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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 - August 1991, The Persian Gulf

Completely unaware of the stand-off between his new-found more-than mate and Vadim, Dan had refused to take notice of the accident at breakfast. Doing all he could to ignore the Russian - and failing miserably at night. When the world quietened and the adrenaline died down, the images were coming back. Memories, touches, and most of all the promises.

The desert at night, in a tin room full of shadows, held eleven years inside, like Pandora's box.

After a fairly uneventful day at work, Dan returned bang on time with a couple minutes to spare. Doing the usual routine of signing the weapons back into the store, airing his body armour and dealing with the laundry of his sweat-drenched kit, he finally relished the best moment of the day: washing the sticky cover of sweat, red sand and dust off his skin.

After his hot shower, he went to get some scran, famished as ever. Sitting first with his team mates, chatting about the events of the day and planning the route for the following day, until it was time to get a second or third helping of sticky toffee pudding. Taking a seat amongst Jean's team after that, laughing and joking while wolfing down his dessert. Glancing at Jean with a grin, Dan made a rude gesture and an entirely inappropriate comment that let the guys break out into roaring laughter. Sure, Mad Dog, the self-professed fag, and Jean, the uber-stud. Made everyone piss themselves.

Half an hour later, while dusk was settling, Dan was talking to Jean as both of them carried a two litre water bottle, while smoking a companionable cigarette on their way towards Jean's hut.

Jean paused, seemingly thoughtfully twisting the cigarette in his hand, glancing at the glowing point, half-turning, a movement that allowed him to have a quick overview of who was close, with one face, one presence especially unwelcome, but Krasnorada was nowhere to be seen. He nodded for Dan to get in, flicked the cigarette away, followed into his microwave oven and padlocked the door. Pulling his shirt off right at the door, he looked at Dan with half-closed eyes. "I think the pieces are all set." Idly adjusting himself in the camo trousers, grinning, left hand against his groin, pressing in a little, glancing at Dan with a friendly challenge. "I could use a cocksucker", he murmured. "Or just a hand. Flexible here …"

"Funny you should say that," Dan grinned, "I was thinking to myself today," taking his own shirt off and tossing it onto the bed, "while securing that particularly deserted piece of land", popping the button of his shorts and pulling the zipper down, "and guarding this particularly annoying piece of Big Wig shit," dropping the shorts, he stepped out of them, kicking them towards the bed as well, "that I could do with a body."

He suddenly pushed hard against Jean's chest, making him stumble backwards and against the wall. Grinning all the way, especially when he ground his naked body into the other's.

Jean groaned, full-on-contact, part wrestling, not that he wanted to fight, really, a vague, but nagging lust turning into heated desire at the touch, the grinding. He pushed against Dan's groin, felt the heat against himself, fumbled with the belt and buttons to get the trousers down, growing breathless. Would be fast, a quick release, fine with him. Touching and kissing and lying there resting, later. "Any body?" He teased, kissing Dan's neck. "Of course … as long as he's strong, and willing …" he murmured into Dan's ear. "And has a big cock you can suck … you're game …" Toneless laughter.

"Sure, any body." Dan smirked, moved his head, away from the lips on his neck and towards the other's face. "And that would be almost everybody since no one can resist my charm." Biting along the jaw line while pushing Jean's trousers down. Cock against cock now, heat and desire that had been simmering all day.

Dan's right hand got hold of both their cocks, trapped between their bodies, starting to stroke, push and grind.

Jean suppressed a curse, not quite what he had expected, but he'd be damned if he didn't roll with it. Feeling the other's cock so close. Nothing like Krasnorada. Krasnorada had loved the fear. Dan loved the lust. Fuck it. Nothing like the Russian granddaddy. Lips opened, he was starting to pant, push forward, hard enough to force Dan to use more strength, which, in turn, made Jean even hornier.

"If I didn't know you're such an arrogant twat," Dan's voice was husky and breathless, lips working their way towards Jean's mouth, "I'd tell you, you have a fucking great cock to suck." Delving in for the kiss, harsh and demanding.

Jean groaned into the kiss, liked the compliment, loved the kissing. Hand on Dan's shoulder, digging into the muscle. Tongue wrestling his, no fight, not at all, a weird sense of rhythm and harmony, like the other read his body much too clearly.

Then, suddenly, something banged hard against the door, just a yard away from where they were standing. "Jean? Got a minute?" The door rattled. "Hey, you in?"

Dan almost jumped out of his skin, first reaction to delve for cover at the attack and aim his weapon, when his violent jerk head-butted Jean's chin.

Jean glared at him and touched his chin, grinning, face gleaming with a sheen of sweat. "Pascal", he mouthed.

"Fuck!" Dan muttered, still standing close, reluctant to step away from the heat of their cocks. Could feel an insane bubble of hilarity welling up inside him, despite his heart racing in the sudden adrenaline rush.

"What's up?" Jean bit his fist to stop himself from laughing, face twitching, eyes brimming with humour at the fucking stupid situation.

"You got time?"

"Bad timing, Pascal. I'm … busy right now."

"C'mon, man."

"Sorry, mate, just fucking a tied-up Mad Dog on my bed. Not sure you'd appreciate the sight. It's a bit of a massacre." Jean fought full-out laughter while speaking. Grinning like a devil as he took Dan's hand and made him stroke him again. "Yeah, baby, just like … that."

Dan immediately started to stroke, adding the grinding of his body into the mix. Harder than before, while biting into Jean's shoulder muscle to stop himself from laughing.

Stunned silence. Then: "You're hitting the fucking bong again."

That was too much, too fucking hilarious and Dan lifted his head, shouting: "Sure thing, mate, coz Jean got it all wrong. Must be fucking delusional, that teamleader of yours, seems to be mistaking his own arse being pounded with mine." Dan delivered a particularly vicious stroke, that made his own cock twitch and his body shudder, adding an unmistakable huskiness to his voice. "Yeah, bitch, you're as tight as a fucking fist."

Jean almost came with that, giving a groan that shouldn't have come out, not like that, lust, desire, needs. Just barely managed to laugh at Dan's game of dare, eyes closed, panting against Dan's shoulder. "Finish me off", he breathed, in Russian, probably so Pascal had no chance to get what he was saying, but Jean was too fucking close, needed to come, whatever the situation. Teeth locked in Dan's shoulder, body tensing up with the onslaught as Dan obliged, thank god, and Jean gave another groan.

Dan shuddered, different, memories. Suffocating. Burning. Language and man and shadows of blond hair and angular planes of muscles and jaw and cock and … stroking furiously with a renewed viciousness. Needed to come as well, to eradicate the image of another man.

"Yeah right, you bastards are taking the piss", grunted Pascal. "Got it. Have the shit for yourselves."

Dan knew he shouldn't shout, too breathless, but the weed was a brilliant excuse. "You can always join us for a threesome, I'd be willing to pop the cherry of your virginal arse." Dan laughed, but only for a brief moment, had to bite hard into Jean's shoulder to stop himself from groaning. Forgetting about the marks he left, his own mauled in return, stroking so hard and brutal it bordered on pain. He came hardly a second later, right after the legionnaire, convulsing and grinding into Jean. Whimpering against the sweaty skin, biting hard into muscles to stop himself from making too much noise.

"Uhm. See you guys later, then." Pascal sounded flustered, probably at the laughter and the shared joke he wasn't privy to. Rapped against the door as a goodbye.

