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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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November/December 1992, The Balkans

Dan figured the building had been a school or similar once - shelled until half of it had collapsed, and what remained standing didn't inspire confidence in the structure. He picked his way through the rubble carefully and as quietly as possible, finding relatively easy access once the rubble was left behind. That's when he slowed down, turning into stealth mode, all senses honed. The air still tasted of dust and he could sense Vadim close.

The cellar was still intact in one wing of the building, and that was where Vadim had been heading. There was a room that might have been a boiler room before the war, and Dan crouched behind a steel girder, the moment he saw a small light. Too insignificant to be seen from the outside, a tea light. There was a sleeping mat close by, a woollen blanket, and a man with his hands chained to one of the massive boilers. The light barely touched his face, he appeared worn, dusty, but above all, cold, forced into hardly moving.

Another man was crouched next to him, and Dan's eyes narrowed. That man was Vadim.

Vadim was feeding the man on the ground, canned meat and dry biscuits, and then water from his own bottle. The lying man ate everything Vadim gave him, clearly hungry, or just simply not protesting much, or resigned and knowing he'd need to preserve his strength. They didn't speak, but there was an odd sense of understanding between them.

The man moved his hand to indicate he'd drunk enough, and Vadim closed the bottle and put it down, then checked on the wrists, all in a perfectly calm, businesslike manner. Like keeping prisoners was perfectly normal.

"You okay?" Vadim asked, his hand now resting on the man's shoulder, then moved a few inches to his chest. He was speaking Russian.

The other man looked up, met Vadim's gaze, there was the beginning of a smile or grin, or similar dismissive notion, but then he pressed his lips together. "Let me go."

Vadim frowned, thoughtfully, hand moving across the man's chest, as if checking the pockets of his vest for hidden, illicit goods. "Anything else?" When no answer came, he shifted, packed the remainder of the food and the wrappers back into his bergan, silently watched by the other man.

"When do you plan to be back?" asked the captive.

"I don't know. Not long."

The captive shook his head. "Fuck you. You'll leave me here, right? Like this? Like the other days?"

"Nights. Too dangerous in the light."

"Fuck you."

"Yes. Fuck me." Vadim's hand ran up to the captive's face, his neck, searching, testing, but there was no response that Dan could see, then down towards his navel. Without a word, with no further comment or question, Vadim suddenly rolled on top of the other man, whose hands formed fists in the handcuffs, breath growing laboured under Vadim's weight.

Dan remained frozen, even if he could make a sound, he wouldn't be able to. Staring at the two men, seeing … what? Some kind of rape? What the fuck made it 'rape' anyway, but a set of chains and manacles was a damn convincing indicator for 'unwilling'.

Vadim was moving on top, hands on the other's ragtag uniform, pulling his vest free, baring skin, pulling flies open and apart, grunting with forceful grinding motions that made the captive's neck and throat tense visibly in the sparse light. A flash of skin, the scent of sex, Vadim grinding against the other's body, cock against cock, until he came, and remained on top for a while longer. Working against the other's motions, who arched, both hands clenching around the chain, so hard his veins stood out visibly. His groans tortured, losing, after his freedom, the control of his own body.

Vadim rolled off, leaving the panting man, put both sets of camo back in order, after using the scarf to clean himself and the other. "Sleep. Time passes quicker, then."

"Fuck you."

"Tomorrow. Five or six hours." Vadim stood, shouldering his bergan.

Dan felt bile rise in his throat as he watched Vadim disappear, pressing his body further against the girder, blending with the shadows.

Then Vadim was gone, and he was left breathing. Against the nausea and against the urge to run after him and kick the shit out of the bastard, hurting him until he bled, to make him talk, explain, any-fucking-thing, just as long as it took those images and thoughts away.

The lying man had turned his head, staring at the flame of the tea light, eyes catching the light. They seemed dark, mottled, and the dusty, tired face was as far removed from peace as was possible. Not resigned, just tired, and focusing on the flame. Knowing that the light would be gone in mere hours.

Dan waited a while longer, most of all to ensure Vadim would not return, not now, or he'd follow his urge all too efficiently. He finally took one deep breath, before stealthily crawling back the way he'd come. It would be no good to let the man - whoever he was - know that he'd been witnessing the scene. Once sufficiently far away, he turned again, this time picking his way through the rubble like a man who was cautious, but not overly worried about making a sound. He didn't have a plan yet, but he'd be fucked if he wasn't going to do something. Barge ahead, and think later.

The candle light vanished. A mere breath, the captive's body twisting, and the light was out.

Dan stopped, reached for his torchlight, and shone it around, as if he didn't know that someone was there. Randomly shining into corners and along walls. "Anybody in there?" Calling out in his broadest Scottish accent. No way he was going to be mistaken for anything but a Brit. Carefully taking a few further steps, avoiding tripping over the rubble, He knew he was getting closer, but deliberately walked a few steps away. "Hello?"

Not a sound. Not a breath, not a scrape of chain against boiler metal, no shifting of a body. Dead silence.

Dan glanced to the side where he knew the prisoner was, allowing the torch to glide over the still body. Stopping, light and man, and he turned, shining the beam of brightness right onto the still lump. "Hello there, you OK? You understand me?" Not quite naïve, certainly not trusting, least of all when he slipped a weapon out of its holster into his hand, but acting well enough. Moving cautiously closer, until he looked down, but could not be reached by a suddenly flailing arm. "Hey!"

The man's eyes opened. He might have preferred to be thought of as a corpse, but he squinted against the light, shadowing his face with his elbow. Hands still around the chain to suppress every sound of the metal. Face blank, trying to make out the eyes of his 'visitor'. Nodding, blinking like he'd been roused from sleep. "Are you British?" he asked, his English coloured with Russian. Not that most non-native speakers would be able to tell the difference between a Russian speaking English with a Russian accent and a Serb speaking English.

"Aye," Dan nodded, shielding the light away from the man's eyes. "What the fuck are you doing here? I'm going through all the buildings that are still more or less standing. Fucking boring task checking the ruins, and then bingo! There really is someone lying here. You sleeping rough? And who the fuck are you?" Sticking to his not yet existing plan, but whatever it was, there was no way he'd let on that he had anything to do with Vadim.

The man stared at him, then slowly nodded, as if understanding. "I'm trapped", he said, glancing at his hands. "Are you a mercenary? Somebody's bodyguard, perhaps? Or a journalist?" The man attempted a smile, somewhat sheepish. "Can you get the cuffs off?"

"Trapped?" Dan played as dumb as he could without looking unconvincing. Shining the light onto the chains, he let his eyes grow wide in surprise. "You're chained up, who did that?"

"I don't know. They didn't introduce themselves", said the man, maybe now slowly beginning to hope he might be set free. But cautious, watching every movement, and the gun. Shifting to lie on his side, peering up at Dan. "Are you a mercenary? British?"

"Aye." Dan nodded, put the gun away, making sure the other saw his movements. "I'm one of the mercenaries in the camp nearby." Getting to his knees, he put the torch onto the ground so it provided sufficient light, then patted the man down, as if checking for injuries. There were no open wounds, just the cold skin of having been in the low temperatures for too long, days, maybe. He smelled of sex, the lingering scent of Vadim still on him, and Dan paused, staying far too long, before he let go of the man.

