stranger as possible before he was noticed. The wind was high, and the sound of it went some way to covering the noise of his boots crunching through the snow. He was almost within arm's reach, when the stranger flinched at the sound of his steps and turned.
"Misha," his mother said worriedly, "this man says he is a friend of yours."
And Misha looked at the stranger's face which, even mostly covered by scarf and glasses and the shadow of his hood, was immediately recognisable as that of the Medic.
"Heavy, my friend," he said with relief. "I'm so glad I found my way here. I was quite lost for a while." He spoke in English, as he knew very little Russian, and his accent was as distinct as ever.
"Your friend is German?" Misha's mother asked, sounding suspicious.
"Da," Misha replied, feeling stunned. He had never expected to see the man again. He'd missed him, far more that he'd expected to. And yet, in some ways he had been glad not to have to deal with the effects of his presence.
But here he was.
"Mama, he isn't like the German's we fought. He is one of my team. It's okay."
His mother still looked worried, but she came out of the doorway onto the snowy step and offered Medic her hand. He introduced himself as Anton, which was the first time Misha had really thought of him as having a name beyond 'Medic'.
"Go inside, it's warm," Misha told him.
"The box, I must bring it from the sled," Medic replied, pointing at his snow mobile. "It's very important."
"Misha, did you catch anything?" his mother asked, as Medic – Anton – dashed across the snow to collect his box. Embarrassed, Misha explained that he had dropped his catch when he had run for the house. "We'll send your sisters for it," his mother said firmly. "You see your friend inside."
By the time Medic – Anton – returned from unstrapping the box, Misha's mother had gone indoors. He could hear her pouring water into the samovar in the parlour, patting the cushions on the chairs into shape.
"What are you doing here?" he asked Medic, as he came jogging over to him with the box in his arms. It was solidly constructed, except for places where it appeared somebody had cut small pieces away, leaving the sides peppered with holes. "Is there some danger?"
"No, no," the doctor said airily. "I just have a favour to ask you."
Misha frowned at him but, as usual, had difficulty reading anything from his friend's face. "Favour? Had better not be surgery."
"Ha! Nein, don't worry. Your organs are safe."
Thus assured, Misha gestured him into the house.
The doctor could be very well mannered when he tried; he set his box down and stamped the snow off his boots on the mat in the entrance hall, then took the damp boots off without being asked, replacing them on his feet with a pair of battered but well-polished shoes he dug out from his satchel. Misha hung up both their coats and took off his own boots, then went to pick up the box, but the doctor got to it first and hefted it into his arms with care.
"What is in it?" Misha asked him, and the doctor – Anton, he had to remember – looked abashed.
"That is the favour I need to ask of you," he said.
Misha looked at the box carefully; it wasn't terribly large, but large enough that his friend would have had more difficulty lifting it if it had been packed full. No fluid seemed to be leaking from it, and Medic was a notoriously sloppy packer, so it was unlikely to be body parts. So what would Anton have needed to pack up and drag halfway across Russia?
Misha sighed, hoping against hope that whatever was in the box wasn't going to alarm his mother or sisters, and led Anton into the parlour.
His mother sat in her armchair next to the table that bore the samovar, examining the brewing tea in the pot. Misha gestured Anton to the other armchair, the straight-backed one that he figured his friend would prefer, and seated himself on the sofa close by.
"So," his mother said in English, pouring out the tea, "You worked with my Misha?"
"Yes, for some years" replied the doctor, enunciating carefully. He appeared to be trying to suppress his accent, not entirely successfully, but Misha was rather pleased that he had noted his mother's discomfort. "I was our team's medic. Your son and I spent quite a lot of time together, not least because he got injured a lot."
Misha's mother glanced worriedly at him – worried for things that had never happened, worried because he had never been allowed to tell her about the arrangements that TFI had come up with to keep them all alive. "You put him back together, then?" she asked, trying to keep her tone light.
"Every time," Anton replied.
And just like that, he had Misha's mother thoroughly charmed. It was uncanny, in just the same way that he had charmed Misha into staying on the operating table after his 'little projectile problem' had been successfully removed so that the doctor could tinker with his heart. When a person least expected it, it seemed, he would creep right under their defences.
Mama was handing around cups of tea when Bronislava came into the room. She began to say something but, on seeing the stranger sitting there, she stopped abruptly, footsteps faltering.
Misha had known they'd been exaggerating about being completely safe. Something had happened, he would just have to be patient and get it out of them. Not while the doctor was around, though.
