AN: My apologies for the late update, but my time has not been my own until now. Hopefully this chapter will make your wait worthwhile!
Disclaimer: I do not own Fairy Tail or its characters.
part II.
In the forest there was a meadow, and on the meadow there was a hut,
and in the hut Babá Yagá lived, who would not let anybody in, and who ate men as though they were poultry.
- Aleksandr Nikolaevich Afanasev, Vasilísa the Fair
Italy, 1942
She wondered if it would put much of a dent in her reputation if the village found out she was harbouring a Soviet.
With a soft snort, Cana tucked an errant lock of hair behind one ear as she flicked her gaze across the tiled roofs of the houses sprawled along the mountainside on the other side of the valley. The span from the house to the stable provided a good view of the land and the village below, and she often paused to enjoy the sight. Even if she didn't like the people, that didn't mean she didn't like the sight of her homeland in the morning.
Shifting the tray in her hands, she continued her trek towards the small stable tucked away on the far side of her property, the sight almost ironically idyllic, considering who was hiding inside. She very much doubted it would tarnish her reputation overly much; as a recluse bastard living by herself, there wasn't much that could make it worse. Of course, that didn't mean she was about to let the news get out, if not for her own sake, then for the sake of the blonde idiot hidden away in her stable.
Speaking of which...
"How's that project coming along?"
Dark eyes flicked her way, before he turned his gaze back to the open page in front of him, a frown tugging at the healing scar running down the length of his eye. She'd had the stitches removed just recently, and it looked better every day. The wound in his side, though, was another case entirely, and the main reason he was still holed up with her horse for company. At least, she thought it was. She couldn't fathom any other reason for him to be sticking around. She sometimes wondered if she'd wake up one morning and find him gone – vanished some time during the night and out of her life like a wraith.
The thought didn't sit all the well with her, and she wondered how long she could keep trying to convince herself she actually minded his presence. It had turned her daily routine on its head, true, but the life of the village outcast was a lonely one, and the more time she spent with the man the less she missed her old situation.
He hummed under his breath, closing the volume she'd left in the stable after that first night. She'd forgotten it, to be honest, and had found him reading it one morning. She knew he spoke a little Italian, but Dante was challenging enough for people who actually spoke the language. At her question, he'd simply shrugged, told her he'd read it in Russian once and that he knew it well enough to get some practice in.
She'd been surprised – she hadn't pegged him as the educated type, but as the days passed, they'd spoken enough to drive that impression quite thoroughly out of her mind. That he spoke several languages had been another surprise, along with the fact that he was as surprisingly tolerable presence, for a Soviet dog.
She wondered sometimes what kind of degree of treason she was committing, and whether or not there was something wrong with her for sometimes forgetting the fact that he was, indeed, a Soviet dog. An enemy, and nothing less than the enemy, as far as her country was concerned.
Putting the tray down next to his side, Cana didn't ask for permission before checking the bandage and the wound, and he didn't protest at the invasion of privacy like he had the first time, no doubt having resigned himself to her complete lack of propriety. He kept his shirt untucked, though, and the affair was over and done with without much fuss.
When she was done and convinced she'd managed to keep any infection at bay, she went to check on her mare. She heard him reach for the tray with a brusque spasibo, which she'd learned was thank-you in his mother tongue, but little else was said between them as he ate. Casting the occasional glance his way, Cana let her eyes linger on the ease with which he went about his business. He'd been so suspicious in the beginning, but once she'd made it clear she wasn't going to stab him he'd settled in somewhat.
It was oddly...domestic, her little stable that seemed so far removed from everything else. The war, the killing, the constant threat of an enemy invasion – from his country or another, it made little difference in the end. And yet none of it seemed to matter much, the moment she stepped foot inside the stable. The sun filtering in through the roof-planks, casting odd shadows across the hay-strewn floor...and the patched up, Soviet soldier sitting snug against the far wall, reading Dante like it wasn't the single strangest sight in the world.
Cana shook her head, murmuring under her breath as she fed her mare some oats, stroking a hand over her soft, black coat. "I'm heading into the village later," she said then, and then frowned, wondering why she'd even spoken up.
A quick glance his way told him he was just as a surprised, but he nodded regardless, although something flickered in his eyes, and she watched his hands tighten around the tray in his lap. "If I'm being a burden–"
She leaned against one of the wooden pillars, arms crossed over her chest, and let a wry smirk tug at her lips. "If? You flatter yourself."
He gave her a look. "I hadn't exactly planned on invading on your hospitality when I got shot," he said drolly.
Cana snorted. "You planning on robbing me blind before you go?" She bit down to keep the following question – asking if he was planning on going – from slipping off her tongue.