"I'm alright. I'm not wounded. But I'm slightly dehydrated, and I should get out of the cold", the man gave a rational summary.

"Could you make out who caught you? There must be a reason why you are chained up?"

"I don't know. I honestly have no idea. I've been here for days, I don't know. Set me free, yes?" Indicating the handcuffs again. "I kept thinking the building would come down and bury me alive." Smoothly said, but there was something in the man's eyes that told Dan that indeed, that had been one of the lingering thoughts during his captivity.

"Aye." Dan nodded, looking around, "but you don't seem to be in too bad a condition. They fed you alright?" His hand came back down onto the man's chest. "By the way, I am Dan. Who are you?" Figuring that there was no way Vadim would have mentioned his name.

Hesitating, the man looked at Dan's hand on his chest. He was wearing a mix of various uniforms, some Russian, some from somewhere else, some civilian survival kit. No dog tag. "Dima." Choosing the nickname of Dmitri. "Friends call me Dima." Glancing up, as if asking Are you a friend? His eyes appeared dark green, with brown in them. He was roughly Vadim's age, the dust made his features appear older, washed out. "Let me go, please."

"I don't even know who the fuck you are." Dan left his hand on the chest, if anything, applying more pressure, as he leaned down. Too close, far too close to those strangely speckled eyes, but feeling strength under his hand. The whole man resisted, tightened, eyes narrowing.

"You could be a chetnik, Dima, and the moment I turn round, you blast a bullet into my back." He was metaphorically speaking, he saw no weapons near. "Why the hell would anyone chain anyone else up, keeping them fed and watered and a candle nearby, and a couple of blankets." He lowered even more, face to face, with barely a hand's breadth in between. "You tell me, aye?" Murmured, but he flashed a grin after that, his sunniest one, which almost touched his eyes.

Dima stared at him, and every piece of that harmless veneer vanished from him. His hands tightened again around the chains and he met the gaze, full on, not a challenge, but stubborn resistance. "If I was chetnik, the kidnapper would have killed me. If they were mercs. If I wasn't, and I was kidnapped by chetniks, I'd be dead, too. I'm a mercenary, too. Not a chetnik. I'm not a Serb."

"Then who captured and kept you?"

"I told you, I don't know. Could be your side. Could be chetniks. Could be anything." He kept his eyes on Dan's.

Dan smiled, sunny again, teeth and all, but he dropped the pretence for a second. "And why does it smell of cum around here? Wanking with hands chained to a boiler seems damn difficult to me." The grin was back in place immediately. "Or are we talking a great big kinky feast, here? In the middle of shitty Yugo-land?" And maybe, just maybe, what he had seen had been a game and not real. But Vadim … what had changed him back? Dan's dark eyes suddenly became hard and cold, the moment he thought of the bitch and how she'd destroyed everything, even from afar.

Dima stared at him, paler now under the dust. "Seems there was some kind of sexual encounter, then. Why? You interested?" He was tense, taut, hating every second of being helpless and Dan clearly not a friend.

Dan stalled for a moment, looking down into those strange eyes, until he finally pulled his lips from his teeth in an entirely humourless grin. "I might be the camp faggot, but I don't 'do' prisoners. Especially not if they are someone else's." He let go of the other and moved back, away from the light and out of the vicinity.

Dima's eyes stayed on him, not a muscle in his face had moved at the 'faggot', clearly focusing on Dan, every move potentially threatening. "Where are you going?"

"What, you worried about being left alone?" Dan's voice disembodied in the gloom.

"Fuck you", Dima murmured in Russian, more to himself. "No, why should I? I can feed myself, I can piss and shit in a hygienic manner, I have drunk so much water the last days I can last a week, and I enjoy lying in a shelled building that makes strange sounds every now and then. Nice and cosy and warm here, my socks are clean and fresh, my feet dry and snug. I can do my job and I'm not bored. You fucking joker."

"Then what is your job?" Dan hadn't moved, no sound in the rubble.

"I'm a merc. Speciality medic." Dima huffed. "Which, translated, means I know how a body looks that had a house fall on it. I am also fairly aware of exposure, and, of course, I know starvation and dehydration.

Dan let out a snort and turned back into the light, studying the man on the ground, who met the gaze, looked at him past his elbow that half-shielded his face - probably to give a measure of protection. "Despite being that perceptive, you still trying to tell me that you have no idea who captured you and then … used you?"

"He's a merc, too. No allegiance. Or rather ... British." Something made Dima's voice sound thick and almost emotional and Dan's eyes flashed for an unguarded second before he had himself under control again. "He's one of yours, then. Happy now? He keeps me here and alive, but that's it. If he gets shot out there, I'm fucked - terminally. So, yeah, whatever. Fuck me, kill me, leave me. You're just here to gloat or interrogate me. So, go ahead, kick me around a bit. Teach me you mean it. Break a rib or two. It's not much I can do about it. If you think I'm a chetnik, I deserve that, right?"

"You're Russian." Dan said, suddenly switching into Russian, while ignoring anything the man had said, "which makes me wonder why the fuck you are here. Don't tell me you had the orders?" Still speaking fluent Russian, getting faster with every word.

Dima frowned darkly, not used to be addressed in his own language like that. "I'm not cleared to tell you that. Remember? Soldiers are not supposed to give anything away that isn't their name and number."

"Aye," Dan switched into English, "but I'm not bound to any codes anymore." Back the next moment to Russian, "unlike the days in Afghanistan." Watching the man's face very closely.

"Good shot. You think I was one of the 'lost generation'?" Dima looked pointedly at his hands. "I'm old enough, yes."

"I think you might be." Dan nodded, "and that might be how you know that 'British' merc of yours." He shrugged, still sticking to Russian, it felt strangely good to use the language again. Fierce and primal, a reminder of times worse and better and entirely straightforward. Enemies. Lovers. Dust and pain and lust and love.

"As in, I patched him up near Salang Pass one fine, dusty afternoon?" Dima grinned, sharp, white, flawless teeth, if not for two eye teeth that were crooked.

"No, not quite."

"Listen, you don't get a word from me unless you've untied me. Simple. You want information, I want my freedom. You either give this to me, or you break the words out of me. I'm gambling. You probably have the stomach to do that, but just telling you what you want to know without getting anything out of it for me is shit. Do you agree?"

Dan laughed without humour, and yet the sound was dark and strangely enticing. "I'm ex-SAS, mate." Switching back to English, "I have the stomach for a hell of a lot of things, including carving 'cunt' into the back of that captor of yours." He shifted his weight, leaving free range for his right arm.

Dima fell silent, eyes narrow, and there was something in his face. Shock. Maybe disgust. But he did understand. Understood the implications, suddenly understood the connection: SAS, Vadim's scars, Afghanistan, mercs. No longer daring Dan. Instead, realising something of the scope and the meaning. "Okay." No humour, no lightness, no challenge left. Mind working on the information, but he seemed to withdraw suddenly, build up his defences, maybe his courage.

"I see." Dan nodded, could indeed see a lot of things in the man's face, who was bolstering himself for the worst. Torture, execution, whatever else. As a medic, he would know a lot about what could be done to a human body.