"Bronislava," he said, still in English, "this is a friend and colleague of mine. Doctor, this is my youngest sister, Bronislava."
Anton put his cup down on the low table and rose to politely greet Bronislava, who looked to her mother to make sure things were okay before allowing him to shake her hand.
"What is happening?" she asked warily.
"Nothing," Mama told her. "But I need you to go and find two dead boar that your brother left on the other side of the ridge.
"What? Why?"
"I dropped them," Misha admitted, and Bronislava stared at him like he'd grown a second head. Then she nodded slowly and left the room.
"You have a very lovely home," Anton said into the silence that followed. "Did you build it yourselves?"
This was a topic that Mama was happy to expand on for hours, if allowed to do so. She began telling Anton about how Yana had found the perfect place, almost by accident, and how she and Misha had felled the trees, and little Bronislava helped even though she was so tiny she could barely pick up a sapling, and how over the years they'd added this room and that room until the house was so roomy and comfortable that they never even really needed to go anywhere, other than to hunt or fetch provisions.
Misha had heard this discourse before, as well as having lived through much of it, and quickly found his mind drifting. He could hear Bronislava out in the hall, making a fuss over putting on her boots and coat. He looked over at the doctor, who gave every impression of listening raptly to Mama, but Misha knew from experience that his agile mind could easily be rushing along several different paths all at once. It was good to see him, but at the same time, it was difficult to be around him. To be so close and to be nothing more complicated than his friend.
The door slammed as Bronislava left the house, tugging Misha's attention back to his mother, who was now telling the doctor about the way her girls had taught themselves to make furniture and how she had sewed their clothes, and how Misha's first gift of money to them when he went away to shoot people (that was always how she referred to his having left home to work) was not money alone but also a whole stack of books, so that she could teach them the things they would have learned in school.
The doctor glanced in Misha's direction at that and gave him a smile, an impish, knowing one that Misha couldn't interpret. Was he mocking his studious attitude? Probably. If the Medic hadn't had such a profound natural genius for medicine, it was unlikely he would have gotten far in academia, given how easily distracted and fussy he was.
"Your daughter takes very much after your husband," the doctor commented neutrally, as Mama's discourse wound to a close.
She and Misha both followed his gaze to the painting above the fireplace. Yana had painted it from memory, years ago when she was only 15. It wasn't a perfect likeness, but Misha could not put his finger on any particular flaw, only that perhaps Yana's memories were a little sunnier than reality. All the same, it was true; the girls did look like him.
"My girls all favour my Bronislav," Mama said warmly. "And my Misha looks like his mama with a bald head. Don't you, Misha!"
"Ah, Mama, no!" Misha said in mock distress, and she and the doctor both laughed.
The stairs creaked and, a moment later, no doubt drawn down by the laughter, Zhanna pushed the door open and peered suspiciously into the room.
"Zhanna, don't lurk!" their Mama chided. "Your brother's friend is here. Come in, come in!"
The doctor once more rose to his feet to introduce himself, as Zhanna stepped into the room.
"We don't have visitors in this freezer," she said, pouring on the melodrama. "Why is he here?"
Then she took a good look at the doctor. And then another.
Then she arranged herself carefully in front of the sideboard, hands braced on it's edge, and leaned back, pushing her chest out and flicking her hair back over her shoulder.
"Zhanna, you leave him alone," Misha told her in Russian, and he reached out to push the doctor back into his seat.
"Is the oldest of my sisters, Zhanna," he told the doctor, in English again. "She does not know how to behave around men."
He noticed his Mama giving him an odd look, and did his best to ignore it.
The doctor chuckled and tried to make light of the slightly awkward situation. "I suppose it's difficult to socialise, so far away from any towns," he offered.
"Da, very," Zhanna replied, glaring daggers at her brother.
The front door swung open with a bang and Bronislava's voice could be heard, demanding that somebody come and help her with the stinking pigs their clumsy brother had caught because her arms were nearly pulled out of their sockets. Thankfully she had said this in Russian, and Misha knew full well the the doctor did not understand a word. Zhanna rolled her eyes and left the room just as Yana's footsteps came thumping down the stairs, and moments later the sound of the heavy, bristly bodies being dragged along the floor could be heard from the hall.
"You will stay the night here, da?" Mama asked the doctor. "It will be dark in an hour or so, you ought to wait until tomorrow morning to travel on."
