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The following work of fiction contains graphic homosexual interaction, violence and non-consensual sex. With this work of fiction the authors do not condone in any way any form of intolerance and injustice, e.g. racism, sexual harassment, incitement of hatred, religious hatred nor persecution, xenophobia and misogyny. Neither do the authors through this work of fiction promote violence nor make light of such grave matters as genocide, any taking of human life, murder, execution, rape, torture, persecution of sexual orientation.

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July 1991, The Persian Gulf

The heat outside was nothing compared to the hell inside the armoured vehicle. Dan was drenched in sweat, his body armour soaked and the shirt underneath dark with dampness. He could feel sweat run in rivulets beneath the helmet and his hands kept slipping off the rifle. Ironic that he should look forward to stepping into the blinding light of stifling heat under the merciless sun of Iraq's desert. Anything was better than the inside of a moving tin can.

Dan got himself out of the vehicle, head down, rifle in his right, the left fiddling with the helmet strap. The relief of taking it off was unlike anything, except for the joy, perhaps, of getting sweaty feet out of heavy boots. He lifted his head, slicked the sweat drenched hair out of his face, and looked around the open space in front of the huts. One of which had become his 'home'.

Squinting his eyes against the sun, he tried to make out a figure that seemed unfamiliar in these surroundings. Knowing all the regular guys by now, this could be a new addition. Whatever. He'd find out soon enough if the new guy was good for a fight - or a fuck. It was far more important to get the armour unbuckled. He'd probably lost a pound or two underneath from sweating like a pig.

The vehicle was moving off, creating a cloud of dust that seemed to swallow Dan whole for a moment, but he was too used to this yellow-red shit to bother. It only pissed him off when he had to pick the sand out of his jap's eye. He had finally opened the straps and groaned in something akin to ecstasy when the plates fell open across his chest.

Catching the silhouette of the man out of his eye again, he wondered. The guy was still standing just like before, hadn't moved. Was staring right across the open space. Watching, it seemed, Dan could feel the gaze in his guts and between his eyes. He sighed. Alright, alpha male games? He could play them blindfolded and he'd never lost the game. Not here, not in this camp of soldiers and insane fuckers - formerly authorized killers who couldn't fit into society anymore. Close security, what fun. Better than sectioning the no-longer sanctioned ones. Dan lifted one hand to shield his eyes, using the helmet for shadow and froze.

Tall. Broad. Short-shaved blond. Arms crossed on a massive chest. Legs apart.

Fuck.

Dan knew how pale the eyes were; remembered the taste of skin and flesh, had touched every single inch of that body. Knew pain and fear, hurt and tears; remembered utter desolation, a feeling so empty and lost, he needed danger, pub fights, deadly battle and bloodied fists to anaesthetise the agony.

He dropped his hands, rifle in one, helmet in another, and body armour gaping open. Began to walk, a straight line towards the man who stood like a stature. Dan's dusty boots disturbed red clouds with every step, until he stopped in front of the man he had not seen for months. Nearly half a year. Not believed to ever encounter again. Who had vanished without a word and elusive to be traced.

He stood, one step apart.

Two men, same height.

"You fucking cunt!"

Dan's voice cut through the entire camp, carrying danger.

You fucking cunt.

Vadim was too surprised even to recoil. They had told him McFadyen's patrol was due any minute, and he'd get picked up by his team leader, who would just about return at the same time. He had passed the time watching the comings and goings, working in his mind on what he wanted to say, while adjusting to the blistering heat as much as he could, drinking two bottles of water while waiting. He'd wanted to offer friendship, ask for forgiveness, explain himself. It was not much different than meeting up after months in Afghanistan. There was enough understanding, enough knowledge, enough … closeness, to bridge the time. They had done that so often, for so long.

Why then was that thing Dan called him now a punch to the guts? He'd expected anger, had expected to see Dan, but hadn't expected that word. What it was meant to mean, and what it hadn't, when they had been close. Closer than this. Vadim's shoulders tensed, lips grew hard, jaw tightened, and fists formed. He locked his body in place to not give a quarter.

Dan, covered in red dust, bristling with anger. It was really him. Surprise, and a familiarity, a feeling of recognizing, of knowing this man, and now not knowing him at all. Like he'd misread him all the time, like this man had changed so much that there was no knowing left, no memories, only the bad stuff, the stuff when they had been enemies. And that was something he hadn't been prepared for, didn't know how to take it, default response was a show of fighting spirit, like he had always defaulted to that when challenged. He had to stand his ground or everybody would walk all over him. No man could take that word without being laughed at, no way he could accept that. Couldn't. He met Dan's eyes, could feel the other's breath on his face, facing off a tiger. Knew he had lost all momentum, couldn't build it up now for a counter attack, and thought what attack? This is Dan?

Other soldiers drew close, drawn like flies to sweat, and Vadim did what he could: stare right into those dark eyes, encrusted with dirt, and refuse to budge. Refused to move a single muscle, in anger, or in defeat. I can't answer that question. I can't move. I can't speak.

Dan's lips bared his teeth in a snarl. Outraged, out of his mind with fury, all senses set on one goal only: kill.

"How dare you." Dan's arm raised by instinct. Rifle moving, shifting, lifting, aiming without bothering to aim.

Vadim just stared at the rifle, could almost feel the butt impact, or, irony of ironies, could see himself stare down a darkness that not even the Lubyanka had been able to emulate. Shot down like a dog. Could do nothing but face it, hadn't been issued his weapons yet.

The safety was still off and Dan's hand re-gripped the weapon. Some of the guys who were starting to gather round Mad Dog and that weird looking newcomer, belonged to Dan's team. One of them dared to walk up to him, uttering a few quiet words and not only taking Dan's helmet but prying the rifle out of his hand.

Dan let go. Too intent on the fucking bastard and the blinding wave of memory, hurt and pain that crashed upon him. It all came back, within one second.

"How fucking dare you!" Dan snarled, empty hands in fists.

Vadim snarled right back. "What? This your private property? You fucking walked into my war, now I fucking walk into yours."

"Wrong, bastard. It's our war. Yours. Mine. It has never ended, just that you walked out of it without a word, to leave me to rot, you fucking piece of Russian shit." Dan spit out the next words, "you fucking cowardly cunt!"

Dan was losing it, he'd never felt so much rage, not even in the aftermath of the rape. A lifetime ago. The agony had been less, then. Less shattered, less broken. He had survived more intact than now.

Not the man. Not the man he'd held. Vadim was stunned underneath the anger, found it near impossible to keep that stoic façade together, and he moved forward, to go chest to chest. Maybe invite those punches, allow Dan to vent that anger, have a fight, and maybe talk later? When Dan was too tired to be this angry? When he was more rational? He felt a movement behind him and strong hands grabbing his arms, and a voice. "Don't. He's not worth it. Don't want to spend your first days here in the brig, do you?"

"Not fucking worth it?" The roar that broke out of Dan's chest was enough to get a couple of his team mates alerted to drop the suspense of a proper fist fight, and to rush forward, one on each of his side. "Eleven fucking years not fucking worth it? I'm going to fucking kill you, Legionnaire, when I'm done with that Russian cunt!" Dan was about to throw himself against Vadim, this time no holds barred and death and destruction blazing from his eyes, when the two guys grabbed each one arm. They had to struggle to hold him back.