"But if you think I leave you here in this rat hole, you're damn wrong." A twitch of Dan's arm when he leaned further down, and Dima met his gaze, remaining calm. "And I think you don't know anything of the real story …" Dan's arm suddenly moved, faster than Dima could have predicted, his fist connecting that precisely with the other's temple, it knocked the man out in the next instance. Dima's elbow relaxed, head rolled to the side. Out like a light.

"And what the fuck do I do with you now …" Dan murmured, glancing around. He'd have how long for this? Had got a bit rusty in kidnapping and other extortion, but it had to be like riding a bike, aye? All he could think of was the next small step ahead and that he had to get that man out of this unsound building and away from Vadim - whatever that meant and whyever he felt it was necessary. Trying to think of a suitable place, he shook his head at every idea that came to his mind, until he finally grinned. That was it, the only place, he'd just have to carry the guy for a while. Aching knees or not.

Dan quickly went through his pockets, the rifle beside him on the ground, took his scarf off and cut it into strips, quickly blindfolding the man. Wouldn't do him any good to have ideas of where they were heading. He just had to break the chain, and the rifle was the only way. Standing. Aiming, thankful the man was still out, even though he started to twitch, Dan fired a round into the ground, which split the chain and freed the captive.

Dima came back round, the gunshot tore him out of what might have been sleep, and the first instinct was to get away, roll away, reach for a weapon, all of these. Frantically scrambling before he realized that he couldn't see, then reaching for his eyes.

"I wouldn't do that." Dan's voice cut into the blindness, and Dima stopped. "I still have the rifle in my hands and it's trained on you. You want to take the risk?" He waited a moment, but Dima shook his head. "I'm going to take you to a safer place, you want to walk or want me to carry you? I can knock you out again, no problem. Your choice." His voice sounded almost entirely uninterested.

"Out of the frying pan ..." muttered Dima and raised his hands, while getting to his feet. "I'll walk. One headache's bad enough."

"Good choice." Moving into he man's back, Dan picked up the torch, slung the rifle across his back, and guided Dima across the rubble with his hands on his shoulders. Shoulders that were stiff, and Dima was slow to respond at first, but eventually he took his clues from Dan's hands, following the motions.

Making their way to the outside eventually, despite several times of almost tripping and catching Dima when he lost balance, and every time the medic cursed. Strings of curses that almost seemed to mean nothing, more a habit than actual anger.

Dan manoeuvred them to the Landrover that had been parked out of sight, and opened the door of the passenger seat. "You manage to climb in?"

Dima reached out and found the door. "Why don't you just let me go? Why all the hassle? You keeping me for later?"

"I'm keeping you out of shit until I know more." Helping the other to climb in, Dan was quickly in the driver's seat. Reaching across Dima's lap to close the door. "As I said, I bet you don't know the story." Starting the engine, he murmured to himself, " I'm not even sure I know it either." They drove off into the night, towards the direction of the camp.

Dima shook his head, but he seemed glad he could sit and move, and while Dan drove, he massaged his shoulders, rolling them and kneading the muscles, working the ache out of them. "You said 'faggot' ... are you his lover?" Dima turned his face towards Dan. "He told me he was homosexual."

"And that was a surprise to you?" Ignoring the first part of the question.

"Yes. There wasn't even a rumour about him. Never. Not that I checked on that, but soldiers talk when they wait, and we waited a lot in those days."

"So you did work together with him? Spetsnaz medic … I wonder if I ever came across you."

"I doubt it. One of us would have died. Turkey."

Dan shrugged, "you wouldn't have known when I was really close." His face hidden in darkness, while driving towards the abandoned bunker close to the camp. Hiding the man under everyone's nose - and most of all Vadim's - was the best plan he'd had in a long time. Not that he felt like any plans lately, but what the fuck. It had to be done. "Congratulations, seems you didn't count as suitable material, then."

Dima laughed. "It would have been too fucking risky. Out on patrol? With the fucking team leader? With comrade captain Krasnorada? Oh please."

"You have no idea." Dan's face had turned grim, lips pressed together, as he accelerated into a corner, tearing the Lannie around that fast, it threw his passenger against the side of the vehicle. A moment later and he slammed the brakes, which made Dima shut up, and brace himself with his arms.

"Right." Turning to the man, who listened attentively, face remaining a studied mask. Despite his best attempts, Dima knew Dan hadn't become some kind of buddy. Still very much an enemy.

"You got two choices again. Walk with me, quietly, and lay low in a safe place, while I get provisions, or make a ruckus and face whatever shit someone like you might face around here. Up to you, but it looks like I'm your best chance at the moment."

"What about option three: let me go?" Dima inhaled. "Why keep me as a captive at all? Especially since you don't 'do' prisoners?"

"I don't 'do' prisoners as in: I don't fuck them. Got that? But that's all." Turning the ignition off and pocketing the key for now. "Letting you go is not a fucking option, because I have no fucking clue why you're here. Getting an idea who you are, but that's not enough, mate." Switching once more into Russian. "This is a shit place, even good old me is getting that. And letting an unknown factor loose into a pile of shit is not a good idea. Got it?" And he needed to know, had to … why? Because hurt ran as deep as blood and lust, but nothing ever reached as far down as the love. Battered, broken, full of anger, but he'd been through too much to give up on it. Not yet.

"Then let's do the torture bit and be done with it", said Dima, climbing out of the car. "I can't tell you, and you need to know. I call that a conflict of interest. Or is it that you weren't aware of me? And you are still his lover? You are both here, that's not a coincidence. I don't think it's jealousy. Just because there were sexual acts committed ..." Dima shrugged. "What's the problem?

"You're one smart motherfucker, aye?" Back into English, hopping from language to language with an old, worn-out ease.

"I got top scores in the IQ test, 'mate'. Medics are smart people. We have to be, because apart from the soldiering, we actually need to know how the human body works. And that's one complicated machine."

"You'd be getting along just hunky-dory with a friend of mine." Jumping out of the vehicle, Dan swiftly stood once more behind the other man, hands on his shoulders. The muscles under his hands tensed. "The problem is I don't know what the fuck is going on, other than blood soaked kit and shots in the distance." His fingers tightened in the shoulder muscles, which tensed even more, and Dima tilted his head, as if to listen very closely for whatever Dan would say next.

"He's killing them. The chetniks. He walks like death and cuts their throats." Dima said quietly.

Dan's hands twitched, until they were digging in so hard, they had to be hurting. Giving far more away than ever intended. The pause too long, too silent. "And you, did you consent?" Voice dropped, body tense.

"Consent? To them getting killed? Fuck, no."

"Aye." Fuck, wrong question, and he'd lost the slot, impossible to pursue. "Move." Gruffly, as he pushed the other forward, none too gently, making Dima curse again as his foot hit a stone and he nearly lost his balance, but caught himself.

Walking in silence towards the half overgrown entrance of the small concrete bunker that was entirely stable, with the iron door still intact. Dan had been there before, recced the area, a mere stone throw away from the camp. Yet the air slits would be too small to allow any sound to travel far enough.