The thought of the doctor leaving made Misha go cold, but he pushed the feeling aside and seconded his mother's invitation with enthusiasm.
"If it would be no trouble to you, I would be happy to accept," the doctor replied formally, and Mama smiled at him and set about pouring more tea.
Misha's eyes fell again on the tea chest, and he reached out to lay his hand on the lid, then almost jumped back from it when something inside seemed to shift.
"What is this favour you want to ask," he said, eyeing an unfamiliar German word painted on the wood with caution.
"Ah, of course," the doctor replied, putting his teacup aside. He knelt on the floor next to the box and, after a brief search of his waistcoat, came up with a small pocketknife.
"I hope it is not too great a thing to ask," he said, as he set about levering the large staples that held the lid in place free. "But you are the only person I could think of who would be suitable. It isn't an arduous task, but it is one that..."
He sighed and sat back on his heels, then turned and looked very frankly at Misha. "It is very important to me, you understand? I know that I can trust you."
The doctor – Anton – stared steadily at him and, for a moment, it felt to Misha like it was just the two of them present, like his Mama wasn't there, like his sisters weren't shuffling around in the kitchen, trying to eavesdrop.
"Da," was all he said.
The doctor smiled at him, then turned back to the box and lifted the lid away. Immediately there was a great rustling sound from within, and Misha realised what was in it.
"Yana," he called towards the kitchen door. "Come here. You will like this."
She pushed the door open a little way and peered in, her sisters trying to look past her. The doctor made eye contact with her and she offered him a shy smile, then slipped into the room and stood there, fidgeting.
Misha got to his feet and bent down to hold the tea chest still, while the doctor lifted out the birdcage. Inside, five doves shuffled and cooed in protest at their confinement. Yana, an animal lover since she was a babe in arms, gave a gasp of delight and all but teleported across the room to look at them.
"They have weathered the journey well," the doctor said. "I put some insulation in the box, and I don't think the ride was too bumpy for them. They are resilient little creatures."
They would have to be, Misha thought. After living in, essentially, a mad scientist's lab for most of their lives, they were difficult to upset.
"How pretty," Mama sighed, and the doctor took that as permission to open the cage and gently lift one of the birds out. He smoothed it's feathers and then, to Misha's great approval, immediately passed the bird to Yana, guiding her hands around it with care.
"That one is Ada, one of the females. There are three females here and two males. They get along very well, no fights."
Yana was only paying partial attention, though no doubt she'd quiz him at length later. She was captivated by the little bird in her hands, by the little black eyes that studied her. At some point, her sisters had drifted into the room, and they both squatted down to look at Ada.
Misha felt guilty, in a way; he had never even thought to ask the names of the other doves. He only knew Archimedes, and only then because of the incident when he had been on the operating table. Something struck him as odd, then, and he leaned closer to the cage, studying the birds left inside. Medic lifted another of them out, another female, and introduced her as Thea. Misha watched him pass the bird into Mama's hands, watched it settle agreeably as she cradled it in her arms like a baby and stroked it's feathers.
He couldn't distract himself though; Archimedes was not in the cage, he was sure of it. The doctor had brought all of his birds half way around the world, except one. Why?
"You want us to look after them, da?" he asked.
The doctor turned an rather abashed look on him, and offered a smile. "Yes. I am going away to do some work and cannot take them with me safely. I don't know how long it will take me."
"We are to look after little birds indefinitely?" Misha pressed.
"Ah, I realise it is a lot to ask-
"I'll do it," Yana interrupted excitedly. "I like them. Do you remember I looked after that sparrow once? It died and I've – oh! I mean it died of old age!" she clarified, and the doctor smiled at her and nodded. "But I liked looking after it," she finished, and turned her blushing face back to the dove, who had now dozed off in the crook of her arm.
The doctor turned to Misha.
"We'll take care of them," Misha told him, as if there had ever been any question of it.
However, he would have a lot more questions to ask later.
::
The snow was falling heavily by the time they all sat down to dinner. The doves had been fed and watered and had settled into their new lodgings on the little enclosed balcony off Yana's room. Misha had butchered the boars and Mama had cooked them, and their guest had kept the girls amused with tales of Misha's adventures in America in the meantime. To Misha's relief, he had kept his reminiscences on the lighter side, sharing stories of amusing events on the base, silly fights that Misha had taken it upon himself to end, and the oddities of the people in the nearby town, rather than all the blood and guts of their employment.