Jean laughed, breathless, helpless, just didn't seem able to stop, even though his knees were weak and he seemed eager to collapse on the floor or bed or anywhere. "Fucking brilliant voice-acting", he laughed, giddy from climax and the fucking risk. Hand running through Dan's hair, taking a handful to force his head into a kiss. "Reckless fucking sexy bastard …"

"And you're a kinky motherfucker." Dan grinned, let himself be drawn into the kiss, bodies still grinding against each other. Contact too good to leave yet. He liked kissing that guy, Jean was good, different to Matt, even though he liked kissing the kid. Jean was somewhat distinguished, somehow deeper-intense. Entirely unlike to the only other man he'd ever kissed, whose kisses had reached into the depth of his soul and had …

No. Dan broke the kiss, breathlessly chuckling, covering up his thoughts with a smirk. "Want to get stuck to me?"

Jean glanced down between them and gave another laugh. "No fun in that … but I guess we could make the most of it." He broke the contact to reach for his discarded t-shirt and wiped himself down first, then handed the shirt to Dan. "And whatever Pascal says, I'm not smoking pot in camp. Not on duty."

"I didn't expect you to. You're not an idiot." Drugs meant getting chucked out, no matter what; while alcohol on duty warranted a severe warning. Dan took the shirt, eyed it for a moment before wiping himself down, then handing it back. "Make sure no one sees your laundry. Interesting white stains." He grinned, not that it mattered. They'd all wanked into an item of clothing, after all.

Jean picked up the bottle that he had set down and drank, deeply. "The medics say I will probably be all set next week. Swelling goes down nicely, and the joint seems to be alright. With a little luck, I'll be on your flank in a week."

"That would be good." Dan waited for Jean to finish drinking before taking the plastic bottle and chugging the water down his neck. "Let's sit down for a while before I need to grab some shut-eye. I demand some of your after-sex speciality." He pulled away from the other and sat down on the bed, inviting.

Jean grinned. "And that would be …?" He sat down while Dan merely grinned from ear to ear. Jean was leaning against the wall, adjusted the sling, then raised his hands. "Docking permit granted, Sir. Welcome aboard." Laughing again. "I would have loved to see Pascal's face. Holy shit."

Dan let himself fall back across Jean's thighs. He rather liked the 'grooming', that human touch that he had missed for two and a half years. The Yank kid was great, but was a kid after all, and the depths of non-verbal communication just didn't exist with him. Dan settled in, grinning upwards. "He'd have upchucked his supper, but who knows, he might have joined."

"I doubt there's enough space for three in your hand …" Jean idly traced the hairline with his fingers, then ran them into the dark hair, smirking. "I thought chess was a game for two players, but then, there's still poker."

"Never played that kind of 'poker'." Dan closed his eyes, grinned lazily, "sounds interesting, though."

Jean went down the temple to the jawline, touch almost minimal, just the fingertips, it was still too warm. "And he's too much part of the rumour mill. No. Good long legs though. He did a lot of marching and running."

Dan chuckled, "I'm not fucking stupid. The less anyone knows the better - in this case." He let his arm dangle off the bed, revelling in touch, heat, satiation. "I meant to ask you something. How in god's name did you get into the legion? What shit happened back in Afghanistan?"

"I was unlucky enough to turn eighteen in the Soviet Union. Got drafted, of course. A couple months later I was sitting in a mountain fortress, scared shitless and homesick. Didn't help I caught typhoid fever … polluted water, and logistics were appalling. I mean, you get used to being hungry, right? You steal and barter enough to stay alive, share stuff with comrades … of course, all illegal. You were not supposed to do that, but the fucking system fucked us up the ass, every fucking day."

Jean inhaled while Dan listened attentively, with closed eyes. Didn't he just know it. He remembered supplies he had brought back for an enemy, to keep that man alive.

"War at a discount. Save money. No idea. I only know that there was hardly a day I had enough food to not be fucking hungry. They say it was the same in all the barracks, the Soviet Army likes to keep her bitches lean, but we were combat troops." Jean's hand rested against Dan's cheek. "That's what I remember of Afghanistan. Being hot. Being cold, being hungry, and finally, being sick." He paused, as if waiting for Dan to tell him to stop.

But Dan didn't. Not a word, just opened his eyes at Jean's pause and nodded.

"The medic in our unit. The only man I ever respected in that army. He'd get his steel helmet, get kitted like the others, like the fucking special forces, and raid the trucks with them, for medical supplies, never for anything else. Most of the booty vanished in the deep dark pockets of the officers and the specwar types, especially bandages, syringes, and morphine. Sure, they could use it, too, but they also traded it. So, the medic goes out with them, carries his own shit, laden like one of those fucking bend-legged donkey, takes off the helmet, washes his faces and hands, gets the clean and new gloves, and while everybody else is still squirreling away the booty, he starts operating."

Dan frowned, dark brows steep over equally dark eyes. He had suspected, never known, and sure as shit never asked. He was still silent when Jean shifted to reach for a packet of cigarettes, pulled one out with his teeth, let it hang between his lips. "Anyway. I caught the fever. No drugs to treat the shit. I got isolated, and that was it. I got the feeling they were just waiting for me to die. Medic could do nothing. Officer didn't care. That bitch almost killed me, so I decide to leave. And I did. I don't remember much of that. By all rights, I should have died. I ended up with some villagers that thought higher of hospitality than revenge. There were Europeans, too. Could have been CIA, or reporters, or anybody, really. Those had drugs, which kept me going until I could cross the border to Pakistan. I recovered in a small hospital near Peshawar. But before they could put me on a plane to Moscow, I could walk again, and I was on my way. Went West, did some crazy shit." He laughed and Dan grinned, murmuring, "I bet."

"Ended up in East Africa, working any way that would fill my stomach. Happened to stumble across a recruitment office. I needed a new life, a new name, and the Legion offered that, so I thought fuck it, can't be worse than the Soviet Army. Signed up for my five years, got shipped to Castelnaudry in France, learnt French, and did the whole tour."

Dan nodded again, "I did the whole Afghan war, but on the other side." He shrugged, fished for a cigarette for himself. "Did your five years, or more?"

"Almost nine. Got shot after the first two years, could apply for citizenship one year earlier than anybody else, sure as fuck I did. I learnt a lot of useful things, and I liked being a hard bastard. Still like it." Jean grinned darkly. "But I heard how much private security people make. So I left, could have had a nice pension after fifteen years, but I did the numbers and figured I'd try being on my own. Met Solange right after leaving and was just having a one-man-and-lots-of-women-party in Paris. Thought I could do better with my languages and experience, and figured being a merc was more interesting than the goold old 'march or die'."

Dan lit his fag, inhaling deeply. "Seems you fell on your feet in the end. Good for you, mate. Thousands didn't make it."

"Mainly the officer's fault. I watched it, on CNN. The bandits getting better, the speeches of the general secretaries getting grander, the fucked idea to launch an offensive in the Panjir. But the worst thing were the granddaddies. Bitches like Krasnorada. Officers could do whatever they liked. I've seen men being beaten to death for stealing food. I don't believe the numbers. Any numbers. No cause of death. I stopped being Russian in Afghanistan. Calling me Russian was a good reason for me to kick somebody's teeth in. I'm French. France has treated me like a human being. Not always, but most of the time."