Once inside the building, Dima tensed again and walked slower, doubtlessly hearing, that the building he'd entered appeared sound-proof. Expecting the worst. It was a good place to shoot somebody. He was sweating, but silent, likely clinging to what life he had, or remembering, or that hyper focused sensorial overload that undermined his will.

Dan stopped. The bunker itself was small, no more than a square room, with some daylight through slits, which provided fresh air. "Home sweet home." Dan's calm voice a mockery of his thoughts. What the fuck was he doing? But could it be any fucking worse than a fucking madman out on what seemed to be a killing rampage? What the fuck had happened to them, where had the 'honeymoon' on Thailand vanished to, family and friends in Scotland and France, and their home-to-be in New Zealand? Was it all the bitch's fault?

"I'll be back in an hour." Dan didn't bother to take the blindfold off, as he slipped out of his heavily padded winter jacket. "Here." Draping it over the other man's shoulder, "and I wouldn't try screaming, it won't help." He turned towards the heavy iron door.

Dima's hands, still shackled, went up to take the blindfold off. He glanced around, then at Dan, but shrugging into the jacket that was still warm. "One hour? Don't get killed." Captivity of a different kind, but at least he could see, and move, and was reasonably warm. Looking tired and worn after the battle with his own fear, and after escaping from the other place.

"It's too close to get killed." Dan flashed a humourless grin before he vanished into the darkness, the iron door shutting firmly behind him, wedging it shut. Running back to the vehicle, he huffed against the cold, then drove back into camp. Counting on Vadim still being out, he signed the Landrover in and made his way to the cookhouse, blagging his usual bag of sandwiches at this time of night, with the leftover dessert on top.

Stash under his arm, he made his way to the room he 'shared', and the lights were out. It had to be true, then, and he was going to find out what the fuck was going on with Vadim, after he'd delivered the goods. Rolling up the couple of extra blankets, Dan grabbed his bergan that had his sleeping bag in the bottom, and stuffed it full with the blankets, food, a couple of water bottles, a torch and a stash of batteries. Rummaging around until he found spare shaving kit in a tin, soap dish, towel, and pulled out some old BDUs that Vadim particularly disliked on him because they were too worn, and a pair of socks, t-shirt and thick jumper. Holey but functional, and his old paratrooper smock as well, which was warm but faded so badly it hardly showed the camo anymore. As an afterthought, taking a third bottle as well, securing the whole lot on his back. He had to be on foot, couldn't risk signing the vehicle out again, and he went for his second jacket, even better padded than the first. All the shit that Vadim had made him buy before they'd gone to this damned country was coming in handy now.

More jogging than walking towards the gates, he avoided anyone's questions by making some stupid arsed jokes of a sweetheart in town, and while no one believed him, he made his way through without any further ado, and was on his way to the bunker, no more than seven minutes away on foot. Once he arrived, he pulled the door open with all the swiftness and simultaneous care that a vertical coffin demanded.

Dima looked up, bleary-eyed, where he'd slept, huddled in a corner, but stood immediately, surprised at seeing Dan return - and laden with kit. "Okay. Explain. What's going on? What the fuck do you want?"

"There's obviously a reason why the hell Vadim locked you up." Throwing the bergan onto the ground, Dan pulled out the goods and laid them out. "And I'm going to find out what the fuck's going on." Most importantly, he pulled out the heavy tool he'd taken from the Landrover. "You're a medic, aye? You tell me why the fuck he's behaving like a madman." Brandishing the tool, Dan pointed to the cuffs.

Dima nodded, moving closer. "Madman? He's very much like I know him ... okay, changed in a few ways, darker. But he's always been fierce. Ten years ago, though, he wouldn't have killed that side."

Placing the man's hands down to have leverage, Dan slipped part of the tool between metal and wrist, applying sudden pressure, with Dima helping as best as he could by offering resistance. A few groans later, the metal had snapped apart. The cuffs had never been particularly safe in the first place. "Does it matter in this godforsaken place who to kill? Right now one side seems worse than the other, but give them a chance and it's turned tables."

"That's ... true."

Dan set to work on the second cuff. "And which side would he have killed? Mujas and Turkeys, just a shame he never killed this one here."

"The side he was ordered to kill. Of the old unit, only I'm still active. One of us got his legs blown off by a mine. I stabilised him, but with the missiles hitting our helicopters, they had to bring him out by truck, a dozen wounded in a car, across the mountains, and I don't know whether he made it to Kabul. Well, I do know, because he's never been in touch. I hope sometimes he was just too ashamed of losing a good half meter of height ..." Dima shook his head. "Doesn't matter. We're all just meat."

Managing to get the second cuff off, Dan placed the tool far enough away so it couldn't be used as a makeshift weapon. "He was more than meat." He shrugged, but the casual attitude was not convincing. "Anyway, I got you clothes and water, and enough food to last. You find a sleeping bag and extra blankets, torch and batteries. Got you my old safety razor as well, you look like shit and frankly, you could do with a wash and a change of kit. I'll be back tomorrow after night shift." Stashing the tool back in the empty bergan, "and I need my jacket back, too obvious otherwise." He held out his hand to the other man, who didn't make any movement, instead looked at him with those mottled eyes.

"I can see you've given this quite a bit of thought, 'mate'. And that does take care of me ... all basic needs met, for the moment, anyway. But why you're doing this escapes me. You have good reason to think I'm a chetnik, and I can't prove otherwise ..." leaving that deliberately ambivalent. "And now you keep me like a guest almost, a guest that can't leave because your side would take him prisoner and do God knows what with him. Okay. That's the bottom line. Why do you do that? Why do you feel responsibly for Vadim's 'prisoner'?"

Dan's hand fell back down to his side. "You're not chetnik. You worked with Vadim, back in Afghanistan. A spetsnaz medic."

"That's a good working hypothesis."

Dan shook his head slowly. "I'm forty-three years old. Perhaps I'm just sick and fucking tired of deaths that are too damned pointless. Perhaps I just dabbled too much in the civilian world, friends and family and all that goddamned shit that I had always tried to stay clear of before, to make it easier to walk back into the shitholes." He shrugged, strangely uncaring about anything he admitted to right now. "And let me tell you that, you chose the worst possible affiliation at this moment in time and place, that you could have possibly chosen."

Dima nodded. "I'm forty-four, for three weeks yet." He was silent for a while, mulling it over, or just allowed the words to settle. "Random acts of kindness, then. That's as good an explanation as any other." He reached over and began to idly rifle through the 'gifts' Dan had brought, spread out the blankets and sleeping bag, every motion smooth and rehearsed a hundred thousand times. Dima pulled the tin closer, while Dan just stood and watched, strangely reluctant to leave, as the other poured water in the tin and washed his face, and, as there was plenty of water, his short hair, too. The original colour must have been dark brown, but it was shot through with so much grey it was more salt-and-pepper. "You know", he murmured. "I'd be glad for some company. Being a prisoner is boring as hell, and my head hurts."

"Aye." Looking around, Dan settled on leaning against a wall. The dammed cold seemed to freeze up his joints. "I got painkillers in the inside pocket of my jacket." Adding with a dry huff that harboured some hints of humour. "The one you are still wearing and which is getting wet right now."