The doctor had good manners, when he made the effort to use them, and he was very good company at the table, joining in the discussion that Mama began about stocking up on reading material for the winter. They were a family of avid readers, and quickly got through any books and magazines that were brought into the house. A short wish list of titles agreed upon, Misha offered to make the three day trek to the nearest town to try and purchase the books and other necessities, and conversation returned to the Doctor, and his and Misha's old jobs.
"It is nice to hear you speak of your other colleagues," Mama said, trying to push some more roast boar onto the Doctor's plate without him noticing. "Misha mentions them often, but I have never really had a clear impression of them until now. Their characters, you know?"
"Mama, stop trying to feed him up. He is just small, not unhealthy," Misha told her in Russian.
The Doctor rummaged in his waistcoat and found his wallet, rummaged further in that and pulled out a piece of paper. "I do have a photograph, if you would like," he said, and passed it to her.
Misha craned his neck to see it, as his sisters left their chairs and rushed around the table as one to peer over their Mama's shoulders. It was a photo of all of them in their uniforms that Mr Hale's assistant had insisted on taking not long after they'd all signed their contracts. They were lined up awkwardly, weapons in hand, himself at the far left of the photograph and Pyro on the right. The doctor was next to him, standing close enough to partly obscure Sasha from the camera's view, his head held high, his eyes fixed on something above and beyond the camera and the man holding it.
Misha had looked at his copy of the photograph often. He knew it well. He remembered that he hadn't wanted Sasha to be in the picture, but Mr Hale had insisted.
"Misha, look at your outfit!" Yana exclaimed. "That collar does not suit you."
"That one is good looking," Bronislava commented, pointing. Misha couldn't make out who she was pointing at, just somebody near the middle.
"Too skinny," Zhanna said.
"I like that one, in the smart clothes," Yana said.
"Even skinnier," Zhanna muttered, stealing a glance at the doctor.
"It is nice to see my Misha's friends," Mama sighed happily.
Misha decided not to disabuse her of the notion that he and his team mates were all friends with each other, and he looked over at the doctor to find that the doctor was looking back at him. He had managed to finish the huge portion of food that Mama had given him, and he gave Misha a warm smile. Misha suddenly felt the need to talk to him, really talk to him, without having to guard his words for his family's sake.
"Mama, may we leave the table?" he asked, gesturing at his friend, and his Mama nodded distractedly, still happily examining the photograph as his two younger sisters tried to argue the case for skinny men.
Misha rose from the table and beckoned the doctor to follow him, which he did after politely thanking Mama for the meal. They picked up the doctor's bag from the hall way and, after a brief consideration, Misha led him up the stairs to his room. His sisters would probably try and eavesdrop again if they talked anywhere else, maybe his Mama too, but they wouldn't have lasted so long in the same isolated house together if they didn't all know to treat one another's private spaces as sacred.
The doctor looked around him with benign curiosity as they ascended the stairs and walked down the landing, and Misha felt a pang of pride at the beauty of his home, the warmth and sturdiness of it, the profusion of home-made comforts and his sisters' little artworks. His own room was at the top of the stairs, so he would be the first one down to the door if intruders came. It was large and comfortable, shaped like an 'L', with his bed at the far end of one branch, and the other branch set out like a little sitting room, all his books in place on the shelves and two big, comfortable chairs.
"This is your room?" the doctor asked, looking around with interest.
"Da. Mama keeps the room next to this one made up as a guest room. I will show you later. For now, I want to talk to you." He sat down and gestured to the other chair. The doctor looked a little apprehensive, but he sat.
"I suppose you want to know where I'm going," he said.
Misha nodded.
"I cannot tell you."
Misha opened his mouth to riposte, but the doctor stopped him with a raised hand and a sigh.
"If I could tell anyone, I would tell you, my friend. I know that I can trust you, that is not in question. But...there is far more at stake here than you can imagine. There cannot be even the slightest risk of discovery."
"What are you doing?" Misha asked. The doctor shook his head.
"It's like nothing I've ever attempted," he said. "I do not know if there is any way for me to succeed, but I must try."
"And if you do not succeed?"
The doctor pulled off his glasses and dropped them into his lap, running his hands tiredly over his face. "Your sister will need to care for the doves for a very long time."
Misha swallowed thickly. The doctor could die, and he would probably never even find out how or by whose hand. "This is her, isn't it? The voice, the administrator."
"I cannot say," which Misha took to mean yes.