Dan said nothing, smoking quietly and staring at the ceiling of the tin hut, past the other's face. Eyes not seeing anything other than too much of the past. "Aye, they were gods. At least they thought so." Inhaling deeply, he stalled, feeling the hot smoke enter his lungs, then slowly exhaling. "Vadim Krasnorada is a human being. Always has been. In some corner of their fucked-up minds they all were. Family dads, husbands, sons, and shit like that." He shrugged, felt suddenly drained and sat up. He couldn't gather the energy to try and explain and it was probably of no consequence, no matter what it felt like inside.

"He is. He screams in the night. He bleeds. I guess that counts." No real malice in Jean's voice, just a tired bitterness.

Dan twitched. The screams. Jean mentioned it again. No. No, he didn't care, he couldn't care or it would kill him. Again. "Whatever. Who cares. The war's officially over, but guess it never will be for the survivors." He craned his neck and suddenly bared his teeth in a humourless, dark grin. Feral and close to nasty. "I sleep and never dream. My only guilt is that I have none." Taking another drag, Dan inhaled quicker this time, switched unexpectedly back to the piss-taking, fun-loving Mad Dog everyone knew. "At least this shit here pays damn well. Enough to keep your lady happy and enough to make me stacks of dosh to turn my farm in New Zealand into Crystal Palace."

Jean grinned. "And as many needy guys in camo as you can wish for. Like a great white shark trawling the coastline. Something's bound to show up." His hand returned to Dan's chest, idly stroking the skin, following the lines. "I don't feel guilt, either. It's not like we get forced to do what we are doing, and Iraq is evil, so Kuwait is good. We're helping the good guys, and that makes us heroes."

Dan started to laugh, leaning against the wall to allow the stroking of a hand that damn well knew what to do with a body. "Black and white, eh? If you ask me, there are no goodies and there are no baddies. Just a great big fucking mass of shades of grey. It's all a matter of who is worth more, and fuck, the Gulf is filled with oil. Or do you think the bloody Yanks are doing this shit for the greater good of mankind? Fuck them," he shrugged and finished his fag. "Fuck them and their 'policing of the world'. But as long as that pays me fucking shitloads of dollars or pounds, I don't give a fuck why I'm doing this. I'm a war junkie; I'm a soldier. That's what I do. I chase adrenaline and I risk my life. In return I used to get my countries 'thanks'," Dan snorted, "and now I get paid enough to live a comfortable life when I'm too old and my body belongs to the scrap heap."

"Amen, brother."

Dan grinned humourlessly, "I've paid enough for the 'honour' of earning fat zeros behind numbers. I've paid with my blood, my pain, my health. I've survived until now, I've got a few more years in me." He turned to Jean and smirked. "But I probably won't if I don't get some shut-eye now. Double shift tomorrow, it'll half kill me. So no cocksucking Mad Dog tomorrow night, I'm afraid."

Jean nodded. "Well, there's the weekend. And I'm fucking bored, so drop by whenever." When Dan got up, he leaned in to whisper again. "And if Pascal asks, don't tell him just how much I begged you to fuck me. He's still in my team." Pressing his lips right on Dan's. "See you after your ass-kicking, Mad Dog. Kill a towelhead for me."

Dan winked, stood up to find his shorts and t-shirt, even the flip-flops had to be somewhere. He never lingered long and was at the door, working the padlock once he was dressed. "Maybe." Opened the door. "Maybe I won't tell - maybe I will." He was still laughing when he kicked the door shut behind him.

* * * * * * *

Couldn't bear it. Just couldn't. It was a grinding pain in Vadim's guts, like somebody had shoved a hand into his innards, grabbed a handful of the stuff and pulled and twisted. Vadim went to bed with how Dan looked, how he moved, how he spoke, but it was too often how he laughed with Jean. Too often when he'd seen him, it was with the legionnaire. It was so damned obvious; all of it. He was amazed nobody saw it. He could imagine them together, entwined, sweating, cursing, fucking each other's hands, wondered if Dan fucked Jean, didn't quite think it was the other way round, assumed Dan still didn't like it, unless he did it out of spite. Because Jean had never harmed him, never forced him.

Had the legionnaire spilled the beans? Vadim waited for it, but it didn't happen. Jean kept shut. Good. Bad. By now, he knew he could only end this one way. And he lay awake and thought about it. Thought about it all the time, before duty, after duty, worked hard to be too tired to think.

But he was alone in his room, alone with the darkness. Knew Dan was less than a hundred yards away. Knew Dan was probably right now sucking the legionnaire, and that made him hard, but in the most desperate, wretched way. Knew too well what that felt like, what Dan looked like on his knees. Knew all of it, the kinds of sounds he made, turned, restless, didn't want to think, didn't want to remember, and couldn't help it.

Fuck SAS, fuck Royal Marines, fuck everybody who had put him back together. It didn't matter. He was unable to deal with it, one ambush, one pounding, one artillery strike that rattled him, rattled heart and mind, and he clutched at thoughts and memories, and they broke when he touched them. What amazing bad idea to come here. What utter stupidity to walk into Dan's war, thinking just because he could walk again, the other would once more accept him as an equal. Dan had found a man who wasn't broken, for fun and laughter, and that was it. Why drink salt water when you could have something entirely more healthy?

Something that quenched the thirst. That easy laughter. Vadim groaned, turned again, felt the anger and pain mingle, like puss and blood. Just couldn't stop worrying that wound. But one question was answered. What he felt for Dan. He had learnt that here. The rage, the fucking loneliness, the helpless anger, the envy. And the pain.

He wiped the sweat off, heard jeeps arrive, checked the time. Ah, the late shift returned. Dan. He knew what Dan did, and where, his duties, his team. Of course he did.

There was only one solution to the pain. He dreaded it. Dreaded it almost as badly as the pain itself, but maybe he could stop prodding at that wound. Maybe the twisting in his guts would stop. Permanently.

He stood, slipped into his boots, the vest, still wore the trousers. And the knife. Reached for the moonshine, emptied the bottle. Felt the alcohol kick. Again.

Made his way through the dust, saw people, didn't greet, didn't pause to chat, People tended to jump out of their skins when he had tried. You make my skin crawl, Krasnorada. He'd heard that a few times, different words, sometimes only as much as a surprised "fuck!" when he showed up. The man who smashed glasses in his hand without provocation. The bastard who had knocked people out in hand-to-hand. The hardass who stood his ground even against the gay-hating crowd. Who asked for the fight. Who got it, every time, and who refused to lose. Who got up when he fell, just to absorb more pain. Who didn't give any quarter when he was winning.

Now, the last fight in this camp. He saw Dan head for the showers.

* * * * * * *

It had been a bloody bone breaking double shift. Dan was completely shattered when he finally returned just after midnight, but the reason for swapping the shift had made it worthwhile. At least the desert was cool now, and the sweat had dried on his body, encrusted with that vile mixture of sticky sand and dust. Having signed his weapons back into the store and exchanged a few words with the QM, Dan dropped his helmet and body armour in front of his hut, to let it dry out from the inside. Shirt and trousers discarded, boots drying as well, he was in his running shorts. Towel slung over one shoulder, soap bag in his hand, he walked towards the shower block, whistling to himself. Tired, but content. If he worked his body to the bone until he was so tired he couldn't stand anymore, then he didn't have to think. No memories for him tonight.