Dima grinned and slipped out of the jacket, brushing the water aside with his hand, like he'd smoothe a kid's school uniform. "Painkillers? Your knees are that bad?" Casual, while he dried his face on one of the blankets, and then ran a handful of water over his stubble.

"Fuck you. You medical types are all the same." Dan groaned and rolled his eyes. "I'm alright, I can keep going for a while longer. It's just the damned cold." He shrugged and almost believed himself. Had to, no other option, was all the life he knew and had and ever wanted. No. Wrong. Had wanted Vadim, but … not go there.

"Yeah, cold makes it worse. I know. I am getting arthritis in my fingers. See?" Dima held up a hand. "The way some of the joints are swollen? It's an inflammation. Great fun."

"Aye, I can imagine. Must be shit as a medic."

Dima felt around his face, and shaved, guided by his hands and experience from too many wars, clearing the grey and brown stubble out of his face, cheeks first. He glanced at Dan before he got to the chin. "'Dima' is for Dmitri, by the way. I figured you probably know that, speaking Russian as well as you do."

"Aye, but good you remind me, was starting to wonder if I'd caught the name right." Tilting his head, Dan watched the blind shaving effort. "I'd offer to help in the awkward places, just depends on how paranoid you are."

Dima laughed wryly. "It's messy killing somebody with a safety razor, and you stand to gain nothing by soaking your blankets in blood." He swiped the razor in the water, then offered it, dripping, to Dan.

"Trust me, I had much better reasons to kill the man I shaved than I have now." Tipping the other's face back with the tips of two fingers on Dima's chin, Dan concentrated on the task.

Dima tilted his head to make things easier, looking past him, the specks in his eyes had a strange copper colour. No visible tension in his body, no mistrust, just calm. "Oh? That's the usual treatment for your prisoners?"

Dan chuckled dryly, but his gaze got caught in those weird eyes for a moment. "It was, once upon a time, something as crazy as over ten years ago." Cleaning the razor before starting again on another part of the throat, taking his time to run the razor along the skin.

Dima kept his face straight because of the razor, but his lips twitched. He had very different features to Vadim, less Russian, in a way, and less handsome.

"Been a while." Dan murmured, as he continued his task.

Dima raised his chin to allow Dan access to his throat once more, swallowing only when Dan had lifted the razor to swipe it in the water. "Shaving, or something else?"

"Everything." Dan finished his task, turning Dima's face left and right, satisfied with the result, he dropped the razor and let go of the chin. "Done."

Dima wiped his face on the towel, then looked at Dan, a much different man to the dusty guy Dan had knocked out, meeting at least some very basic standards of hygiene. He stood, then began to undress, peeling the dirty, grimy uniform off his body, with the same ease as if he was changing in the barracks, among dozens of comrades. He was more stocky than the athletic Vadim, the same salt-and-pepper tone on the hair on his chest and the glory trail. No tattoos, no dramatic scars that became visible, just one on his belly that was likely ancient, and in the same location where everybody had it who'd got their appendix removed; a good, healthy body. He washed with just a few handfuls of water and soap, keeping clean, devoting the proper attention to the task, while Dan simply stood and watched. As much interest or as little as watching his team mates shower.

"Keep your old shit, you never know."

"Yeah, I'm just sick of the smell." Dima glanced down at the pile for a moment, then continued with the task, in silence for a while, before speaking again. "Vadim Petrovich had the reputation for being a hard bastard, the kind that doesn't go native. He hated the Afghans, while other officers would strike a truce or sometimes found a way to coexist. Good leader, inspiring. Great personal courage, cunning, and clever enough not to speak his mind. I've seen many soldiers get sent to the army psychiatric ward for speaking their mind or, God beware, protest against an officer. Vadim Petrovich was clever enough, never got involved in the politicking, always keeping his own counsel. I sometimes thought he was too perfect, like he was compensating something, you know what I mean? But up there, you couldn't mistrust somebody for too long. The mountains don't allow that. They make brothers out of men. Or, in some cases, more." Dima rinsed the tin with a bit of water and straightened.

"Were you?" Dan's face still as neutral. "More?"

"No. I didn't guess he was that way ... inclined. He got the regular letters from his wife, I knew he had kids, and he was my superior officer. But I heard stories, a while back. About his trial. In fact, my superior officer asked me whether I'd noticed anything untoward. As if I'd be a witness against him." Dima shook his head. "The functionaries didn't get it. The soldier thing. Vadim Petrovich could have done far, far worse things, and I wouldn't have spoken about it. He was my superior, and I always felt loyal. After seeing other superiors, how they'd scheme and bribe, dodge the unpleasant parts of their duties, I couldn't possibly have given them something to beat him with. That is not how it works."

Dan smiled briefly. Loyalty was still something that meant the fucking world to him.

Dima reached over to begin dressing in the clothes Dan had brought. "But since you were asking, yes, the sexual encounter was with Vadim. There was another one, back in the farmhouse, at night, two or three days back."

That hurt, but Dan wasn't going to show it, or at least he tried. But did it surprise him? No. The bitch had done good work, had destroyed everything. He wondered if she was happy now. "So, you never knew that Vadim was gay? And what the fuck did they tell you about his charges?"

"I just thought they were trying to destroy his pride. If you make something like that stick, it's like a bad smell, no way he could wash that off. Spetsnaz. Such a male thing, being tough and all that. I remember thinking that it must be something personal when they used that angle. They tried to destroy his reputation, his friendships, the same loyalty that was still holding things together. Seems it worked with several others. If they'd have taken too much of an interest, they would have risked their own reputation. When he was charged, I was shocked, but I had some personal matters to deal with ... my brother was dying at that time. It's not an excuse, or maybe it is. Moscow was a long way away." Dima slipped into the warm jumper and draped one of the blankets around his shoulders.

"Aye." Dan said dryly, "guess no one could spare the time, back then." He turned away, busying himself with his empty bergan because fuck it, he wanted to strangle that man. Taking a moment to get over the urge.

"And I didn't want them to look too closely at my life."

Without lifting his head, Dan's voice came from the corner, still busy with whatever non existent content was in his pack. "And what would they have found?"

"A lot of one night stands with men." Dima looked up, with irony. "I thought he was innocent, but I was guilty."

Dan straightened, turned to finally look the other in the eye. "Vadim was innocent, he never divulged any information to me and neither did I to him, not through nine years in that dusty hell. But he was 'guilty' for … aye, for what. Sex? Love? Lust? What-the-fuck-ever." Dan shrugged, was hard to keep the façade up. "With me."

"I figured. The only way to see anything going on in your face is to speak about him." Dima gave a smile, and Dan shook his head. Guilty as charged, but he'd known that all along.

"Guilty or innocent …" Dima mused, "that depends a lot on many, many factors. It's what they thought, they set the rules. Sleeping with men was wrong and illegal, I thought he hadn't broken that rule or law, but I had. So I did worry about myself first. Plus, I thought he'd get protection, so when he was actually found 'guilty', that was when I was getting really worried." Dima sat down, put fresh socks on and his face betrayed that simple pleasure of having clean, dry feet again.

"Aye, I guess that must have been worrying." Dan was leaning against the wall, " I was out of the Forces by then." His face twitched, "would have given everything I had to get him out, in fact I did, but I guess it was too late." Pushing himself off the wall, he put on a fake grin. "C'est la vie, eh? And isn't it ironic that you shagged blokes but never realised Vadim would have been fair game."