His severe frown lightened a little at that, and he cast a glance towards the pitchfork propped against the wall beside him. "I don't think I'd get far," he retorted dryly, and Cana felt her grin widen.
"Good boy," she said, giving her mare a soft pat before striding over to where he was sitting. "I can feed one more mouth, you know. Just thought I'd let you know I was going, in case you got lonely." She flicked her gaze in his direction, judging for a reaction. But other than the soft quirk of a brow at her implication, there wasn't much to take from his otherwise stoic expression, and she didn't know why that disappointed her.
But oh, he was handsome. There's wasn't much denying that. She'd always had a keen eye for the village boys growing up – a trait her mother had once jokingly told her belonged to her father, but this was something else. Hell, the man himself was something else – a far cry from dirty country farmhands, that was for sure. And it wasn't all due to the pale corn-coloured hair that seemed to have a life of its own, now that it had grown a few inches past the rigid military-look he'd worn when she'd first found him.
Well, it wasn't entirely due to the hair...
"See anything interesting, signora?"
She didn't bother averting her gaze – she'd never been one for being bashful, bless her late madre's worried heart. "Maybe I do. What's it to you?"
He met her gaze squarely, and she could swear she saw amusement flicker in his usually serious gaze. "Should I be worried?"
She barked a laugh at that. "Oh, most definitely. Haven't you heard what they say about spinsters living alone in the countryside?" For all her wry humour, a trace of bitterness slipped out, but she tried to keep her smirk in place. If anything, she was good at keeping up a front.
Despite her attempts, though, her words earned her a raised brow – but not for the reason she'd assumed. "Spinster?"
She wished she'd had the foresight to omit that piece of information, now that she had to actually explain the damn thing. She sighed, "British word – my mamma used to call herself that, said she'd heard it from my old man. It's a term for an unmarried woman past her prime."
That made him snort for some reason. "And you're past your prime, are you?"
She couldn't hide a grin at that. Damn charmer. "It's not usually the woman's place to determine what our prime is. But I've heard similar words muttered in the village." She shrugged. "I guess every place needs its outcasts."
"I'd hardly have pegged you as one."
She shot him a wry look. "Oh no? So the fact that there hasn't been anyone but me around for the past month made you conclude...what? Only goats come knocking in these parts, Blondie."
He shrugged, unapologetic despite the snap in her tone. "You're a beautiful woman. Wouldn't have been surprised if there'd been men running down the doors of this place."
No, just the one, she thought wryly, remembering the night she'd found him bleeding out in her stable. "It's a small village," she said instead. "Most of the men my age are already married, or off ambling in the shadow of the Il Duce," she snorted. "And most of them think I'm a witch, anyways."
That got her a laugh. "Ah."
She glared, but her heart wasn't entirely in it. "What? You second their opinion?"
He shrugged. "You did a good job patching me up, despite everything. Even kept my eyesight." The glimmer in his eyes betrayed his attempted severity, and his mouth quirked up at the corners. "I don't know what to think, although maybe I should be happy you haven't tried to eat me yet."
She grinned. "Don't get too comfortable," she retorted with a wink. "You got any legends like that in your country?"
He hummed under his breath, leaning his head back against the wall. "Da," he said, a strangely playful smile stretching across his face as he met her gaze. He often slipped into his own tongue when she asked about his homeland, and she liked how the words sounded in his voice. More fitting than her own language, anyway.
She wondered idly if it was very hard to learn...
"But you're no Babá Yagá," he said then, effectively dragging her out of her musings, humour glinting in his eyes as though privy to some information that she was not. Tilting his head to the side, his eyes flickered across her features. "Maybe a Vasilísa."
Cana raised a brow, her curiosity piqued. "And these two are witches, I take it?"
He smirked. "Only the first, but you're not old and gnarled, so I'd say I'm safe."
"And the second?"
He shrugged. "A very beautiful woman. There's several stories about her abilities, but most agree on that part."
Cana snorted despite herself, and tried not to latch on to the fact that he had, inadvertently, called her beautiful twice since she'd come inside. It wasn't something new – she knew she had good looks. It was determining what he was attempting to do with the flattery that was difficult.
"Sounds like a princess," she said then, tilting her head back. "And there ain't no princesses in these parts, as far as I know. So yes, I think you're safe."
He hummed, the sound a low thrum under his breath. "Oh, I don't know about that."
She frowned at that. "You still think I'm going to hand you over after this?"
He met her eyes, and she was momentarily struck by the serious expression on his face. "That wasn't what I was talking about."
She felt it then – the sense of teetering on the edge, like the world before the war had finally broken out. A hairsbreadth away from the precipice, where a single remark could tip you over. She met his gaze, and felt the full weight of the consequences riddling the path before her, like a vice clamping down around her windpipe. A stray memory drove the thought home – the image of her mother, alone in the last years of her sickness, and resolutely waiting for a man who never came.
