Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Someone’s fucked up. Someone’s fucked up bad.  

It’s a hazy thought, drifting in and out of his mind as he lays prone in a ditch, breathing in cold air and ash. His head pounds and his ears ring like someone detonated a flash bang right next to him. 

Graves lifts a hand and touches his helmet. There’s a crack down the middle, and his fingers are shaking so hard he can barely get the clip open to pull the strap. His head hurts badly, but when he touches his head there’s no blood. Would have been worse if he hadn’t been wearing a helmet. Fuck. 

He pushes to his hands and knees in the dirt; it’s wet, cold, and there’s snow on the ground but honestly, that’s more of a help than a hindrance at the moment. It clears his mind, gets him focused not on the sick twist in his stomach from dizziness – just because his head isn’t bleeding on the outside doesn’t mean he couldn’t have a concussion – but the sound of voices nearby in the dark. 

He fumbles for his comm mic, but there’s nothing on the channels but static. He breathes out slow and easy, tries to put his back to the packed snow and dirt of the embankment and pats himself down for a weapon. 

He has a knife, which does fuck all for him at the moment, and a gun with just one bullet, which seems more like an insult than an option. He supposes he could simply shoot himself with it, but like hell is he giving anyone the satisfaction of ending up dead in a ditch in Russia by his own sidearm. 

Then again, someone would have to know he was here to find his body. And he’d been fairly quiet about that, taking only a handful of Shadows with him, calling in every favor he had left after General Shepherd fucked him over goddamn good and proper at the congressional hearing. The men he’d brought were some of his best, but the lack of response on the comms means Graves is probably last-man-standing in this fucking miserable battle royale. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

Not that he’s surprised. Shit’s been hitting the fan since that goddamn missile caravan in Al-Mazrah went missing, and Shepherd’s betrayal was just the shit-icing on the fucking shit-cake of the last however many months. 

Voices again. Graves’s Russian is rudimentary at best, but he can at least recognize it is Russian, and likely not friendlies. Graves pushes back against the embankment, beginning to shiver in the snow now, and tries to think through his options. He’s moderately injured but mobile, in the blind in a hostile environment, has one bullet, no allies, and a bunch of fucking Russians whose voices are getting closer to the ditch. 

He’s fucked and he knows it, and still the thought of using that one bullet on himself feels like admitting it. Graves grits his teeth and gets on his belly, crawling through the snow, wondering how much longer he can be outside before the adrenaline drains out of him and the weather becomes a bigger danger than the fuckin’ Konni on his trail. 

Not that the trail is all that long. In the time he’s taken to try and puzzle out his next move, the talking grows louder, and he hears a gunshot, followed by another. It’s an eerie, terrible echo of that missile convoy in Al-Mazrah – Russian soldiers, gunshots, silence on the comms – only this time, Graves is living it instead of trying to get answers from dead Shadows and being told to stay quiet, I’ll handle this , by Shepherd. 

Yeah, you handled it all right, fuckin’ asshole. 

Graves’s heart starts to pound as he hears the voices grow closer, so much so he can hear the crunch of boots on snow. His mouth is dry, and he fumbles for the pistol, breathing quick and light as he forces his cold fingers around the weapon and waits. He can take one of them with him, maybe. Come up with some kind of appropriate fuck you for his last words. He can’t believe this has gone so wrong, but the threat and danger are too much for him to dwell on the fact this is likely the end of it, for him. The end of everything. 

He’d known this was a long-shot when he’d put the plan in action. But he didn’t think it would end quite this badly, fucking hell. Despite making the danger clear enough when he’d asked for backup from his Shadows, he’d thought the worst that could happen would be the intel was bad and there was nothing but fuckin’ peasants and potatoes. 

The intel had been surprisingly accurate as far as a Konni convoy went. Less accurate about the RPGs. And he still isn’t sure if the target he’s here for was in that convoy or not. A goddamn loss all around, then. 

He tries to sight the pistol, but there’s a problem – it’s a lot more than two people that appear, very suddenly, at the top of the ditch that’s become his hiding place. Shouting in Russian, rifles all around, and a bright white light in his eyes – 

“Well, hell, how nice of y’all to give me so many choices on which one of you assholes goes to hell with me,” Graves says, and as far as last words go, he supposes it could be worse. 

There’s a low throb of heat in his stomach as he wonders how many bullets are going to hit him at once. What it will feel like, for the brief minutes he’ll be alive to feel it. Fucked up ‘til the goddamn end, isn’t he? 

Except there’s no bullets, there’s just quiet and him in a ditch with a fucking spotlight on him, like the most depressing stage play in existence. There’s a soft thump and then he realizes, too late, that someone’s snuck up from behind and dropped into the ditch. He’s too slow to get a shot off, so the single remaining bullet stays right where it is and all he can see is the outline of someone raising a gun – 

– and then there’s an impact on the side of his head, blinding and hot and he has the singular thought of not a bullet, rifle butt, well, hell , before the world goes dark. 

***

He wakes up in a bed. 

His head hurts, again, and it’s worse this time but it’s also bandaged, which is…strange, especially considering he’s restrained to the frame. The cuffs are leather and are not too-tight, and the whole situation is so confusing that even without a head wound it would be difficult to work out. 

He’s clean, sore, and in a bed that isn’t comfortable but isn’t a prison mattress, so that’s something. There’s an IV in his arm, and there’s a moment of panic when he thinks maybe he’s being executed by lethal poison – would’ve preferred a fuckin’ bullet, one or thirty, shit – and he tries jerking his arm to pull it out, but there are also leather restraints on his upper arms, so it doesn’t do anything but hurt when he tries it. 

“What the fresh hell is this shit,” Graves says, but his voice is a dry, cracked croak and it hurts when he speaks. How long has he been here? Where is he? 

Was he mistaken about the hostiles back at the convoy? Had they been Spetsnaz, chasing Konni along with him, mistaken his men for the enemy? How the fuck had they known not to shoot him after killing the rest of his men? No, he has to assume this is still somehow hostile territory and not let his guard down. 

Graves glances around, but the room is so nondescript that it gives nothing away as to where he is. But he can make a few guesses, because while there’s medical equipment he’s fairly sure this is not a medical facility of any kind; there’s no window, no curtain, barely any light, and no medical personnel he can see. There’s also the restraints, which might be used for patients in actual hospitals but not unconscious men with a head injury. 

“Hey!” Graves shouts, wincing again at how raw his throat is. “Fuckin’ got rid of the goddamn US Military health care, went private insurance, should have a better fuckin’ room than this!” 

His voice echoes off the walls, and shouting makes his head throb , but Graves has never liked being restrained in tense situations because he fucking likes being restrained, and his body doesn’t seem to want to differentiate between go ahead, get your rocks off and get your gun out, soldier. 

There’s no answer, but he doesn’t really expect one. Whoever’s brought him here, tended to his wounds and restrained him, clearly they’re playing their cards close to their chests. Graves falls asleep eventually, simply because there’s nothing to do and his head hurts. He doesn’t dream, but when he wakes up again he’s uncomfortable and hungry, would kill for some fucking water, and he’s still alone in the room. It looks the same. 

He’s slightly less loopy, enough to realize that he’s in loose pants and a plain tank, neither of which are his, which is concerning. His dog tags are still there, he can feel them against his chest, which means if they didn’t know who he was when they brought him here, they do now.

The door opens, and Graves goes still as a woman enters. She’s small, with sharp cheekbones and wide dark eyes, and holds her hands up immediately, saying something in Russian that he doesn’t know. Graves is better with languages than he lets on, but all he recognizes is the word medicine , which she says twice, pointing to the IV. 

“Can’t imagine why I don’t believe you, darlin’,” he says, though it’s clear she can’t understand him any better than he can her. She takes out the IV, though, and tapes up the small puncture on his hand from the needle, then holds up a cup with a straw and takes a sip. She then holds it out – showing him it isn’t poisoned, he supposes, as she warily holds the cup up to his mouth. 

Graves drinks. At this point, he’s almost disappointed that it isn’t poisoned. He can handle danger, gunfights – yeah, he can…really handle those. But boredom? Not in his fucking bones. There’s a goddamn reason he signed up for the Marines in the first place. 

The woman checks his vitals, his blood pressure, changes his bandage, and takes off the restraints on his upper arms. She even loosens the one on his right hand, enough for him to reach the water and the food she’s left on a tray. It’s nothing exciting, a Russian MRE that tastes as bad as the rest of them do, dehydrated apple slices like he’s a fucking toddler at MacDonald’s whose mom won’t let him have fries like the other kids. 

There are two white pills on the tray, too. The woman says something, making a gesture that he should take them, and Graves pretends he will just so she’ll go away. The second she’s gone, he takes the pills and tucks them under the tray. They might just be aspirin, but fuck that. 

Graves eats his so-called “dinner” because he needs his strength even if he’s still not sure where he is. The loose restraints aren’t enough for him to get them undone completely, but he’s positive that despite the relatively benign treatment – he can’t say pleasant, not after that MRE – he’s not anywhere safe. He finishes the revolting excuse for dinner and tries to sleep. He’ll need to heal up to survive whatever they’re gonna do to him next.  

He has no idea why his captors are patching him up – he figures it’ll be so the torture hurts more, when they do it. And there’s a thought he lets himself have for a bit, increasing scenarios that twist his stomach and make him breathe too fast – and somewhere in the middle of these disturbing images, he falls asleep again. 

Something is different the next time he wakes up. It takes Graves a few seconds to figure it out, but despite seeing no one else, he just knows he’s not alone in the room – even before he sees the faint hint of red in the far corner, catches the slightest, acrid hint of cigarette smoke. 

“I hear you were looking for me, Commander Graves,” a voice says, followed by the soft sound of an inhale, a bright flare of red from the cigarette, another spill of smoke, drifting dreamily through the room. 

Graves squints, trying to focus on the person hidden by shadow and smoke. Whoever they are, they’re soft-spoken, and yet there’s so much menace in that simple, quiet statement that Graves feels all the hair on the back of his neck stand up. 

“Well, now, don’t know who the fuck you are, comrade, so I’m not real sure how to answer that,” Graves drawls, and he hears himself speaking, the taunt coming as easy as breathing. He tries not to fucking shiver as the man in the corner laughs . Fuck this, Graves is a lot of things but he’s not cowering for a fucking foreign dominant, he doesn’t care how sinister he sounds. 

“Oh, it wasn’t a question.” There’s a rustle, and Graves goes still as the man emerges from his shadowy corner, bleeding dominance and pure threat like it’s the smoke from his cigarette. 

Like blood.  

“You know who I am,” the man says, stepping into the light. “After all, I’m the reason you’re here.” 

Vladimir Makarov smiles coldly at him, and his dominance feels like falling into a Siberian lake in the winter – deep and endless, the kind you can’t escape, leaving you to suffer in it, freezing bit by bit until you suffocate. Makarov drags a chair over and sits at Graves’s bedside like some worried family member keeping vigil, leaning forward, his dark eyes clear and empty as glass. 

“So. Why don’t you thank me for my hospitality and my… generosity …in keeping you alive, hmm?” 

“Why the fuck would I do that?” Graves manages, but it comes out a little strangled and lacking the vitriol he would have preferred. He’s also not having the easiest time looking at Makarov, which makes him so angry he feels his hands curl into fists – Graves has been dealing with doms his whole career, and he makes it a fucking point to meet their eyes, to never get on his knees – he’s never knelt for anyone, fuck that , and he’s not going to lower so much as his fuckin’ peepers for this asshole. No . 

“Because, Commander,” Makarov says, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, the cigarette still lazily burning between his fingers. “I have information that I’m sure you’re going to want.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Graves looks up at the ceiling, affecting boredom, like that’s the reason he’s not looking at Makarov. Like the ceiling is just that fucking interesting. More interesting than the international terrorist sitting next to him. Right. “What’s that? Got another missile you’re tryin’ to steal or some other sporting event you don’t like?” 

Makarov laughs. There is not a single, solitary hint of warmth or amusement in it. It makes Graves realize he’s not breathing, and he forces air out of his mouth, his nose, makes his fingers unclench from the bedding. 

“No, no, this is more…personal.” He leans in a little more, and Graves – it takes every bit of his training, the Marines and everything else, not to flinch. It must be the head injury. Doms don’t have this effect on him, he’s spent his entire career making sure of it . “I know who sold you out, Commander. Wouldn’t you like to know who it was?” 

Chapter Text

Of course he wants to know. Who wouldn’t?

But Graves isn’t new to any of this, and maybe if he was still the same oorah-sir-yes-sir-bastard he was when he left Parris Island, he’d believe that Makarov isn’t trying to use some kind of psychological warfare shit on him. “You can skip the intro to military interrogation tactics, Makarov. Nice try, though, tryin’ to blame that attack on one of mine. You’re the terrorist.” 

Makarov just – stares at him. Graves has seen him in photographs, on grainy video surveillance and, or so he thought , on the stark black-and-white camera of the AC130 when they’d tried to take him out. Those static images did not convey how coldly menacing he was, or the way his eyes look so dark in the muted light, fathomless and merciless as a shark. “I can’t tell if you’re very stupid, or you think you’re smarter than you are.” 

Graves tilts his head. “Ain’t that the same thing, technically?” 

Makarov takes another sharp inhale on his cigarette. He smokes like every soldier Graves has ever known, holding it pinched at the filter between his thumb and index finger, holding the smoke in his lungs before exhaling.

“We knew you were coming, you and your Shadows,” Makarov continues, and he turns his head slightly when he exhales, which for some reason – maybe it’s the head wound, maybe it’s the company – he finds very funny. Like Makarov is fine with chemical warfare on a macro level, but draws the line at inflicting second-hand smoke on an American mercenary he found in a ditch. 

“Or,” Graves interrupts, and feels a rush of spiteful glee when Makarov’s eyes narrow slightly and his mouth tightens – doesn’t like being interrupted, doms are so fucking touchy – “You were in a convoy and saw us, and we had a fuckin’ gunfight and my guys lost.” 

“Yes,” Makarov says, slowly. “That is what happened. But the caravan had nothing. No missiles. No chemicals. That's what you were told you were chasing, was it not?”

“No, actually, big guy, we were chasing you ,” Graves says, and suddenly, he wants a cigarette. He hasn’t smoked since he was a MARSOC recruit, and he doubts Makarov would give him one, but he wants it, maybe just for something to do so he won’t keep looking at Makarov. “Where you are, there’s usually a weapon that belongs to someone else so, yeah, would’ve been fine taking it along, too.” 

“So sorry to disappoint you.” 

“Yeah, I can tell.” Graves stares at him, and he’s not going to ask, he’s not , if Makarov wants to play asshole smarmy villain, well, hell, Graves can play it right back and better . “And you were there, so guess the intel was good, even if someone wanted to nail my ass.” 

Makarov is quiet for so long, Graves almost asks him if he should repeat himself. Maybe a little slower this time. But then he says, “I wasn’t there, Commander. The convoy you saw, it was only my men, who knew to expect you. You were set up.” 

“Ain’t that a bitch.” Graves isn’t stupid, no matter how much he plays up the good-ol’ boy charm, the southern accent. He knows things don’t go this wrong without some fucking help. He wonders who it was. Laswell? Nah, she’s not interesting enough to try something this sneaky, he might’ve applied to work for her if she was. 

Maybe Price and his Pound Puppies, they’re certainly out for blood, his specifically, but if Makarov’s telling the truth about being tipped off, Graves knows for sure it wasn’t anyone in the 141. Even with the sheer amount of personal dislike they have for him – there’s a picture of his face on a base dartboard, which he knows because Alex told him – they’d go after Makarov, not him. They might have left him in the ditch, Soap probably would have left him in the ditch under a tarp, but they never would have set up Makarov to get to him . 

It’s either Shepherd or someone in the Company itself. He trusts Oz, as much as he trusts anyone, but that means nothing if Oz wanted to oust him and take over in more than name only. Which Graves didn’t think he did or he wouldn’t have put him in charge when Shepherd threw him under the bus, but you never really could tell, could you? 

It’s probably Shepherd, figuring he’d let Makarov get rid of Graves and Price get rid of Makarov, then swoop in and claim the credit for all of it. Motherfucker. 

“You don’t seem surprised that you were betrayed,” Makarov says, squinting, leaning forward, the cigarette a little too close to Graves’s right hand.  

“Well, now, that’s because I don’t rightly know if I believe you.” He doesn’t think about the men who died, the ones who came with him. They knew the risks. This isn’t a job for people who were prone to regrets. He rattles his restraints. “Maybe I was, and they’ll get what’s comin’ to them, eventually. Or maybe you’re lying, and someone betrayed you , and you just want my intel.” 

Graves is very good at pissing people off and he very rarely has to try, but apparently, this is one of those times. Makarov has that same small, pleasant smile on his face, as if Graves’s words are cotton balls and he’s an impenetrable steel door. “I see why people don’t like you.” 

“I definitely see why people don’t like you,” Graves says. "And that's before I ever met you in person, comrade." 

Makarov’s smile widens. Graves wishes he would stop doing that. “I don’t like when people think they can get me to do their dirty work for them.” 

“Have enough of your own to do?” 