Dima studied Dan closely. "He sometimes had that expression in his face, a strange kind of smile, too, like somebody has who's fallen in love. I misinterpreted that. And it's nothing you'd talk about to him. He didn't talk about that kind of thing."

Dan suddenly laughed, dry, and humourless. "You might even have been only a few steps away, when I fucked him right on patrol. Up there in the fucking mountains."

Dima inhaled sharply, what that thought did to him was anybody's guess "You fucked him ... I can imagine that. Strange. I'd have never thought he'd let a man do that, but I was wrong about other things. Well, I didn't. It was a hand job on the farm."

"Which farm? Is it where he 'found' you?" Emphasis on the one word, and Dan knew he'd given too much of his hurt away, the way his face was trying so hard to keep neutral and so utterly failing.

"Yes. He walked right in, I saw him first, and I swear to God, he lowered his gun - not in greeting, but to not shoot me. I didn't get that part, not at first, but I told the other guys that he was a friend, just like me. I vouched for him. They accepted that, I guess they didn't want to piss off the medic by shooting his old comrade. That night, we caught up on some stuff, and I ... I was curious, and I guess I made a move. He'd changed so much, and not at all. Next thing I know, next morning, I'm tied up like a goose and Vadim stands in the room, covered in blood. I knew he'd killed each and every single one of them. In their beds, on guard, playing cards. He'd killed the whole band. Fifteen men in total."

"Fuck!" Dan moved away from the wall like a bullet. Hands clenched into fists, he was strumming with a sickening energy he couldn't dispel. "When was that?" Concentrating hard to string logical words together, his dark eyes so intense, they could belong to a madman.

"My best guess is about three days ago. My only thought was, how lucky I was to be still alive. I was scared of him. Then him messing with my head, keeping me in that boiler-room ... and then what he did, the ... well, sex. Like he meant something else, but he never said it. And then you, and my fucking head still hurts, well, and that's the whole story. What you wanted to know."

"But what you don't know is that Vadim is fucked up alright. You're a medic, how much do you know about trauma? He was tortured by the KGB, and he's ... functional, more than that, he was ... was ... fuck!" Dan slammed his fist into his own thigh.

"Stop. Slowly. Give me the story slowly."

"Something happened, beyond my control, and he's gone off the rails. I only found out when I discovered the blood soaked kit. He won't talk to me, won't touch, won't …"

"Won't?"

Dan shook his head. "No." Won't nothing, nothing … as bad as it had ever been. Worse. "I need to find him and stop this madness. I know his shrink, I got to get him to that guy. He's in England, but …" Shaking his head again, fuck. "I just got to find him when he's out there, and confront him."

"Calm down. Breathe. Trauma, you say? We called it 'nervous breakdown'."

"Nervous breakdown? After almost two years of torture? You must be fucking kidding me."

"Yeah. The beauty of Communist logic. I could tell you stories ... and maybe one day I will." Dima thought for a while, then looked at Dan. "Vadim Petrovich having a 'nervous breakdown' is a really bad thought." He inhaled deeply, then rummaged through Dan's coat pocket, checked the label of the painkillers and swallowed two pills dry. "I'll help you stop him." Pausing, incredulous at his own words. "That should be the best thing for him. My guess is, he's running away from something. Coping by not coping, you know what I mean?"

"I know too well what you mean. After all, I'm the one who didn't know what the fuck to do about his nightmares." Dan looked away, rummaging in his pocket for fags, offering them to the other, almost in an afterthought, and Dima pulled one free, nodding his thanks.

"He'll return to where he left me, unless he gets shot first. I could talk some sense into him? One spetsnaz to the other? Or we bundle him off to that 'shrink' of yours. Vadim, in this state, is not fighting fit. He might think fighting is what he wants to do, and sanity and war don't really match at all, come to think of it, but there's normal insane and insane insane. And that calm maniacal way he stood there, the blood running down his chest ... that's something I don't want to see again. That's something that I don't want to see him do. He always was a decent human being, a good officer. He's not coping." Dima frowned. "Thinking about it, I'm not quite sure about ..." He shook his head. "We all go insane, definitely in this war."

"About what?" Dan focused only onto the one thing.

"My own sanity, but never mind." Dima nodded pointedly at the cigarette. "Light?"

"Ah. I see." Dan nodded, lighting first the other's fag, then his own. Pulling the nicotine deep into his lungs. "I got to do this myself. Facing him. But whatever happens, you won't rot here. I'm beyond that shit, aye?"

"Well ..." Dima didn't look happy about it, but he accepted it at face value. "You going to tell somebody I'm locked up here, then?"

Dan nodded, "I will. Chances are, though, that someone will investigate this place anyway, too close to the camp, but I'll tell my surgeon mate. He's French, a bastard, and works for the French embassy in Belgrade. Only happy when the shit really hits the fan." Dan huffed dryly, "but we have to find a good story for you, or you'll get fucked sideways after all. You haven't told me, why the fuck are you here anyway? And why on that most unfortunate side of all? Don't you give a damn about what the fuck's happening here? No one in their right mind can turn much of a blind eye." Adding, while taking another drag, "least of all a medic."

"I've seen it. This war isn't easy. It's not easy at all ... I was sent ... here, and while certain, more legal, factions were sitting tight and the whole place goes to hell, some people go out there and fight. They do other things, too, but they also fight. I was getting stir-crazy, so I sought them out and ... joined one of the bands. It's keeping people alive, that's my job. Soldiers. Or irregulars, many are just civilians with a rifle. I don't buy their reasons, but there are many reasons for this. Cleaning up a mess by removing the people. It's not unique. It happened in other places. We did very similar things in the South of Afghanistan, against the Pashtuns. Their kishlaks, their villages ... There were campaigns to clear certain areas. It's everybody locked in a struggle to the death. But there is no white or black here. It's all grey. And I'm too busy to think much. When somebody gets shot or blown up, all I'm thinking is to plug the holes and remember who has what type of blood, and patch them up so they make it to a proper surgeon or hospital. That's all I'm doing. It's easy to lose everything else."

"And you still do this shit despite your age?"

"It's the last one. This war. But I'll finish it. I don't quit."

Dan blew the smoke across the small room, eyes wide and dark, and entirely too intense. "You haven't seen enough of it yet? Have you seen them rape, bash heads in and watch the half-dead corpses crawl and wail, while they laugh and piss on them? Have you seen them slaughter families, and torture kids and women and boys, just because they bloody well can?"

Dima inhaled and looked away. "I'm usually not ... directly there. I don't watch it if I don't have to. I can't help them. There's nothing I can do. I have to concentrate on the stuff that I can do."

Dan shook his head, chucked the cigarette butt onto the floor. "Whatever. This place fucks anyone up."

"You should rest", murmured Dima. "Get some shuteye. You're quite clearly exhausted."

"Don't try to bullshit me. I'd still kick anyone's arse if I had to. Exhausted? You have no fucking idea what exhausted really means."

"I don't?" Dima shook his head. "If you've kept a man alive for two fucking days after digging a bullet out of his perforated guts, we talk exhaustion again. Bastard."