"Just a little while longer, cuore mio. He'll be back – you'll see. He said he'd be back."
Beside them, her mare neighed, and it broke the spell like glass cracking under pressure, and Cana all but shot to her feet. If her sudden movement surprised him, he didn't show any outwards signs, but she didn't stick around long to read his expression. "I should get going while I've still got light," she said over her shoulder, as she made for the stable entrance, her mother's words running through her head like a warning, pushing her forward and away from the dark gaze she could feel at her back like the firm press of a hand.
Outside, the warm breeze brushed against her cheeks, and she drew a starved breath as she made for the house. It had been well over ten years since her madre had died, and over two decades since her old man had left in the first place. She'd never met him herself – had only heard about him through her mother, and despite the devotion her beloved mamma had shown every day until her last, Cana could not find the same affection in her heart for a man who'd left and never come back. And even long after she'd passed away, there'd been no charming Englishman at her door, inquiring about her mother.
Closing the door behind her, she leaned her weight against it, closing her eyes as she ran a hand down her cheeks, flushed from anger or something else, she couldn't tell. She didn't know what to do with it all. The man in her stable – Alexei – who, despite the month he'd spent in her company had yet to give her his real name. Who watched her when he didn't think she was aware, whose remarks had long balanced precariously on the border of suggestive and who'd just moments ago crossed it altogether.
And she didn't know what to make of any of it. Banter, she could handle – had dealt with it her entire life. Suggestive remarks weren't much different, and she usually deflected them with practised ease.
But the goddamned sincerity on his scarred face when he'd looked at her in the stable earlier...
With a sigh, Cana pushed away from the door, and went to collect her basket. She'd been telling the truth when she'd told him she needed to make use of the light while the sun was still up. And hell, maybe a long walk was just what she needed to clear her head.
With a soft scoff, she made for the slope heading down into the valley, pointedly not looking towards the stable sitting innocently on the other side of her property. 'Beautiful', my left foot. Going to need to walk all the way to Rome at this rate, Soviet bastard!
It was dark by the time she got back, and though she couldn't see the light in the stable, she knew he'd be awake. He didn't sleep much, she'd learned that weeks ago. She'd kept him company some nights, talking, or listening to the radio she brought by sometimes – to keep him connected with the outside world, and the war.
She hadn't been able to pick up much in the village, other than speculations. Many were optimistic the country would benefit well at the end of the war, that the Il Duce would make them the rulers they once had been. She rarely listened to that kind of talk, but had kept an ear out for any rumours about a missing Soviet spy. From what she'd gathered – and the little he'd been willing to share – he'd made quite a mess impersonating a German infiltrator, and had taken down a whole group during his escape. She'd heard murmurs about it in the village, but there hadn't come any soldiers knocking on her door looking for him.
She still didn't know if that was a good thing, and so she made frequent stops in the village, to see if there was any news. She didn't for a second think they'd just let him get away, but perhaps the shame was enough to make them keep it under wraps, at least for the moment. Or maybe they really thought he was dead. She contemplated going in to tell him the news she had heard, but the look on his face as she'd all but run out with her tail between her legs earlier had her stopping. She wasn't a coward, and it wasn't the first time she'd been in this predicament. But for some reason, playing it off with a smile was so much harder now than when it was one of the village boys.
With a grumble she made for the house, determined to ignore the whole matter and just go to bed, because with the ire skittering across her skin it was difficult to keep a level head around the man, and she didn't think barging into the stable in her current state of mental unrest was going to do her any favours.
So with her basket tucked below her arm she crossed the tiled path lining the way to the front door, so caught up in her thoughts she'd made it halfway into the kitchen before she realised she wasn't alone.
A colourful string of curses accompanied the basket as it sailed towards the shape stepping out of the darkness, and she'd been about to make a run for her cooking knives when the familiar, guttural expletive she'd heard on a similar occasion sprang up from the shadows. With a flick of the nearest lamp, light flared up, and she almost threw a fit when her suspicions were confirmed.
"You thrice-damned Russian bastard! What in Dante's ninth circle of hell are you doing in my house?!" She made a move towards him, heart still lodged in her throat and ready to bash him senseless with the lamp in her hand, but he ducked out of the way in time.
"Goddamnit– would you calm down for a second and hear me out?"
Cana glared, and pointed the lamp menacingly. "Tell me why you're not in the stable where I left you and I might consider calming down!" she snapped.
Seeing that she wasn't about to throw anything else at him, the soldier placed the now empty basket down on the table by his side, carefully as though not to startle a skittish mare. The contents littered the floor at their feet, but he made no move to pick them up, no doubt in case she'd pounce on him first chance she got.