Entering into the shower block, Dan hit the light switch. The place was deserted, everyone else had hit them either first thing or was long past their bedtime anyway. Stepping out of his shorts he kept the flip-flops on as usual, the best protection against the dreaded athlete's foot that loved sweaty boots far too much. Sorting his soap bag then dropping the towel over a hook, he turned towards the first set of showers. Almost asleep on his feet and doing the mechanics of cleaning automatically.

Vadim glanced around, saw nobody in the showers, followed like the hunter. Tiles. Blood. Water. The room in the Lubyanka. Tiled. Buckets of water that turned the blood pink that brought him back around, staring at the swirl of colour in the water running from his head.

Yes. What's good enough for the KGB sure as hell is good enough for me.

He followed, saw Dan, saw sudden tension between the other's shoulder blades, saw him turn around.

Dan was staring at Vadim, fucking defenceless. Naked. Bone tired, but suddenly all his senses were alert. Checked the situation, the man - drunk, the danger. Glanced behind, but had the tiles in his back. Fuck. No way out.

The darkness came up like bile, Vadim wanted nothing but to scream, scream like his body normally did, instead pulled the knife. Needed to end the pain, couldn't see him any longer. Just one more fight and I'll be free. No more screaming, no more pain, no more.

Dan couldn't even reach for the towel. Had nothing, razor too far away. Just his fists and his sober senses. Adrenaline kicked in, with no where to go, except forward.

"Get a weapon", Vadim said, in English. "Let's finish it. You or me. Think you can ignore me? Think again." Moved closer, teeth bared.

"Fuck you, Russkie." Dan snarled, in Russian as well. Attack the best defence. Vadim was unhinged, lethal, and he believed him when he said he would finish it. "You want to use a weapon in camp? Think again, bastard."

Vadim's grip around the blade was light, insecure, yeah, whatever. He didn't plan to win. Lost ages ago. The battle, the war, and everything else. "Fucking camp mattress. Russian and blond, and that's enough. Fucking your way through the camp, deserters and anybody else. Leaving me to rot, you don't even care enough to fight me. Make me feel one last time, Dan. Come on. I'll cut you open and fucking strangle your bitches with your guts. Don't doubt me for a heartbeat, because I will."

"You fucking cunt!" Dan hissed, seeing red-hot anger. "How dare you, fucktard. Pissing off without a word, not giving a shit. Two years and you just fucked off. Fuck you, bastard. You want to kill me? Try it, loser. Try it and suck it and see!" Dan's heart was racing, his naked body in the best fighting stance possible. Would have to deflect the blade, possibly grab the towel and flick the knife out of the lunatic's hand. "I fucking hate you, Russkie. Fuck out of my life for good. How dare you. How fucking dare you!"

No lust for bloodshed. Vadim would go into this fight with no thrill. Had to be done. Just another task. Work. Function. I want to function, Sir. What a waste of effort. Dan's hatred hit him square in the chest, deeper, pressure wave. Couldn't say that he had been broken. Couldn't admit the weakness. Didn't want pity. Didn't want any more ridicule. Inched closer, saw the body he had been so desperate to have, recoil, tense, ready to defend and counterattack.

"Sorry for not being your bitch straight from prison … sorry for needing some time to fucking get my head straight", Vadim hissed. "Jean does that quite nicely, the bitch part, huh? Almost as tall, almost as strong. And he's so funny, our legionnaire. Such a sunshine. Pretty boy, too. Not like that piece of cunt you discarded. Tiger and mountain lion, fuck you. Fuck you for getting me out. You should have shot me. But you didn't have the guts to do it. Too weak. You just didn't care enough. You waited two years, and then you stopped to fucking care and tear out my fucking heart. Come on. Promises, Dan. Keep them. Cut it out. If you're a man. Make me scream if you can."

Dan jerked as if punched. Words. Fucking words. Pain. Punches un-pulled. Words that hit, deeper, harder, drilling down into every memory, every thought and each feeling he'd ever had. Words. Torture. Words. Death. Words. Hatred and accusations and guilt and pain.

"No." Dan snarled, stunned and debilitated with a pain like the one back in Finland. Pain, like the day he had been listening to the tick-tock of the clock, counting towards his lover's death. "No, Vadim. Fuck you! You won't make me into who you are." He kicked out, aimed at the hand with the knife. Smashing his heel against the wrist to disarm the Russian.

The knife sped away, clattered over the tiles. Killing a man without a weapon was too hard work. Dan had failed once to tear him to bits. In the mountains. "Who I am? A walking corpse?"

"A liar, Russkie, that's what you are." Dan hissed, brimming with rage and pain, it suffocated him and turned his voice into a snarl. "Breaking promises, forgetting any- and everything and not having a fucking idea what feelings really are. Loved me? Liar. Fucking disgusting useless pathetic liar!"

Vadim's face twitched, the mask of rage almost falling apart. Needed to deliver one more blow. Maybe Dan would still do it. "You don't have the guts. For nothing." He turned around. "Last chance. Or I'll take you apart. And I'll start with Jean. And then your other friends. I'll destroy you so completely like nothing has ever been destroyed."

Dan took a step forward, his whole boding shaking. "You already did that, cunt. Six months ago. You can't destroy me twice." His fists were useless now, trembling too hard. "You touch them and I fucking take you apart and then let you live."

Failure. It hurt. Vadim wanted to scream. He wanted to fall to his knees and die. Please fucking kill me.

Don't kill me. We're soldiers.

We're nothing.

Vadim nodded, and walked away. No more strength. He didn't scream that night, but he wished he could.

Dan watched him leave. Stood. Turned on the water. Stepped under the shower. No sound. No gesture. No reaction. Turned his back to the room, didn't give a shit if Vadim returned. What did it matter if he were stabbed like a pig, bleeding out under the water.

He stood, letting the water drum onto his skin and blind his eyes. Leaning forward, one palm resting against the tiles, he hung his head. Water mixing with salt as he cried.

No one heard. No one saw. No one knew.

* * * * * * *

Jean checked the watch. Ten hours should be enough. Besides, it was getting too warm to sleep, he could tell from the sweat gathering in his bandage. He headed over to the tin huts, whistling to himself, flipping the finger to somebody asking whether he was bringing his 'stud' some tea - as long as it was not Krasnorada, it would just be the finger.

He rapped the door, which stood ajar to catch what feeble breeze might err in this direction, then stepped in. "Wakey wakey. Coffee." Not that the Nestlé shit deserved that name, which was the reason why he'd dunked three heaped spoonfuls in there. If his taste buds were going to be in pain, make it proper pain and a caffeine punch to the guts.

He'd seen guys in their morning glory before, but Dan wasn't there. The soap bag was still there, but so were the combat boots. That could mean the tracks, or the gym. He'd have to deliver the liquid there. He headed out again, strode across to the gym. The clatter of metal disks on the ground and against the bars. Comrades helping each other, making sure the big weights didn't crush a chest first thing in the morning.

Dan was in the corner on one of the weight machines. Doing butterflies while letting out grunts that sounded positively offensive. He'd put more weights onto the machine than he usually did and was forcing his body into yet another push. Sweating like a pig, he'd already done the leg workout and the rest of the upper body, winding down the torturous routine.

"Don't pull up that shoulder", said Jean, completely useless comment, but Dan was overdoing it.

"Huh?" Dan hadn't quite understood the words nor registered the newcomer, letting his arms move back slowly, wrists resting on the padded bars. Feeling his muscles tremble with over-exertion. He ached, would hurt like shit in a day, but fuck, did that feel good right now.