“Exactly,” Makarov says, like Graves finally said something smart. “I have no desire to take care of problems for my enemies.” 

“Everyone is your enemy,” Graves points out. “I mean, we all hate you more than each other, so. Sucks for you.” 

“Are you sure about that?” Makarov drops the cigarette on the ground and grinds it out under his boot. Then, he very casually produces a pistol, which he levels right at Graves. 

Graves feels his heart slam in chest, ice sliding slick down his spine. Makarov is still as death, with his odd little half-smile and his dark eyes burning like lit coals in his pale face. 

“No clever quip for me, cowboy?” Makarov asks, in that same soft voice. “You’re not going to tell me to take the identity of your betrayer to hell with me?” He very slowly gets to his feet, and Graves doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, all of his focus narrowing in on Makarov, still with that pleasant, vacant smile. 

Makarov puts the barrel under Graves's chin. His smile fades, and they stare at each other, caught. Graves can’t breathe. But he’ll be god damned if he checks out blubbering like a schoolboy after a spanking. 

“Cat got your tongue, Commander?” Makarov clicks softly and shakes his head. “And here you were so chatty , before.” 

“Disappointing people is a talent of mine,” Graves manages, and he hates – he hates – how his voice isn’t exactly even and how it’s clear that he’s affected by this, and not for the reason any normal person might be affected by having a gun under their chin. He shifts restlessly on the bed, slightly bends one leg at the knee because yeah, fine, he’s so fucked up that this is actually getting him hard. 

Makarov’s eyes flicker quickly, and then – he raises one dark brow (a talent Graves is pretty sure you can’t be evil without), and his smile is different, this time. More mocking than anything, but not quite as cold as before. “I was going to kill you,” he says, gun steady against Graves’s racing pulse. “And I still might. But tell me something, Graves. Answer me honestly. Did you want to catch me to save the world, or to save yourself?” 

Graves tilts his head up a little, feels the cold barrel move around and up his jaw, so it presses to the side of his head. A guaranteed kill shot. His breath catches again in his throat, a tangle of fear and nerves and adrenaline. His submission is rising up to choke him with want, which is stupid because it’s all from the growing fear of Makarov’s gun and the bullet that’s maybe two seconds away from being embedded in his skull. 

“Now, comrade, why can’t it be both?” Graves says, winking at him, every muscle tensed and trembling. “The best plans are the ones where you win either way, isn’t that what they say? Think I read it in a book once.” 

“You think this is winning?” Makarov asks, pressing the barrel harder against his head, clicking off the safety. He sounds genuinely curious. 

“Why not,” Graves says, but his voice is too quiet, a whisper. “Seems like a last ditch hail mary to me. Sometimes those work, sometimes they don’t. Guess we’ll see, comrade, won’t we?” 

Makarov blinks, perhaps not getting the reference, or maybe he’s just surprised Graves is so glib he’s making a joke – however terrible – with a literal gun to his head. “Maybe I will keep you, Graves. See if your people think you’re here as my guest, or as my… comrade .” 

“Yeah, no one’s gonna believe that. I’ll do shit no one else will to get the job done, but I’m no fuckin’ traitor,” Graves snarls, because no matter what anyone says about Las Almas he followed orders as he was given, it’s Shepherd who’s in charge, or was in charge, so that shit’s on him . “So go ahead, Makarov. Pull that trigger, then I’m just one more dead asshole you don’t have to worry about. Hell, you’ve just jumped the line over about sixteen other fucks who wanna blow my head off.”  

“Lucky me,” says Makarov, and he strokes the gun over Graves’s temple. “But you know, I find it…unacceptable, if the man who gets hard with a gun to his head is more feared than me, the man holding it there.” 

Graves smiles, pleased and smug about that, even though none of this is what he should be doing and he knows it. He should be polite, accommodating without being overly helpful, quiet and talking down his own importance. He should be gathering information, trying to find a weapon, doing whatever he can to work out a way to escape. Not – not fucking getting a stiffy from Makarov putting a gun to his head and taunting a sociopathic megalomaniac to pull the trigger. It’s just not in his fucking nature to be accommodating, even when it’s life and death. He’s a submissive but he’s not the sort who wants to kneel all pretty and behave. He’s not the type that wants to fight and lose, either. 

Graves has never knelt because he’s never fucking been scared enough of anyone to do it. Short of having his knees kicked out from under him or being shoved down by multiple people, Phillip Graves had never felt even an inkling of the urge to submit. 

Before Las Almas had gone to shit, Soap had asked him on the way to the tanker if it was hard being a submissive commander. Graves stared at him, wondering if this was some kind of pick-up line and hoping it wasn’t – Soap was gorgeous but he was a submissive, and Graves knew already they weren’t going to end this mission as friends, because his orders were clear what he was supposed to do with Soap and Ghost if they raised a fuss about Graves taking over. 

But he liked Soap, had thought if he went along peacefully with the change of command after they stopped the missile that he’d offer him a job. Graves didn’t give a fuck what his Shadows did with each other, as long as they showed up and did their job, so he had no doubt that Soap could have found more than a few Shadows eager to put him on his knees, the fucking brat. Graves wasn’t even a dominant and he wanted to do it. To shoot him, yeah, but that still counted. Especially to him. 

He was disappointed, but not surprised, when Soap took off, guns blazing, sliding down the muddy hill into the night and shooting at Graves until he ran out of bullets. That was, maybe, the only time Graves actually found Soap attractive. He sort of figured it was the gunfire, though, not the Scot. 

At one point in his early days in the Marines, they sent him for evaluation, convinced he wasn’t really a submissive. It was a whole thing when he joined MARSOC, too, like maybe it would keep him from doing his job, or taking on leadership roles.  

The idea that he can’t order people around because of some weird biology that isn’t even under his control is absurd. 

He gets people to do what he says by paying them more than the government to do the same shit with less rules and newer, more fun toys. It doesn’t matter if they like to kneel and get the shit beat out of them before someone rails them, or vice versa, and that he’s a submissive. Graves signs their checks all the same, so they do what he says and if they don’t, well, they end up with Graves signing a check to their next of kin instead. 

He’s been around a few dominants over the years who ping his radar as more than just existing – there was Captain Price, who Graves sometimes thinks about when he jerks off, Price all coldly angry and tying him up, keeping him prisoner, maybe some light torture administered without his shirt on but while smoking that cigar, that sort of thing. General Hassan, scary enough for Graves to notice but far too fucking annoying with all his grandstanding to want to do anything but bury in a hole, and Valeria, who threatened to have him eaten by dogs that time he tried asking her for a drink when they were done in Mexico. He was interested in her torture techniques. She was interested in him leaving. Fair enough. 

Graves could compartmentalize work and other shit better than literally anyone he’d ever met. He had to, when his submission manifested as a wild desire to turn his head and suck on the end of that gun against his head. 

“Don’t flatter yourself, Vlad,” he says, and sometimes he hears the things he says and thinks, honestly, if you look up death wish in a dictionary, his picture is there in lieu of a definition. With a fuckin’ heart around it, probably. “It’s biology, not a fuckin’ come on.” 

The gun at his cheek temple shifts down, and Graves can see in his peripheral vision that Makarov’s switched the safety back on. He doesn’t exhale, he’s still tense and he also thinks Makarov might be annoyed enough to kill him with his bare hands – he has that effect on people, he’s heard it before. The gun strokes over his cheek, and Graves feels a throb of desire low in his stomach, even as fear tightens his muscles again, makes sweat break out on his brow. 

“It occurs to me we hate many of the same people. So for now…” Makarov’s soft voice is so menacing that Graves shivers without meaning to, and he knows Makarov likes that and hates it just for that reason alone. “Let’s see if you’re any use to me, Graves.” He takes the gun away, leans in, and his breath spills hot against Graves’s ear. “Behave. I know who you are. Your name. Your… real name.” 

He can practically feel Makarov smiling against his ear, and his own breathing is so fucked up it sounds like he ran here from Louisiana. “Yeah? You think I’m the kind of man who leaves a nice loving family behind? Hell, you wanna get me to join up and slap a Konni patch on my arm? Go take out my old man and his brothers.” 

“I don’t do favors and my men aren’t whores. They fight because they believe in our cause. They believe in me. That is why I’m holding the gun, and you’re tied to a bed.” Makarov pulls away, stands up, the gun vanishing somewhere Graves can’t quite make out. “But that’s all right. If you came after me to clear your name, then you care about your reputation. Whatever is left of it.” 

Like you’re one to talk, Vlad. 

Graves would really like to argue about that my men fight because they believe in me statement, because there’s no way every Konni operative is as batshit about world domination as Makarov, that’s a double-cross Saturday night action movie feature if there ever was one. But he can’t quite make himself speak, the combination of that gun at his head, Makarov’s soft, sinister voice, the spill of his breath at his ear, the restraints – 

His cock, tenting up the flimsy bedsheet thrown over his lap. 

Graves could let himself be humiliated. But Makarov would like that too much, probably, and besides – he’s not. He wasn’t lying. It’s not his fault his body gets so hot for danger, so why should he feel bad about it? It’s been an asset , and this is just…a momentary annoyance. The head wound. Being taken prisoner. It’ll go away. It always has, before. 

Makarov strides across the room and opens the door. He whistles sharply and calls out in Russian before saying something into his comm mic that Graves can’t catch. He ignores Graves completely as he waits with his arms crossed by the doorway, which opens into a yawning darkness beyond. 

Graves studies him, trying to make his tactical mind jump ahead in line over his cock, which would prefer if he could go back to thinking about Makarov’s gun stroking his face instead. Makarov is the most dangerous man in the world. He has an army of men willing to die for whatever jingoist nonsense he’s feeding them – or so he believes –  weapons, armor, spies, and apparently, someone who hates Graves more than they hate the man who is literally the number one entry on Interpol’s Most Wanted List. 

Again. So he says. Graves doesn’t know the truth about how it went down, and he’s not going to just believe Makarov because his cock gets hard when the man pulls a gun on him. 

Graves goes back to examining Makarov, and it’s a bit like catching a panther at the zoo waiting for feeding time and staring at the door where the zookeeper comes out with the food. He’s about an inch taller than Graves, with sharp cheekbones and those deep-set dark eyes, and he’s dressed in simple combat fatigues and a bullet-proof vest, which, ha, so much for my men fight for the cause, faithless american dog or whatever the fuck he said. 

The door opens, and Graves mostly has himself under control when the woman who saw to his wounds is back. She and Makarov have a rapid conversation that Graves pretends not to understand, even though that’s not too much of a stretch because the only words he can say for sure he hears are medicine, house, car, and safely. 

The woman nods, and they keep talking, and then Makarov steps out of the room with her without a single backward glance. He closes the door, leaving Graves half-hard, really needing a piss and also, annoyed that he has no idea what’s happening. It’s about ten minutes later when he’s managed to calm down and is thinking about how he could maybe get one of those comm mics when Makarov returns, leaving the door open behind him. Soon, there’s the woman – the doctor, he supposes – again, and she’s flanked by two masked Konni operatives standing threateningly, rifles in hand. 

“Room’s a little small for a firing squad, isn’t it? You’ll get fuckin’ tinitis, doc,” Graves threatens, pointing at the woman. “Not very doctorly of you.” 

She blinks and looks at Makarov, who waves a hand as if he’s saying ignore him – one of the men flanking the door shifts imperceptibly and tightens his hand on his rifle, muttering something to his friend, who laughs. Whatever. It’s probably stupid Russian humor, who even gets that shit? 

Makarov puts a hand on Graves’s shoulder. He’s wearing gloves. That’s probably not a good sign. “This will be less…jarring, than the rifle. But we have a bit of a trip ahead of us, and you’re too annoying to stay awake during it.” 

“What –” Graves barely has time to think before he feels a needle in his neck, which, fine, is much less painful than a rifle butt to the head, but not quite as sexy, if anyone’s asking, which they are not . 

The last thing he hears is Makarov’s voice snapping out orders in Russian, and his hand is still on Graves’ shoulder, fingers cold despite the gloves. Like there’s nothing beneath the leather but ice, the kind that burns just as hot as fire, and kills you just as quick.

Chapter Text

Graves doesn’t wake up all at once. 

It happens in fits and starts, a dreamy mirage of images that flicker and fade. He has the impression of someone walking him down a long hallway, the doctor maybe, or one of the men with the rifles, he’s not sure. He remembers being outside, thinks it was possibly nighttime, and then he’s being pushed into a car, and he falls back into the fog of the drug.

There’s one time he wakes up and feels the cold press of glass against his face, and when he turns his head he can see the sun’s up. The grayish, dim light is showing him a blur of landscape and very little else. Once, they pass a sign, but the impression of it lingers for barely a second before he dozes off again. There’s no memory of the Russian in his head when he remembers it later. 

When he finally swims back to consciousness for good, he’s at least aware enough of the situation to not jolt up immediately and chooses to stay still and take stock of his surroundings. He’s in a car, his hands are cuffed in front of him, and he’s wearing a thick wool coat and scarf and gloves he has no memory of putting on, and he’s wearing boots that also aren’t his, and a simple knit hat pulled over his ears. 

He also doesn’t have to piss anymore, which is concerning, but not quite as much as the man across from him. 

Makarov has on a similar wool coat, black and buttoned all the way up with a thick gray scarf. He’s not wearing a hat, but he still has on those black leather gloves, reading through what appears to be a stapled sheaf of paper. His eyes fly over each page as he flips it, so fast it doesn’t seem like he could possibly be absorbing the information. 

Someone is driving the car, and there’s music playing – it sounds like it’s terrible, so Graves is glad he can’t really hear it and that he’s still too loopy from the drugs to understand it. 

Makarov flips another page, this time with gusto – so much that it seems sort of suspicious. He doesn’t seem like the sort of man who gives anything away that he doesn’t want someone to take, so Graves has the distinct feeling he suspects Graves isn’t really asleep. 

Graves’s eyes are half-open, and he keeps his breathing even, a habit he picked up as a kid when his drunk dad came home rowdy and wanting something to hit. Apparently the international terrorist isn’t as easy to trick as his alcoholic, trash father, though, because after another intentional page flip, Makarov says, “I know you’re awake, Graves.” 

Whatever. Graves sits up, stretches, pulls at the restraints and rolls his head, neck cracking. “Thanks for the nap.” He looks outside again. Graves isn’t stupid, and half of his good ol’boy persona is just to make other people think he is and underestimate him, but while he’s better with his geography than he lets on, there’s no way he can figure out where they are just by looking. 

He glances at Makarov again. The car is growing warmer, from the sunlight and the heater next to him, and he shifts, wishing he could take some of these layers off. He’s always running hot, and there’s something about the layers that is making him feel… confined. And, like with most things, it’s bothering him more because he kind of likes it than anything. 

“You expecting it to snow in here, or what?” 

“I have another dose of that tranquilizer,” is Makarov’s answer. He hasn’t looked at Graves once. 

Graves makes a face at him, shifting again. “If I ask you where we’re going, you gonna say some shit like if I tell you, I’ll have to kill you ?” 

“No. It won’t matter. You’re an American. You won’t know where it is, anyway.” 

Graves almost – almost – says something to him in Russian, but he bites his tongue and doesn’t, because he’s not quite willing to play that card from his hand yet. Especially because it appears to be one of only a few cards he has in said hand. 

Makarov finishes with his papers and puts them aside, turning to look out the window, apparently unbothered by Graves staring at him. He’s probably thinking about what he can blow up next or something. 

The heater is really pumping it out now, and Graves feels a bit nauseous, realizing that he’s also starving and would give an arm or a leg – not his, but someone’s, maybe even someone he likes – for a cheeseburger. Crackers, fuck, a goddamn package of Cheez-Its, anything. Adrenaline can only carry him so far, and it’s going to crash sooner rather than later. Especially with the drug in his system, still making him feel a half-second or so behind reality. 

He manages to get the hat off with some creative wriggling and the headrest, which is immediately helpful, cool air on his scalp chasing off some of the stuffiness. He pulls at the fingers of his gloves, and startles when Makarov snaps, “What are you doing?” 

Gonna slip these gloves, these cuffs, Houdini-style, then strangle you, kill your guard with whatever weapon you’ve got on you, then find a fucking Burger Town. “It’s hot in here,” is what he says, though, in a rare moment of self-preservation. “Little warm under the six sheep I’m wearing.” 

Makarov doesn’t even respond to that, so Graves keeps at it, grateful at least for something to do to occupy his hands as he works the gloves free. They pull and catch under the cuffs, but eventually he gets them off and that helps even more than ditching the hat. 

“Andrei,” Makarov says, turning his head slightly to speak to their driver. “Turn the heat down.” 

“Motherfucker,” Graves says, and then he laughs. He can’t help it. That was literally something he would have done. 

Makarov finally looks at him. Graves’s laugh fades, because Makarov has the sort of energy that sucks things like laughter and fun from the world like a vacuum. His next fuckin’ target is probably Disneyland or some shit, the psycho.  

“I think there is something wrong with you,” Makarov says. 

Yeah, definitely. Graves shrugs. “Blame it on the head injury and your probably illegal drugs.” 