He sighed. "Cana–"
She held up a hand. "That better be the truth coming out of your mouth, or so help me–"
He cut her off, surprising her, "If you'd let me finish a sentence, I might get to the damn point."
She pressed her lips shut, but said nothing. She was still reeling from the surprise, and part of her – the part that had lived a lonely life and was inherently suspicious – made itself prominent by settling like a lump beneath her ribcage.
When he saw she'd calmed down enough to his liking, he spoke. "You had visitors while you were gone."
She frowned. "What?"
He shrugged, probably no more wiser than her. "I heard voices. Men, three from what I could tell. They were looking for you." She wondered if the sudden flicker of something dark in his eyes was her imagination, or a trick of the lights. But before she could follow that line of thought the implication behind his words struck her, and her heart leapt into her throat again.
"Did they–?"
He threw a wry glance at the interior of the house. "Climbed out the hatch in the back when I heard them come to check the stable. Figured this was the best place to hide," he said, shooting her a droll look. "If I'd known you'd react like that, I'd have let them find me."
Cana rolled her eyes, as she bent down to pick up the discarded goods. "You just be glad I didn't reach my knives in time."
He followed her example, bending down to pick up the groceries, and she tried not to flinch at the sudden proximity. The fact that he seemed entirely unaffected left her both miffed and a little disappointed. Her fingers bumped against his as they reached for a wrapped parcel at the same time, and she snatched it back so fast she almost toppled backwards. He didn't offer any smart remark, however, but his brow quirked upwards in obvious amusement.
"I thought you said you didn't have men knocking down your doors," he said then, after an awkward lull, and if she hadn't spent a month in his company she was sure she wouldn't have heard how laden that question actually was. And she didn't know whether to be annoyed or touched that he was in any way concerned about the men occasionally seeking her out.
She shrugged. "I'm an unmarried woman living by herself. Some come by sometimes because they've made some bet and are convinced that they'll finally win me over." Her hands tightened around the handle of the basket. "Others come by because they think I'm easy prey, but then they're also usually drunk out of their minds." A wry smirk tugged at her lips. "I'm sorry to say you're not my first pitchfork-victim."
He didn't snort, and when she looked up his brows were furrowed sharply, making the scar running down the length of his face stand out viciously in the dim lamplight.
Something roiled within her, and for a moment she was more than certain of what exactly it was she thought about the man crouched in front of her. Of course, the inappropriateness of the realisation didn't escape her, but damn it all what was he expecting looking at her like that?
"This happen often?"
There was that feeling of teetering again, and she was aware that she'd been holding her breath for some time. "No," she said, after another lull, the word escaping her in a breath. "Not very often."
He looked at her then – really looked at her, and for a moment she wondered if interrogation was part of his job, because under the dim lamplight she felt like the control she'd kept such a tight grip on this past month was slipping between her fingers. And suddenly she was very much aware of the fact that if he'd made it out the latch at the back of her stable and into her house, and hadn't even broken a sweat, he was in well enough shape that even armed with her pitchfork, she wouldn't stand a chance.
Seemingly sensing her sudden apprehension, he relaxed somewhat, and looked down towards the scattered groceries. "You don't need to look so suspicious," he said then. "I'm not that kind of man." He raised his gaze again, meeting hers, and suddenly she felt strangely embarrassed for having even considered the thought. And after the embarrassment had settled, another feeling twice as violent manifested itself, and she felt the heat rise in her cheeks despite the night chill that drifted in from the kitchen window.
A laden moment passed under his scrutiny, and then another, until she was quite sure she was going to go mad from the sheer anticipation, and when he finally moved–
–it was to lower his gaze, before plucking the last parcel from the floor to place on the table above him. "There. That's the last–"
"Oh, you've got to be shitting me!" she blurted suddenly, but before he could open his mouth to ask what she was talking about, Cana made a grab for the front of his shirt, and yanked–
"The hell does it take for a girl to get kissed around here?!" she snapped–
–and quite promptly pressed her mouth to his.
He made a noise of surprise that was quickly muffled by her sudden assault, but she curled her fingers around his jaw, tugging him closer in one smooth motion. She'd never had to make a move herself to get a simple kiss before, which either said something about his sense of propriety, or that he just wasn't interested.
Strong hands reached into the mass of her hair, cradling the back of her head, and the latter thought flew quite thoroughly out of her mind, along with any indignation she'd harboured of having to work for a kiss because damn if this wasn't worth waiting for.
She wondered briefly where a man who, for a intents and purposes, seemed to have been raised in the damn military had learned to kiss like she was being kissed – the knee-weakening type of kiss that went straight to the pit of your stomach faster than a shot of strong alcohol. The hands in her hair wasn't a bad thing either, and the fingers trailing along her scalp had a throaty noise she wasn't entirely in control of slip out into the silence of the kitchen.