"Get Mad Dog out of the fucking way. Guy needs a shower. Cold."

Vadim was pulled back, almost physically lifted, when he looked over his shoulder. Caught a glimpse of blue eyes like water, too stunned to do much, saw the guy wore camo, and felt him release his arms. "You stay. Put."

"Watch your back, Vadim, I'll cut your chest open, dig your heart out and let it dry in the fucking desert!" Dan was being dragged away, all but fighting the guys who were restraining him. "Keeps you from breaking anymore promises, won't it, cunt?"

The stranger stepped between Mad Dog and Vadim, left hand against Vadim's chest. Vadim stared at Dan, felt a shudder rise in his body, knew Dan meant it, meant every word, and found himself lacking the strength to resist. He couldn't win this fight, as much as he could fend off lightning. Promises. His honour, shit, yeah, what did his word mean anyway? Had prided himself once on things like that, but truth was, that had been one of his many delusions. "Okay, fucking do it. Let's be done with it."

"I'll get my chance, bastard. And when I do, you wish you'd never set foot into a fucked-up place in Kabul, eleven years ago." Too many people around, but he'd do it, meant it, couldn't wait to smell the Russkie's blood on his hands. Payment for pain that was drowning him right now, hurt that had never left. Desolation, and nothing left. Pain that welled up from the depths he had shoved it down into. Two years. Then six fucking months ago, on New Year's Eve.

"Bonne chance", said the guy between them, dark blond, eyes as clear as water, tall, broad, Slavic features, a broad, open face. "Trust me, the brig is even hotter than accommodations."

"Stay out of this shit, legionnaire." Dan growled, but the worst spike of hatred was off, now it was just the fucking pain and memories. "Besides, your new friend hates heat. You should know that." Dan pointed at Vadim, "he's one of your countrymen. The worst kind. The kind that does not keep promises and does not care."

The legionnaire huffed. "Mad Dog's finished biting, huh? That all?" Tone light, but the man was ready to fight, much more ready than Vadim was. "Grab some chow, you're not getting paid for this shit."

His team mates were still standing beside Dan, but wary of touching. "Be careful, Legionnaire, the bastard can't be trusted." Dan forced himself to turn, ignoring anyone who stepped out of his way quickly enough, ready to punch those who weren't fast enough to jump. Storming towards the accommodation block and the gym.

The legionnaire looked at Dan's mates, refrained from commenting, visibly, then looked at Vadim. "It's no use fighting him. Took on a bunch of jarheads a couple weeks ago. You know. Jarheads. US Marines."

Vadim blinked, then met the blue eyes. Odd. Something odd about the language …? It was Russian. Felt like the bitch who had changed hands, that's what it had to look like for everybody. He had taken it lying down, the insults, and then had to be protected by another man. Shit. And Dan. Be careful Legionnaire. Like ... handing him over. Impossible. Just impossible.

Russian. Countryman. He moved away a few steps, was glad when he broke the touch, didn't want to be touched, only felt guilty and pained, somehow, strength sapped. All the strength they had been building up in him. The hard-won pride. Why again had he bothered? All this, only to be nearly shot down for his troubles?

Make him see.

"Welcome to the Gulf, anyway." The legionnaire began to walk towards one of the bigger tents. Vadim hoped it held the kitchen, mess hall, whatever, and followed, glad the other gave him time to stomach the punch. "You must be Vadim. They told me you'd arrive today. I'm your team leader. Jean-Pierre, but people call me Jean."

"Yeah, right."

"I can show you my papers. It's all official. I'm Belgian by birth, French by service."

"I'd say, central Moscow. You sound like you lived two streets down from where I lived."

"Ah. Hobby linguist." Jean grinned. "But at least you speak a civilised language. It's been ages since I heard Russian."

Shit. He'd responded in Russian without even thinking about it. Too familiar, he just switched back into his language, found it less awkward, and felt stupid and weak because of it, and didn't want this 'Jean' to have that effect on him. He didn't want to be reminded. He didn't want to be Russian, look Russian, sound Russian. He wanted nothing to do with Russians.

Jean led him to the mess tent, just in time to grab chow. Not much different from Britain, same kind of food, same kind of company, only more ragtag, more adventurous. Jean gave him the quick story, as if trying to build rapport, as if Vadim would have asked him anything about his past. Jean had joined the French Foreign Legion and, after his service, had a nationality, skills and commanded an excellent price on the market. Too young to retire just yet, had moved on, spent some time in various places in Africa, then had been hired as a security contractor. And he used Afganets lingo, the occasional twist of sentence, the occasional expression. Telling him without telling him, that he'd been in that hellhole. Brotherhood of Afghanistan.

Vadim studied him, wondering about his motive. This man might actually be a deserter. Just didn't look like a career soldier, even if he was now, well, a merc, really. This guy gave off the vibes of a conscript who'd been pulled deeper into the war than he could have wanted.

Jean showed up again after Vadim had set up his kit and his bunk in one of the tin huts. At least he didn't have to share. He could have all the nightmares in the world and nobody would notice. Jean brought a 'welcome gift', a bottle of vodka that wasn't nearly cold enough, but the taste was clean and crisp. Maybe one Russian thing that Vadim welcomed. According to Jean, there was absolutely no alcohol while on duty, but Jean had a day off, and would spend that to show him the ropes in camp. Allow him to settle in smoothly, and for today and tonight, Vadim could relax.

Vadim felt relaxed, dug his heels into the ground, and tilted his head back, taking the last swallow from the bottle, felt it burn and calm and warm him. Fuck Dan. Or 'Mad Dog'. Mad Dog alright. Unless Dan came to his senses, unless this huge mess sorted itself some way, he would stand and fight. Next time Dan shouted at him or moved to attack him. It didn't matter whether he was right or wrong. He couldn't allow anyone to walk over him like that. Last bastards who'd done that had been KGB. Maybe he could punch some sense into the man.

"Okay, Vadya, I shouldn't be saying this."

Vadim blinked at the affectionate name. "Then don't." Despite Jean speaking Russian, he kept to English, pointedly.

The legionnaire grinned and obliged him, also speaking English. "First: get that Soviet shit out your head. Second: keep the knife where it belongs. You'll be in trouble here in camp. And I'll tell you why. Mad Dog started that fight with the 'Amerikanskies' when he told everybody he prefers cock and ass. And after the stunt he just pulled in front of everybody? That would be your ass."

Vadim shuddered. Cocksucker. Faggot. He couldn't even say it had been Dan who'd been the bitch. Not with those scars on his back. Not the way he had failed to stand his ground alone. Jean, or whatever his name was, had come to the rescue. And Jean took him under the wing, showing him the ropes, tomorrow, for everybody to see. Fantastic. Just brilliant.

"Now. I can't say I like the fucker. I don't actually care. But I sure as hell wouldn't want to be his ex-bitch in a camp full of people that either like the size of that bastard's balls or hate his guts. Got me? Be careful."

"I was special forces." It just slipped out. Vadim frowned.

"The camp's full of special forces." Jean paused, as if expecting protest, then nodded again. "Just make sure you control that knife."