"It is really so vital?"
The doctor nodded. "It could mean another conflict like the last war. Or worse. Probably worse, given the forces involved."
"You doubt you will come back?" Misha asked.
The doctor gave a laugh, but it was dry and forced. "I do not know. I hope for the best, of course. But even the best case scenario is not particularly desirable."
"And so you take little Archimedes with you?"
"You noticed?"
"Da."
"Yes, he will come with me," the doctor said with a sigh. "His company is a risk, but it is a small comfort that I could not deny myself. That, and this last visit to you." He raised his eyes to meet Misha's. "I could not bear to go without seeing you, my friend. Without saying goodbye."
Misha's breath wouldn't come. His chest felt tight and the backs of his eyes were burning. It took all his will not to ask the doctor to stay, to stay here with them and hide from the world, and let what happened happen. But he knew he mustn't. It wouldn't work, anyway.
The doctor rose from his seat, slipping his glasses back on, and he reached out to rest his hand on Misha's shoulder.
"I am glad I came here, you know?" he said. "Your family are lovely. And I would have deeply regretted leaving without saying certain things to you."
Misha looked up at him, feeling uncomfortably helpless. "You have said hardly anything," he muttered.
The doctor nodded and stood up straight. He stared at the window for a moment, the tumbling snow barely visible beyond the dark pane. Then he visibly pulled himself together, straightening his shoulders and spine.
"Ich liebe dich," he said quietly, and turned to leave the room.
Misha was out of his seat and grabbing for the doctor's shoulder, probably faster than he'd ever moved in his life.
The doctor turned to look at him, horror and surrender and viciousness in his expression, and all that Misha could say was "I know what that means! I know! I know what you said!" It was actually annoying that the doctor looked so surprised, but Misha pushed that aside and drew him close.
"You tell me you love me and walk out the room? No."
Anton's mouth worked silently for a few seconds. Then his hand clenched in the fabric of Misha's shirt front, and he stretched up as Misha craned his neck down, and their lips met.
His body was solid and warm and thrumming with energy and tension, and he wrapped his arms around Misha, clinging to him with all his strength. Misha held him close, stroked the straight line of his spine, cupped the back of his head and felt the nap of his hair in his palm. Anton was clutching at him, desperate and intent, but Misha kept his head about him.
Without lifting his mouth away from Anton's, he managed to get them around the angle of the room and over to the bed. When their legs bumped against the foot-board, Anton pulled away a little and looked around him, his glasses askew, having apparently not noticed Misha moving them. "Zis is a good idea," he said breathlessly, gesturing at the bed, and he immediately started yanking his clothes off.
"Do not need to hurry," Misha told him, as Anton threw off his own shirt and started tugging at Misha's sweater.
"The sooner we begin, the more time we will have," Anton said. Misha couldn't argue with that, especially not when Anton let go of his sweater to whip his own undershirt off over his head. His skin was pale and his chest was thickly covered with hair, black scattered with silver. Misha began to scrabble out of his own clothes, and by the time he was down to his underwear, Anton was already on the bed, nude and gorgeous, pushing the blankets down to the foot of the mattress to give them room. He was so handsome, grinning and breathless and very obviously aroused, and he watched keenly as Misha stepped out of his underwear and climbed onto the bed next to him.
Arms back around one another, they kissed hotly for long minutes, hands caressing and groping, learning where to touch to best effect. They had so much to learn, and perhaps only one chance to get it right. Anton pulled back a little and leaned away to put his glasses on the night table, and as he twisted back, Misha lowered his head and kissed his nipple, then his tummy, and then curled down over him further and licked the tip of his cock. Anton let out a high, hoarse wail and clutched at his shoulders.
He even tasted good.
"Want you," Misha mumbled helplessly. "Want you, have wanted you, so long."
"I know."
"Was so hard to be around you, and want, and not show..." His voice failed him suddenly. He swallowed hard, and pressed his forehead to Anton's hip.
Anton cupped his jaw in his hands and drew him back up towards him. Misha, appalled with himself, could feel the thickness of tears in the back of his throat again. Anton kissed him sweetly, and said once more; "I know."
"Why now?"
"Because before we were at war, and it was not a place be in love. And soon I will be in the middle of another war, maybe. But now is quiet. Now we can...be."
Misha pulled him close and crushed their bodies together, Anton's cock half-hard against his belly, his own soft from his moment of upset. The feel of his lover's warmth, his crisp body hair, his long legs and tender hands...it was starting to make him hard again. His heart was beating violently.