He chuckled against her, and she felt a spark of sudden indignation that she seemed to be surrendering what little control she'd gained. Placing a hand on his chest, she pressed, breaking the kiss to stare him down. "Hey," she breathed – annoyed that she sounded more winded than angry. "You don't just–" she stopped herself, and took a deep breath. "What was that?"
He raised a blonde brow in question. "That...was you kissing me?"
Cana glared. "U-huh, no. That was you kissing me, after I kissed you. You can't just withhold kissing a girl and then just decide to take control!"
He blinked. "I wasn't withholding any kisses, I just didn't think you'd want them," he said.
It was her turn to raise a brow, although she knew how weak her argument was. But the part of her unused of being in control – the one that had let her put her trust in him despite what her common sense had told her – reeled at the implication of being at anyone's mercy. Even with something as banal as kissing.
"And what gave you that impression?" she asked.
He raised a disbelieving brow. "I'm the enemy, as you keep reminding me."
"Yet you're still alive," she countered.
"Which isn't a valid reason for thinking you might want anything else but simple gratitude," he pointed out, giving her a look.
Cana puffed out an angry breath. "Are you enjoying this?"
He had the grace to keep from grinning, although she wondered how much effort it took. "What?"
"Making me squirm?" she asked. "You can't have–" she drew a controlled breath. "You can't have been ignorant to what you've been doing."
He sighed. "I didn't say that, but it wasn't my intention to make you squirm," he said, meeting her gaze. "And I didn't intend to feel–" he stopped himself, "this way," he confessed, and her brows raised at the sincerity – and the awkwardness – with which he spoke.
And for once, she didn't have a snappy comeback at hand.
He quirked a smile at her silence. "Speechless? What do you know."
That snapped her out of it. "Don't flatter yourself."
His smile widened. "You know, I just might, this time."
When she didn't return the smile, he reached out, and she flinched when his fingers curled around one of her fists. "Cana–"
"Tell me your name."
He blinked. "What?"
She met his gaze squarely with her own. "If you're serious, and you haven't been leading me on knowingly...be honest with me. Tell me your name. Your real name, and not just this 'Alexei' bullshit you've been trying to sell," she said, squaring her shoulders.
"Laxus," he said then, without hesitating. "Laxus Dreyar."
Her eyes widened suddenly. "You–"
He sighed. "Yes."
"Dreyar?"
"Yes."
"As in Ivan Dreyar?"
He didn't bother to respond to that, but simply looked at her, and for the second time in the last five minutes, Cana had no words to respond with.
When the silence bordered on the uncomfortable, he finally sighed. "This is amongst the many reasons I neglected to tell you, you know. My old man..." he trailed off. "I know what the papers in Germany says about him...my father. And...I figured the Italian ones couldn't be painting a better picture." He snorted, and muttered, "Probably worse."
"So, what, you thought I'd kick you out? Even after I went through the trouble to patch you up despite knowing you were a Soviet spy?" she asked.
He shrugged. "I wasn't about to take the chance if I could avoid it."
Cana scoffed. "So your old man's a twisted bastard. I've known you long enough not to judge you for his actions."
He gave her a look. "But you don't know enough about my actions to judge me for them," he pointed out.
Cana shrugged. "I don't need to know."
He sighed. "Cana–"
"No," she said, cutting him off. "You don't get to hide your identity and then tell me off for not caring when you finally come clean. Nu-uh. It's up to me. And I don't care."
"A minute ago you wanted to tear into me for leading you on, but now you don't care about what kind of man I am?" he asked, a note of incredulity slipping into his tone.
She was silent a moment, before speaking. "You were honest," she said. "I wasn't asking for more. I wanted honesty, not just about your name..." she trailed off. "I don't appreciate being toyed with."
"You weren't. I wasn't toying with you, I was refraining from doing something I didn't think you'd want."
She shook her head at that. "You can't have been that oblivious."
He raised a brow. "Says the woman who couldn't tell that I've been wanting to push her up against the wall since the moment she first aimed a pitchfork at me."
Cana raised a brow at that. "You thought about that in the state you were in at the time?"
Laxus shrugged. "You made an impression."
Cana blinked. "Well, damn." A sly grin stretched across her face. "You're not the prude I thought you were."
"You thought I was a prude?"
She shrugged. "Most men in your position would have taken advantage."
"So showing respect makes me a prude?" he asked.
Cana smirked. "Touchy subject, Blondie? Well, well."
He glared, but there was no ill intent behind it, and he rose to his feet, holding his hand out to help her up. Cana looked at it a moment, surprised, before accepting it. "You're...better," she said then, as she let her hand drop to her side. Not long ago he'd had a hard time sitting up without pain, and he'd just hoisted her to her feet like it was nothing.