Jean put the coffee down on the seat of the next butterfly machine. "Breakfast." He eyed Dan, had a quick sweep of the gym. No Krasnorada. Like most biblical plagues, Krasnorada entered when least expected, and Jean did expect him.

"So?" Dan's grin wasn't quite the same as usual, fading too fast. "I grew up with porridge and stale tea. That was the scran at home, the army was worse." Flashed his teeth. "Don't think you got better in the Glorious Soviet Army, eh?"

"No." Jean crossed his other arm in front of his chest. "How was the shift? Alright?"

Dan shrugged evasively. "Aye." Looked around, too many blokes in the gym. He gestured with his chin to the towel out of reach. "Got to tell you something. Will be re-deployed."

Jean picked up the towel, stepped closer to hand it to Dan. His credentials as team leader were going to hell. He placed the good arm on the padding of the machine and leaned in. "Ah. Already fed up with Disneyland Kuwait City?"

"Not quite." Dan wiped the sweat off his face and neck, his t-shirt drenched so badly he had several stages of white salt-lines of sweat, dried, and the freshest one on top, wet. "Fed up with some of the company, rather."

He slung the towel around his neck and came out of the machine, chucking the coffee down in one go and the Styrofoam cup into a nearby bin. "I'll request transfer later."

Jean glanced around. "Let me guess." He paused, looked straight into Dan's face and knew the answer before he asked the question. "You're fed up with the twohundred-something pounds of shit that is doing his damned best to win the popularity contest against Saddam Hussein?"

Dan's grimace said it all, he didn't bother to nod. "I had a visit last night, aye. Am not going to put up with that shit anymore. Too much history." Walking towards the exit, he expected Jean to keep up. He needed a shower badly, and they had too many witnesses in the gym for their conversation. "Anything at least ten thousand miles away will do."

Jean's face darkened. He nodded, seemingly thinking unpleasant thoughts. When they left the gym, he murmured: "Something I should know as his team leader?" He glanced to the side.

Dan was shaking his head. "No. It's up close and personal." What else. It could never be anything else.

Jean nodded, decided on a different angle. "You know, I have some shit on him. Some pretty bad shit. I'd rather not bring it up, but he's on probation and he's been acting like a loose gun."

"Shit?" Dan stopped dead in his tracks. "What shit? What the fuck did the cunt do?" The tight line of his lips betrayed the sudden tension.

"That's confidential. No permanent damage and word hasn't spread." Jean inhaled. "I can return him to sender. He's here on my goodwill. CO will bust his ass if I talk to him."

Dan's fist clenched, 'damage'. Not 'permanent damage', but damage, after all. There was only one kind of damage he truly remembered. Bastard. Finally looked at the other, silent for a while. "Vadim has nowhere to be returned to." At least he, himself, had a farm, a friend, medals and honour, and a country that would pay him a pension if he made it to fifty-five.

"I can just about manage to keep my heart from bleeding for him", said Jean. "And I'm sure there is some nice dictatorship somewhere that buys his kind wholesale."

"No!" Dan's answer came fairly quickly, but then he paused once more. Why the fuck did he keep defending that Russian cunt? Why? Damn. His face was thunder and lightning. "No." Calmer, he shook his head. There had to be a rational explanation for it all and he'd cling to it. The rest would fade away again once he was thousands of miles away. "There's too much history, too many memories here. Everyone would remember the madman. I have to leave, go somewhere where I can't be traced. I am sure my employer will make certain of that."

"Damn shame", murmured Jean. "Yeah, I guess it's an option. I'd prefer it the other way, though." He allowed Dan to step into the showers first, then followed. The place was empty. Still no Krasnorada. Jean hoped the Russian would get shot up today. A car bomb would do just nicely. "You're an asset, he's not."

Dan had already stripped and was turning on the water, realised too late he had forgotten his soap bag. Just water would have to do, at least the sweat was fresh. "You never know, he might become an asset." Dan huffed dryly, wondered if hell froze over before that happened.

Jean glanced at Dan, then slipped out of his wifebeater and the shorts and stepped into one of the showering stalls, separated by a thin partition from the other. Talking to a naked man under a spray of water when dressed looked a bit awkward. He took the sling off and began to remove the bandage, rolling it into a dusty ball of fabric. Prodded at the elbow, slowly straightened the arm, but made an effort not to move it or use it too much. The round scar on his thigh became visible as he turned. "Let me know when you get your new posting."

"I'd rather not." Dan stepped under the hot stream, tipped his head back and closed his eyes, letting the water run over him before moving his head back out of the water to continue. "Vadim has … ways of getting information when he sets his mind to it. You know the old motto 'know as little as you absolutely need to know and you're less of a target'."

"Good motto." Jean leaned against the partition and watched Dan, thoughtfully. "But I'm not exactly Red Riding Hood that gets ambushed by the evil black wolf. If he does so much as look at me funny, he's right outside the camp gates, with no security clearance to return." But he didn't ask again, instead turned the water on to cool down in the heat.

Dan was still shaking his head with a weary chuckle. 'Little Red Riding Hood', indeed. Yet it would be better for everyone concerned if no one knew where he got sent to. He'd have to tackle the issue straight away, then contact the kid to explain and to meet him later. He'd have to turn the regular shag into a good-bye fuck-fest. Possibly with a bottle of booze. For him, not the Yank.

He washed quickly, didn't bother to wipe down with the sweaty towel, slung it around his hips and waved to Jean before he left. "See you later, mate."

* * * * * * *

Later that morning, exactly one week after he got hauled in front of the goddamned CO, Dan requested an international phone line, once more waiting for the Baroness' aide to let him through to her. It took several minutes, before he finally heard her speak.

"Dan?" Her voice gave no clue what she might feel. It probably didn't matter. He'd trusted her, like he had trusted another, once. Fat good that had done him. "How are you, Dan?"

"Not good, Ma'm." He cradled the receiver in his hand, stared at the wall, then his boots. "I need you to get me out of here."

There was a pause and the line was dead for a long moment.

"Why, Dan?" As if she didn't know and Dan huffed quietly, but said nothing. Enough to make her continue. "Vadim Krasnorada?"

Dan nodded even though she couldn't see him. "Yes, Ma'm. Who and what else." He lifted his eyes only to stare at the bare wall once more. "Ma'm, with all due respect, you shouldn't have sent him here, shouldn't have interfered. It's …" hesitation, deeper breath, admitting defeat was painful. "It's unbearable, Ma'm."

The line fell once more silent and Dan wondered if she would ever reply, before she finally spoke again.

"I am sorry, Dan." Her voice as posh and classy as ever, but he imagined he heard a different dimension in it. Emotion. A rare occurrence. "I made a mistake. As you so rightly said, I interfered, believing what I was doing was for the better. For your good." A slight hesitation, "I realise now that I was wrong and I apologise. Deeply, and from my heart. I consider you a friend, Dan. As close to a friend I will ever have, and I am devastated that I have hurt you."

Dan didn't know what to say, couldn't answer at first, had to swallow, then cleared his throat. "No need to apologise, Ma'm, but I thank you nevertheless." He pictured her nodding, in her economic style.

"I will get you out, Dan." She spoke again, firm and convincing. "But it might take a while. Will you be alright in the meantime?"

He realised she hadn't even argued, nor asked why she shouldn't simply take Vadim away instead of sending him as he had requested, and he was thankful for her immediate acceptance.