Vadim stared at the empty bottle, could feel the vodka already, which was disgraceful. Half a bottle and it already made him talk. And think, and that was worse. Dan had provided all the information that the other mercs could put two and two together and end up with a twisted version of the truth. Bitch. Suka. Cocksucker. Liked to have a cock up his ass. He remembered having liked it, had loved it, had offered, asked, and begged for it. His body coiled and rolled, didn't even want touch now. Smelling Dan's breath had been almost too much. Seeing him, even in that state. Dan. He just didn't know what to feel. He would have to watch his back very, very carefully. "Shit. Spetsnaz."

"Means fuck-all." The legionnaire smirked. "You could be fucking Vympel, those peasants couldn't tell the difference. Lots of those have spent their lives hating the Soviets. We're not the good guys and it gets even worse when we do shit with the Americans. They'd love a cocksucking commie, ex or not."

Vadim groaned and leaned his head against the sheet of metal doubling as their cover and couch. "Aye. What's the worst I can expect?"

"You're a bright spark, I can tell." The legionnaire laughed. "Well, fists. Lots of those. Ever been in prison?"

Vadim swallowed and made a dismissive gesture. "Cut to the heart."

"Prove that you don't go to your knees. Big guy like you should be able to give them a run for their money. But knives is one step too far. It will be nasty, but it's not about killing. You got that?"

He just wasn't used to that anymore. It felt like fucking drilling again, only without the benefit of a rank, and nobody knowing that he liked getting fucked. Had liked. He wasn't sure. Been long and even thinking about it brought an acidic taste of shame with it. "Aye."

"And yes, you walked into his war for real." The legionnaire half-turned. "I can't promise anything."

"It's not your job."

"That's it. Wouldn't help you, anyway."

"Because then I'd be your bitch."

The legionnaire eyed him. "I like tits. Truly. Deeply."

Vadim stood. It was late, his body was still aching from the final tests and from lack of sleep. Hadn't quite recovered, he really wasn't thirty anymore, and the conversation went into a territory that was completely unknown and uncharted, and he wouldn't make a single step without some serious recce. It was about comradeship for this man, very likely, about Russianness and about being Afghantsy. Fabled brotherhood of a sold-out, betrayed and fucked-up generation. In a camp full of enemies, and Dan, he could use a 'friend', if he could get across that he didn't want to speak Russian and wouldn't mention his past. "You play chess?"

The legionnaire grinned. "You any good?"

"I get by." Vadim rubbed his face and scalp. "I need to crash."

"Won't walk you to the door."

"No." Vadim didn't really feel that smile. Couldn't read this Jean, but the man was not a threat. Unlike everybody else, thanks to Dan's scene. Just great. Mad Dog's bitch. Dog. Bitch. It wasn't funny. But he needed control to not make this slaughter. That was the hard part, the whole warning. Murder was murder, provocation or not. He was not a loose gun. He was not a psycho. He had nerves, he knew that, it took a lot to make him flip, he was not a raving lunatic. He had passed all the tests. Then why the fuck did he feel so brittle? He'd fought unjust wars, done nasty shit in his life, then why did this fluster him? It shouldn't touch him.

Because the KGB had cracked him open and peeled him alive. Professional torture. Screaming in the night? Waking shit-scared, sobbing into the fucking pillow? Sex drive next to nil? Only feeling he'd left was a little pride and that whole, big, heavy nothing in his mind that made way only too willingly to fear. There had been stirrings of something else. Some feelings, but it was like those didn't matter anymore, like he was sliding back into the darkness with nothing to hold him but sheer willpower. He should have stayed away. Or asked to be sent somewhere else. How fucking naïve to believe Dan would listen.

He had wanted to tell him goodbye, let him go, maybe try and make him understand that he had been fucked up, that he was a different man now. Then, he had dared to hope, hoped at least for friendship, no, fuck that, had hoped to return to what they'd shared once. Love. The willingness to die for each other. Despite the Baroness' warnings, nothing had prepared him for Dan's rage. He did deserve it. He shouldn't have come. He couldn't sort this one out. Dan had meant it, the bit about cutting his heart out. That was not a metaphor. Dan didn't even know what metaphors were.

"I'm so fucked", he murmured. He was tired, above all things. He'd be ready for the attack, hoped the adrenaline would carry him through. He'd fight it, the bitch thing, whatever they said, whatever they did, however many were going for him to give him a beating just because he'd fucked with Mad Dog, and that made him less of a man.

He headed to his bunk, found it hard to sleep.

Awoke screaming. No surprise there.

* * * * * * *

After the encounter, Dan had gone straight to the gym, only bothering to take the plate armoured vest off, before lifting more weights than he'd ever done before. Torturing his body into utmost exhaustion, until his knees nearly made him scream and every bone in his body, every muscle, protested in pain. At least the physical pain numbed the agony he was in. Hadn't expected this. This man. This shock. This pain. The onslaught of everything he thought he'd buried deep down. The suicidal emptiness, the bottomless grief, and the sheer unimaginable terror of having lost all he'd fought for, hoped for, loved and lived for.

The alternative to numbing himself with exhaustion would have been murder.

Dan took a long, hot shower, closing his eyes under the spray. Wished he had peace of mind. Fat fucking chance with that fuckwit close by.

If only he didn't hurt like a torn-open bled-dry motherfucker.

He had a phone call to make, and he had to do it now, before he might commit a crime that would end his own life as well. Once he was washed up and dressed, wearing the shades as always, he marched into HQ, demanding an urgent phone line to Britain. Dialling the Baroness, Dan waited impatiently to be put through to the Margaret de Vilde herself. He didn't bother with introductions, not this time. She'd know he was on the line, her aide would have told her.

"Ma'm?" Straight to the bone. "There is no way I will work with him. With Vadim Krasnorada." Dan was gripping the phone so tightly, the scars on his left hand were stretched taut. "No way, Ma'm, absolutely no way!"

"Dan, I thought you were a professional." Her voice sounded impeccable and stern, despite the crackling line.

"Ma'm, I could say the same for you, or should I ask why you sent Krasnorada here? Into this camp? Where I am?" Dan was bristling. "I asked you, before you sent me here, not to look for him. I thought I'd explained!"

"Are you saying you question my professionalism and are you suggesting that there is an ulterior motif to my decision?" There was a pause in the line.

"Aye, Ma'm." Dan kept to his guns, "why here, why he, and why with me. I don't get it. With all due respect, Ma'm, but to me that feels like interfering, especially since I asked you not to." He didn't hear anything for a while until her voice came back, as level as ever.

"First and foremost, Vadim Krasnorada came to me, I did not seek out his whereabouts. Secondly, he has proven during Marine Commando training and SAS Selection that he is still in perfect shape. He is simply the best for the job, a job like yours. This is why I have sent him to the Gulf." She paused, "is this your last word? You will not work with Mr Krasnorada?"

Dan could not make out what she was thinking, her voice had kept its usual crystal clear perfection. If she felt anything at all, it was lost in the precise vowels and consonants.