He looked down at his midsection, gingerly touching the area she'd bandaged so meticulously. "I've regained some strength, but I'm not in top shape yet," he admitted, raising his gaze back to hers. "A week or so and I'll be good to go. It's not safe for me to stay here much longer – just think about what would have happened if they'd found me? If they don't get me, my own people will, and my old man won't be half as forgiving as Mussolini," he explained, and if not for the severity in his words – and the fact that she now knew who his father was – she would have thought the last admission a humorous exaggeration.
Her stomach dropped at the implication, and from the furrow of his brows she hadn't hid her reaction well enough. "Hey–"
She held a hand up. "Ah, no. It's...good, that you're better. I'd just–" forgotten you would have to leave one day, were the words she didn't say. Damn.
He looked at her then, hard eyes strangely unreadable in the dim light, and she squirmed, wondering if she'd said something wrong when he suddenly opened his mouth,
"Come with me."
She blinked. "'Scuse me?"
His expression was dead-serious as he spoke. "I said come with me."
Cana shook her head. "Are you–" she stopped, then blinked. "You're serious."
"I wouldn't suggest it if I wasn't."
She opened her mouth, then closed it. "But...where would we go?" was the only thing she seemed to be able to think about asking.
He ran a hand through his hair, and she could tell he was thinking on his feet. "Somewhere the war hasn't touched yet," he said then.
"And where's that? The moon?" she barked a bitter laugh.
Laxus shook his head. "No need to go that far. I was thinking maybe South-America. My dedushka has a place there – escaped when Russia went to hell."
She shook her head again. "I can't believe you're asking this. You can't be serious."
"I am," he emphasised. "I can't stay here; I'm a danger to both of us this way, but I'm not leaving you if I can help it."
She ran a hand through her hair, wondering how it had gone from kissing to this. "But...why?" He barely knew her, and now he was asking her to run away with him?
His expression softened then, and he turned his gaze to the scenery outside the window. When he spoke, it was with a bitter undertone to his words. "Since I was a kid I've had this...plan I've been meant to follow. My old man's had this image of what he's wanted me to become – this...embellished war hero," he said the word with a grimace. He looked at her. "You were unexpected. You weren't part of the plan, and you're the best damn thing that's happened to me in this thrice-cursed war." Her heart leapt at the admission, and she felt her cheeks colour despite herself.
He sighed, and then there were hands grasping her arms, "And I'll be damned if I leave you here when I don't even know if I'll make it back. If my country invades..." He trailed off, but he didn't have to elaborate; she knew enough about the casualties of warfare from the papers to paint herself a pretty picture. His stare was hard, boring into hers with a ferocity she'd thought him just a little too aloof for, and for a startling moment she wondered if her father had ever asked the same of her mother. Had she had the choice to go with him to England? Her madre's love for her country had been no secret to Cana, but was that the reason she'd stayed behind?
And suddenly all she could think about was her mother sitting in the window-sill, wasting away from the disease her old man hadn't even know about, hoping beyond all hope that he'd find his way back before she passed.
And she looked at the man before her, and pictured a scenario in which he didn't make it back. In which he left, and that was all she ever saw of him. And she marvelled at how she had let herself fall so damn hard.
She drew a breath, then released it. "Okay."
His eyes widened. "Okay?"
She nodded, mostly because she needed to convince herself. "Yeah. I'll come with you."
His grip on her arms relaxed, and he looked at her – really looked, almost as if seeing her clearly for the first time. Cana's brow furrowed, and she opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off by his hands cupping her jaw, drawing her in for another kiss.
It wasn't thefire-rolling-over-a-cover-of-oil that the last one had been, but an insistent sincerity that seemed to reach to the very roots of her hair. And for never having been one to be easily sweeped off her feet, Cana wondered if perhaps this was what it felt like.
When he pulled back there was a severity in his gaze that made the hairs at the back of her neck stand on end, and – as so often when faced with a situation where she felt out of control – she resorted to humour. "Do you always look so grave after you kiss a girl?"
And just like that the tension snapped, and his mouth curled into a smile. "Only the very pretty ones."
She snorted. "Smooth."
"I've been known to be," he deadpanned.
She barked a laugh. "I find that about as unlikely as you do, I think."
He chuckled, and then he surprised her by reaching out to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. She blinked, and swallowed. "What was that for?"
He shrugged. "Something I've been wanting to do for a while."
She raised a brow. "There's quite a few things you've had on your mind, from what you're telling me."
He gave her a wry look. "Being stuck with a mare or company for most of the day gives one a lot of time to think," he admitted.
She looked at him then, eyes searching his face. "You thought about asking me to come along, or was that just an impulse you got because I'm such a good kisser?" It was phrased jokingly enough, but there was a seriousness to the question she couldn't have hid if she'd tried.