"Tell me, liebling," Anton murmured to him, "What shall we do with our now?"
Misha thought, and decided, but when he opened his mouth to say what he wanted the words wouldn't come. He didn't know it in English well, and it was a difficult thing for him to ask for. In answer, he rolled onto his back and reached awkwardly under the bed. Anton took advantage of his position and nuzzled his face into Misha's neck, nipping at him, his hands groping down Misha's flanks, all of which made it difficult to focus enough on remembering where exactly the jar had been the last time he'd used it. Finally, his fingers closed on the cool glass, and he managed to lift the jar of grease onto the night table and gave in to the urge to resume kissing Anton.
He was a delight to kiss, passionate and demanding, and Misha held him close and spread his legs apart so Anton could settle between them, curling his upper body forwards so that their lips could linger in a kiss, even as Anton shifted down the bed to press their groins together.
"Like this?" Anton said breathlessly, thrusting his hips forward. Misha gasped a little as their cocks rubbed together hard, but shook his head and reached out again for the jar.
Anton wasn't stupid; he glanced to the jar, clearly half full of translucent grease, and noted the position Misha had moved them into. He didn't make Misha ask, just scooped his fingers into the jar, nuzzled his face into the dip of Misha's sternum, and reached his hand down to get him ready.
Misha had never enjoyed the first touch inside him; it had always been an unbearable intrusion, for at least the first minute or so. But Anton's fingers were so sure and clever, tucking and curling into him easily, touching him so confidently that the sensations that normally made him cringe were actually thrilling. When he reached the point that he was normally only just regaining his arousal, he was panting desperately, his cock hard and throbbing. Anton curled up between his legs and put soft, sucking kisses all over his belly and his genitals and the tops of his thighs, still working his fingers in and out of him.
He had lost all command of English by this point, and stuttered out words in Russian, knowing full well that Anton wouldn't understand him. On some level though, Anton understood perfectly. He crawled back up Misha's body, kissed him soundly, patted his hips to make him lift them and pushed a pillow that Misha hadn't noticed him grab underneath him.
"You are lovely, stunning," Anton said shakily, and he must have hated that his voice was shaking, but it was all right; Misha was shaking too, tremors along his legs and in his ribcage.
The first push of Anton's cock into him felt better than it had any right to, and a low, hoarse moan squeezed its way out of his throat. With his hips propped up and his shoulders against the headboard, he was curled up enough to hold his smaller lover in his arms, clasp their bodies together while Anton pressed into him steadily and sweetly, his face flushed with enjoyment.
"Don't be gentle," Misha told him, and Anton stared at him myopically for a moment, before a grin split his face.
After that, he was not gentle at all.
Misha really hadn't known what to expect from the doctor, but he would reflect later that he often thought of other men as weak simply because they were not as strong as him. Anton was not weak, not in the least, despite his trim build. He drove into Misha so hard that the sturdy bed creaked and shook, his technique inexplicable and perfect. Misha gripped the headboard with one hand, Anton's shoulder with the other, wrapped his legs around Anton's thrusting hips and clung on, biting his tongue to stop himself from yelling, until orgasm burst through him and he saw stars.
Anton broke apart then, digging his fingers into Misha's flesh and letting out a thin wail as he came. He writhed and whimpered between Misha's thighs wringing every possible scrap of pleasure out of both of them, while Misha held him, watching his face, trying to imprint the rapturous image of him on his mind.
Finally, sweaty and breathing hard, they lay side by side on the bed, arms loosely around each other, and kissed like they had all the time in the world.
::
"Do your brother and his friend want some coffee?" Mama asked of Yana as she slipped in through the kitchen door.
Yana said nothing, just pushed the door closed and jittered from foot to foot in front of it.
"Yana?" Mama asked again, and Yana's sisters looked up at her in curiosity.
"Misha...and his friend...are busy," she squeaked, and turned red in the face.
There was a moment of quiet in the kitchen, during which, above the noise of the wind outside, a faint, rhythmic sound could be heard from upstairs.
Yana blushed even harder.
Zhanna made a disgusted noise in her throat, and threw the book she was reading down on the table.
"You remember when Misha wrote that letter about why he wasn't going to marry?" Bronislava asked slowly. "Mama, do you think this is why?"
"Of course it is, kitten. Misha is a special boy. And I like his friend, I think. It is good to have a doctor in the family."