“Your country made the drugs, and I think you were like this before the injury.” 

Graves kicks his legs out, trying to stretch his muscles in the confined space as much as possible. He’ll have to try and make a run for it at some point. He knows that he should really do what he’s been trained as far as hostage protocol, hell, he’d barely even needed the training. He’s been aces at make yourself seem unimportant, harmless, invisible and accommodating since he was a fucking kid, and held hostage to his father’s drinking. 

He hadn’t changed his name to hide his family. He’d changed it to get rid of them.

It occurs to Graves that he has something of an opportunity, here, that maybe…maybe he can’t pull off harmless, trembling, wide-eyed captive thing, and he knows that everyone thinks he’s a traitor because of Gold Eagle Actual-Ly The Fucking Worst, but he isn’t, and he can’t just offer up intel like Soap in Las Almas. He still fucking loves America, goddamn it. For the most part. The idea of it. Sure. 

But he’s in a car with Vladimir Makarov, and if he isn’t going to give up intel, maybe he can get some. Then, when he blows this frostbite-infected popsicle stand, he can have something to bargain with. Not as good as bringing them Makarov in person, but hey, having a plan always makes him feel better. And there’s something exhilarating, isn’t there, about being this close to someone so dangerous? He’s not even pointing a gun at him right now, which is maybe because Graves was knocked out and hasn’t been talking very much. He’s sure Makarov has several guns on him, though, and the second he talks he might end up with one pointed at him again. 

He’s not going to think about why that makes him open his mouth. “So, you pack any snacks for this trip? Or is your plan to hit a Burger Town – the drive-thru, not whatever else that means to you.” 

Makarov does that thing where he pulls the corners of his mouth out, which on normal people would be a smile but is absolutely not that on him. “I’m not sure you’ve earned it, yet.” 

Graves goes still, cold, tilting his head – his voice is very quiet when he speaks. “You caught the wrong cowboy, comrade, if you think I’m gonna beg you for shit . Didn’t do it for my life, I sure as hell ain’t doin’ it for a cheeseburger. I’ll starve.” 

“Americans,” Makarov says, shaking his head. 

“Yeah, yeah, you hate us ‘cause you ain’t us,” Graves mutters. “They feed prisoners, you know. In prisons.” 

“You clearly have never been in a gulag,” Makarov says, dismissively. “Starving is preferable.” 

“Yeah, bet that sucked for you, huh.” Graves thinks maybe he’s found an avenue to work on some intel. “But you probably got special treatment, being who you are.” 

“Yes, of course. Six course meals and chilled vodka, it was practically a vacation.” 

Graves actually leans forward to peer at him. “Did you just make a joke? Because, now, I was under the impression you were lacking a sense of humor along with a conscience.” 

Makarov makes a noise not unlike a huff and fixes him in the dead center of all his baleful attention, he’s a fucking human snipe rifle, what the hell. “I wasn’t joking. I had a lot of free time and access to better…treatment, than most. I’m still going to kill Price and his dogs for putting me there.” 

Graves shrugs. “No skin off my back.” He doesn’t actually mean that – well, all right, Makarov can rough them up a bit, that’s fine, Price could use a loss every now and then, the cocky bastard. But again, despite what the 141 would love to think, he’s not a traitor. He’s just a man willing to go the extra mile to get shit done . Shepherd gave him orders, Shepherd hired Shadow Company, Graves did what he was paid to do. That’s not being a traitor, it’s being a fucking patriot. 

He wonders if Makarov would say the same thing about himself. 

Let him. It doesn’t make it true. 

“Ah, yes. I heard about that.” There is a glint of something in Makarov’s dark eyes, which in the brighter light Graves can see aren’t actually black at all. He has pupils. How reassuring. “Maybe if you had managed to kill them, I would be more inclined to find you a – Burger Town, was it?” 

“Oh, don’t act like you don’t know,” Graves grumbles, pointedly looking out of the window. “They have ‘em in your airports.” 

“Yes, because I fly commercial so often.” Makarov says. “You do realize they have pictures of me on the security gates, yes?” 

“Makarov, you might be grossly overestimating airport security.” Graves could see a little more of the surroundings now, and while he was rapidly processing the drugs out of his system, the lack of food and water was making it hard to think. His brain felt sluggish. Probably why Makarov wasn’t giving him food or water. Keep the hostage befuddled or whatever. 

Makarov says something in Russian to the driver, Andrei, who tosses what looks to be an insulated black bag at him. Makarov catches it, says – spasibo, which is thank you, and seems far more incongruous than him making a joke. If that’s what he was doing. He opens it, rummages around and pulls out a bottle of water and what looks to be some kind of bar. He tosses them at Graves, whose reaction time is as slow as his mental processing faculties and just sort of stares helplessly as they land on the seat next to him. 

“You think highly of yourself, Commander Graves,” Makarov says, which is…yeah, he does, but seriously? 

“Kettle black, it’s pot calling, might wanna get that.” He can tell that Makarov doesn’t quite catch the meaning and also doesn’t care. “What, you mean, figure out how to open a bottle of water with bound hands? Please.” Graves is a sub. He’s been to discreet clubs before where he’s done a lot more than open a bottle of water with his hands restrained. He isn’t sure he likes how he feels with Makarov watching him, though, and sort of wishes he would have kept his mouth shut. But the water tastes like fucking heaven once he manages to get it open, even if some of it spills down his chin, onto the wool of his borrowed coat. 

The bar tastes like sand, but whatever it is – there’s a cartoon bunny on the wrapper, which is maybe the most surreal thing he’s seen so far – it’s dense enough to use as a weapon if he weren’t so fucking hungry. Graves manages to choke it down, despite hating it and Russia and Makarov and the concept of shove all your nutrients into a tasteless cube. He’s surprised when he sees there’s another bottle of water on the seat next to him. 

He looks at Makarov, who is back to reading the papers again, but Graves has a feeling he’s actually more focused on him than whatever he’s reading. Great, he’s more interesting than Russian intel. Dream come fucking true. 

“Thanks,” Graves says. He does not want to say thank you. But he also has a little more awareness of his situation thanks to the gross but beneficial calories, and as much as he can’t seem to stop pushing Makarov, he doesn’t want to give anyone the satisfaction of being taken out by him, either. 

“You’re welcome,” Makarov says, and he sounds – almost pleased, which makes something hot and shameful burn through Graves like liquid fire. 

Which, of course, makes him start talking. “When are we shooting my ransom video? You gonna go with the hood over my face?” 

“I wasn’t going to put anything on your face, but I’m starting to consider a gag.” 

Graves smiles slowly, lets his legs fall apart slightly and slides down a bit on the leather seat. “Well, now, you better buy me a better fuckin’ dinner than a bunny bar and bottled water.” 

Apparently his death wish woke up, too, which means he’s probably going to die before he ever gets out of this car. 

To his shock, Makarov fixes him with that intense stare again and leans forward, elbows on his knees – and smiles, and this time, Graves has the horrifying realization that he’s actually smiling. It’s not nicer in any way, even if it is less chilly, and it does actually reach his eyes. “I can’t even imagine what you’ll do if I give you a cheeseburger.” 

Graves might actually hate him more than Price, at least, on a personal level. It’s hard to tell. 

He turns away and puts his head against the glass again, closing his eyes as if that's some sort of statement. He really needs to keep his strength up, rest is important. His head hurts, he wants to move around, and now it’s chilly in the car again, but like hell will he ask Makarov to help him put the gloves on. And he hates those stupid knitted caps. Makes him think of Ghost, for some reason. 

If Graves were the type to spend more than five minutes on deep personal introspection – he’s not – he might have realized sooner that he was wrong, before, thinking about the doms he found hot on a purely biological level. Hassan and Valeria were both tied up and restrained when he spoke to them. And Price – well, at the time, Price couldn’t touch him, restrained by duty and regulations more than anything physical. 

But there was another dom he’d spent time around, recently, who vanished like his callsign, leaving a pool of blood and a dead Shadow in his wake. Graves tried the same friendly act he’d done with Soap, though that wasn’t an act, not really. He liked Soap. Could work fine with him now, though he’s sure that’s about as one-sided as you could get – some of those taunts when Soap thought he was in that tank were pretty good. 

Before he’d assumed command, Graves mostly spoke to Ghost about the mission. Maybe he might have thought that was just because Ghost wasn’t very friendly, but that’s literally never stopped Graves before. It’s probably something else, because now that he thinks about it, Makarov’s dominance is similar, in a strange way, to Ghost’s. He’s sure neither of them would want to hear that, which makes him want to tell them both immediately. 

That amusing daydream -- who would be more mad about that, it's hard to tell -- is interrupted by the simple thought that he’s never in his life thought about his fucking alignment so much, so why is he doing it now? Is he -- fantasizing about making Makarov angry? Why the fuck would he do that? 

Head wound, kidnapped, people are probably glad you’re gone and hoping you don’t come back. 

Yeah, well, too fucking bad. Phillip Graves was like a bad penny. He always turned up, whether you wanted him to or not. 

Chapter Text

It takes a few more hours for them to reach their destination, which Graves isn’t entirely sure but he thinks they’re somewhere in the Caucuses, near the border with Georgia. He doesn’t give any hint that he knows this, though, and it feels a bit like taking a card from the draw pile and finding it not terribly helpful, but not useless, either. It’s something. He’s won a hand of poker with less, literally and metaphorically. 

About two hours after his lackluster “meal”, the car pulls over and he’s unceremoniously escorted out, which means he gets his first look at it that he can remember – a sleek black armored thing with tinted windows – and after a break to piss and stretch his legs, he’s put in the back of an SUV. He’s in this vehicle with Makarov and Andrei and a driver, some other Konni goon in charge of taking the armored car back to – wherever they came from, he’s still not sure about that. It’s unclear how long he was out from the drugs. There are two other SUVs  in front of them and two more bringing up the back of the caravan. 

The line of vehicles make their way up a winding road, thick with trees, until they turn left onto what looks to be a private drive with a gate blocking further progress. The SUV idles and Graves can see someone get out of the car at the front, going up to enter a code on the lockbox. The gate swings open and the man goes back to the car, and soon they proceed through, one car hanging back so someone can presumably lock the gate again. 

Gated entry. Code needed to lock and unlock. He keeps that in his head, in case he’s going to have to try and come back down this way. The grade is steep and the forest around them is thick enough that the prospect seems fairly daunting, but then he sees Makarov watching him with that odd little knowing smile, and what choice does he have? He’ll have to escape, or at least try, if he wants to have any self-respect left. 

He can feel Makarov looking at him, but he focuses instead on Andrei. He’s a submissive, Graves can tell, and he wonders if he’s Makarov’s – he doesn’t seem to be wearing a collar, but it could be hidden, or maybe that’s not how they do things here, he has no idea. Makarov seems like the sort of man who thinks everyone is his submissive, regardless of alignment. Like they’re all wearing his metaphorical collar anyway, so what’s the point?

Andrei has a round face and chilly blue eyes, and there’s a feverish light in them when he looks at Makarov, a sort of adoration that gives Graves the willies and makes him think maybe Andrei is Makarov’s submissive. Makarov’s behavior with the other man is certainly friendlier than with, say, Graves – but he has no idea if that means anything or not. He does, at one point, put a hand on Andrei’s shoulder and give it a quick squeeze, which seems to make the other man melt like a puddle. 

Fucking hell, if Graves ever has that look on his face for – anyone – he’s going to pitch himself off a cliff. Especially for such a bullshit little gesture like that. Andrei must be harder up for it than a possum for day-old garbage. It makes Graves feel like he wants to blow something up, but then again, he’s sort of felt that way his whole life, so, nothing new there. 

Andrei says something to Makarov, who makes a little huff of noise that Graves realizes must be an actual laugh. He didn’t catch the softly-spoken Russian – the person driving this portion is playing some kind of awful death metal, it’s probably a torture technique and if not, it should be – but he has a feeling it’s something about him. 

The idea they’re talking about him makes him slightly less annoyed, but best not to think about why. 

The only other thing of note that happens as they head up the twisty mountain roads is that eventually, Makarov’s dark eyes go ice-cold and he turns, snaps something in a harsh voice that’s so full of dominance, Andrei sucks in a sharp breath and lowers his gaze. Graves feels it, obviously, but it’s not directed at him so he doesn’t really react, and besides, two seconds later the music is cranked down so softly it’s barely audible. 

“Fuckin’ spasibo, comrade,” Graves mutters. 

“Bad music,” Andrei says, in English. He makes a face. “No. Not music. Just noise.” He puts his hands over his ears.  

Graves blinks, and then he smiles. Well, well. He’d assumed Andrei would hate him, given…he’s an American and Makarov is his dominant or commanding officer or whatever you call the leader of your terrorist cell. Suddenly, he wonders if maybe this is who he should be working on as an escape plan. Get the guy to like him. Charm him. Sure. Why not? 

Soap was a sub. And Soap had liked him quite a bit, when they’d worked together. “Is it Russian?” 

Andrei scoffs, shakes his head. “No. Ah.” He looks at Makarov, and before Graves can express his annoyance over you gotta ask the boss to talk to me? Andrei says, “Shvedskiy?” 

Makarov translates, “Swedish.” 

Andrei nods, then repeats it to Graves. “Swedish. Death metal. The face paint?” He touches his own face, briefly, then rolls his eyes. “Russians too serious for that.” 

Graves stares at Makarov. “Really. That so?” 

Makarov stares back. Graves, as much as he fucking hates it, eventually has to lower his gaze. He can’t remember ever meeting a dom who could do that to him so easily, before.   

“You like…cowboy music,” Andrei says, and that’s enough to actually surprise Graves into looking at him again. This has to be a trap. There is absolutely no way he’s discussing music with Makarov’s right-hand flunky, and yet….

“Cowboy music? You mean country?” Everyone thinks that about him. It’s the accent, probably. The entire 141 thinks he’s from Texas – hell, everyone thinks he’s from Texas, especially non-Americans – and he usually just lets them think that. He’s not going to try and explain zydeco music and the bayou where he grew up to a Russian, thanks. “Sure, it’s fine.” Graves couldn’t name one country music song on the radio right now if he tried. 

He looks at Makarov again. “You let your goons listen to –” 

He doesn’t even get the next word out. Makarov moves so fast it’s like a lightning strike in the car, he’s right there in front of Graves, a dramatic swirl of black wool, cold eyes and a voice harsh with dominance. He grabs Graves around the throat and slams his head back against the seat. 

The thing is, Makarov is so…still, usually, and calm, that Graves sort of forgot about the whole violent terrorist thing. Fuck. He also is not…entirely hating this, the hand at his throat, the violence in the small space, practically shimmering in the air between them. 

“Andrei would die for me and our cause. Your men left you to die in a ditch. Be careful who you’re insulting, or my hospitality can be revoked and you can have some authenticity in your prison fantasies.” 

This is the most Makarov has said to him since he showed up in Graves’s makeshift hospital room. It’s also more emotion than he’s heard in Makarov’s voice. Isn’t that interesting? 

And, okay, yeah, he should be scared. He doesn’t want to use the word, would prefer worried or uncomfortable or at very least, wary – but he cannot imagine anyone, alignment be damned, who wouldn’t be terrified to the core if Vladimir Makarov was pinning them while restrained in a choke hold. 

Graves can feel the leather of Makarov’s glove on his skin. He tilts his chin up a little, less like he’s baring his throat in submission and more like he’s giving Makarov more real estate to work with while he’s choking him. The urge to say make me is overwhelming. 

Fear and heat wash through him in equal waves, but he doesn’t do anything until Makarov squeezes, once, enough to stop his breath before he lets go and retreats to his side of the car. He says, “Keep a civil tongue or I’ll take it from you,” and that doesn’t really help matters, now all Graves is thinking about is him taunting Graves, holding his tongue forcibly in one gloved hand, brandishing a knife closer and closer with the other – 

What the fuck is wrong with him? This is fucked up, even for him. 

“Now apologize to Andrei,” Makarov orders, and holy fuck , his dominance feels like a goddamn drill, like it’s boring straight into him. 

He doesn’t want to apologize, he never does, even when he’s in the wrong. But he’d expected Andrei to be a dick to him, and maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, befriending Makarov’s…man. Whatever that means. He finally drags his gaze from Makarov’s and looks over at Andrei. He doesn’t look angry at Graves being choked, but then again, he can’t possibly imagine the reaction Graves had to that, he’s sure of it. And he doesn’t look titillated at all, which is a relief, that would probably go somewhere very bad. 

Very…bad. Yeah. 

“Sorry, comrade,” he says, choking the words out, graceless and probably not sounding like he means it. He kind of does, but mostly, yeah, he doesn’t. “I like Johnny Cash,” he offers, because that’s a musician he’s reasonably sure even Russian ultranationalists have heard of. 

“Ah,” Andrei says, nodding. “Ring of fire, yes?” He hums a few bars of the song, and the tension ratchets down a little. 

“No taste,” he hears the driver say, in English. 

No one speaks again for the rest of the drive, which is thankfully short, less than ten minutes. The SUV pulls up to a house just as the sun is starting to set, streaking the now-cloudy sky with brilliant oranges and pinks. They’re in what looks to be an isolated assortment of houses and outbuildings, not quite big enough to be a town or a village, but likely some sort of private compound. The house on the right is large, with an A-frame full of windows facing out over what appears to be a valley, a smaller structure branching off to the side. 