He met her gaze squarely with his own, and answered without a thought, "I'd entertained staying, not leaving. I wasn't even sure you were interested, which made thinking about asking you to come along a bit of a long shot."
His honesty was surprising, and – from what she was used to – oddly refreshing. She blinked, and then answered, "Okay."
He raised a brow. "Okay? Just like that?"
She snorted. "What d'ya take me for?" she asked, with a shake of her head. "I just needed to check."
"I'm serious about the offer," he said then. "If that's what you're thinking."
She tried not to avert her gaze, but it was difficult the way he was looking at her like that. Crossing her arms over her chest, she tried to gather her usual confidence enough to not let her uncertainties slip through. "It's a pretty bold offer."
He smirked. "You're a pretty bold woman."
"That a compliment or an insult?"
He grinned. "Both."
She glared. "Don't push your luck, now. I can always take my answer back. Hell, I don't even have a passport – how are you planning on getting me out of here, anyway?"
He raised a brow. "I'm a trained infiltrator and you think I can't get you a fake passport?"
She snorted. "Been waiting long to use that line on a woman?" But there was good humour glittering in her eyes, and if she focused on keeping the mood light she wouldn't have to think about all the things that could go wrong with this fragile plan. But despite her best efforts, some of her uncertainty found its way through the cracks, and from the look on his face, she wasn't close to fooling him. He didn't say anything, but waited for her to voice her concerns.
After a tense lull, Cana sighed. "What if it all goes to hell?"
He shrugged. "The world's already gone to hell. This is a ticket out."
She chewed on her bottom lip. "And your old man?"
"Doesn't know I'm alive," he answered. "And believe me when I say he won't come looking; issuing a search would mean I'd failed and was still alive, and there's no coming back from that kind of shame. Not in our family, anyway."
Cana blinked, then shook her head. "Fucking crazy Russians."
A bitter laugh answered her aside. "You don't know half of it."
She looked up at him, thinking hard about her next question before asking. "How are you planning on pulling this off, exactly?"
He smiled at that. "I've got friends who'll help."
"Friends?" She didn't care if she sounded dubious; that was the vaguest damned answer she'd ever heard.
He sighed. "I can't say much more than that, but yes, friends. An old team of mine from before the war."
Cana raised a brow. "I'm guessing you're not referring to a sports team."
"Not quite."
She pursed her lips. "Fine, I'll bite. So they'll come get us. And then what?"
He fell silent then, and Cana frowned. "What?"
"They'll come get you," he said then. "I have to go ahead to make arrangements."
Her nose wrinkled with disbelief. "So, wait, you're telling me to just wait around until you send your amici to pick me up like excess luggage?" She bristled at the thought. "Hell no–"
"Do you trust me?"
Her next remark fell dead on her tongue, and she closed her mouth with an audible snap. There was a world of expectations in that question; like a pit plummeting down before her, and no knowledge of what awaited at the bottom. She thought back to the month that had passed in his company, the unlikely companionship that had developed into something else, something more, and she thought about what it would be like if she never saw him again.
And once again the vision of her mother drifted before her eyes, and she answered without another thought, "Yes."
He nodded. "Then trust me to get us out of this war."
She sighed. "That's a pretty big promise," she said, but there was a new resolve behind her words, because though wary, she wasn't about to just give up before she'd even tried. And so she pushed down her concerns, about the future, and about leaving the safety of her solitary life for the world outside, ravaged by the war that was slowly tearing it apart. She didn't share her mother's devotion to her country, but she couldn't escape the fact that it was all she'd ever known. The gently sloping hills were her home – had been her home for as long as she could remember. She couldn't even picture what Rome looked like; South-America might well be the moon where she was concerned.
"And I stand by it," he said then, and she regarded him, this worldly creature come to draw her out of hiding. And Cana found that if she didn't yet believe it would work out, she wanted it to. South-America or the moon, it made little difference, because all she could think about were lazy days spent learning Russian, and hearing him tell stories of his homeland until she knew them as well as her own. A life away from persecution and warfare and without abstract concepts like sworn enemies and treason, and where they wouldn't have to keep to the shadows because the world deemed their union a betrayal.
"Alright," she said then, with a firm nod. "I'll take your word for it. So," she went to sit down beside the kitchen table, crossing her arms over her chest and pushing her apprehension to the back of her mind as she drew conviction around herself like a cloak. Her own uniform in this war she'd become part of.
"Run that plan of yours by me again?"
Two weeks later he was set to leave, and Cana wondered idly where the days had gone.