"Aye, Ma'm. I wouldn't want a knife to slip on a mission, nor a bullet to stray." Dan knew exactly what he'd just implied, wasn't willing to take it back. Fire behind the lines, a knife meant for an enemy, ending in the body of a different kind. He couldn't guarantee the bastard's safety. Not now. Not when he wanted to rip the fucking Russian apart, as much as he had been torn to shreds, six months ago, and had never been mended back together. His rage was deep-seated, an all-consuming, blind hatred where there had been nothing but love before.

"I understand." She conceded, "I will inform the Officer in charge of the situation. You will not work in a team with Vadim Krasnorada, but right now we need his expertise in the Gulf and I am not willing to send him somewhere else."

Dan frowned, but he knew her too well. There was no way he could sway her decision, not yet anyway. "Thank you, Ma'm." Curtly, Dan put the receiver down without further acknowledgment, staring at the phone for a while. He didn't know what to think. Had she done this on purpose? There was no other explanation and for one moment he fucking hated her as well for what she had done.

Time to see if the Yank kid was off duty some time soon. Nothing but a fresh-faced jarhead to ease the tension.

* * * * * * *

Back in the embassy Baroness Margaret de Vilde was putting the phone down and sighed. Her hand resting on the receiver, she murmured to herself, "I am sorry, my friend."

* * * * * * *

"Hey! Shut the fuck up!" Someone was banging against Vadim's door. "Some of us need to grab some sleep."

Vadim lay awake, shuddering, could scoop the sweat in handfuls from his chest. No idea what it had been, but his heart tried to jump through his throat. "Fuck you!" he shouted towards the door. Remembered what the doc had said. In times of stress. Emotional stress. Seeing Dan obviously counted.

"Ah fuck me", he groaned, listened to his voice in the tiny place that was his quarters, field bed, a couple boxes, that was pretty much it. His body that decided to freak on him. Wiped the sweat off his chest with the blanket and stared into the darkness. Checked the time. Two. Three more hours before he would wake up again, unless the exhaustion claimed him and he'd wake from the commotion the others caused. Stared into the darkness, forcing himself to count his breaths, twenty at a time, then started again until he finally fell asleep.

He awoke from the others moving, chatter outside. Got his kit and headed for the showers, paused. Folded the towel around the soap, improvised weapons were best, slings were one of the things he could work with, even though he preferred the garrotte for speed and elegance. Or any other cable. Fighting in the shower. Now, that would indeed be a throwback. But whatever happened, he'd never been fucked in any shower, and he was pretty confident he would keep it that way.

He could see the glances, none of them friendly. The chatter turned hostile, no specific words, just a general sneer that was in the air, grins that seemed inappropriate. Too many eyes on him.

Vadim stepped under the spray, the guys left and right changed positions, moved one shower further away, there was plenty of space this early in the morning. Vadim kept his face a studied mask, knew he was being checked, assessed, knew they read the scars. Hoped they didn't know what they meant. No side of his body that didn't tell a story. The burn mark right under his throat. The knife cuts on his back. His neatly kept, nearly hairless body, shaved neck, short hair. The old tattoo on his arm.

He ran a soapy hand once over his scalp, getting soap into his eyes just wouldn't do. Stance broad, balanced, as secure in his footing as the Hindu Kush, he was fully there and aware, and he could just feel how they were thinking about ways to take him on.

He washed himself with all the calm of a man who had nowhere to run. Conscious of the wall in his back, even if that wall was not very solid. He weighed a few snide comments, but didn't want to be the one who started it. Not that he would be able to find anybody who'd defend him if an officer caught wind of it.

He stopped the water, shook his head and moved to the side to have a quick towel-down.

"What's that shit on your back?" London, Cockney-tinged. Squaddie. Ex. Oh, the sheer bravado of it.

Vadim dried his hands, didn't want to slip, measured the man. Could feel others draw closer. He would have to get out of here without running away too obviously. Fighting retreat, SAS tactics.

"Hear me, Russkie?" Bastard was already wearing sports kit, danced a little around like he was a boxer. He probably was. That meant a good punch, but an open face. No gloves to hide behind. And they usually didn't expect to be kneed in the balls. "What's that shit on your back." Grinning and leering. Oh, my hero. One of the lads.

"Scars", said Vadim.

"I can see that, dickhead." The Cockney stepped closer, grinning at him, hands at his chest, half closed. Maybe fancied himself to be a martial artist as well. "Princess like you getting that shit."

"Aye, should make you think", said Vadim and remained standing. More people drew closer. Six, seven. That shave would be close, if he started the fight now. Pack mentality. They'd be cowards enough to go for it. Shit situation. He'd get hurt, unless he defused. If he defused, he'd prove he had no balls. Fighting naked. Wonderful way to get back into the rhythm of war.

The Brit obviously didn't get it and there was silence for a few heartbeats, then somebody slapped Vadim's ass. "Bitch's been screaming last night."

The London squaddie was back into his depth again and leered. "I can make you scream alright." He moved closer and made a stupid kissy-face.

Being slapped meant the others were too fucking close. Simple. Safe distance, neutral distance, fuck it, this was too close, and they knew it. Vadim advanced and brought his elbow forward, nice clean sambo move along the lines of 'jaws don't grow muscles'. Was rewarded with a grunt and the guy spinning off balance. He could smell blood, then brought his hands up to place an open-handed heel strike on the next squaddie's nose, hoped it was the bitch that had slapped him.

And after that, it deteriorated into a nasty punch-up. No points for style, it was just plain old dirty hand-to-hand, and he was outnumbered. Pulled all the tricks in the book, solar-plexus, head-butting, knee strikes into the short ribs, axe-kicks to gain space. Slow, but powerful, heel, back of the foot, elbows. Was nearly brought down by somebody who dropped a double fist into his neck, felt his body go numb for far too long, a kick into the lower back pretty much finished the fight for him, the pain only kept in check by the numbness from the earlier hit. Fuck - he managed to cover his face, stagger to the side, too many attacks, was disoriented, then somebody took his hand by the wrist, pulled it to the side like that and punched him straight in the face. Numbing, disorienting pain. Steadied himself against the wall, tasting blood. Fuck.

The fight ended once he was down on the ground. One of the squaddies - the first one, Vadim thought, and his hands formed fists again, stepped up to him. "And I was being nice, cunt."

Vadim glanced up, saw the man adjust his cock in the trousers, provocative. Stayed out of reach.

"You fucking coward", hissed Vadim.

The bastard didn't move closer, reluctant even that way, instead brought his leg forward to deliver a kick. It wouldn't have hurt much, he was only wearing trainers, more a stomp than any fancy shit. Vadim thought he should take it, but his body had different ideas. He lunged up and forward, grabbed the guy's leg by the knee and brought it up hard, shouldering into him and dropping his weight onto the other man, who didn't have enough breath in the impact to make more of a sound than his skull on the floor. Vadim's hand found his pulse under the jaw and squeezed, hard, pressed the heel of his hand down on the bastard's voice box, perfectly willing to make him drown in his own blood. "Fuck you …" he snarled.

He was pulled off again, freed himself and staggered off, hearing coughing behind himself. The Cockney would live. This time.