"Aye, Ma'm, as long as I know you'll get me somewhere else, whenever that's convenient. Guess there are enough war zones in the world where I might be needed."

He fancied he could hear her wry smile in the voice. "Too true, Dan. Sad, but too true, and it's our business to deal with truth."

He nodded, drawing formless shapes against the wall with his fingertip. "Guess I'm good at something, even though that's war."

"You are good for a lot more," her answer came without a moment's hesitation, "I have faith and trust in you."

He smiled, "I know, Ma'm." She didn't answer, except for a gentle huff, and he continued. "Good bye."

"Good bye, my friend." A click in the line told him she had put the phone down.

* * * * * * *

A few hours later, Dan made his way to the safe house. Unlike any of the other times he'd ventured out of camp, he was unsteady on his feet. Swaying, occasionally hitting a wall of one of the buildings with his shoulder, before zig-zagging for a couple of steps towards the centre of the road. Catching himself again, he managed a few more strides that were more or less moving forward. He'd be the perfect target for anyone wanting to shoot up another of those Brits, Yanks, or whoeverthefuck the war had brought into the Gulf.

He finally made it to the safe house, let himself in after some lengthy fumbling with the lock. Matt wasn't there yet and Dan grunted as he flopped onto the bed, reaching for one of the unopened water bottles. Luke warm, but didn't mater jack shit, might stop the carousel in his head and the pain in his chest. Maybe. Possibly. If he was goddamned lucky.

Dan had fallen to the side, curled up in an awkward foetal position, when the door opened again and the jarhead slipped inside. Oblivious to the sounds the Yank was making, Dan slept on, drunkenly, which stopped Matt in his tracks once he'd locked up behind him.

Unbelievable, the carelessness, especially from an old dog as Dan, and Matt frowned as he walked closer. Taking the risk of getting jumped at, he shook Dan's shoulder. "Hey, buddy! You wasted?"

With several snorts and grunts, Dan was coming back to himself, blinking sluggishly. "Aye …" yawning, he pushed himself up to sit, swaying, before looking at Matt with a distinct lack of focus. "Good ... to shee … see you. Last time. Gonna be gone."

"I know." Matt pulled the only chair close, plonking himself down, right in front of the rat-assed Dan. "You told me. Want to tell me why? Can't imagine, like, that you'd be thrown out or stuff. Except for the shit you're pulling right now, bud."

Dan blinked again, then tried an uncoordinated grin, which failed miserably. Waving his hand about as if shooing imaginary flies. "No. No shit. Off duty." His head almost hit the wall when he nodded and tried to sit up straight at the same time. "Just so much crap."

"Hm?" Scratching the back of his neck, Matt put a booted foot onto the edge of the bed, leaning with his elbow on it. Moving forward to study the drunken Dan. "What the fuck's up with you?"

"Not me. Nuh-huh." Heaving a heavy sigh, Dan shuffled upwards to sit at last in a mostly straight way with his back against the wall. "Shit's up with Vadim."

"Vadim?"

"Aye, Russian cunt."

"Russian? Cunt?" Matt shook his head, completely lost by now. "You better tell me what the fuck you're on about, buddy."

Dan blinked at him again, then nodded awkwardly. "Aye." Nodded again. "Tell you."

And that he did. Despite his pissed-up state, or perhaps because of it, Dan told his baby-Yank the whole story. Everything, except for the very first and very worst secret that no one know except for one dead Russian, whose throat he had cut, and two men: Vadim and himself. The rest he told as it had happened. Eleven years of pain and pleasure, hatred, sex, lust and love, and deepest understanding - until the terror of the end and the ultimate price he'd thought he'd paid, until it all began and ended again. In one single day. Then nothing. Until now, and the unbearable sense of being; being close.

Matt was quiet all the way through except for an occasional grunt, and he remained silent for a long while after. Long enough for Dan to nearly fall asleep.

"Do you hate him now?" Matt asked quietly.

Dan opened his eyes to stare at the opposite wall, unseeing, unfocussed in his drunken state. "No." At last, "I can't. Can't hate him, even though you hate what you love, aye?" He huffed with a half-arsed wry smile. "But I hate him for what he did to me. No, shit. Not him. Don't hate him, hate what he did, but can't hate him. Cut me the fuck open and left me to fucking rot." Dan's eyes closed again, "Two and a half years. Just fucking hurt."

The last words more slurred and mumbled than the ones before. Dan dropped his head, staring at his hands which seemed strangely empty.

"What are you going to do now?" Reaching for one of the water bottles, Matt kept watching the drunken man. Expecting an answer, but nothing happened.

Dan kept staring at his hands as if he hadn't heard the question. Suddenly moving into action with a jerk, he clumsily patted his shirt down, looking for his fags, but couldn't remember where the fuck he'd left them. Hands dropped onto his thigh, his body weaved to and fro as he tried to sit upright once more, blinking to focus on the Yank.

"You know what, kid? I wanted to die …" pausing, "but one's not s'posed to, and I promised Maggie." He drunkenly waved his hand. "You know, Baroness." As if he'd ever talked about her before. Expecting Matt to understand and ignoring the kid's confused sounds. "The diplomat, you know, the one I'm working for. Promised her I wouldn't go on a suicide mission."

Matt interfered with three quiet words. "But you did."

"No. I ...," Dan closed his eyes, hand waving about before dropping on top the covers, beat. "That's open for in... intra... interpretation."

"I see." Matt pushed the water bottle into the discarded hand, but it never made it to Dan's lips. "That's, like, the most fucking amazing love story I've ever heard."

Huffing with an uncoordinated movement of his head, Dan forgot about the bottle, gripped Matt's hand instead. "Some 'love' story alright."

"But you do still love him, don't you, Mad Dog?" Matt leaned closer.

Dan ignored the question, his hand surreptitiously opening and closing around the kid's for a long time. "Tell you what … you can be strong and keep going for so long, and then ... then all hopes and wishes just die. Shatter. And all of the nightmares, too. " Shaking his head while looking onto his flexing hand. "The day they let Vadim out ... that night he left. Just walked away. No note, no sign, nothing. I knew he wasn't the same, I could see it, feel it, even smell it. But he just walked. No chance, I didn't get one. I would have done anything. Any fucking thing. But no chance." Dan paused again, lifting his head slowly, and when he looked at Matt, he wasn't aware that he had tears in his eyes, unable to stop their flow. "I never knew anything could hurt so much."

Matt stared into the face before him, and it was too much to bear. Sliding onto the bed, he sat beside the other. "Hey, buddy …" Trailing off, his hand clenched tightly by Dan's. "And what now?" Quietly.

Dan shook his head, again and again, while those goddamned boozed-up tears kept falling onto the blanket. Like a stupid bimbo, crying like a girl. "Don't know." He finally murmured. "Just don't know. Fucking hurts. All of it."

"So you do love that Russian." A careful statement, not any longer a question.

"Aye." Whispered, "how the fuck could I not."

Matt sat with Mad Dog for a long while. A kid, offering silent comfort to a weary old soldier, who'd seen one battle too many, and had lost himself in the final war.

* * * * * * *

Dan had left the safe house after a couple of hours. Still unsteady on his feet, despite litres of water and a session, that had, after all, ended in sex. Predictably. But he'd make his way back to camp even if he had to crawl all the way. He'd proven it before, and almost managed to get himself thrown out of the job for it.