She watched him silently from where he was fastening the straps on the rucksack she'd prepared, holding enough supplies to get him to the nearest town, or longer if he ate sparingly. She watched the tension in his back beneath the simple shirt she'd procured; no longer dressed in uniform, he looked like another man. No longer the rigid soldier-boy that had come barging into her life, and she saw the subtle changes in his demeanour, a practised façade to fool the untrained eye, and that gave her an inkling of what a damn good spy he must have been.
"That's the last of it."
She hadn't realized how much she'd drifted into her own mind before his voice drew her back out, and she blinked as he turned around to face her, rucksack slung over his shoulder. In the early morning light his scar didn't look as severe, and his hair fell softly into his eyes, making him look more boyish than the rigid military cut had.
She rose from her seat, her movements deliberate, every breath like savouring the last taste of a rich single malt, "Yeah, you better get going if you're going to make use of the light," she said, and her voice sounded mechanical to her own ears.
His expression softened, but he didn't push the matter – they'd discussed it enough in the past two weeks so that she knew it by heart; she didn't need more assurances. Either he would make it out of the country, or he wouldn't. All she could do in the mean time was wait.
Like her mamma, a wry thought lurked at the back of her mind. Oh, the sweet irony of life.
He made for the front door, and she followed him with her gaze, eyes tracing the strong lines of his shoulders as he ducked outside and into the crisp morning air. She tried to ignore the signs of his presence as she passed them by – his old uniform slung over the banister, two unwashed cups by the sink. Her copy of Dante sitting innocently on the kitchen table, open where he'd left off. Signs of two weeks of a gentle domesticity she already felt like a phantom war-wound.
When she came outside, he was waiting for her, and she noted idly how bright is hair looked in the sunlight – golden corn-silk, or some other equally embarrassing metaphor worthy of her mother's trashy English romance novels that she'd squirrelled away throughout her adolescence. Drawing a breath, she met his gaze with her own, squaring her shoulders as she approached him; a soldier in her own right. Because oh, she refused to cry like some damn war-widow.
He didn't draw her near the way it was always described in the novels, pulling her close for a last kiss to take with him on the journey. No, he did something infinitely worse, reaching out for her hand to press his lips against her knuckles – a gesture so startlingly unexpected tears sprang, unbidden, to her eyes before she could stop them. Damn it.
A fond smile curled along his lips, before he reached out to tuck her hair behind her ear. "Keep an eye out."
She stubbornly refused to wipe at her eyes, and nodded burlesquely. "Yeah. Three crackpots coming forth to carry me home." She pursed her lips. "They better be as good as you say."
He smirked. "There's no one better."
She nodded. "Alright, then...I..." she stopped herself. Oh, fuck this.
One stride and her hands were on the loose collar of his shirt, tugging him down and pressing her mouth to his, the action more forceful than she'd intended and carrying none of the grace that was expected of her in situations like these. But she didn't really give a damn about expectations, and when she drew back it was with a growl that concealed the foreign grief that bubbled just beneath the surface. "I better damn well see you again, Soviet boy."
He smirked. "Yes, ma'am."
She snorted as she released his shirt. "Don't be cheeky, or I might just keep you here. Wicked witch and whatnot."
"The way you're tempting me leaves me wondering," he mused, brushing coarse fingers along the side of her jaw, before leaning forward to rest his brow against hers, and it was a farewell if she'd ever felt one; a stark reality, putting cracks in the dream-like existence she'd lived for the past two months. "Do svidaniya, Cana Alberona," the words brushed against her ear, and then he was pulling away, drawing out of her life of simple country solitude with a deliberateness that contradicted the brutal way in which he'd come bursting in.
And as the sun made its slow crawl upward into the sky Cana watched the shape disappear down the sloping valley, before vanishing amongst the thick line of trees dotting the landscape in the distance. Behind her lay her home, innocent in the glow of daylight but keeping secrets like old ghosts; the knowledge of two empty cups beside the sink. A uniform on the banister. Dante open on the kitchen table.
And she wondered idly, as the sun dipped down from its highest peak and she finally made her way back inside, not even glancing towards the silent stable, that despite her best efforts at avoiding her mother's mistakes, she had willingly condemned herself to the same fate. And so she set about cleaning the cups, putting them back into the cupboard before she packed the uniform away in the bottom of one of her drawers, out of sight and out of mind until the house was hers again. Hers and her mamma's ghost's.
But she wasn't her mother, and Laxus Dreyar most certainly wasn't her father, and so she deliberately marked the open page in Dante where he'd left off, and left it on the table – a subtle reminder in her house of wandering spirits, to keep her company in the months to come.
AN: Three guesses as to who Laxus sends to get her. This part was solely Laxus/Cana-centric, but the next one will feature a whole bunch of cameos, so stay tuned!
Italian
made/mamma: mother
coure mio: my heart
amici: friends
Russian
spasibo: thank you
dedushka: grandpa
do svidaniya: until we meet (again)