Andrei gets out of the car without another word, still singing under his breath. 

Makarov opens his door and jerks his head at Graves, clearly not intending to help him, so Graves scoots over toward the door himself. They’d taken his ankle restraints off when they’d switched vehicles so he could go pee in private, thank god, and Makarov had waived off putting them back on, for some reason. Maybe the reason was we’re on the top of a mountain, he’s not going anywhere. 

Shows what he knows, ha. 

It’s cold when he gets out of the car, but he follows Makarov up to the house, glancing around, committing the layout of what he can see to memory, before the sun sets and it’s too dark to make out anything. There’s the main house, some smaller outbuildings, a gravel drive that stretches into a copse of trees. Their caravan had about sixteen to twenty people, all told, mostly Konni in their uniforms, armed with rifles. They’re milling about, some smoking, some heading off into the dark toward what might be a sentry position or other buildings, he can’t tell. 

“This way,” Makarov snaps at him, and Graves follows, smiling widely and not bothering to hide how much he likes that he’s pissed Makarov off. In the short time they’ve been in each other’s company, he already knows that isn’t easy to do, and accomplishing it feels like the first win he’s had in a while. 

The house is dark, quiet, and feels vaguely unlived in, that sort of musty ambiance that makes him think nobody’s been here in a while. “Nice house,” he says. “Yours?” 

Makarov, predictably, doesn’t answer. There’s no sign of Andrei, but he grabs a Konni goon – oh sorry, sycophantic loyal soldier – and says something to him in a low voice. He wonders if Makarov figured out he knows some Russian, but he doubts that. Spasibo is pretty entry level, and he’d put enough of a drawl on it that it probably sounded like a completely different language altogether. 

“Graves. On me.” 

Graves gives him a narrow-eyed look. That was a fucking military command, who the hell does he think he is? “I ain’t your soldier, Commander, I don’t ask how high when you say jump.” 

“You might want to start if you value your life.” Makarov smiles, that little cold sneer that isn’t a smile at all. “Which I am starting to wonder if you do.” 

“Never let ‘em see you sweat, man,” Graves says, then adds an, “Oorah!” at the end, even though he hasn’t been a Marine for quite some time. It’s worth it when Makarov looks at him like maybe he’s lost his mind, before heading up the stairs without checking to see if Graves follows. 

Which, of course, he does. 

He wants his hands unbound, he wants a fucking shower, clothes that aren’t these, a meal that isn’t a bar of comprised of condensed protein and sadness. He wants a weapon, a plan, Makarov’s intel to give to someone who deserves it and will thank him appropriately, and Gen. Herschel Shepherd humiliated and sent to prison. None of these things will happen if he keeps doing his best impression of a brat, which – shockingly to everyone – he is not . Soap was, that was obvious in two minutes, about as obvious as his crush on the asshole in the mask. 

Soap is the kind of sub who wants to kneel but has to be put on his knees. Graves is the kind of sub who gets to his knees to suck cock or eat pussy and that’s about it. His choice, his decision, and it’s not about his alignment, it’s about getting off. 

He remembers walking in a couple of his men at Shadow HQ talking about it, once, whispering amongst each other and wondering you think there’s anyone out there the commander’ll go to his knees for? 

Don’t know, one of them said. He’s hot, though. Bet plenty have tried. 

How nice to be admired, Graves had thought, leaning against the door and listening with unabashed amusement. He loved this shit. 

Shepherd, maybe, someone said, and well, that was the end of staying quiet. 

“Are you fucking kidding, I’m way too pretty for that asshole,” Graves said, and laughed outright at the horrified looks he received, the quick apologies. He’d waved a hand. “Don’t worry,” he said, smiling, but anyone who knew him well would know he didn’t mean the laugh or the smile. “I get it all the time. None of you need to worry about who I kneel for, got that? Tellin’ ya right now, won’t be any of you assholes.”  

They’d all apologized again, but Graves said not to worry, he understood, it wasn’t often you met submissives who were in charge of an entire PMC. 

Just like he’s sure those two Shadows understood why Graves sent them on a mission later with a very low chance of survival. He added a personal note on their final checks to their listed next-of-kin, expressing his sincerest condolences and withholding the hazard bonus they should have received. 

You can’t hold your tongue, I’ll hold your bonus. Easy as shit, soldiers. Better luck next time. 

Really fucking stupid, running your mouth about your CO when he could hear you. 

The upstairs of Makarov’s mountain retreat is cold, and for the first time since he was injected with that tranquilizer and shoved into a car, Graves starts to lose some of his bravado. He’s sure that it’s a crash and to be expected, but suddenly he’s tired, hungry, and he suddenly feels itchy, all over, especially his scalp. He can’t reach that, of course. Motherfucker, 

“What secrets do I have to spill to get a shower?” 

Makarov must hear the note in his voice, less his usual manic combativeness and a little quieter. Not quite sincere, but closer than usual.  “The room has a bath attached.” He opens a door to his right and waves a hand. 

Graves goes in. The bedroom is…fine. Better than fine. The far wall is all windows with a view that would be beautiful if Graves wasn’t over it, a bare mattress on a bedframe that is at least a double and not a twin, thank Christ, and looks new even if it’s missing linens. There’s a dresser. A nightstand with a lamp. A ceiling fan. Two doors, one closed that he assumes leads to a closet, and one that’s half-open, beyond which is a bathroom. 

There’s a knock at the door. Andrei again, holding linens. It’s like Graves in the world’s most heavily-guarded Airbnb, with that one host that insists on showing you around the property like you’ve never seen a stacked washer-and-dryer or inground pool or whatever before. 

“Here,” Andrei says, holding up the sheets. “For bed.” 

Or an escape ladder. Actually, yeah, no, scratch that. The windows are floor-to-ceiling and clearly don’t open, plus, there’s a pretty steep drop beyond them. The sort a double-bed sized topsheet won’t do shit to reach, even if you tie the fitted one to it, too. There goes that idea. 

Graves raises his arms, but they’re still cuffed. “Would love to take those from you, comrade, but I’m a bit indisposed.” 

“Andrei,” he says, like he thinks maybe Graves just doesn’t remember his name. “It’s Andrei.” 

“Phillip Graves,” he says, because why not. “If you take these cuffs off me, I’ll shake your hand. Look at that. International tensions, solved.” 

Andrei looks over at Makarov, who is watching them with an inscrutable expression. Makarov lifts one shoulder in a graceful shrug, like he’s saying, I don’t know what’s wrong with him, either. 

“Seriously, are you gonna take these off or what? I know my hands are deadly weapons, but i’m fucking exhausted and your bunny bar is long gone, I can barely climb down the stairs, much less a mountain.” 

“Bunny…bar?” Andrei says, glancing between them. 

Makarov says something, probably giving him a cursory explanation, then walks over to Graves. He does it slowly, casually, like he has all the time in the world. Nothing like that sudden burst of violence in the car. But it’s every bit as threatening, and Graves is sadly now used to how any threat from Makarov makes his heart pick up. He hates it, because he doesn’t hate it. 

Makarov stalks him like a wolf hunting prey, blocking Graves’s view of anything but his chilly eyes and that menacing aura of pure threat. He gets right up in Graves’s space but doesn’t stop, and Graves backs up out of instinct. 

“What the fuck, ” he says, forcing his feet to stay put once he realizes what he’s done. 

Makarov stops. He puts one hand on Graves’s left arm above the cuff, fingers tight as a vise, touch heavy even through the wool of his borrowed coat. His other hand grabs Graves’s chin, which he fucking hates, and tries to immediately jerk his head to the side to dislodge the touch. All that does is make Makarov’s grip tighten, both on his arm and his chin, and Graves has a flash of self-loathing when he realizes he knew exactly what would happen and did it anyway. 

“You want those cuffs off, Graves?” 

“Why, I sure do, Makarov.” 

Makarov is too close, too – too close, he smells like fresh air and cold and a little like stale cigarette smoke, and Graves has no idea how he can make his quiet, silky voice sound so frigid, so dangerous. He’s danger personified in a wool peacoat and a scarf, and Graves can’t seem to breathe. “Then kneel and I’ll take them off.” 

A combination of ice-cold fury and white-hot heat hits him like a bullet to the chest, and Graves has to remind himself that if he wants to, Makarov could just end him, here and now, so probably kicking him is a bad idea. He needs his hands free if he wants to fight. But more than that – he needs his hands free if he wants to do anything. He can’t take the coat off with the cuffs. He can’t shower, eat, do anything but stand helpless and caught like an animal. But he won’t kneel. He won’t. He can’t. 

He must say that last one out loud, because Makarov’s voice softens even more, like he’s gentling a frightened dog. “You can,” he murmurs, coaxing. “You can. Kneel and I’ll take them off.” 

“I don’t do that,” Graves says, forcing the words out. “For anyone. Especially batshit crazy terrorists.” 

Makarov looks completely unbothered by the insult. “You are everything I dislike about Americans, Graves. Cocky. A hypocrite. Mired in so much privilege you think it’s an insult to ask for something you want.” 

“You have me in cuffs,” Graves says. “What do you think I’m gonna do, roll over and play nice?” 

“I thought perhaps you’d be smart enough to do what you’re told, but apparently I have given you too much credit.” 

“Yup,” Graves drawls. “Guess you have.” He winks. 

“I don’t need you alive, you realize,” Makarov continues. “So perhaps consider that it costs me nothing to leave you here with your hands bound. Lock you in. Listen to you scream while you starve to death in this room, alone.” 

Graves isn’t fast enough to hide his shiver at that, and Makarov smiles when he sees it. “So why are you keeping me alive, Makarov? Huh? For fun?” 

“You think far too much of yourself, if you think that .” Makarov makes a soft clicking sound, and he still hasn’t moved or let go of Graves. “Maybe I want to see how long it will take to break you. Not long, I think.” 

“I’m already about to die of boredom, so yeah, you’re not wrong. Also? Get in line, comrade, there’s more’n a few people in front of you on that one.” 

Makarov smiles at him, shows his teeth. “It’s rude to send back a gift unopened, and your men certainly made a gift of you, didn’t they? They wanted me to have you alive, did you know that? I don’t think they want you back, so you must know what they thought I’d do to you, before I put a bullet in you. Consider that carefully.” Makarov leans in, and his voice spills like poison in Graves’s ear. “You’ll probably like it.” 

Probably. Fuck him. “Fuck you.” 

“See, there it is, all that arrogance. As if you’re too good to kneel.” 

“I really am, though,” Graves says, the tension so thick he can barely draw in enough of a breath to speak. “Or I’d be doing it.” 

“Mm.” Makarov moves again, and Graves has no recourse other than to let himself be pushed until he feels something cold and hard at his back – the windows. “Do you know what I have had to do to stay alive? To fight another day? To keep the fire of my convictions burning? Do you think the worst I’ve ever had to do is kneel ?” 

“I don’t give. A. Single. Solitary. Fuck, Makarov.” He hates the way his voice sounds – too breathy, affected – but he’s proud of himself for not flinching. Not like he really has anywhere to flinch… to. He’s trapped by dark glass on one side and Makarov on the other. 

“See if you think that when you’re hungry enough to try and eat that coat. And if you think you won’t, then you don’t know what it means to be hungry. But of course you don’t. If you would like to, by all means, keep refusing to do what I’ve said.” 

The thing is, here? Graves does know what it’s like to be hungry. He grew up dirt poor in Louisiana and the only reason they didn’t actually starve was he and his brothers knew how to hunt and fish, since their father spent all his money on booze, get rich quick schemes that never worked, sex workers, more booze, piss-poor odds gambling machines in gas stations, booze, and then, when the booze didn’t do the job well enough, drugs. But also booze, because that never did stop. 

Makarov, on the other hand….Graves laughs, the sound as bitter as the childhood he never talks about. “Uh-huh. Nice try, comrade, but I read your file. You grew up fucking rich, didn’t you? Dad a big-wig in the Soviet Party, took a little dance with a rope when you were a kid?” 

Makarov’s smile fades, and Graves has either gone too far or is right on the edge of it, so what the hell. He jumps. “You’re a fucking soldier with a grudge and daddy issues. I get it. Doesn’t make you special. Do they know that, huh, your soldiers? That you grew up just as privileged as a dirty westerner American? Or do they think you’re some salt-of-the-earth peasant from a potato farm?” 

Makarov was from the suburbs of Moscow, an affluent one at that, according to his file. So probably not a potato farm in several hundred miles. But whatever. 

“Also very American of you,” Makarov says, and there’s a strange emptiness in his voice. “To assume childhood will be the only time you will be hurt by other people you can’t control.” 

“If you don’t blow up airports and gun down a bunch of civvies watching a fucking sporting event, then you don’t go to prison, Makarov ,” Graves hisses. Or tries. It comes out a bit too reedy to really get across the venom he wants. 

“Don’t betray your allies and they won’t betray you and leave you in a ditch, Graves, ” Makarov hisses back, and he’s admittedly a little better at it, not that Graves will admit that, ever. 

“See, now, I was following orders,” Graves says, keyed up, and he actually feels himself bounce on his heels like he’s about to go a round in the training ring, or like he did when he jumped off that boat on the rig in Mexico. Maybe it’s not that surprising. Makarov is basically a missile waiting to burn the world to cinder, leaving him standing in a mountain of nothing but ashes. 

I hope you choke on ‘em, suka.  

“A popular excuse for bad behavior, isn’t it,  just following orders . At least when I carry out my attacks, I don’t lie about why I’m doing it or pretend it wasn’t my idea.” 

“That’s – you know that’s actually worse, don’t you?” Graves doesn’t think he does. Makarov’s world view is fundamentally warped but consistent, not that it makes it in any way acceptable. “You kill civilians. ” 

Makarov makes a dismissive sound. “There are those who support me, and there is everyone else. When you realize that, you and yours, maybe you’ll stand a chance against me. When you make rules for warfare you have already lost.” 

This guy is fucking crazy. Graves does not think about how he’s said something sort of similar, or that he’s heard Shepherd – no, they’re the good guys. They do bad shit because of men like Makarov. 

“You started it,” is the brilliant reply he comes up with. Playground insults. It’s been a long fucking day. 

“You are not in control here,” Makarov says, back to his quietly menacing version again. “And if you do not kneel, you’ll die in this room and no one will save you.” 

“You take these off, you know I’m gonna try and run.” Holy fuck, even Graves can’t believe he just said that. Maybe don’t tell the bad guy you’re gonna escape, shit for brains. That voice sounds too much like his father. Graves shuts that thought off and concentrates on the present immediate threat – Makarov’s hand on his chin, his arm, this stalemate they’ve reached. 

“Of course. Try it if you like. My men have their orders.” 

Yeah. He definitely hates this guy more than Price, it’s official, mark it in the books. Price, and Soap, and Alejandro, and his fa—

Slam that door shut, soldier. 

“Don’t tell me,” Graves says, fighting to find – not control, but something, some way to get these cuffs off without having to kneel. “Shoot on sight?” 

“Nyet. To injure. Then they’ll drag you into the forest and we’ll all listen sitting next to a nice roaring fire while the wolves eat you alive.” 

Well, that’s pleasant. “Nah. I’ll be fine. Always been a dog person.” Not really, he’s not home long enough for a pet, but a prior boyfriend did once call him a dog. That counts. 

“Yes,” Makarov says. “I’d believe that. Kneel or don’t, but this is your last chance.” 

He’s going to do it. He knows it, Makarov knows it, fuck, fuck, fuck. But he has to, what else can he do? He can’t just – sit around and wait to die in an A-Frame in the  mountains with a borrowed peacoat and someone else’s fucking underwear, for Christ’s sake. What’s he gonna do, eat toothpaste and drink tap water until – until what? No one’s coming after him.  

Makarov’s hand on his chin eases, and to Graves’s shock, he pats him on the face, the same light gesture he’d used on Andrei’s shoulder. “Now, be a good boy and kneel .” 

This is stupid. He knows resisting will only make it worse, but still, he holds out for a few seconds –  it’s not much but it’s the only recourse he has. Then, when he knows it’s absolutely a necessity or else he really will die an agonizingly slow, miserable, boring death in this room, Graves does what he’s told and goes to his knees. 

“There,” Makarov says, and strokes one gloved hand through his hair. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” 

It was harder than a lot of things in his recent memory, but he’s given up enough, so he doesn’t want to give Makarov any more satisfaction than he already has by admitting that yes, it was . And he’s not sure he could talk, anyway. 

Kneeling for a dominant is a strange thing. It feels good on a simple, primal level that Graves is certainly not immune to, and the relief is so intense he actually sways on his knees a bit. His entire body relaxes, and he can’t even summon the energy to hate it. He’s just – breathing. He’ll hate it later, but for now, he focuses on slowing down his racing heart and it actually works. 

Makarov’s hand is gone now, and when Graves looks up, he’s vaguely aware of the look of intense, pleased satisfaction on Makarov’s face and even that feels good, fuck. He holds up a hand and snaps his fingers. “Andrei!” 