"Well, maybe you do." Dan shook his head once more, but stooped to get his jacket. "I'll be going after Vadim tomorrow night. Will get you food and stuff in the meantime. If I don't return … just wait for the cavalry, aye?"

Dima's hand closed around Dan's wrist and he pulled him closer. "Don't ..." He shut up, looking angry, at the same time clenched his teeth hard and let him go, like something hot or dangerous, unable or unwilling to complete the sentence.

"Don't. Fucking. What?"

Dima shook his head. "I should have brought something to read", he murmured, not meeting Dan's gaze.

"Liar." Dan commented, almost kindly. "And I don't fucking read, so tough luck, but at least there's a packet of tissues in the jacket pocket so you can shit." He was about to turn, when he suddenly stopped, remembered, and looked at the other with an odd intensity. "If I don't come back … remember one thing: you're a Soviet soldier, you were sent here, you were captured but you don't know by whom." Dan shrugged, when Dima looked incredulously at him. "unless you're desperate to get back to Mother Russia, you stick to that story." Shrugged again, "anyway, if you don't stick to it my mate can't help you. Remember that? You got to be official."

"In short, I have the choice between deserting and ... being tried for war crimes? Is that it?"

"Don't be stupid. No one needs to know what the fuck you actually did. You think Vadim's going to blow the whistle on where and with whom he found you? Mother Russia sent you off to this hellhole, and you did what you could, saving lives, no idea for whom, and then you got kidnapped and mistreated, and fuck, you have no idea by whom, either."

"That's ... a nice, clean way out." Dima was sceptical, but thinking about it, beginning to think, and he'd have hours and hours more to think about it.

Looking around the room, Dan pointed to his kit, "and if it's my mate who is going to 'find' you, get rid of my crap, will you?"

"Sure. I don't know why, the stuff could be anyone's, but sure. No problem."

Dan nodded, "I'll be back tomorrow. Swapped the nightshift with the day shift, but Vadim doesn't know. We share a room, but …" Dan shook his head, "doesn't know anything anymore, I guess. If I'm not back the night after, you'll be picked up, I vouch for that. Just stick to the story." With that he moved to the door, wielding it open, to slip through.

Dima followed to the door, but stayed out of threat range, seemingly torn for a moment, his face somewhat pinched, but compared to how he'd been found, this was a massive improvement. "I'll stick to the story", he said, by way of goodbye, then turned away, not wanting to see or hear how the door would be closed or wedged shut.

* * * * * * *

Vadim woke after a leaden sleep that had eventually felt like it had grown more and more fitful. Unconscious like a stone, then the feeling of being trapped asleep, and he awoke without feeling rested, well before he had to. For a good half hour, he just couldn't get up, just lay there, staring at the ceiling, thinking and feeling nothing but the vague desire to sleep on, but this time, maybe, rest.

Eventually, he got up, shaved, showered, dressed, boots, breakfast - or rather, the first meal of the day; as expected, Dan wasn't in yet, and he had plenty of time, so he hurried to make it to the shelled building, grabbing more water than he needed, another 24hr MRE, and soon picked his way through the rubble, torch light dancing in front of him. The place smelled of a human being, that stale smell that just stood out despite the dust and the oil and grime; strange, really, it reminded him of his training, when he'd learnt to trust those senses that civilians rarely used - smell, taste, touch.

Coming closer, he softly called out Dima's name to not startle the man. No answer. Asleep? Vadim came closer, turned the last corner, light hitting the general area where Dima had to be - and wasn't.

For a long moment, he didn't comprehend what he saw - or didn't see, but there was no Dima. Vadim knelt on the ground, saw a broken chain link lie next to the boiler. Nothing had been taken, the blanket was still there, but cold. No other trace. There was one bullet cartridge, but no blood. He checked that again, but it didn't smell of blood, either. So the chain had been shot through. Dima hadn't been killed. Or, correction, hadn't been killed here. It was impossible that the medic had freed himself. Otherwise he'd have done it long ago. Dima wasn't one for waiting. And he'd likely, in this weather, would have taken the blanket.

Vadim stared at the place, fought rising bile at the thought that somebody had taken Dima away and - judging from what was going on in this crazy place - killed him. Chetniks? Mercs? Who else was here, close enough, who else did this kind of thorough scouting. Dima gone. Vadim felt his hands clench into fists, his mind was a jumble of thoughts that didn't want to calm nor settle.

Couldn't matter. He had to work. Officially, Dima wasn't here, had never been here, that meant that he couldn't look for him and try to find the body or track him. Maybe they had shot him upstairs? He walked back out, went through the part of the school that was still mostly stable, all the places where he would have shot a prisoner. No body. No smell of blood.

He checked the time. He'd be late if he didn't head back now. Gritting his teeth, he stopped the search and headed back. Being late could lead to questions he wasn't prepared to answer. But work was hell, he found it hard to focus, kept thinking of Dima pressed against him, his cock sliding in and out of his hand, how they'd touched with ease, but nothing more, a friendly handjob between comrades. The thought that Dima was dead was unbearable.

* * * * * * *

Dan had returned to the camp and the room he shared without sharing, at exactly the same time that he would return if he were on shift. Vadim was gone, as expected. He wasn't sure if Vadim was deliberately avoiding him, or if it just happened. More bearable that way, perhaps, but it never stopped hurting like a motherfucker, every time he stepped into the room and the beds were pushed apart - as far as possible.

He took a shower, smoked a fag in the room, despite or because he knew how much Vadim disliked the smell of nicotine. A petty gesture, and Dan felt even worse for it. He was trying to sleep for a long time, knowing he'd have to be alert at night, but the thoughts were chasing one another in his head, hardly able to relax enough to drop off. With the noise of the camp, he gave up around lunchtime, got into his clothes to eat in the cookhouse with several others, and pondered if he should go and see his surgeon mate, but decided against it. Looking dead tired on his feet, he managed to share a few jokes with some of the other guys, before heading back to his room to try that elusive sleep thing again.

On his bed, smoking another fag, he pulled out the photos, the ones that had caused the whole damned shit he was in, but he couldn't stop looking at them. Strange, how he didn't feel any anger towards that impishly grinning kid, while he hated the mother and would gladly rip that bitch's throat out.

Dan eventually rolled over, the blankets above his head shutting out the light, he kept thinking of the notice to send to Maurice, to make sure he'd understand, without cocking it all up. At some stage, without having found the solution, Dan fell asleep.

* * * * * * *

Vadim opened the door. First thing, the smoke. Cigarette. He shook his head, but that thing that was building up inside, that fear and worry and nervousness, the need to find out what had happened to Dima - the smoke seemed trivial compared to that. He dropped his kit, knew Dan was awake anyway, so he didn't try to be very silent about it, no way Dan had slept through him entering the room, but there was no stir. Vadim didn't rummage around for the shower kit, instead found the black camos and changed, swiftly, efficiently. He needed to go out and try and find Dima. Or tracks of him. Or any sign, any message that he'd left behind, wittingly or unwittingly. Maybe he hadn't checked the place enough. His face was dark with anger and worry, and as always, he avoided looking at Dan. Last thing he needed was a set of questions he wouldn't answer anyway. He didn't have to justify himself. What for?