* * * * * * *

Dan woke up in a murderous mood. He hadn't had enough sleep, but had to be on duty. Close security, thus no chance for illicit booze at night. Being completely sober didn't help with the sleeping, nothing to stop the thoughts, memories surfacing unhindered and he'd all but given up on sleep, stewing in rage instead, when he'd finally dropped off towards morning. Only to be woken by his alarm half an hour earlier than usual. Eager to avoid the Russian cunt during the morning ablutions, Dan had been in the showers before anyone else, then in the washing block, shaving the first time of twice every day, and finally frequenting the row of loos.

Waiting in the line for breakfast, he was getting pissed off even more, because despite his early morning routine he had been held up by the Quartermaster, trying to exchange his body armour that got somewhat fucked the day before. He could have done without a discussion and a promise 'not to do anymore crap' with it. Yeah, right. Sometimes, kicking the shit out of ceramic plates was the best way to avoid killing another human.

Tray in hand, brows dark and mood even darker, eyes hidden beneath the shades, Dan was standing behind Mick, one of his team mates, and in front of Dave, an Ex-RA gunner, who for once was refraining from making an arse-groping oh-so-funny comment. Dan would have his balls for breakfast, and the guy knew it.

Snide comments raised their ugly heads as Vadim entered the mess.

Dan heard the voices, could tell the mood without having to understand the words, made the mistake to look up. Fuck. The bastard. And there he had been trying all morning to avoid the cunt. Averting his eyes before he had to take a proper look at the Russian.

Vadim was just in time because he hadn't gone for the jog, figuring the fight had been enough exercise, but of course he looked like he had had a fight. His lips tingled, swollen and raw, his back ached badly from the nasty hit into the neck, and there were a few places on his body where he would most likely grow bruises. The camo covered most of those, but the face was difficult to hide. He probably walked stiffly, too, which was the reason for the comments. The bitch had got it. Haha. Great fun.

Vadim kept his jaw muscles clenched, kept just barely from grinding his teeth. Queued for the food, held the tray and remembered how to hit and strike with that shape. He was dying to bring it full force into somebody's throat. Not a bad weapon at all. But the main thing was not being tripped over or having the tray kicked or punched from his hands.

He got an assortment of English breakfast, fat and grease, but surprisingly good, if his cardiovascular system could forgive him, then found himself a safe route around the benches, never within touching, punching or tripping distance. When he reached the empty table without problem, he knew it would be harder on the way back. It always was.

Dan had got his own breakfast, double helpings of sugar laden cereal and the usual blood-clogging full fry up with stacks of fried bread on the side of his overflowing plate. Finding a seat amongst his team mates, he was about to stuff himself and wash it all down with a jug of coffee. Sod's law, when he looked up from ladling the food down his neck, he was confronted smack bang with the man he had tried to avoid. Even through the dark shades, seeing Vadim was like a shock to the system. Fucking arsewipe! He had to be doing that shit on purpose. Dan grunted something vile into his food, shovelled more cereal down, before forced to look up again to drink his coffee. Almost choked on the brew, spilling some of it, when he caught a glance of the bruised face.

Fuck.

What the fuck had happened? No. Don't care.

Looked back down again, chomped and chewed on the next spoonfuls of crunchy sugary stuff as if violently devouring a particularly evil spell. That fucking Russian be damned. Bastard. Cunt. Arsewipe.

How the fuck had he got into that state?

No, he didn't care. He couldn't give less of a shit. Couldn't possibly feel that sudden sharp sense of red-raging anger, wanting to cut whoever was responsible for beating the Russkie up into thin strips, roasting them over an open fire. Vadim was his. His to touch, his to hurt. His.

His cunt.

No.

Not any longer. Dan scraped the last of the cereal out of the bowl before tearing into the sausages and bacon. He didn't care. Didn't give a fuck about the obvious signs of a fight. No. Couldn't afford to feel nor think.

Vadim's skin was taut, he was ready to stand and fight, could feel how the place turned against him, the comments, the sudden change in topics. Cocksucking. Ass. Bitch. Cowardice. Weakness, groping. What bitches wanted and what they deserved. He ate, kept his gaze straight ahead, peripheral vision wide open. No knife. He better not kill or incapacitate. He was not an officer, this was not the Soviet Army. Fuck. If freedom meant being ridiculed, he would walk home to the Lubyanka and ask to be taken back.

He felt a touch on the shoulder, firm, a tray moved within vision, all slow, non-threatening. Jean. "You alright?" The 'Frenchman' asked in Russian and sat down opposite, keeping his eyes on the area behind Vadim's back. Vadim was grateful, despite the fact that the Russian made him tense inside. He knew Jean would signal with his eyes if anybody moved closer. Saw tousled dark hair and sunglasses two rows up front, shit, too close, even with five or six men between them. Too close.

"Aye."

"What happened?"

"Fell off horse." Vadim sipped his tea. Didn't want to speak about it, not in Russian, not in a perfectly conversational tone that Jean had started, and stubbornly stuck to English, whether Dan could hear it or not. "I broke my wrists in '72, falling off a stupid horse."

"Both?"

"Aye. And yes, it means wanking is less fun."

Dan's head was lowering further into the food. Didn't want to see, didn't want to know. Of course, the legionnaire. Would make a good pair; the perfect fucking couple to shoot into fucking pieces of fucked-up meat on a fucking patrol out there in fucking Iraq. Fucking bastards!

He tried to ignore the Russkies' conversation, starting to chat with Mick, discussing the plans for the day and the route their armoured vehicle should take. Plotting an alternative route, never the same one for their charges. Talking, just to drown out the words that came wafting over from across.

Jean gave a laugh, which was good. Nobody would assume Vadim was crying his heart out. "You should hear the rumour mill, Vadya. The squaddies are yakking, yak, yak, like babushkas." In Russian. Again. It was beginning to irritate Vadim.

The ex-legionnaire ate a pile of toast and thick gelatine-covered pieces of spam for breakfast, and coffee. Clearly less enthused about the English approach to a coronary.

"And?" Vadim replied in English.

"According to the rumour mill, you've slept around and Mad Dog caught you. Or knows it somehow. While he was risking his life." Jean laughed again, an unpleasant sound. "Unfaithful girl betraying her squaddie lover, old story. Rings a bell with many of these guys."

"And I thought it might be worse."

"Oh, it gets worse. That's the story from Mad Dog's mates. The ones that don't care he likes ass. They hate you because he does. Hooray for the right to be an individual."

Vadim laughed. Oh boy, that felt good. It took the pressure down a notch. "And the other story?"

"Not much of a story, just planning the next attack. Fucking faggots need to get their teeth bashed in, cut their faces, cut off their cocks and balls and all that. It's open season."

"And?"

"When you turn your back, Vadya." Jean did actually look a little worried. "Figure I should tell you that. Being your team leader and all that."

"Yeah."

Jean finished his last slice of toast. "I liked the bit with the elbow. Good work." He stood and took his tray away, seemingly unconcerned about the attention on him. Them. The bastard had seen the fight in the showers and not interfered. Vadim glared after him.

Dan had managed to drown out the conversation, but caught the motion and despite his best intentions, raised his head to see the legionnaire standing and leaving the table. Old habits died hard, had to check what was going on around him at all times. He was about to point out to Mick and a newcomer to their table, how they should avoid the recently shot-down rubble in the Western area, when he caught a glimpse of a man standing up and waving. Midge. Fuck. Ringleader. He'd broken that guy's nose twice already and had received more bruises in return from the bastard's gang during the first two weeks, than he'd received throughout all of his army career.