Andrei comes in like he was waiting in the hallway, quick like a dog called to heel at his master’s side. Graves shies away from that when he realizes which of them is kneeling, and it’s not Andrei, and how much he might have not hated the hand in his hair. 

He’s not going to die slowly of starvation, but maybe he can figure out how to drown himself in the sink. 

“Yes, sir?” 

“Take his cuffs off,” Makarov says, and laughs. It’s an actual laugh. There is real, honest-to-Satan amusement in it. There’s even some hint of life in his dark eyes, and a bit of a flush on Makarov’s sharp cheekbones. 

I’m going to send Interpol your head in a box with your balls stuffed in your mouth. 

“Yes, Commander Makarov.” 

Graves straightens his shoulders, makes his posture perfect because he’s a submissive but he’s a goddamn American soldier, and he’s not ashamed of either of those things. He’s not going to give them any ideas that this was enough to break him, either. It isn’t, and it never will be. 

“I’m going to kill you,” Graves says, looking Makarov straight in his eyes, the color of cold coffee, over-brewed tea, strong whiskey. There is no longer any hint of his affected drawl in his voice, and for one of the first times in his life, he hears himself using that tone submissives can use in the same way dominants do. An enticing promise of a future humiliating death, he's just aching to give it to him. “Slowly.” 

Makarov tilts his head, studies him like he’s coming to some conclusion about Graves. He nods once, then says, in a terrible version of Graves’s American accent, the same thing Graves said to him. “Get in line, cowboy. ” 

And with that, he turns and walks out the door, leaving Graves kneeling and furious, staring after him and barely aware of Andrei taking off his cuffs. 

It was worth it, he tells himself, getting to his feet the second the other cuff is removed, pulling almost frantically at the buttons on the coat, too hot even though it’s still cold in the room. It was worth it. 

Maybe if he keeps saying it, he’ll believe it. 

Chapter Text

Andrei brings him a change of clothes, food, and a plastic bag of toiletries. The food is very clearly pre-packaged, but it’s better than that goddamn bunny bar so he doesn’t care. He practically inhales it, burning his tongue on the soup that’s fucking boiling, and barely tastes the two slices of packaged, but fresh, dark bread. It tastes like goddamn five-star cuisine at this point, and there’s something other than water to drink, hot tea with too much lemon that also burns.

All things considered, they could be treating him worse. And there’s something strange about why they’re not – Graves isn’t all that fond of interrogations himself, but he has plenty of people on his payroll who enjoy it. Sadists, and some fucking weirdos who just think it makes ‘em edgelords or some shit, whatever, Graves doesn’t care if they get off on it or not as long as it gets done. But he’d absolutely have done that first thing with a prisoner of Makarov’s status, and withholding comforts and basic necessities is the first step in softening someone up to talk. 

Graves isn’t an international terrorist, sure, and even though he hates to admit this, he knows he’s not the level of importance to Makarov’s operation that, say, Price or Shepherd would be. But he’s not some fuckin’ scrub, here. Not that he wants to be tortured. Despite his weird fucked up reactions to Makarov threatening him, he’s no masochist. 

But damn it, shouldn’t they want to torture him? He knows stuff! About people Makarov hates! Who Graves also hates! What was that saying? The enemy of my enemy is worth torturing for fuckin’ intel on the guy we both hate? 

He probably gets at least a few hours of sleep, if you add all the times he dozed off together, which’ll do. It’s bright in the morning, of course, as there’s no curtains on the windows. He spends some time looking through the room, keeping an eye on the door – it’s locked, that’s the first thing he checks – as he does so. The giant fuck-off windows seem like a terrible choice from a security standpoint, but like he’s gonna point that out if Makarov hasn’t realized it. And the glass is thick enough when he raps on it that he supposes it could be bulletproof. If only he had a gun to check. 

There’s nothing much in the room that could be used as a weapon, maybe the lamp if he gets that desperate. He hopes he doesn’t. It seems embarrassing. 

He does notice that all his winter outwear is gone, which was stupid of him not to think about keeping it. If he tries running off now, he’ll end up a Graves-cicle for those goddamn wolves he heard last night. 

The only other door in the room leads to a closet. There’s nothing, not even a spare hanger, in there. Great use of space. 

It isn’t long before the door opens. Graves expects to see Makarov or Andrei, but it’s a generic, masked Konni soldier with a rifle. “This way,” he says, in a heavy accent. “Commander Makarov wants to see you.” 

Graves smiles. “Tell him too fuckin’ bad, I ain’t in the habit of having breakfast with psychos.” Lies, he has breakfast with plenty of maladjusted violent weirdos all the time. But they’re on his side. 

Or they are supposed to be. 

He’s still not sure if he was really betrayed, or if it’s a trick. The lack of torture, the medical care, hell, even the accommodations aren’t at all what he would have expected. Maybe they’re trying to coax him into talking? That really doesn’t seem like Makarov’s style. He’s more the better safe than sorry, how about I bomb your regional airport type. 

The soldier is about two inches taller than Graves but looks like he’s built out of cinderblocks, and his dark eyes are cold and unfriendly as he repeats, “Commander Makarov wants to see you. Come this way,” and nods at the door. He says it slower, each word precise, clearly understandable even with the accent. 

“I heard you the first time, comrade,” Graves says. “See, your boss ain’t mine, so I don’t really care what he wants nor do I have to do what he says.” This is so stupid. Makarov isn’t his boss, he’s his captor, and arguably that means Graves has to do what he says even more than if he were Graves’s boss. But whatever, if Makarov wants to see him he can damn well come get him himself. Not send some NPC to get him. 

It’s almost funny, the way the soldier just…stands there, eyes a little wider as Graves refuses to leave the room with him. “Commander Makarov –” 

Is he just going to repeat it, like a broken fuckin’ record? Graves interrupts him. “Yeah, I said I heard you the first time. And I,” he says, pointing to himself, “said that if Commander Makarov wants to see me, he knows where I am.” 

“I think you do not understand,” Cinderblock says. 

“I understand just fine, hoss, I think it’s you that ain’t getting it.” Graves has no idea why he’s doing this. He should want to get out of this room, shouldn’t he? And he does. But he’s offended. “Go on, now. You tell Makarov I’m just fine where I am.” 

The guard doesn’t move. He makes a vague motion with the gun and clears his throat. 

Yeah, wow, how convincing. Graves raises his eyebrows. 

The soldier sighs. “Commander Makarov is, hmm. More scary than you, Amerikanskiy.” 

Sure, but that’s because Makarov is probably in a suit with a few weapons, and Graves is wearing non-descript black joggers and a thermal long-sleeved dark blue shirt, thinking about using a table lamp to fight off terrorists. 

“Piotr!” A voice snaps, from the hallway, followed by a string of rapid Russian that Graves can’t follow. The voice doesn’t belong to anyone Graves knows, meaning it isn’t Makarov or Andrei, but it makes Cinderblock – Piotr, he supposes – flinch a bit, and call something back that might mean oscar-mike, or whatever the equivalent is, here.  

He steps forward and a hand comes up, like he’s going to grab Graves by his upper arm to drag him, but Graves side-steps him and goes out into the hallway. “Hands off the merchandise, hoss.” That was probably unnecessarily petty of him, but fuck it, it’s not like he asked to be brought to Makarov’s mountain retreat, did he? 

“Merchandise…?” The soldier walks so loudly, an attack helicopter would be sneakier. So he’s probably not part of any infiltration unit, and here for his sheer size and bulk. Maybe he can climb down a mountain without falling over. If so, Graves should maybe make friends with him. How do you do that, in video games? Talk to him once a day and bring him a fish or something? 

He’s still thinking about this when they turn the corner and he sees Makarov sitting at a table and drinking something out of a mug. 

Piotr nudges him with the rifle. Mr. Important all of a sudden, apparently. “Go.” 

Graves shoots a glare at him over his shoulder. “Okay, okay, don’t gotta show off for the boss, boyo.” He turns back and looks at Makarov, who sips whatever is in the cup and stares at him, one dark brow arched like he’s waiting for Graves to do something. 

Graves stares back, unmoving. Is he supposed to prostrate himself on his knees for a fuckin’ piece of toast? No goddamn way is he doing that. “You wanted to see me? Real bad, I’m guessing, if you sent the heavy, here,” he says, jerking his chin over at Cinderblock. 

Makarov is staring right at him, but when he speaks, it’s in Russian and clearly not directed to him. Piotr answers, sighs, then stomps off like a tank and heads out of the front door. 

“You’re very bad at being polite,” Makarov says. “Go get something to eat, no one is serving you, here.” 

“I didn’t fucking ask you –” Graves stops talking when Makarov gives him a sharp, unfriendly glare, and unfortunately being sort-of well fed and rested means he’s all too aware of Makarov’s sinister, coldly precise dominance that prickles across his skin and hits sharp like a knife between the eyes. 

“Anyone ever told you that you’re like if an ice-cream headache was a person?” Graves mutters, finding the kitchen and heading in to see if there’s anything without a cartoon bunny he can find to eat. 

“What was that?” 

“I said, thanks,” Graves calls back, which he’s positive Makarov doesn’t believe for one second. 

The kitchen is surprisingly modern, and he finds bread, lukewarm coffee, and something in a pot on the stove that he doesn’t recognize. It’s the only hot thing, though, so he stirs it with the spoon. It looks like oatmeal. He still feels surreal, walking around opening drawers and cabinets, and he wonders if it’s a coincidence there’s nothing sharper than a butter knife. 

He looks at it for a long time, that butter knife. Graves’s mind is racing, and he needs to come up with some kind of plan, here. Makarov knows he’s in deep shit thanks to Shepherd throwing him under the 141 Armored Tank, so to speak. Maybe he thinks if he isolates Graves and wears him down, he’ll end up with a sparkly new comrade with access to Western secrets? 

Yeah, hell no. Not that he’s so enamored of America, but it’s better than goddamn Russia. Too fucking cold. He fills up the bowl with whatever the hell the stuff in the pot is, takes two slices of bread and a cup of coffee and leaves the butter knife in the drawer. If it’s a test to show he’s not trying to plot a murder spree with cutlery, then he’ll pass it. And it’s not like a butter knife will do anything against armed guards with rifles. 

He leaves the kitchen, and Makarov snaps, “sit down,” before he can try and go literally anywhere else. The bowl is hot and he’s about to drop his breakfast, so Graves puts everything on the table and kicks the chair out, sitting heavily, kind of like an annoyed teenager who’s been woken up for Sunday breakfast. 

The coffee is too bitter and not quite hot enough, but whatever, he’ll drink it. He eats a slice of bread, dry but that’s fine, and then takes a hesitant bite of whatever is in the bowl. It’s warm, savory, very hearty, and tastes like a weird cross between oatmeal and grits. 

“Kasha,” Makarov says. 

“Gesundheit,” Graves says, eating another bite.  It’s filling, which is good, since he’s pretty sure he’s going to have to try and scale a mountain to get out of here. 

“The dish,” Makarov continues, with a glance at the bowl. “It’s called kasha. ” 

“I’m not defecting, you know,” Graves says, putting the spoon down. “I might be mad as a hornet at a few people back home, but I ain’t leaving the home of the brave and the free for the home of kashi and bunny-bars.” 

“Kasha,” Makarov says, again, like his real goal is to make one stubborn American asshole say one Russian word correctly. 

Keep dreaming, buddy. “Sure. Whatever. Like I said.” Graves eats another bite, and it’s actually not…bad, really, it’d be better if he wasn’t eating it in captivity and maybe if it were shrimp cheesy grits, instead. Or had some salt. Maybe cayenne pepper. “Got any hot sauce?” 

“You’re very committed to making jokes for a man who’s being held captive,” Makarov says. He’s not eating anything. Maybe he ate earlier. Maybe he doesn’t eat. Maybe he’s a robot. 

“Who said I was joking? I like hot sauce.” Graves left Louisiana behind when he joined the Marines, everything except the food, which in his opinion is still the best there is anywhere in the world. He’s not actually lying about wanting hot sauce, but he stays quiet, finishes his breakfast and pretends he can’t feel Makarov staring at him. 

“All right,” he says, finally, pushing his bowl away and picking up the mug of coffee. “You’re bein’ a bit too nice to me, Makarov. A shower, tasteless kashi –” 

“ Kasha, if you say it wrong again, you can starve.” 

“What’s the deal, here? You trying to get me to, what, be bored enough to offer up intel so I can go home?” 

Makarov studies him, and whatever he’s drinking is clearly still hot, as there’s steam rising from the mug. Not the coffee, then. “I’m starting to think that might work.” 

Graves shrugs a shoulder. He doesn’t like to be bored, but he sure as fuck doesn’t like being tortured, either. “You know I won’t say shit either way.” 

“Do I know that, Graves?” He tilts his head, and smiles at him, chilly as the rapidly-cooling coffee in Graves’ own cup. “There are many ways to torture someone. Only a lazy, uninspired fool thinks pulling off fingernails and breaking bones with a hammer is the height of interrogation techniques.” 

Why is it, Graves wonders idly, that actually having that done to him would be agony, and the thought of it makes him sick to his stomach, but maybe…not really sick to his stomach. He shifts in his chair, affects a bored sort of huff that he’s sure isn’t fooling Makarov in the slightest. “Breakfast with you is the inspired torturer’s finest technique, is it? I guess I’d say, if ten is waterboarding and the thing with the fingernails, and one is listening to your driver singing along to Swedish death metal, this is…” He screws his face up, looks at the ceiling, pretends to consider it. “Maybe a four. It’d only be a two if you had any hot sauce for the gruel, here.” 

Makarov drums his fingers on the table, which is a strangely human gesture for a man who looks like he powers down in a charging unit instead of sleeping at night. “Torture should be personal, Graves. Intentional. Like everything else, a good plan is essential.” 

“Ah,” Graves says, and he – feels like he is being shocked, maybe, little electric pulses singing through him. It’s not an unpleasant sensation, which is unfortunate. “So you’re studying’ me, making what, a personalized torture plan?” 

“Maybe,” Makarov says, and Graves has the sudden realization that the man is enjoying himself . “It isn’t very hard. You’re very…” he pauses, clicks softly. 

“Handsome? Brave? Loud?” He leans forward. “Intimidating? I know. It’s my good looks and my charm.”  

“Loud, yes,” Makarov agrees. “But you’re very obvious for a man who calls himself a Shadow, did you know that?” 

Graves gives him a charming smile, but it feels brittle, like his face might shatter if he holds it too long. “I didn’t think I was signin’ up to be psychoanalyzed by a psycho at breakfast.” 

“Consider it an additional benefit of your stay.” 

“Really rather not. So, what’s my torture plan look like, doc?” He finishes the cold coffee in one swallow, at it doesn’t taste good but he’s already grateful for the caffeine, though with the sudden rush of adrenaline from yeah he’s gonna torture you, he kinda wishes now he’d just had water. The restlessness is making him feel twitchy. 

“Now, Graves,” Makarov says, shaking his head, “why would I tell you, hmm?” 

“So I can dread it?” 

Makarov catches his eyes, and smiles, very slowly. It’s not a smile Graves has seen before, but it’s somehow amused and cruel all at once. “Is that what you’d do.” 

Heat blooms over Graves’s face before he can stop it. He feels humiliated in a way he almost never does, because he took the hot sauce and left shame behind in the bayou. But he’s reasonably sure he knows what Makarov is saying – I noticed you got a little too into it when I choked you in the car – and that’s what has him suddenly looking very intently at the dregs off the coffee in the mug. 

“Look, danger gets me going, it’s not that hard of a concept. People are masochists, you know. Biologically.” 

“Yes, I know. But you’re not.” Makarov puts his cup down, that same little amused smile on his face. “Is that what you tell yourself, then? That you like pain? I could prove you wrong in, hmm.” He checks his wrist. “Six, seven seconds.” 

“Didn’t say I liked pain, said I liked danger ,” Graves snaps, but this is beginning to feel like he’s on the wrong side of an interrogation and he definitely isn’t into it. No matter what the coil of heat in his stomach says. “But the point is, comrade, it’s biological. Don’t take it personally.” 

“No, I think I will. Take it personally.” Makarov puts his hands – not gloved, and Graves notices for the first time he has tattoos on his fingers of both hands – on the table and pushes back, standing up. 

Graves wants to stand up, too. But in the spirit of being a contrary asshole and not showing fear, he doesn’t. He plants his booted feet under the table and braces himself, one hand on the table to protect his head and the other loosely holding the coffee cup, which will probably break if he uses it as a weapon but he doesn’t have a lot of options, here. 

Makarov doesn’t hit him, though. He just leans down, sort of trapping Graves between himself, the table, and the chair. He’s too close, which Graves doesn’t like, but his fucking body isn’t getting the memo and is fairly singing with tension and nerves. His cock is hard. Fucking hell.  

“I was just going to have you tortured until you said something mildly useful, then make you dig your own grave and bury you in it,” he says, so casually, like he’s talking about the fucking breakfast porridge or some shit. “Send a photograph to Price and your CIA.” 