Dan remained silent and tense beneath the blanket. Wondering, knowing, yet saying nothing. He had an idea where Vadim was heading to, but he remained under the blanket and did nothing. Too hard to talk to that stranger, who had barely any resemblance to the Vadim he loved, not even to the man who had stepped out of a car in Finland. Least of all to the man around whom he'd slept wrapped every night.

Waiting in silence, hardly breathing, until Vadim left the room, and even then he stayed still for a while longer. After ten minutes, and no Vadim returning, Dan sat up and the first thing he did was light another fag. He had to find a way to let Maurice know, but damn, he still didn't have a failsafe plan, despite the promises to the Russian medic.

Couldn't be helped, and that meant he wasn't able to follow Vadim that night, instead he was going to take supplies to the bunker. Wondering, too, how long it would take anyone else to find the bunker, its entrance hidden beneath some bushes, and if, once they had, they would check it out. He had to be realistic. It wouldn't take too many nights for Vadim to find the place, if he continued looking.

Best to get out there, and Dan got ready, kitted himself up as if he were going on duty, and headed towards the cookhouse. Ladling extra portions onto his plate, which he slipped into a carrier bag, he got some sandwiches made, picking up chocolate bars from the shop they had access to, and whatever else he could think of and might be useful. He even blagged a flask with coffee from the kitchen maid, who kept flirting with him, despite knowing he would never be interested. Packing his bergan once more, Dan headed out of camp and towards the bunker. No weapons this time, only his trusted knife but he didn't have a chit to get himself clearance that night, and he couldn't afford to draw attention.

He was soon at the bunker, calling out Dima's name before pulling the door open.

Dima made an affirmative sound, and repeated it in case the other hadn't heard, but continued to do his press-ups. The boredom was bad and had been bad, but at least he could move, and that meant exercise. Having arranged the insides of the bunker as much as possible - one corner for hygiene, another for the human waste, another to sleep, and this one was the exercise area. Almost as good as a nice flat. He kept pushing, lowering, pushing up again, shirt in his back had a dark sweat patch, and raised his head when Dan entered and closed the door behind him. Doing a few more until the burn set in, then smoothly pulled his legs under himself and straightened.

"You'd make a good wife." Dan commented dryly but with an unmistakable grin on his lips. "I fear this place still needs some more homely touches, though." He put the bergan down, once again full to bursting, as if he expected Dima's stay to continue for a while longer.

Dima looked at the bergan, then back to Dan. "You mean because I'm organized and tidy?"

"Aye, or because I'm just a sucker for cracking stupid-arsed jokes."

Dima looked around, then back at the bergan. "Change of plan? How long are you keeping me like this?"

"I have no idea, but I figured you'd be stir crazy by now anyway, so I got you some stuff." Pulling out several used carrier bags, "figured you needed something to get rid of your shit." He grinned, "literally."

"I figured ..."

Chocolate bars, sandwiches and water followed, then the hot food, still warm. Dragging a shaggy pillow out of the backpack, Dan flashed that odd grin again, "while I doubt you'll be hugging it, thinking of me, I had a spare."

Dima shook his head, but smiled. "I'm not really a hugger."

Dan grinned, "doesn't surprise me." Feeling strangely relaxed around that man, who he didn't know at all. The last of the goodies were a couple of newspapers he'd got from the shop, a packet of fags, and finally a bottle of Vodka. "And don't accuse me of being stereotypical."

"Vodka is great. You can disinfect just about anything with vodka." Dima nodded, exhaling deeply. "Nicest jailer I've ever had", he murmured, grinning, and ran a hand over his hair, smoothing the short hair towards his face, the most Russian of all haircuts.

"I'm keeping you out of shit." Dan watched the movement of the hand, then back to the bottle. "Frankly, I don't know what the fuck to do with you, not with Vadim around. I'd take you to the authorities to try and get a working permit, just as I explained yesterday, but …" he shrugged. "Things aren't that straightforward with Vadim around, and I don't understand jack shit anymore when it comes to him. He fucking ..." He suddenly shut up and shrugged again. "Whatever. You want some? Guess you won't get deadly killer germs by sharing a bottle of plonk, aye?"

Dima had listened attentively, and it took a second before he reacted to the question. "You're welcome. HIV isn't really an issue when sharing vodka, and apart from that, I'd be more worried in your case because I've actually dealt with a lot of corpses. There's stuff living in my skin's flora that can be really unpleasant. It happens, part of the medical profession. And not an issue unless we should have messy sex. And I don't do messy. Too much risk. I've seen too many infected cocks in my life to ever get frisky under unsafe conditions. Syphilis isn't pretty, you know?"

Dan laughed out loud, unscrewing the bottle. "First, I was amongst rotting corpses, buried beneath them, until Vadim pulled me out, half-dead and more than three-quarters insane. Second, I keep getting myself tested and condoms are your friend, aye? Third, who the fuck said we'd have sex anyway? Not on my agenda, forget it." He shrugged, put the bottle half-way to his lips, "and fourth, haven't had syphilis nor any other shit and no intention to do so in my old age. Fleas and nits were enough. Cheers." Tipping his head back to down a rather large mouthful of vodka. Shuddering when he was done.

"Nice war story." Dima stepped closer to take the bottle from Dan's hand, as easily and calmly as if they were friends. "You go off to war to experience things, something out of the ordinary, and then you can't tell the stories because people wouldn't believe it or are disgusted."

"Aye, and when you tell them to the younger kids, they just want the boring old fart to piss off."

"That's clearly your decadent Western youth ..."

Dan flashed a grin while Dima drank, deeply, eyes closing briefly, and remaining standing right where he was, in touching distance, then handed the bottle back, giving a grin that revealed once more those crooked eye teeth. "Actually, I went because I was sleeping with the son of somebody important and people were starting to ask questions. I'd done my two years, had begun to study medicine, then dropped everything to reenlist. They called it patriotism. I only wanted to get away from a pair of hazel eyes."
"So, you gay? That simple? And you worked with Vadim and neither realised you could have had a safe shag?" Taking the bottle, Dan downed another shot. "Damned unlucky."

Dima sat down and started to examine the food, trying the selection, then settled on the sandwiches for the moment, eating slowly, thinking, and then responding: "Do categories like 'gay' actually help organize our understanding of human sexuality? I've had women, too, but there's less opportunity in my line of work, and apart from that, I'm not too sure these days I accept that category. If I say I'm gay that means I cannot be aroused by women or anything else, right? Is that helpful? I don't think so. Arousal is a fairly complex thing. Many people masturbate when they're bored, not because they're aroused."

"Shit, you have to pull that deep-thinking crap on me, don't you?" Despite his words, Dan grinned and shrugged. "I don't care. I have a friend who's straight, he thinks, but that's bullshit. He's all sorts of things, not just one. I used to shag girls, way back, the first thirty-two years of my life. Nowadays?" Dan was about to say 'no', but then he remembered the picture of a kid with his hair and his eyes and who knew what else. "Not by choice."

"You're spot on. We're all kinds of things. We're sexual creatures. There's hormones, and situational stimuli, and the mind that can give us all kinds of troubles. Healthy men can stop getting aroused by a thousand factors, and sometimes