"Hey, Mad Dog!" The ginger merc was shouting over from across three rows. "Why the dark look? Thought you'd be whistling today, figured you'd got some man-cunt, now that your bitch is back."

Dan pushed the sunglasses off his eyes, a sign for anyone who knew him, that he meant business. Nothing else could get him to take off his shades. Placing each palm beside his tray, he pushed himself off the bench to stand. Ignoring what was going on at the Russkie's table, refused to acknowledge Vadim's existence.

"Shut. The. Fuck. Up, Midge." Each word clearly pronounced. "Unless you want to swallow your own blood. Again."

The cookhouse fell silent, the reaction was unlike Mad Dog's usual banter, who took every insult with his piss-taking sharp and nasty sense of humour, not a threatening seriousness.

Vadim looked up, this Midge guy was too close, two yards counted as too close. He kept him in the corner of his eye. The bastard wouldn't start a fight right here, right now? Would he?

"I can make you whistle." Vadim said and got up. "That is what you want, come. I teach you whistling." Too loud in the silence. But he wouldn't allow Dan to keep acting like he was his bitch or ex-bitch. His own ground.

Dan couldn't help it. His head turned a fraction, glancing at Vadim. Fuck. The bastard sounded and acted like he used to. Unlike that one night he'd seen him last. He fucking hated the cunt right now, more than ever. He was about to snarl in anger at Midge, who was making exaggeratedly camp hand gestures and wiggling his stupid arse, when there was a sudden commotion.

"Stop. Immediately." The voice was no-nonsense, un-amused, and obviously used to giving orders. "No fighting in the mess. You know the rules, Forces or not. Get the fuck out. Now."

"Not fighting. This would be slaughter", Vadim muttered under his breath. Looking at Midge with all the emotion of a butcher. He wanted to cut his throat. No, worse, a far darker urge, one that he hadn't felt in a long time. It would be worthwhile to make the man scream and break him, once and for all.

Dan visibly twitched. Had to refrain, bound to keep order, but hated him. Hated Vadim for making him remember, reminding him of the knowledge that if they fought side by side instead of being enemies, they'd be an unstoppable force. Fighting. Fucking. It hurt to the bone.

Dan turned his attention to the RSM. Fucking joy. No point to mess with the Sergeant Major. He could see the man pointing first at him and then to the exit and shrugged to his mate. Mouthing 'later, vehicle park', before grabbing the remains of his breakfast in one hand, greasy toasts, last sausage and all, to weave his way through the rows of tables and benches. No point in arguing with the RSM. He'd been marked as a trouble maker long ago, so he better kept a low profile. Successful mission or not, if he was a destructive force amongst the troops he'd find himself out of a job before he could finish a wank.

Vadim moved, knowing that under the eyes of the NCO nothing could happen to him. He turned his back on Midge, walked close enough past him to smell his aftershave, a biting, citrusy concoction he would be able to identify and sniff out in the darkness, if it came to that, and put the tray away. Allowing Dan to move first, then himself, making sure he couldn't get attacked in the back the moment he stepped outside. Snarling at Midge on his way past. "That wriggle … good one. You might have talent as a faggot." Not letting it go, no.

Dan's shades were dropped back over his eyes before before he stepped outside, turning his head to check on Midge. "Don't be stupid." In Russian, to Vadim, without looking at the cunt, instead keeping the other Merc in his vision. "Time for work."

With that Dan turned, tried to stop giving a shit and left both men behind, the sound of nasty laughter in his ears from the ginger twat. Whatever happened now, it wasn't his business. Making his way back to the cookhouse entrance, Dan rapped his knuckles a few times against the door. He was less than twenty yards away, trying hard not to listen to the scraps of sounds drifting over while getting his extra bag of packed lunch from the cook.

"You would know all about faggot talents, wouldn't you, bitch?" Midge glanced towards Dan in the distance, as if he wanted to make sure Mad Dog wasn't in earshot. Appeared to be wary while smirking at Vadim. "I'll get you, when you least expect it, and you'll squeal like a little girl." He bared his teeth, ugly in his hatred.

"You mean like your mother when her dog fucks her?" Vadim turned to face the merc, pose deceptively relaxed, ready to fight.

Midge sneered, didn't take the bait. "Good thing me mother's dead, innit, bitch?" Tension in his stance, once again glancing over to where Dan had been, only a minute ago. "Just remember. I'll get you, and it'll hurt worse than a virgin on her wedding night." Casting another nasty grin, Midge turned and hurried into the same direction that Dan had vanished to.

"Your mother must have died of embarrassment at seeing you after shitting you in the toilet", said Vadim, loud enough for Midge to hear it. A bit weak, but hitting the same spot made sense when the other flinched. And Midge had flinched. He shook his head and headed towards the armoury. Time to pick up kit, get fitted with body armour, gear, and the whole lot. Oh yes, and sunscreen. Protection factor 50 or more. He could already feel his skin tighten.

Jean introduced him to the rest of the team. It seemed Jean had them under control. His style of leadership was exactly what Vadim had seen from him so far: he seemed laid back, friendly, open, and led by example, leading from the front like they were equals on some fundamental level, and he was just happening to be the leader. Not one to be seduced by the trappings of power or become a bastard just because he had the command.

On the next day, out in the field, Vadim could confirm his assessment. Jean was completely no-nonsense under pressure. Calm like a bomb. Vadim noticed how Jean's eyes gleamed when he focused, the way his jaw set. Couldn't help but notice the shape of his lips, neck. But then, it was security duty, boring as hell. Sickeningly tense for a few heartbeats, then mostly the dazing, glaring heat that wore him down, especially in the armour.

But it felt so familiar he caught himself smiling. Now, this was something he knew, something he could do, easily. Finally. Some semblance of home.

* * * * * * *

The next week did not bring any change, certainly not for the better. Sparring didn't seem to take the pressure down for Vadim. Fighting with gloves and protection just didn't satisfy. Punching bags, lifting weights, running, hitting and kicking pads that Jean held for him didn't satisfy. It merely seemed to make the dark flood rise, increase pressure, fill the space inside, and the nightmares stoked the fire. He took the anger with him into the showers, and the first week was a haze of heat, dust, punch-ups, duty, training, sleep.

Vadim never closed his eyes, never turned his back. His body fell into that rhythm, knowing he was only safe when Jean was around. The legionnaire had his own gang, comprising of his team and the friends of his men, presumably people he had worked with before or shared history with. And as easy-going as he was, he was also surprisingly sane. Jean stayed around to play chess (which he would have been good at if he had bothered to think beyond the fifth or sixth move), and to chill, and to lift weights.

Vadim was itching for a fight. No, worse than itching. It was as dark and cruel a desire as he'd ever felt, much worse than any itch, a burn, a wound in his flesh, no less painful than Dan's knife that had carved his back. A proper fight, no holds barred, he wanted to break and destroy, permanently, wanted to take something apart in a way that nobody would be able to tell what it had been, but he remembered the warning about knives, and didn't carry any when the bitches came for him.