“Yeah, they…might’ve sent you a thank-you card, which is not a reason for you to, uh, do that.” Graves can’t…think. His brain feels fuzzy like it did under the influence of those tranq drugs, and Makarov is too close and all of Graves’s nerves are lit up and tingling, a tripwire waiting to snap. He can’t stop thinking about that, outside in the cold dark, the wolves, Makarov, a shovel and dirt and – 

This is when he should be trying to escape. Instead, he’s as still as a rabbit before a hawk, which is an unfortunate analogy he wants no part of, since all he can imagine now is himself as that goddamn cartoon bunny on the protein bar. 

“I don’t think I need to,” Makarov says, and he really does sound amused. “I think, Commander Graves, you’re going to tell me many things before I’m done with you. And I don’t know that I’ll have to do very much of anything at all.” 

Before Graves can point out – foolishly – that he’s real good at talking but not so much at telling the truth, Makarov reaches out and puts two fingers on his mouth. All the thoughts skitter out of his brain, the few that were left, and the sheer menace of such a simple gesture, the malevolence he can now recognize in Makarov’s entire expression, his body language… fuck. 

“How do you call it, in English? Ah. Yes.” Makarov slides those tattooed fingers into Graves’s mouth, and he’s so surprised he doesn’t even bite down like he knows he should. “Going under, that’s it. I think, Graves, when I put you under, you’ll give me anything I want.” 

Before Graves can let the incandescent rage he’s feeling motivate him to hit Makarov upside his smug head with the coffee mug – why is that your go-to instead of biting his fucking fingers off, maybe we better think about that – Makarov pulls his fingers out, wiping them with slow, deliberate intent on Graves’s cheek. 

The rage gets snuffed like a candle. Graves blinks. “Good luck with that,” he says, shocked into honesty for reasons he will think about, mmm, never. “No one’s ever managed it before.”   That he knows of, anyway. The way people talk about it, subspace or going under or whatever, that floaty disconnected feeling – no thanks. It makes him think about the drugs they gave him when he broke his arm as a kid, “falling down the front porch” (read: talking back to his dad). He’d taken them once and then never again, hating the way it made him feel. You couldn’t afford to be that out of it in his house, or you’d end up with worse than a broken arm. Graves’s older brother sold the pills and was supposed to bring him a video game, but of course he didn’t, the fucker. 

“Oh, I don’t think it’ll be a problem,” Makarov says. “I’ve already had you on your knees.” 

Graves narrows his eyes, fighting for some equilibrium, he hates this. “I wouldn’t flatter yourself about that. I wanted the cuffs off, that’s all.” 

Makarov says nothing, but it’s clear he doesn’t believe him. “I have work to do. You don’t leave this house until you earn the privilege, and you haven’t, so stay out of trouble and try not to make anyone want to shoot you, if that’s possible.” 

“No promises, comrade.” It’s a weak attempt at his usual bravado, but it helps. Makarov just turns on his heel and strides from the room, somehow the man can even walk menacingly, which is a talent. Not that Graves will ever tell him that. 

He scowls when he realizes his cheek is still wet, and rubs it with the sleeve of his shirt over and over, forcing his breathing to stay even. Survival mode. He’s in survival mode. Right. 

Graves is too much a soldier not to clean up after himself, it’s practically routine by now. He washes his dishes, then grabs a butter knife and a spoon from the drawer because you never know when you might need unconventional weapons – thanks for the survival crafting lessons, Soap. 

Piotr the Cinderblock Man is waiting for him when he leaves the kitchen. He doesn’t even check Graves’s pockets for weapons, the amateur. Then again he does have a Kastov, which is a lot more dangerous than a dull knife and a spoon. 

“I am sorry, before,” Piotr says, following Graves up the stairs. “With gun. I impress boss, yes? I thought maybe you were, ah. Dangerous.” 

How many times can one man be annoyed by Russians before noon? “I am,” Graves says from behind his teeth, and it comes out a bit too much like a whine for him to be all that comfortable with. “Really. Very dangerous.” 

“Okay,” Piotr says, clearly humoring him. “Yes. Bad man.” 

“That’s right, comrade.” Graves closes the door on him, which only works because it’s clear Piotr has been told to stand guard in the hallway. 

Graves strips and gets in the shower. He doesn’t really need one, but he doesn’t want Piotr to know what he’s up to, and he’s probably long overdue for a very specific sort of self-care that has to at least keep him from…reacting so strongly to fucking Makarov of all people. Plus, the clean-up is easier. Then he can figure out what to do about this mess he’s in. 

If I find out I really was betrayed, again? Well, let’s not forget ol’ Phillip Graves knows how to disarm missiles, so guess what I can also do. And guess who’d probably let me borrow one that I’m sure he has hidden in a shipping container somewhere? 

Okay, no, treason wasn’t the answer but goddamn it’s tempting. For now, though…he needs to clear his head. He’s had calories, caffeine, and sleep. This should be about the last thing to bring him back to fighting form, get those cobwebs off so he can do something brilliant and sexy to escape. 

For all he plays up the good ol’ boy charm and flashes his baby blues around, Graves doesn’t really hook up all that often. He’s gone to his knees to suck cock but not submit, even if the cock belonged to a dom and that’s what they thought he was doing. And he stopped fucking around with dominants in the armed forces once he joined MARSOC, it was heavily frowned upon and he was already under scrutiny as one of the few submissives they’d allowed to join. 

Graves doesn’t fuck his Shadows, either, but that doesn’t mean he’s not aware that he’s around a lot of very attractive, fit people who like guns and explosions just like he does. He even likes some of them, too – not that many, and probably not any of the people who think that he likes them, but there are a few. And still, he’s never gotten so hot and bothered that he’s had to go take a shower and jerk off after being around them for twenty minutes. 

It really has to be the stress of captivity and his kink for danger. There we go. That’s all it is. Maybe if he plays the part of an obedient captive, Makarov will let him go for a run. Even if he thinks the sun will rise in the west before either of those things happen. 

Graves puts some shower gel in his hand, which is a bit too sharply scented with fake vanilla but it’s better than nothing. He braces one arm on the far wall across from the shower head, letting the water hit his shoulders and back as he reaches down and wraps a hand around himself. The shower gel makes the glide of his hand smooth and slick, and he’s hard in seconds, which is annoying even if that’s the goddamn point. 

Just get this over with. He tries to keep his mind blank as he strokes himself, but after a while the sensation alone isn’t enough to keep his attention and his thoughts start to wander. He tries to think about the last time he fucked someone, or – was fucked? – but he can’t remember, was it that girl and her friend in London or that hockey player in DC? Were the girls in DC and the hockey player in London, no, wait, why would a hockey player be in – it doesn’t matter. None of those memories are sticking around, replaced immediately by Makarov’s fingers in his mouth, that voice threatening him with a personalized torture plan and – 

I’ve already had you on your knees. 

He’s thinking about that before he can stop himself, hand stroking too fast, he’s already close – the way it felt to kneel, the floor hard on his knees, Makarov’s clear pleasure in when he did it, his fingers in Graves’s mouth, the murmured make you dig your own grave – 

Fucking hell, this is as close as he’s ever been to admitting a few things about himself he’s pointedly ignored over the years. It’s right there, the so-called abyss just waiting for him to stare in it, so it can stare right back with all of the dark truths he pretends he doesn’t know and can’t see. 

What the hell. 

Graves gives in and strokes his cock a little slower, not rushing through it, trying to at least enjoy the fucked up fantasies he’s having. Maybe this will get it out of his head and he can just be annoyed by Makarov, instead of annoyed and turned on. It’s a confusing rush of images in his head, the combination of the threats Makarov’s made, the way it felt when he had his fingers in Graves’s mouth. Thought of him threatening to burn him with a cigarette despite the fact he hadn’t done that. 

“Fuck,” Graves hisses, and shivers all over. Before he can work through what he’s doing, he turns around so he’s in the spray instead of leaning against the wall – and then he gets on his knees, head tilted back so his throat is bared and the water hits him square in the face. 

Then, because why not, he’s already going off the fucking fantasy deep end, here – he shoves the fingers from his left hand in his mouth and sucks on them. It’s not quite the  same but he’s getting closer, wrist twisting as he rubs his thumb over the head of his cock, biting at his fingers. He feels like he’s practically inhaling water as he gasps for breath in the steam, thinking about Makarov with that gun under his chin, on the side of his head. 

Then it’s in his mouth like Makarov’s fingers were earlier, and he’s dragging the spit-wet barrel over Graves’s cheek and threatening to bury him alive and - 

That’s what gets him off, coming over his hand and shaking with it, half-slumping forward on the slick wet tile and coughing as he realizes belatedly that he’s swallowed water. He stays there for a long few seconds, head bowed to keep it out of the spray, and when he realizes he’s kneeling he slides down to sit cross-legged instead. A pointless little reaction due to spite, but it makes him feel better. 

Well, that and coming his brains out. He’s pleasantly relaxed enough that he doesn’t immediately hate what it was that pushed him over the edge, but that won’t last. He climbs to his feet, cleans up, and turns off the shower just as the water starts to turn cold. 

He’s going to have to see Makarov again, obviously, but even if he somehow finds out what Graves was doing in the shower – surveillance he hasn’t found, Piotr listening with his ear to the door like a freak – he’ll never know what Graves was thinking about when he came. It’s fine to get off thinking about the evil terrorist keeping you captive, as long as you don’t tell anyone about it. Especially the terrorist. 

Even if, as Graves is starting to suspect, said terrorist might have figured it out already.

Chapter Text

To: [email protected]

From: [REDACTED]

Re: MIA Report

John – 

Know anything about this? I’m having [REDACTED] contact SCPMC’s acting CEO to get more information. 

[attachment: CONFIDENTIAL REPORT OF MISSING CONTRACTOR: Shadow Company PMC reports founder PHILLIP GRAVES is MIA after a mission to ….[cont] ]

Best, 

Kate

From: [email protected]

To: [REDACTED]

Re: Re: MIA Report 

Couldn’t have happened to a nicer fucking bloke, Kate. Let the fucker swing. 

–J

From: [email protected]

To: 141 (ALL TEAM: PERSONAL) (LV: PERSONAL) (UZ TEAM: PERSONAL) ( [email protected] , [email protected] , [email protected] , [email protected] , [email protected] , [email protected] , [email protected]

Re: Great news 

Look who went AWOL and ended up in a fuckin’ ditch with the rest of the trash.  

From: [email protected]

Re:Re: Great news

Press F to pay respects, mates 

😂

-G

From: [email protected]  

Re: Re: Great news

Alexa play despacito lmao

From: [email protected]  

Re: Re: Great news

adiós, hijo de puta. May I never have to hear you butcher my native language again. 

AV

From: [email protected]  

Re: Re: Great news

Hoooooly shit!!!! Wow. 

Ghost ffs do you have a hotmail account? lol what’s it for, AIM? 

Should we be worried? What if Makarov keeps him around, graves needs a new lap to sit in

-Alex 

From: [email protected]

Re: Re: Re: Great News

“graves needs a new lap to sit in”

     —-Soldier that mental image is banned by the Geneva Convention’s prohibition on war crimes. 

From: xxghostblade13xx@hotmail

Re: Re: Re: Great News

“what’s it for, AIM?”

      —It’s for email. 

One less mess to clean up. Not bad.  

From: [email protected]  

Re: Re: Good news 

I’d say I will miss his missiles, but they were never where he said they’d be. 

-Farah 

From: [email protected]

Re: Re: Re: Good news 

“I’d say I will miss his missiles, but they were never where he said they’d be.” 

     –pretend i put six of those laughing/crying faces kyle used here 

From: [email protected]

Re: Re: Re: Re: Good news 

lol gaz ur mans a boomer 

From: [email protected]

Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Good News

“lol gaz ur mans a boomer” 

 your bf's the one with the hotmail account not mine bruv 

From: [email protected]  

Re: Re: Good news

Sad isn’t it, to live a life so meaningless that when you die, everyone who knows you only makes jokes. 

That’s what he gets for “ditching” us, no? 😆

From: [email protected]  

Re: Re: Good news

Good one, hermano. 

From: [email protected]  

To: 141 (ALL TEAM: PERSONAL) (LV: PERSON) (UZ TEAM: PERSONAL) ( [email protected] , [email protected] , [email protected] , [email protected] , [email protected] , [email protected] , [email protected]

Re: REMINDER

If kate asks i never sent that to anyone on your personal emails, got it? 

—-

From: [Redacted]

To: [email protected]

Re: recon

We should probably do some recon to see if Graves is still alive. If Makarov has him, it could be bad. Graves isn’t too pleased with Shepherd and might leverage intel to take down their common enemy – which also includes you and yours, John. Please keep that in mind before you send this to your team on unsecured personal emails in order to make the very easy, and obvious, joke about Fill Up Graves. 

Make sure that grave is Phill-ed, is what I’m saying, John.  When you do, the drinks are on me. 

–Kate

—

Messages (6 Unread) 

[unknown]: news hit the intel wires today

[unknown]:  no pid on graves since the ambush 

[unknown]: [.mp4] 

[unknown]: that’s the last footage from SCPMC’s cams. 

[unknown]: remember our deal. You don’t want to cross me on this. 

[unkonwn]: See that the rest of the plan proceeds as discussed or you won’t like the consequences. 

Chapter Text

The problem with being someone’s captive is that it’s very boring. 

Graves does not intend to ever “earn” a single privilege, but he’s going stir crazy after about two more days of not being able to so much as go outside. There is, thank god, a punching bag in the basement and he spends a long time imagining a variety of faces on it, one afternoon – the rotation starts with Shepherd, runs through the CIA, the 141, swings back to Shepherd, ends with Makarov and starts all over again. 

Sometimes there’s a few others in there, too. His father, his loser uncles, even his brothers, though he has no idea what they look like now. If they’re even alive. No matter how many times he’s been back to Louisiana since he joined the Marines, he’s still never been back home. 

Graves enjoys punching the bag – it’s nice to use his body to do something active, to work out some of that restlessness that’s been getting worse over the last few days. He’s not used to being idle, and he’s certainly not used to being held captive, and despite the relatively benign treatment that’s exactly what he is. A captive, no matter how lacking the torture and how (mostly) palatable the food. 

It’s not a bad tactic as far as torture goes, though. Graves is going fucking crazy with a combination of boredom and low-key dread, because he simply can’t believe that at some point, Makarov won’t just tie him to a chair and beat him into telling him something useful. Graves would have done it about sixteen times by now. Would love to, in fact. Hence his afternoon date with the punching bag. 

The problem is that he’s starting to wonder if Makarov thinks he doesn’t have any intel to give up, which makes him wonder why he’s even still breathing in the first place. Which plays into the whole cycle of dread, and that’s doing things to him that he’d rather not think about. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have a lot else to do. It’s a vicious cycle, and he’s starting to think Makarov really did design a personalized torture plan for him. 

He’s working around the bag, the radio in the corner turned to the least egregious station he can find, and he’s half-listening to it in an attempt to improve his Russian – it would help to know what these assholes were saying when they were talking about him – and barely aware of the sweat in his eyes and the sound of his harsh breathing filling up the space. It’s not very big, more of a cellar with harsh concrete walls, and other than the punching bag and the radio there’s a weight bench that he tries to take apart with no luck, and a utility sink with a plastic first-aid kid tucked beneath it on the floor. 

“There you are.” 

Gritting his teeth, Graves doesn’t stop working his way around the bag when he hears the voice – only instead of Shepherd’s face, now it’s Makarov’s. With the same little smug smirk he’s wearing in person, only Graves can hit the imaginary one on the bag, so he does so. Several times in a row. “Not hard to find me, I can’t go anywhere.” His hand hurts, it has for the last ten minutes, but he doesn’t stop, nailing the bag right where Makarov’s smirk would be. 

He startles when a hand falls on his shoulder, jerking away from the touch with a sharply bitten, “Don’t touch me.” He still hates how he reacts to Makarov whenever he’s too close. 

Makarov, predictably, ignores him and grabs Graves’s right wrist. He brings his hand up and frowns. “You’re bleeding.” 

“Oh, no,” Graves murmurs. He tries to pull his hand out of Makarov’s iron grip to no avail – Jesus, what the hell, does he do hand exercises every night before bed with a stress ball or something? 

That would imply Makarov slept, and Graves – despite being very obvious about walking around the entirety of the house despite the guards who follow him – has yet to find his bedroom. It’s probably a coffin lined with dirt from his suburban Moscow neighborhood. Excessive paranoia or vampirism, that’s the only logical explanation. 

Makarov does drop his hand, but only to go over and pick up the first-aid kit, from which he retrieves a single roll of tape. He returns and takes Graves’s wrist, not bothering to ask or explain himself as he starts taping them up. 

Graves gave up trying to figure Makarov out pretty quickly, but this is weird even for him. 

“Need me to beat someone up? I’m not joining the ranks, but I’ll put my fist in someone’s face as long as it’s one of your people. Cnsider it a host gift.” Graves gives him a winning smile, but it’s tight at the edges, his voice cold. 

Makarov doesn’t even look up at him as he finishes taping Graves’s bruised, bloody knuckles.  “No. I have qualified people for that.” 