Matt was tying his boot laces while thinking about everything Mad Dog had told him. He couldn't get his head around the whole fucked up situation. How anyone could still love such an arsehole and how that arsehole could have once loved the other. Was a mystery to him. Strange thing, that love. Unlike his own relationship, wholesome, simple, if it weren't for him being in the military. Ken, his boyfriend, back home. Safe, sound and normal. Matt huffed, stood up and stretched. The night hadn't quite turned out as intended, but he'd got some pretty damn good sex out of it in the end, so he wasn't going to complain. And fuck, he liked Mad Dog, and being buddies meant sometimes to listen. He'd miss that crazy Brit.

He checked the room and turned off the light before slipping through the door into darkness.

Vadim came down on him like a ton of bricks, his elbow hit Matt's neck, and the jarhead went limp, stunned, unconscious. "Surprise", murmured Vadim, spared a glance for the surroundings, grabbed the Yank by the collar and pushed him right back into the safehouse. Third dimension. Sniper. Ambush. Jarhead never saw it coming.

He closed the door with a controlled kick, then sat the kid down on a chair. It looked solid enough. Weaved the boy's legs back under the chair, flexcuffed them to the legs, hands bent back enough to put pressure on the hips and back, flexcuffed those as well, double-checked the stability of the position. He pulled the cover from one of the pillows, stuffed it in the kid's mouth, took the scarf off his neck and secured the gag. Glanced around, could still smell Dan's sweat here, like a shark tasted blood in the water.

He checked the soldier over, but he was still out cold. Waited a little, then thought he could start with the psychological part of his. Unbuttoned the tunic, pulled it down over the overstretched shoulders, pulled up the shirt underneath. Nice sixpack. Good definition. Fitness freak. The skin was soft, vulnerable. Vadim felt his face twitch. Fuck you. Fuck you, Dan. Tore open the other's belt, bared the briefs, reached inside and pulled out that cock. Thought Dan had touched it. Sucked it. Less than an hour ago. Fuck. His head spun, the anger came back. He stepped behind the kid and waited, just waited for a change in breathing.

Matt's next thought after stepping out of the door and closing it behind him, was the feeling of heaviness in his body, discomfort, and a sharp pain in his neck. His breathing quickened and he tried to move. Completely disorientated. Groaned, but found himself biting down on something obstructing his throat, had to cough - unable to cough. Began to panic in that state of utter disorientation. Fuck. He'd been caught. Iraqi insurgents. He forced his eyes open.

Vadim checked his watch. Twenty minutes. Not bad. Well within the time frame. He stepped close to his prisoner and placed both hands on the kid's shoulders. "Welcome." His voice so low it would be hard to identify him. He didn't care. "You are in my control now. If you want to breathe, I need you to understand that I will cut your throat if you scream. And I mean it. No shit."

Full-blown panic set in. Matt couldn't breathe, couldn't cough, couldn't swallow and most of all couldn't understand what the fuck was happening. Who was that bastard who touched him and talked in a weird voice and ... oh God! Only then realised the way he was tied to the chair. Naked. The important parts. Felt air on his genitals and on his abs. He tried frantically to calm himself down by remembering all they had told them in their training.

Matt's breathing was sharp and noisy. Mad Dog. Where was he, what happened? Not someone he knew, the voice. No American, no Brit either. Fuck. No. Panic. Sweat broke out on his forehead, but remembered he had to acquiesce his captor. Nodded. Just nodded. Would stay silent, but needed to breathe. Get out. Survive.

Vadim moved to the side, just allowed Matt to see the glint of the blade. Turned the knife so it definitely caught the light, then brought it up to the kid soldier's face, cut the scarf, pulled the pillow cover free with the left hand, point of the blade touching the corner of those lips. Lips Dan had felt on his body. Lips that had gasped, maybe cursed.

Matt's eyes followed the blade, as if staring at the steel made the weapon less lethal. Repeating in his mind 'calm, calm, calm', had to keep his senses about him. Breathing desperately, in large gulps, once he could, before coughing and moistening his lips. Trying to catch a glance of his captor, who didn't sound like anyone he'd ever heard, but sure as hell it wasn't an Arab. Couldn't stop the sweat that was running down his face.

Vadim stepped into the kid's back, rested the blade against the jaw line. "There. Let's make this quick. I'm sure you want to return to your unit on time, yes?" He smirked, didn't feel a scrap of humour, felt nothing.

"What the fuck do you want. Who are you!" Matt's voice was raspy, trying to ignore the panic. Fear burning like hot coal in his stomach. Vulnerable. Exposed.

"Stuff the bravado, Yank. You will cooperate. You are meeting a man who is called Mad Dog. You're fuck-buddies."

Matt's eyes widened. Mad Dog. What? What the fuck? He tensed, nostrils flaring with every breath. This was an interrogation and he didn't have an idea why and what for. Mad Dog. His buddy.

"No."

"Wrong answer." Vadim moved closer, placed his hand around the kid's throat, allowed him to feel the strength in his hand. Enough strength to squash the voicebox. "I have seen you. I know. Try again."

Matt finally managed to get a good look at his captor and he forgot to breathe for a moment. Tall. Blond. Blue eyed. The accent. That man. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck! Hadn't thought his fear could rise anymore notches until he realised who that madman was. Had to be the Russian Mad Dog talked about.

"No."

Matt forced the word out, had to be strong, couldn't allow himself to break down, but that hand, oh God, he'd do it. He'd just slaughter him like a pig or let him suffocate slowly. From what Mad Dog had told him, that man could be mental, absolutely fanny-fuck crazy.

Vadim smiled at the reaction. The muscles did everything to make it a smile, at least. The baby soldier's fear came from the stories, the rumours, his reputation.

"What do you want?" Desperate, Matt tried to hide the fear.

Vadim leaned in, met the other's eyes. "Let's start with what I don't want. I don't want to have to hack off your head and hands with just a combat knife, then put your bits and pieces into plastic bags and bury them somewhere out in the desert." He read the fear in the kid's eyes, could smell it on his ragged breath, saw the sweat rolling. "Making men vanish is hard work and I don't get paid for this. Because this is a personal matter."

Matt stared at the madman, followed every movement. Personal matter. Oh God, oh God have mercy. All he'd done was have fun with Mad Dog and make the man laugh while having a great time in return. Mad Dog. His idol.

Vadim glanced at the kid's name tag. "Donahue. I know you're fucking with Mad Dog." He brought the knife down, let the blade scrape over that smooth chest, touched the nipple, watched the old poetry of skin against steel. Magical.

Matt shuddered, tried to follow the blade but couldn't lower his head enough. Believed every single thing he was being told. Everything. And worse.

"I will release you, unharmed, if you tell me the whole story." Vadim grinned, again, without emotion. He used to enjoy situations like this, but it was as technical as planning how to take a building. A man's mind was nothing but a room with a closed door. "You will tell me everything Mad Dog has told you. Every word. Every … touch. I want to know the whole story."

Matt shook his head. No. No he couldn't. No no no no no! Had given his word. Couldn't do it. Breaking his word, no way, no. Even though he was sweating like a pig with fear.

The knife rested against the taut stomach and Vadim looked at the blade, thoughtfully. "I have made tougher men than you talk. Scream, even. I can make you vomit with pain, Donahue. I can destroy you so completely even your experts will have trouble reconstructing how you died … or what you looked like."