It was nearly a ritual. They were waiting for a mistake, for him to be alone and unprepared, and sometimes they managed, or Vadim sought them out to take the pressure down. Splitting lips and punching jaws, the pain in return keeping the darkness away. He got the reputation to pick a fight for nothing but a sneer, nothing but a crude gesture.

And sneering there was plenty. He was Mad Dog's bitch, after all. He would have to fight the whole camp, that was what it felt like, and he'd rather have cut their throats in their sleep. But Jean's presence was worse. And the fact he spoke Russian, as if to do him a favour, but it felt like a knife in his brain. He detested, he hated that, he wanted to punch Jean every time the bastard called him 'Vadya', like they were close, or lovers, or family.

"It's not getting any better", said Jean, starting to shed his body armour in the tiny room that was his quarters. Nothing much in there - it could have been Vadim's room, apart from the photos blue-tacked to the metal wall near the bed. Vadim leaned in to have a closer look. It looked like cut-outs from a fashion magazine, even though he was halfway sure not even fashion magazines showed their models bent over like on the first picture. That skirt rode up awfully high to reveal a glimpse of black slip. Or it was just shadow.

Jean glanced at him. "C'mon, not like you could do anything with those."

Vadim looked at the bed, thought this was the place where Jean jerked off, staring at the darkness between those legs. Fuck. He swallowed. The back was slender, a white shirt, pilot style, open at the shoulder. She couldn't wear anything, not even a bra, that would have been visible, so Vadim assumed her breasts were nothing but a handful on her bony, long frame. Hair was clearly a wig, a sleek chin-length cut, face slightly turned to look over her shoulder, but the fake hair covered most of her features. One dark eye, fake lashes, make-up like a mask, moist glistening reddish purple lips formed an 'o'.

Vadim could imagine Jean with that girl, who looked something like sixteen, seventeen, but already in full slut mode. Long fingers in white silk gloves, splayed on her lower back, an invitation, she wouldn't dream of pulling the nothing of black leather skirt down.

"Woah."

"Yes. Sex on legs", said Jean.

"Who's she?"

"My girl."

"You're fucking joking."

"She does some modelling on the side."

"This kind of modelling?"

Jean lifted the body armour off and placed it near the bed, the shirt underneath dark with sweat, clinging to his body, showing off lines and planes, muscle, and his sixpack. "What do you mean?" Calm, but Vadim detected something like … jealousy. If it hadn't been ridiculous.

"She doesn't really seem to wear much."

Jean gave a short laugh and pulled his shirt off, tossed it on the ground. The sixpack was exactly as imagined. There were some freckles on his shoulders, a few tattooed lines on his left pec. 'AB+', in Latin, Cyrillic and what looked like Kanji, Chinese, Arabic and a few other alphabets. Just in case he got shot, Vadim supposed, or maybe it was some kind of personal joke.

"You mean for wanking material?" Jean seemed relaxed, but that meant nothing. "Sexy stuff like that, but nothing worse."

"How do you know?"

"She doesn't undress beyond that, not for the camera."

Vadim could feel the reservation, just knew Jean was hiding something. He should let it go, accept the half-lie, but it intrigued him. He imagined that body before him strain against that ass, imagined Jean's cock take her from behind, like that, rough, fuck her raw. Probably the exact same thing that Jean imagined when lying there. The whole purpose of that photo. "Guess you're one lucky bastard, then."

"You can say that again." Jean grinned, like mocking him, that shit-eating, overconfident grin that Vadim had got so sick of in the last week, and something snapped, pressure valve exploded. Might have been the image of Jean fucking that girl, or too much naked skin, or truly that grin, hard to assemble and align cause and effect, suddenly Vadim shoulder charged into him, tackled the lighter man, made him stumble and hooked the legs out from under him. Taking the reflex punch without feeling it, and came crashing down on Jean, his whole weight one massive punch that drove the air from the other's lungs.

The surprise didn't last, Jean was fighting and Vadim needed his whole weight to keep him down on his back, no way he could turn him around. Could feel Jean's hand go for the combat knife, took his elbow with his hand, lifted it and brought it down so hard on the ground that Jean would have screamed with pain if Vadim's hand over his mouth had let him.

"No knife", hissed Vadim and pushed the weapon away, the arm useless now. Jean was right-handed, that meant he only had the left hand to fight with. And his legs, and the torso. Vadim could smell the stress, shifted his weight to force the legs apart. Jean's eyes grew wide and he began to breathe hard through the nose, clearly stress, fear, on top of that pain.

"I am nobody's bitch, tovarich. That includes Dan. You hear me?"

Jean, staring at him with wide blue eyes, sweat beading on his forehead, nodded against his hand.

"Not his girl. It was me who had him. I fucked him, in Kabul. And he loves cock. Can't get enough of it." Vadim used the sharper angle, forced his knees between Jean's legs, came groin to groin with him. Felt the man shudder with revulsion, felt his stomach sweat. "Like I could take you right now", just breathing that into Jean's ear, grinding against him, slow, deliberate, using pressure and weight. Enjoying this more than he should, could come like this, easily. Enjoyed too much to have Jean under control, the only thing he had under control. Nothing the other could do. Scream for help? Unlikely.

Jean's eyes closed, the pressure of his legs subsided and it seemed like he was moving against Vadim, probably to get him off faster, to appease him. He was hard, worked against him with determination, Vadim's hand moved between them and released the belt buckle, nearly tore the fly open, snarling with aggression, freed the other and pushed against him. Jean's cock finding skin where his shirt was pulled up from the fight, hot, strong, sweaty, exactly what Vadim needed, needed even worse than killing. Jean's eyes were closed, whatever he imagined, it wasn't Vadim, and Vadim wanted to punch him to make him acknowledge his presence, his identity, as he came already. Managing just barely to suppress the groan, forced himself harder against that body until he was spent.

Lying on top, still keeping the other pinned, Vadim didn't resist when Jean pulled his hand off his mouth. No way he'd shout for help, not in this position. It looked too willing. Too much like Jean didn't mind at all, never mind the bruise that was forming on his elbow. "Now, that's better", said Vadim and began to stroke Jean, who shuddered from the touch, eyes still closed, lips pressed together like he feared Vadim would try to kiss him.

You won't hate me for long, thought Vadim, and moved down his body, saw his cum run along Jean's flank, the smell of it, and the sweat in the heat of this place.

He took the cock, but didn't try to finish him off quickly, took his time, the last bit of power that Jean's body could give him. And he took it, knew he was probably thinking of that girl of his and he didn't mind, didn't remind him, not now, took him deeper and harder, eventually, and made him twitch and push and cum.

Vadim stood to find water to wash the taste away and rummaged through Jean's kit for the bottle.

"I think I …" Jean groaned and reached for the discarded shirt with his left hand to wipe himself down. "I think I understand now why Mad Dog hates you."

Vadim nearly dropped the bottle, turned to face the legionnaire, who got up and stepped away, just out of reach, still breathing hard. "What?"

"You got me." Jean leaned down to pick up his knife and slid it back into its holster. Still with his left hand. "I should cut you open like a pig. Only finishing you off would be a fucking mercy. And I'm not merciful. Get the fuck out of here. And if the medic says you broke my fucking arm, I'll kill you."