Am I going to be meeting them? He doesn’t ask, but he has to bite his lip to keep quiet. He looks down instead at his knuckles, at Makarov’s handiwork, and he can still feel Makarov’s cool touch on his own heated skin even through the tape. 

At this point, Graves might prefer being strapped to a chair and tortured. At least that would make sense. At least it’ll hurt enough that he won’t get hard from it. 

Maybe. Hopefully. 

A shiver goes over him, and that’s when Graves realizes he needs to get out of here. His reactions to Makarov are confusing and annoying, and sure, while he could probably chalk it up to the stress that’s starting to sound like a tired excuse. But he has to get out of here before any of this – being confined, Makarov thinking he can just touch him, waiting around for the metaphorical sword over his head to drop – starts to feel normal. 

Makarov steps back, watching Graves as he runs a hand through his sweaty hair. “You’re on the wire, Graves.” 

What the fuck does he mean by that? What wire? Is that some code for torture, or – 

“News of what happened,” Makarov says, very slowly, like he’s speaking to a child. “To you and your men. It’s on the wire. You know this phrase, yes?” 

Oh, the intelligence wire. Right. “Yeah. Wait, how is it – no one was supposed to know I was here! Mother fucker .” Graves swears, turns and punches the bag again. Agony sparks from the punch across his split knuckles, turning the tape red with fresh blood. 

“I’m not taping those again,” Makarov says. 

“I didn’t ask you to do it the first time.” Graves goes over to the sink and pushes the faucet on, drinking the lukewarm water straight from the tap and then rinsing his hands as best he can, without soaking the tape. “And how do you know about the wire, anyway? That’s not for bad guys.” 

Makarov just stares at him. “You…can’t possibly believe that’s secure.” 

Graves shrugs. Actually, yeah, he kind of did think that.  “What’d they say? Who’s happy I’m dead?” 

“They said you were MIA,” Makarov says. “Not that you were dead. Which you are not. Yet.” He smiles. “How surprised they’d be, to know what you’re really doing, hmm?” 

Yeah, Graves thinks. It’s time to get out of here. Partly because of the threat in Makarov’s voice, and partly because of how it’s making him react. 

“You should conserve your strength,” Makarov says, and there’s…something in the way he’s looking at Graves, a glint in his dark eyes, a curve to his mouth that Graves just doesn’t like. This brief suspicion is proven correct when Makarov continues, with obvious relish, “The torture you’ve been dreading. We’ll do that in the morning. I’d suggest an early night and a light breakfast, you’ll need your strength.” 

It sounds like he’s giving Graves instructions for a routine medical procedure. Don’t drink anything after midnight, clear liquid diet only. He has two choices, here – he can act like he’s scared, or he can respond with his usual bravado. Whichever one doesn’t tip off Makarov that he’s planning to escape is what he needs to do, obviously, but he’s not entirely sure which is the best choice, here. 

In the end, he’s established enough of a familiar response pattern that it’s not out of the ordinary when he says, with a pretend, wide-eyed gasp, “Oh, no , the real torture is I can’t have that shit gruel in the morning, isn’t it. Spare me! I’ll tell you all our breakfast secrets if you show me mercy.” 

Makarov rolls his eyes but says nothing else, and turns to walk out of the basement. Graves lets him go, then hits the bag a few more times just because, though he uses his left hand this time. 

He doesn’t waste time, his mind racing as he goes into his room with barely a nod at the guard – it’s someone else today, not Piotr, and this one never says a word or looks at him. Piotr doesn’t even wear his half-mask anymore, maybe Makarov reassigned him thinking they were too friendly. 

He turns on the shower mostly for distraction purposes, but in the end, he strips and gets clean, then dresses in the warmest clothes he has – this is going to be the first problem, because he needs at least gloves and a hat, the shirts he’s been given are all either tanks or have short-sleeves. At first he made a joke to Makarov about you must be really into my sexy arm muscles and Makarov said, with that infuriating little smirk, no, I thought you’d be smarter than to try and go outside without sleeves, but I’m starting to think I gave you too much credit. 

Graves was smarter than that up until the you’re going to get tortured tomorrow comment, and now? Now, yeah, he’s going to do it anyway if he can’t find anything warm to wear. He should have been preparing for this, finding a way to get a coat or gloves, but that’s fine, he’s got this. Imagining how angry Makarov will be in the morning when he finds Graves is gone gives him no end of satisfaction, and imagining his captor’s fury is definitely keeping him warm as he moves around the room after his shower. 

He’s at least done a few things that might be considered smart — he takes those fucking bunny bars as often as he can, hiding them in a corner of the bed between the frame and the mattress, along with the butter knife and the fork and spoon that are all he has for weapons. You can still put an eye out with those, if you move quick. 

Graves can move quick when he has to. And he does not want to suffer through a torture session with Makarov and his goons, though he realizes it’s more that he doesn’t want Makarov to see him being hurt, rather than the thought of the pain itself. At least right now, that’s why. It might be different if he’s still here and strapped into a chair in the morning. 

The other things he’s collected are a plastic water bottle, the drugs from the hospital that might be powerful painkillers or might be children’s tylenol, and two electrolyte packages he found in the kitchen while making his terrible watery coffee one morning. There’s also a pack of matches that may or may not do anything useful, and the plastic bags his new clothes and toiletries were brought to him in can be doubled-up for carrying things. He also has a small container of honey – good to dress wounds, with the antiseptic properties – and the disposable razor that is somehow dull as fuck and yet scratched his face up like he was a teenager when he used it the first time. 

Should have let his facial hair grow in, to keep him warm. But Graves never has been able to grow much of a beard. 

He keeps the small shaving cream container, too, as it might be useful with the aerosol for an explosive, depending. He feels his heart pick up, and the weird fog of dread and tension he’s been living under begins to dissipate as he prepares to do something. He’s still not sure he wants to think about why it’s taken him so long to try and escape. 

Because you like the threat of torture, not the real thing. 

That is, unfortunately, the problem of having a clear mind that’s working on problem-solving; this is true, and he doesn’t want to think about it, because it’s a problem but it’s not the one he needs to solve right now. Hopefully after this, he’ll either have escaped or be dead. Honestly, either is preferable to wondering why he gets hard every time Makarov threatens him in that chilly, pointed voice of his. 

Now, he just has to find some clothes. And he needs to get this done and get out before nightfall; at least in the sun he’ll have some added warmth, though it isn’t much. Graves leaves the room and says to his guard, “Getting some water,” and jogs down the stairs, then goes into the kitchen and makes as much noise as possible shoving a few more bunny bars in his pockets and drinking three glasses of water just so the sink will run. 

Then he sees it. There’s a lighter on the counter, a cheap thing that probably cost less than a buck in a gas station back home, but Graves snatches it up with a soft, “Hell yeah,” and pockets it quickly. Then he ducks out of the kitchen, glances around, and instead of going up the stairs he heads back toward the door that leads to the cellar. He searches quickly, opening drawers quietly and wincing at every creak of a floorboard or a doorknob as he tries to find something, anything, to use for cover. 

The only thing he finds downstairs is one of those blankets, black with the crocheted yarn squares bthat everyone’s grandma makes at some point. He grabs it with shaking hands, smiling a bit, and figures it’s better than nothing. He’ll tell anyone who sees him carrying it upstairs that he’s cold at night, all that weak American blood or something. 

Just beyond the room with the blanket there’s another staircase, which is strange, and Graves looks around before quietly making his way up it to see where it goes – a balcony, or maybe some kind of roof access? If he has his mental map of the house right, he’s nearing the a-frame portion where his room is located. At the top of the staircase there’s a door, and he expects it to be locked but it isn’t. 

This is not a good sign. Makarov doesn’t seem like the type to leave doors unlocked if he doesn’t want them open, and if they’re open, they’re probably not doors Graves wants to go through. And isn’t that an unfortunate metaphor for this whole shit-show? 

The door leads to a bedroom. It’s practically twice the size of his, with a much larger bed, a dresser, a bedside table, and the windows in this particular room are actually a door that lead out to a patio – that door is locked, which is a little niggle that something’s fishy.

It’s a strange layout, to be sure, but he’s not here to appreciate the architectural details of the house. He assumes this is the room above his, at the top of the A, and it’s likely Makarov’s. He needs to grab something warm and get out, but it also occurs to him that Makarov might have intel he should bring with him. Saving the world from WWIII and showing up everybody else in the international counter-terrorism scene, goddamn right. 

“Yup-yup,” he murmurs, then gets to work. He can’t get distracted thinking about what’s gonna happen if Makarov catches him in his bedroom. 

The first thing he does is grab a sweater, gloves, extra socks, and one of those hats with the earflaps that nearly makes him laugh if he thinks about Makarov wearing it. The gloves aren’t the leather ones Makarov likes to wear inside like some kind of supervillain wannabe, but are lined with fleece and have a waterproof exterior, fucking perfect – 

Too fucking perfect.  

In fact, this is all just a little too easy, isn’t it? 

The lighter. The guard who isn’t Piotr, and who pays far less attention to Graves than Piotr does. The fact Makarov’s bedroom door is unlocked, and there’s no guard on duty. The warm clothes that he’s never seen Makarov wear and are suspiciously easy to find. The fact Makarov is literally nowhere in the house after telling him he was going to torture Graves. The hours of daylight left, plenty of time to get a few clicks away before nightfall.  

Graves knows a fucking set-up when he sees one. 

“I spy a trap,” he says quietly, all his earlier pleasure in finding the lighter evaporating when it’s made abundantly clear that all he’s doing is exactly what Makarov wants him to. 

In fact, he’d bet – yup, there it is, on the bedside table there’s a file folder, under a book that’s all in Russian, a pack of cigarettes and another book of matches, an ashtray with ashes in it, and a pair of silver cufflinks, shaped like the head of a wolf. 

“I ain’t as dumb as you think, comrade.” Graves grabs the cigarettes, the matches and the intel – as he’s sure he’s meant to – then takes the cufflinks and slips them in his pocket. “But sure, you wanna play games, let’s fucking play . I’m pretty fuckin’ good at hide-and-seek. Go ask Sergeant MacTavish about that.” 

Smiling viciously, he heads into the bathroom and takes what he’s sure has been left for him – a bottle of aspirin, the word is written in English, wow, Vladimir really doesn’t think much of his intelligence, does he – and a pack of dental floss, which is actually pretty useful, or would be if he was really escaping. Either way, he takes it, and then, just because he’s feeling petty, he throws Makarov’s toothbrush in the toilet and takes a piss. 

It’s stupid. Very stupid. And it makes him smile, washing his hands in the sink and catching the almost manic look in his eyes. They look like they’re glowing, he’s so keyed up. Apparently he’s even more into this if it’s some kind of weird cat-and-mouse thing, who knew. 

Me, I did, that’s why I gotta get the fuck out of here one way or another. 

He’s a little less careful about taking his purloined goods back to his room, because he’s pretty sure he’s meant to be doing this and no one is going to stop him. The guard in front of his room is literally turned away from him and talking on his phone when he gets back, and Graves is sure that’s Makarov on the phone, telling him to ignore Graves and pretend he doesn’t see him there with a granny blanket wrapped up like a bindle with a terrorist’s personal belongings tucked inside. 

There’s cameras, probably. A separate location where Makarov is monitoring them. Graves pulls on the stolen clothes and turns around in a slow circle, wondering where the camera in his room is.  

There’s a digital clock on the bedside table. Graves knows how to check for cameras with a mobile phone camera or a flashlight, neither of which he has. Still, it’s the most likely culprit, and he makes a mental note to do something with it before he leaves. He deliberately does not think about what Makarov might have seen him doing in the bed a few nights ago. 

Once dressed, he doubles up the bottom sheet – the elastic could be useful – and lines the blanket with it, puts everything he needs in the center and folds the blanket around it, tying it up with the dental floss. Even if this is a trap, Makarov better appreciate how fucking resourceful he is. 

He eats one of the bunny bars, throws the wrapper on the bed, then takes the digital clock and puts it on the mattress, dropping the pillow on top of it. Time’s up, asshole. 

He’s entirely not surprised to find the hallway empty. Graves is sorely tempted to whistle on his way down the stairs and out the front door, which is also suspiciously not guarded. Either Makarov is very stupid or thinks he is, and he’s pretty sure Makarov thinks he needs this level of villain-oversight to get himself out of a situation. He’s wrong, but whatever, he’ll take it. 

There is an SUV in the drive. Graves, absolutely certain it can’t be this easy, yanks the door open, expecting – hell, Makarov to be there with a gun pointed at his head, maybe, or at the very least, the guard from the house. But there’s no one. There’s just a set of keys on the dash as if this is a mission and one of his Shadows left it here for exfil. 

Graves gets out of the car, overwhelmed by sudden indecision. Obviously this is a trap, but what part of it is a trap? Yeah, it’s way too fucking easy, there’s that, but what’s the point? Is he supposed to go? Is this Makarov’s way of saying actually you’re useless, you can’t tell me shit, go away, I don’t even care enough about you to waste the bullet ? 

He can’t imagine that’s true. Not only could he find this location on a map and smoke this whole little mountain hideaway with an attack helo, but Makarov really doesn’t seem the type to just let people saunter down a mountain in one of his cars with some vital military secrets in a folder on the passenger seat. Even if they’re all fake. Wouldn’t that send some kind of wrong message to all the other terrorists? 

The likeliest scenario here is that the car is rigged with an explosive, and it’ll deonate on ignition or remotely once he’s far enough away from the compound. His best bet is to go on foot and try and use the items – and his own survival skills, which are top-notch, even if the supplies are not – to get down the mountain. But then what? Hope some driver will pick up an American wearing an ill-fitting coat, in one of those ear-flap hats with a granny blanket full of protein bars and stolen cigarettes? 

Suddenly, he has a very vivid memory of MARSOC training, and a field exam where they were instructed to evaluate what level of risk was acceptable in any given situation. It had some acronym – the military loves acronyms more than guns – and was basically what amount of risk to your personal safety is appropriate to achieve the objective? 

Makarov was Spetsnaz. He likely had similar tests in his own training. 

“Fuck.” Graves stands there, hands on his hips, eyes narrowed. Makarov has given him a very interesting dilemma, here. He bares his teeth in a feral grin, shaking his head, absolutely certain he’s being watched. “I passed this shit with flying colors at home, because turns out, I’ll do a whole lot of stupid shit to get the job done and that’s how we do it in the U.S. of A.” 

The vehicle likely wasn’t rigged to explode if it was right in front of the house – the potential is too high for damage, or even for someone else to notice a sudden fireball and they are surrounded by woods that could catch fire and burn. But that doesn’t take away the remote detonation option, even if it could still create a serious problem with fire. . 

It’s going to be very cold soon. If he starts on foot, he can at least somewhat follow the road down or, since that will be obvious, he can simply follow the decline and end up where he ends up, and reassess from there. With little food and water, and no supplies to speak of that will endure prolonged exposure to the elements, that seems like the slow death option. 

His mind whirls. This is either a trick for some unknown nefarious reason or it’s simply Makarov tormenting him with how he’s supposed to die. The idea of him watching this from some small room full of cameras, leaning in, smoking, eyes on the screens as he waits to see what Graves will choose – 

Nope. Not doing this. 

If the SUV doesn’t blow up immediately, that means there’s a remote device and he’ll have some unknown amount of time to get a safe distance away. Which means there is probably a tracker. If he can find that, maybe he can use the car to at least get a little ways away from here. It would be stupid to leave a vehicle behind if it’s not wired to detonate on ignition.

Equally stupid to drive it down a road when it’s remotely wired to detonate. Fuck.  

He wonders how long he has to make this choice. His entire body is tight with nerves, his veins feel like they’re full of fire and he hasn’t felt this alive in a long time, maybe because he’s almost certain he’s not going to live long enough to regret whatever risk he decides is acceptable to take. Graves grins wildly, says softly, “Let’s fucking get it done, then.” 

Graves gets in the SUV, does a cursory check for weapons and finds nothing, of course, and honestly that’s probably the most obvious clue this is a trap. Not that they leave guns around in closets or anything, but it seems a little too contrived that everyone’s mysteriously vanished, he has everything he needs to escape but a weapon, and there are keys in the fucking car. 

Graves has to believe that Makarov isn’t going to put himself and his property in danger by parking a wired-to-explode car in the literal front yard, so unless he wants to start running on foot and hope for the best, this is the riskiest option with the highest possible reward, so that’s what he’s gonna do.

Graves puts the key in the ignition. His fingers are shaking so hard that it takes him twice to do it, and he fumbles the keys, nearly dropping them before he finally slides it in the ignition. He’s breathing quick and light, refusing to think about what might happen and how this might just be it. 

He’s not going to blow up his own base. His own people. There’s probably actual intel in there somewhere, real shit, not whatever BS is in that file he left you. No reason to draw attention to this compound when he could just kill you a little ways down the road. 

“Come on, soldier,” he whispers. “Get it together and get it goin’.” 

It isn’t until he grits his teeth and turns the ignition that he has the sudden and terrifying thought of of course, he could have taken everyone and everything out while I was creeping around the house gathering useless shit, and I’m the clean-up crew. Firebomb the American and the houses and they’ll be in some new shitty safehouse by sundown, while my ashes are still hot. 