"I … can't." No. Just can't. Fucking fucker of a fucking madman. "Fuck off." Had forgotten the Russian's name. Just remembered what Dan had told him, and those fucking tears that he promised he'd never tell anyone about. The anguish, a buddy in pain, a man who didn't deserve that shit and ... trying to prep talk himself while so frightened, he wanted to spill the beans. Everything, but couldn't. He'd be a swine if he did.

Vadim paused, stared into the kid's eyes. What did inspire him to do this? Love? He recoiled, then hit the kid in the face, a bitchslap that made the head turn, and another one, for symmetry. Snarling, faced with a sudden bout of feeling. Anger. Jealousy. "Too fucking bad, then."

Matt's head exploded. Once, twice, felt the bruise in his neck protest and his face hurt like fuck. Nothing in his training, not even the worst of his Drill Sergeants, had ever been like that.

Vadim inhaled sharply, turned the knife in his hand and brought the blade around to Matt's balls. "Not very dignified, bleeding to death with your cock in your throat", he murmured, toneless. "Guess it can't be helped."

Matt's whole body tensed, he almost shrieked with panic. "No!" Oh God please no! He was praying now. "I can't tell you!" Tried instinctively to pull his knees together, fighting against the restraints. "I gave my word!"

Vadim stared at him. Strange, it was getting difficult. Word. Honour. The world according to a baby American. As if it mattered. As if anybody cared. "Do you think you're harder than Mad Dog? You're not. You will break. I promise, you will break. And nothing will keep me from what I need to know. It's simple. He wouldn't want you to die for his secrets. He knows me, Donahue. You stand no chance in hell."

Matt could hardly swallow, sweat stinging in his eyes. "Why me. I don't understand." Didn't beg, not yet. "Mad Dog's my buddy." Couldn't say it. Couldn't admit to the sex.

Understanding did not matter. No why. Just how. Above all: when. Vadim shook his head. "Brave little soldier boy. Willing to die for a blowjob. You are so willing to die, you children."

"I don't want to die!" Matt started to fight against the restraints with all his strength, while trying to stay away from the blade as much as possible. "No! I didn't do anything. Let me go!"

Vadim moved in, pressed his hand to the kid's mouth, shut his nose off, too, waited whether the kid would be able to topple the chair. Matt was breathing hard against the hand, felt like suffocating, but still thrashed wildly, using all his strength until he ran out of air.

Vadim allowed the kid to fight, for a little, the adrenaline would work in his favour. Steadied the chair when it rocked, with a knee between the kid's knees. "Wrong company, Yank", he said, calmly, clearly, to allow the information to register properly and sink in. Allowed him to breathe through the nose, but kept the head pushed back so harshly that he stretched the kid's throat. He liked the view of that, healthy, strong flesh. Could imagine the kid arch like this when he came. Damn unlikely he'd ever see this.

Matt's breath came in frantic, sharp gusts, trying to remember everything he'd ever been told in training. How to survive, how to fool his captor, how not to break. But they'd never told him about a madman who was not playing by any rules.

Vadim wasn't in the mood for sex, forced or not. He wanted to know. Needed to break into another man's mind, not his body. There was no struggle involved.

How far are you willing to go, Vadim?

As far as I have to.

Copy that.

He hammered the knife into the chair, close to the kid's balls and Matt jumped within his bonds, half-muffled yelling against the hand. Vadim then took the pillow cover again. "You don't want to talk. Fine. No screaming, no talking. But you have to understand, Donahue, that thing like mine and Mad Dog's does not end like this. Not by you nor deserter stepping between us. Yes, you are pretty, and deserter is such nice man, but it won't end like this. If I am going crashing down, I'll take Dan with me. His life is mine. It cannot be separated. We are like Siamese twins sharing heart of a killer." He gave a laugh that only increased the tension in his chest.

Matt's eyes grew wider with every word. Insane, fucking insane. Completely unhinged, impossible to judge and no way to survive according to any rules he'd ever learned. He almost whimpered when the Russian continued.

"Believe it or not, but one of us will die. I know you are hoping right now it's me. You might as well be right. It won't matter, because I will destroy Dan on the way down. You, Donahue, are just collateral. Ah. I thought you'd understand that concept. You're Yank, after all." Vadim took his hand off, then forced the pillow cover back into the baby soldier's mouth, pushed the teeth apart when Matt tried to protest and resist, brought his lips close to the other's face. "I can smell your fear, Donahue. I know you want to talk. I can hear it in your breathing. But you won't. That's where I will fuck you up."

Matt was swallowing on the fabric, sweaty, uniform stained, whatever of it was still on his body. He stank of fear and loathing, while Vadim stepped back, then took off his watch, slipped it into his pocket, watched the young soldier fight his fear. Looked a lot like neither would budge. The kid had guts. Too bad the deck was stacked against him.

Vadim took off the vest, neatly folded it on the bed. Where those two must have fucked just an hour ago. Dan and the kid. He stared at the sheets, remembered a room like this. Remembered a lust that had destroyed his career. Worth it. Fuck it. He was crashing down, had been for nearly three years now. Maybe the day Dan had been blown up. Changed everything. He hadn't been able to stand what he was. Spetsnaz, officer, invader, fuck it. The lies. The subterfuge, treason, committed a hundred times, every time he had left Dan, had allowed Dan to leave. Had denied what he felt. Had not put everything on that card, that fucked-up feeling of belonging. Of love. This feeling was to love what a ravenous wolf was to a dog puppy. He wasn't even sure it fitted the bill. He pulled the shirt off. He paused for a moment, glanced at the kid. "I don't want to have to explain your blood on my camo at the gate", he clarified, and allowed his lips to curve into a lazy, dismissive smile.

Matt moaned against the cloth. Couldn't help but stare at the crazed bastard, fighting against the restraints once more. Had to get away, please, not die, not like this, couldn't do it anymore. Wanted to break, to give up, but hated himself for that very same thought.

Vadim loosened his belt, opened the fly, fully frontal to the kid. Part of the game. Showing off the body, the engine of destruction. Showing the implements of torture before the torture, a time-honoured tradition. Just wearing his briefs, black, clinging, he placed the camo on the bed, took an extra moment with that. He had time. The kid's time frame was now different. Minutes were hours, trapped like this.

Matt just concentrated on breathing, as hard as that was. Panic went up a notch. Sheer, unadulterated fear of dying like a dog.

Vadim closed the distance again, placed the knife against the kid's left nipple, cool perfection against something just too weak. Tilted the blade and pulled it across the skin. Felt the resistance only in his fingertips, saw a line open, and swell. Matt jerked and whimpered, tried to see what was happening, felt pain, too much, too sensitive, and he started to fight embarrassing tears.

Hardly more than cutting into the dermis, but the kid had no fucking clue. Would heal without a scar, and looked like a scratch. "Ah. I guess I'm already drawing blood", said Vadim, and smiled. Not enough to bead, or even run, but it did have an effect, he could see that in the Yank's eyes.

He brought the knife lower, and Matt shuddered, stilled, breathed harshly. Vadim placed the knife into the ridge between two muscles. Loved the contrast. "The Mujahideen, as you called them … to us, they were just bandits … they had something we called the 't-shirt'. They liked killing our men like that. Skin the torso of a man, pull the whole shit up, and knot it over his head. We found a few that were still alive, barely. Amazing what the human body can survive." He slowly pulled, another shallow cut, but long, and Matt nearly screamed into