"And you bitch came."

"You make my skin crawl, Krasnorada. You got what you wanted, now fuck off to nurse your fucking self-pity and get yourself killed for some shit. And count your blessings that I have more fucking honour in my finger than you in your whole fucking body. Get the fuck out."

Vadim wanted to protest, but Jean turned around and continued to change, as if he had already left. He didn't hate the other man, hadn't actually wanted to fight or fuck him, not his intention, even though he had wondered about Jean. Had wondered about how that man insisted on being his friend just on the basis of the fact they had both been born in the same city. And were both deserters of some description.

I understand why he hates you.

That went deep, turned the buzz into acid. Nothing had gone like he wanted it to go; he hadn't wanted to do this, if anything, he'd have taken it slow, or not at all, but somehow, his body had wanted this man. He had wanted to punch him and have him, fuck him slow or hard, but have him some way. It felt damn good to be able to do this, felt good to feel a body shudder and tense with orgasm.

Suddenly a soft snort from the legionnaire. "And to think that Mad Dog warned me. He was right about you. You can't be trusted. That's the deal about you. You're not afghantsy. You're just scum."

You're a predator, devoid of any humanity. An animal, ruled by animal urges.

Vadim didn't know what he felt and what he didn't feel. Oddly defenceless against the hostility and had managed to ruin everything. Including the developing 'friendship' with the man who called himself Jean. All gone. Wasted. The only man that had even attempted to respect him. Nothing was how he had imagined it to be, when he had contemplated meeting Dan again. Nobody respected him here, Dan didn't even look at him, they couldn't
talk, Dan just went on living his life. Of course, what had he expected, he had walked away after all. Couldn't have expected Dan to wait for him. So, it was over. He'd screwed up and been defeated in everything that mattered.

Vadim turned and left. He'd find Midge. Time for another punch-up. He needed to break something that deserved it.

* * * * * * *

That same day Dan was hauled in front of the Officer in Charge. Uncomfortably reminded of his days in the British Forces, when he was barely more than a raw recruit and way before SAS Selection. The sense of doom came rushing back, even though he knew they had no jurisdiction over him like they had over the regular troops, and neither had he misbehaved in any way, not even partaking in one of the many low-level brawls and secret punch-ups. Still, once a squaddie, always a squaddie, and twenty years could not wipe a hint of dread away.

He felt even stranger once he stood in front of the Big Wig's desk, not having to - nor bothering to - salute. Out of place, but the niggling discomfort disappeared when he realised he really was not part of the Forces anymore. Smirking briefly as he stood while the CO was still looking down, not acknowledging his presence. Typical arrogant upper-class bastard, but Dan didn't need to give a shit anymore. Still, he pushed the shades off his eyes and perched them onto his forehead, the one sign of respect to the man in charge. His face looked bored, but his stance showed tension. Legs braced, arms in his back. Standing like he had done on the day, back in Blighty, when he'd had to defend his decision to leave the Army after twenty years and without his full pension. Four years ago.

Dan waited another moment, but the condescending twat didn't seem to bother acknowledging him yet, which was oddly amusing in an entirely sickening way. Even if the CO had spelt it out in neon letters, his dislike for Daniel McFadyen could not have been more obvious.

"Sir, you wanted to see me?" Dan's voice carried a hint of bored sarcasm.

"Yes, McFadyen, because it can't go on like this."

"Sir?" Dan was confused for a moment, what the fuck was that ponce talking about?

"You know very well, McFadyen. The situation in camp is unbearable, the atmosphere nothing but vicious."

Dan frowned. 'McFadyen', again. Fuck that, the arrogant arsehole should be addressing him with 'Mr', but he let it drop.

"Which situation, Sir?"

The Officer stared incredulously at Dan. "You know damn well what I mean, do not try to play games with me. There has been more violence in the last week, since you have had that stand-off with Krasnorada, than ever before. The men have been talking about that shouting match of yours."

"It was hardly a 'match', Sir." Dan's jaws squared, "as far as I remember, Krasnorada hardly returned the compliments."

The Officer stood up, brimming with rage all of a sudden, almost shouting. "McFadyen, I do not feel like laughing at all. Drop your infantile behaviour, it is most inappropriate in this situation."

Dan wondered for a moment if that throbbing vein on the red-faced CO was going to burst, before deciding on the most antagonistic course of action.

"Which situation, Sir?" He could feel his own dark wave of anger rising, barely held in check by opposing the big-headed dickhead.

"Which situation?" The Officer shouted, his face had turned beetroot red. "Do not treat me as if I were stupid! There are constant fights, the men are on edge, there is aggression and violence spilling into the Mess and the cookhouse!"

Dan's brows, lips tensing into a narrow line. "Does this mean, Sir, that you are accusing me of being unable to hold your men in check, due to my mere existence in this camp, which coincides with the arrival of a new contractor?"

That was it, the CO was losing it. "McFadyen, are you accusing me of not having my troops under control?"

"No, Sir," Dan's lips twitched, revelling in the momentary satisfaction of having hit that twat, right into the gonads, "I am merely saying that I cannot see how this situation, nor any other that is connected to Vadim Krasnorada, should have anything to do with me; be of my making; could possibly be influenced by me. What does the recent violence therefore have to do with me? I was not involved in any fights in the past week."

"No, you weren't." The CO snarled, "but you are the root of it."

Dan felt a bitterness well up in him that tasted like acid in his throat. "Sir, with all due respect, how the fuck am I the cause? Because I'm a fag and everyone knows that? Sir, you have no jurisdiction over me in that respect. Who I fuck is my personal matter, I am not a member of the British Forces anymore, am not committing any crime against the fucking rules, and have never actively pursed my sexuality in camp." Yeah, and that poncy bastard hated his guts, he could smell the disgust at the word 'fag', like he could smell the stench of dried sweat under his body armour.

"Don't use that language with me!" The man shouted, trembling with anger.

"What do you expect me to do, Sir? Snap my fingers and your men accept the Russkie as their own? I'm not a fucking fairy with a magic wand!"

"You may or may not be a 'fairy', but you and Krasnorada clearly have a history." The Officer was beyond losing it, both hands on the desk, leaning forward. "The situation in camp is not about the Cold War, this is about your past."

Dan tensed, stood straighter, taller. "Sir, my past is my own business."

"No, McFadyen, not if it encroaches into the present."

Dan said nothing, his dark eyes narrowing, jaws working before he answered.

"It doesn't. There is no present."

The CO stared at him, long and hard, not buying into any of Dan's defence, but seemed to realise he wasn't getting anywhere with him.

"Don't ever overstep the line, McFadyen or I'll bust your sorry arse. I don't care what kind of Missions you have successfully completed. If you go too far, you'll have it." Ponce or not, the CO let his true colours show. Open hostility, which Dan continued to stare down.

"Dismissed."

The Officer waved a hand and Dan turned without another word. He was burning with anger, needed to fuck or destroy, couldn't have either and started to run instead. Didn't give a shit he was in combats and boots, pushed the shades back over his eyes and headed towards the exit. Let them shoot him down like a rabbit if he was unlucky. Didn't matter shit. Just the heat in his lungs and the pain in his knees and running until his body broke down.

Fucking