"Isn't it...sort of..." Yana wrung her hands a little, and hissed out the word under her breath; "Ungodly?"
Their Mama let out a little laugh. "Putting people in a labour camp is ungodly," she said firmly. "Your brother has found himself a nice man. It's about time."
Yana nodded and calmed down a little at the reassurance. Her mother beckoned her over to the table and handed her a cup of coffee.
"What were they doing, then?" Bronislava asked.
"Well, I didn't go in!"
"No, I mean...what do men do? There isn't...I mean..."
"Girls, this is not conversation for the table," their Mama said, an she settled down with her coffee and her letter writing box, between a blushing Yana, a confused Bronislava, and Zhanna, who was still scowling.
She wrote quietly for some time. The noise upstairs was sometimes audible, sometimes not. Zhanna huffed and fidgeted, and returned to her book. Yana took out her sewing, and Bronislava resumed chipping away at a small piece of bear bone, trying to make a button out of it.
"Of course," Mama said after a while, "Misha will never have any babies. You girls will give me lots of grand-babies, I hope."
"A chance would be a fine thing," Zhanna muttered.
::
The house was silent and still by the time they were done with one another. Misha slipped out of bed to switch off his light and check on the fire in the bedroom grate. Anton was already drowsing by the time he rejoined him under the blankets, and he groggily let Misha arrange him how he wanted him before drifting fully into sleep. His head rested on one of the thick goosefeather pillows, and Misha knew that in the morning he would take the pillow cover off and put it away somewhere, so that he could have a little of Anton's scent whenever he wanted it. He had pulled Anton onto his side, and settled against his front, Anton's arms slung around him and the soft throb of his heartbeat against Misha's cheek.
He was comfortable and warm and thoroughly, delightfully worn out. But he knew that he wouldn't sleep.
::
Misha had kept Anton in bed with him for as long as possible, but eventually he had gotten up and brought Misha with him. Misha had gone downstairs in his dressing gown to fetch hot water, braving Zhanna's envious glares, and he and Anton both washed in front of the fire back in Misha's room. He watched Anton dress, trying to memorise every mole and scar and patch of hair.
The girls had made breakfast, and Mama chattered while they all ate. The sound of her voice just about kept Misha from breaking down, from telling his sisters to stop staring at him, or yelling for them to help him block the door so that Anton couldn't escape. Anton's doves seemed to know what was going on, and they spent the duration of the meal anxiously vying for space on his shoulders and in his lap, cooing and chittering with agitation. When he stood, he picked them off himself one by one, gently, speaking softly to them in German. And, one by one, he handed them to Yana, an aching sadness in his eyes.
He didn't look at Misha until they stood at the front door together, Anton in his boots and coat, his bag slung over his shoulder. Then he raised his eyes to Misha's and forced a smile onto his face.
"If I live, I'll come back to you," he said, and Misha nodded. He took Anton's hand and kissed his palm, then put an arm around him a pulled him close. Just a few more precious seconds of his warmth and scent and the solidity of him in his arms.
Then Misha said goodbye to him and watched him walk out of the house, across the snow. One of the girls had been out already to swept the fresh snow off the snow mobile, and Anton smiled when he saw it sitting there, shiny and pristine. He climbed into the seat, settled his bag more comfortably, turned to take one last look at the house...
And he was gone.
::
It would be months before Misha really registered anything else going on around him. He was in a daze, his mother and sisters worried and confused by his malaise. They didn't understand, and he couldn't explain, not after Anton had told him the importance of his secrecy.
And then there was a note about a phone call from, of all people, Miss Pauling.
And, not so very long after that, Misha woke one morning with a curious feeling in his gut that led him to tell Yana to shoo the doves into her room and keep them there. Then he left the house, and returned hours later with Pyro and a naked Soldier trailing after him, carrying Scout in his arms.
They wanted him to go with them, and he didn't fight them as hard as he could have. Because the job they wanted him for sound insane. Dangerous and complicated and brutally insane.
So surely, sooner or later, he would run into Anton.
::
I wrote this as a sort of missing scene from the comics (potentially) and I really hope that the imminent issue 5 isn't going to completely upset my lovely, lovely headcanon.
Also, on the day that I finished and am posting this, a game has given Medic's real name as (maybe) Kaspar. Which I actually kind of like but, you know what? I'm going to stick with Anton for a little while longer.
I hope you enjoyed it. Please go ahead and let me know what you thought.