Graves laughs a little as his vision goes hazy, fear absolutely choking him as the engine turns over, why the fuck didn’t he think about that first? His entire body flinches, shuddering and he waits for it, the noise, the heat, the pain and then nothing – 

But all he gets is the last thing. Nothing. 

The car idles in the drive, and Graves’s exhale is a shaky mess of a thing, broken like glass. He laughs again, loudly, and it’s nearly hysterical as he hits his head lightly against the steering wheel. “I’m gonna wear your fuckin’ skin like a goddamn coat, you commie bastard.” That doesn’t even make sense, and he doesn’t care. 

The relief he feels in that moment is so strong, it’s almost sexual. 

Soldier, if you wanna live long enough to lord it over Soap MacTavish that he and Makarov both failed to blow you up, you need to get your head in the game, here. 

He does want to do that. A lot. So he has to get it together. 

His panic recedes and Graves hits the gas, turns the car not toward the road but the woods next to the house he’s been kept in. He rolls down the window, lights a cigarette, all his nerves still singing but the consuming fear is fading into an all-too familiar feeling of excitement and low-level arousal. He turns the radio on – it’s the same death metal from that first trip here, why? How? – and blares it, rolls all the windows down, extends a hand out and flips off the house. 

“Get fucked!” he yells, which is sort of silly but feels good anyway, and then, with a wild euphoric shout, he starts driving the SUV down the side of the fucking mountain. It’s a much shorter, more direct route than using the road, and if the car doesn’t blow up he can ditch it, hide, and cook a fuckin’ deer or something over the explosion when Makarov detonates it. 

Either way, it’s hopefully the choice Makarov didn’t see coming and will therefore get him a little more time, because the panic of this vehicle could blow up at any second is starting to come back, and honestly, that’s too much even for him and his fucked up brain. 

The car doesn’t explode, but it’s also not quite an all-terrain assault vehicle, either, so it might have been easier on him if it had . The SUV bumps down the hillside, the brakes squealing and smoking after about three seconds of his trying to drive over tree stumps and rocks and maybe a creek, and he’s laughing as he grabs the steering wheel with both hands, the cigarette falling on his lap and nearly burning him through his pants. 

“And here I thought I forgot how to have fun!” The shouting isn’t helping but he can’t seem to stop doing it, either. 

The SUV hits a tree and the airbag deploys, but Graves kicks the door open, grabs his bundle of inadequate survival gear and covers his head as he barrel-rolls away from the wreck. He’s immediately assailed by twigs and rocks, but he scrambles down as fast as he can, eventually ending up on his ass as he half-slides himself away from the wreckage. The car doesn’t explode, which is win number one, either from a remote detonator or the collision. That doesn’t mean the tracker isn’t operational, but he’s still pleased with how that ended up. He’s sort of shocked it even worked. 

Fuck your two options, I’ll make a third one and it will be complicated and involve way more fire than yours. 

By the time he’s able to stop his forward momentum, he’s bruised and scratched all to hell but he’s outside, alive, mostly all right, though he thinks he might have sprained his left wrist and possibly broken a rib or two. He gets to his feet, sees that he dropped the blanket-bundle a bit of a ways up the hill and the car is beyond that, sending dark tendrils of smoke up into the thick wooded forest. 

Fuck. He needs the shit in that blanket. He also needs to get away from the car, because he hears an ominous crack and realizes he’s one mostly-broken tree away from having to outrun an SUV on fire. 

Good job forgetting gravity exists, idiot. Graves allows the brief mental chastisement and then runs up the incline as quickly as he can to get the supplies. Some of them are still there, some aren’t. He wonders if bunny bars taste better if you cook ‘em over a fire. Probably not. 

He’s very clearly riding the wave of his own adrenaline that is going to crash, badly, sooner rather than later –  but he can’t think about that right now. Supplies retrieved, check. Now, get away from the car before it crashes through the trees and runs him over. Next, figure out everything else. 

The important thing is, he’s still breathing. That’s enough for now, even though he can feel that the sun is going down, he has no idea where he is, and his left wrist is throbbing so badly that it might be more than just sprained. He just needs to keep going. 

Better to die slowly stumbling through the woods, freezing to death and alone, rather than quickly in a warm explosion that I would not have felt and  would be over by now. 

Graves starts singing Ring of Fire . It’s a lot better company than his thoughts, and maybe it’ll keep him warm. 

Chapter Text

Two hours later, Graves realizes he’s made a mistake. 

He’s made a lot of them in his life, but most of them he’s able to forget about, move ahead and work through, ignore whatever led to the mistake because in the field, you adjusted and looked forward, not backward. 

This is not that kind of mistake. This is the kind of mistake that gets you killed, slowly and painfully, because you think one pair of gloves, some matches, a few protein bars and a crocheted afghan is enough to survive at night in the Caucuses. 

His first problem is obviously the cold, which he can’t do much about and isn’t even that aware of, at first, given how he’s fucked up his wrist and can’t take too deep a breath without wincing, thanks to the ribs he broke when he escaped the car. This is really…not the best plan he’s ever had, and the more he thinks about how he ruined a perfectly good car he sort of wants to punch something. 

Makarov, probably. 

Repeatedly. 

With a hammer . 

“You know, fuck Russia,” he says, out loud, when he stumbles and ends up soaked to the shins from a puddle . “Why do people fight fucking wars over this fucking country, who wants it?” This isn’t even Russia, or at least, it might be any number of bordering countries, he’s still not entirely sure about that. Which is a lot more concerning of a thought in the woods at night than it was earlier today, that’s for sure. He just needs to keep going and find a road. Convince some nice person to give him a ride somewhere with a phone. Call Oz, arrange an exfil, and hell, he’ll send a nice postcard with the address of Makarov’s little mountain Konni resort to Price and his meatheads, see if they can’t do something about it. 

Consider it a fucking consolation prize, since they never did get him . The thought cheers him up enough that he can briefly ignore his wet clothes and how cold it’s getting. But eventually he finds a thick copse of trees and pulls some branches into a pile, shoves his gloves into the pockets of his coat and tries without success to light some of the matches. They’re too damp from the tumble down the hill, and the wood isn’t dry, nor are the leaves that are sodden from the recent snowfall. 

The lighter doesn’t work, either. Graves slips it into his pocket with a sound of disgust, and realizes he still has Makarov’s cufflinks in his pocket. He doesn’t think he was supposed to take those, so he’s glad he did. He considers burying them in a hole like some kind of deranged housecat with a horde, but that feels like he’s admitting he won’t make it home to wear them and be smug about how he escaped Russia – or wherever he is. He has to think positively. Which he’s aware is more delusional than positive, but it is what it is. 

There’s a rustling in the trees above as full darkness descends. It’s too dangerous to keep walking, with his ribs and his wrist and the fact that he might have re-injured the cut on his head. He manages to get the branches into the saddest lean-to of all time, but he covers a pile of leaves with the bottom sheet from the bed and tucks himself in small, the blanket – dirty and full of leaves and twigs from his little hike – around his shoulders and his head. He can’t be that far from a road, he remembers that much of the trip to the house. 

He flicks the lighter, over and over, feels the wheel cut into his thumb. The cigarettes he ran off with are still there, but one pack is a soaked through mess and the other is all right, he’ll save those for when he’s on his way home.

There’s a sound of something moving in the dark beyond his hovel of damp twigs and leaves, and he thinks he hears a howl. 

The hairs on the back of his neck raise in instinctive fear. Since he’s fucked in the head – physically and mentally, apparently – that at least warms him up a little, look at that, a goddamn benefit to his fucked-up submissive alignment! But then he hears the snap of a branch, a noise that echoes around him so loudly it sounds more like a gunshot. 

The silence that follows is quickly broken by another howl. Closer this time. 

Graves, in a moment of utter insanity and pure frustration, opens his mouth and howls back. Then, he barks, and growls, and laughs like a hyena. “Fuck all y’all, for real, fucking snow and cold and Russia or whatever country this is, and wolves and bears and exploding cars and terrorists and whatever the fuck else, fuck off. No one puts me in the goddamn ground until I’m good and ready, why’d you think I gave myself this fucking name?” 

That makes him feel better, if only because he doesn’t hear anymore howls or strange snapping sounds. But it’s cold again, especially when his flare of anger drains, and he’s shivering in minutes. Graves doesn’t want to die out here, but he’s heard that it’s not too bad, succumbing to the elements. You go numb, then you go to sleep. Not like a bullet, sudden and too-quick, no time to get away. Or torture, which – right. That’s what he’s trying to outrun, here. Sure doesn’t seem like it’s working, he might have preferred his fingernails ripped off and waterboarding to – actually, it’s kind of the same, in a roundabout way. Fucking hell. 

His thumb is bleeding from how many times he’s dug the wheel of the lighter in, and the bandages on his knuckles from this morning are soaked and muddy, so he tears them off and flexes his fingers for a bit before he pulls the gloves back on. The lighter still doesn’t work, but he’s pathologically incapable of stopping his attempts to make it spark. 

An hour later, he decides that staying here isn’t smart, even if it’s so dark he can barely see anything. It’s cloudy enough that the shifting moonlight barely manages to filter through the branches, but at least it’s something to help him see. He’s sweating, which is concerning, but no time to worry about it, he’s got to keep going. 

This turns out to be easier decided-than-done, though, as no matter how careful he is, he can’t be sure he’s going the right way – other than down – and he trips again over a root, stumbling and catching himself before he falls on a tree…with his left hand, sending agony through his wrist.  

“Okay,” Graves whispers, cradling his aching wrist to his chest while wave after wave of pain twists unpleasantly through him. It’s so bad he’s nauseous, so he has to take several slow, deep breaths until he doesn’t feel like he’s going to hurl. “This is a fuckin’ pickle we’re in, old boy.” He laughs, wondering if he’s actually still sitting in that lean-to and freezing to death. It bothers him so much, this thought, that he actually taps his sore wrist to make sure he’s not – yeah, yeah, no, he’s awake, fuck, ow . 

Graves thinks about Louisiana, the little bayou town he grew up in, hot and sticky in the summer, humid air thick as a wet blanket. He wouldn’t mind that right about now, and maybe a bowl of gumbo. For the first time he thinks about Las Almas, the way the air there made him think about home. That low-simmering anger, remembering being a kid with a dad who cared more about drugs and getting fucked up than getting dinner on the table or paying the fucking rent. 

That’s not  Phillip Graves’s childhood, at least the one he made up when he decided to change his name. When anyone asks, he says he’s from Austin. Everyone likes Austin. It’s easy to hear Texas in his drawl and make up some story about parents who worked at UT, ROTC in high school and the same usual dreck of an adolescence shared by ninety percent of the recruits who came to Parris Island. Graves’s actual childhood, the one he left behind with a name that isn’t his, he doesn’t need to think about. If he’s not that person anymore, then it’s not his history. 

And he isn’t. He’s spent his entire adult life making sure of it. 

But he did think about it, didn’t he, in Las Almas? Thought about the home, about the way the trailer’s screen door slammed in the summer, over and over. About hot blacktop on bare feet, flies buzzing in the soupy air, the smell of the bayou after it rained. Spicy food, children crying too loud, parents shouting. Screaming. Arguments. Gunshots and broken bottles. Yeah, that was more like his childhood than some fuckin’ suburb in Texas. 

That he was the cause of that screaming in Las Almas wasn’t the point. He hated how he felt there, wild and out of control, the endless drizzle and the scent of petrichor making him feel like one of those cowering fucks with their hands over their heads. His dad and his brothers – also losers – were constantly having people show up at the trailer or whatever cheap house his dad rented, looking for money or drugs. Graves – small and young with a name he wouldn’t carry into adulthood and a restless anger that he would – cowering in the bathroom with his arm over his eyes and biting his lip so he didn’t make a sound. 

It was during one of those times he decided to join the Marines. In his mind there were two kinds of people – the kind who had the guns, and the ones hiding in a bathroom shower, trying not to make a sound. He wasn’t enjoying being the latter, so that meant he had to be the former. It got him out of there eventually, if nothing else. 

He wonders why he’s thinking about all this shit now – maybe it’s true, what they say about your life passing before your eyes right when you’re going to die, but he’s got a lot of memories that are way better and would prefer one of those to his shitty childhood. And he’s not going to sit here and pretend to be sorry about the shit he’s done, either – he might be goin’ out, but he ain’t goin’ out a liar. 

It’s so cold his face hurts, and the wind is making his eyes sting, and every single instinct in his body wants him to sit down and he knows that’s the worst thing he could do right now. So he doesn’t do it, motivated by contrariness and spite as he usually is to push forward, even though it’s mostly him stumbling over branches and nearly falling into a ravine. 

He’s muttering about how everyone is the worst when he hears a faint sound – at first he thinks it might be water, but then, with a rush of adrenaline, he realizes it’s not water…it’s a vehicle. He’s found the motherfucking road. 

“Well, hell yeah!” Graves hollers, it’s the best word for it, and gives a weak but emphatic fist-bump to the general concept of his awesomeness as he makes his very slow, but careful, way toward the direction of the sound. He has no idea how long he’s been out here, time feels vague and shifty, the cold slowing his responses and his usually quick mind like molasses. That’s probably why his reaction to seeing the sweep of a flashlight is to just stand there like a moron instead of running the other way. 

Why the fuck would they be coming after me? That asshole left me a car.  

“Graves,” says That Asshole, sounding far too close to his location for comfort. “I know you’re out here.” 

Fuck. You. He stays where he is, which isn’t in any sort of cover and he’s shivering, but so far he can see the spill of light that must be Makarov and his flashlight. The road is to his left, and he didn’t crash a car in a tree just to be dragged back to his relatively comfortable but excessively dull prison, so the only option is getting to it and….getting it fucking done . 

Then he hears another sound, and it’s growling. 

“Graves,” Makarov calls, again. “Let’s do this the easy way.” 

Graves has to physically bite his own lip to keep from saying something like you’re a terrorist and I’ve got so many people who want to kill me they could start a group chat, we aren’t easy kind of men. 

He gets tangled in the barren bramble of a bush, which has thorns on it because everything in this fucking country – whatever it is – wants to annoy, hurt or murder him. But he’s almost to the road, and he’s a decent runner even if he can already tell that breathing hard is going to fucking hurt, given the ribs he’s broken. Makarov is going to break more than that if he doesn’t get the fuck away from him, though so running it is. 

He hears something bark. Makarov brought a dog ? Where were the dogs before? Graves grits his teeth and steps, carefully, carefully, and he can see the road maybe beyond the tree line, just a hint of black asphalt in the moonlight. And he knows he’s not going to make it. Makarov’s flashlight beam is too close, and he lets the dog off the lead, because something is running toward him, leaves and sticks crunching under paws that are getting very, very close. 

“Dos-fucking-vadanya,” Graves mutters, and runs for it. Hail Mary on fourth-and-one, game on the line, here we fucking go – 

The following twelve seconds are not his finest. For the first three, things go all right – he runs, and doesn’t fall, which is the last win he’s going to have. Then, there’s a snarling sound, and he can hear Makarov actually laughing, loudly, a proper laugh, which is somehow the most infuriating thing of all. His flashlight illuminates Graves in all his glory just as the dog knocks him over on his ass, about ten or so feet from the road. 

The dog is – fucking scary, all teeth and snarling and slobbering on him, Graves’s arms up to protect his face and neck, and he’s also sort of caught in the blanket, which means this is absolutely both a professional and personal low point. The dog isn’t biting, though, it’s sort of standing on him with its massive paws on his chest and barking like he wants to show off. Graves sees Makarov’s boots and can’t quite make out his face behind the light. 

“Cute dog,” Graves bites out, every word full of venom. “What’s his name?” 

“Ivan,” Makarov says, and whistles sharply. The dog makes a happy little noise and bounds over to sit at his side. 

“Ivan? Wow. Original.” 

“Is it?” Makarov goes down on his haunches, and Graves sits up, covering his eyes with his hand since the light hurts them. “Are you injured?” 

“Nah, been a pretty nice stroll, what the fuck do you care , you’re just going to torture me!” 

“It’s not as enjoyable if you’re too miserable to appreciate it,” Makarov says. He still sounds amused. 

“That’s the point of torture, asshole.” 

“Mmm. You were, in case you weren’t aware, running right toward my car.” Makarov’s face is mostly shadowed, but Graves can see the little half-smile on his face as he reaches out and tangles his fingers in the blanket. “There was a waterproof sleeping bag in the same room as this, did you not see it?” 

Graves, in a fit of pique, slaps at his hand like they’re toddlers fighting over a toy. “Was it really waterproof or was it filled with spiders or some shit? And hey, Vlad, if you want me out of here, just give me the keys and I’ll head down the hill and you and Ivan can stroll back up to your terrorist compound.” 

“I already gave you a car. You drove it down a mountain.” There’s a pause, and then Makarov says, “I wanted to see if you were smarter than you’ve been acting.” 

“That was a trap, not a test,” Graves snaps, and he gets to his feet when Makarov rises to his, not wanting to be looking up at him. Kneeling for him once was enough, thanks. 

Makarov looks impeccably put together, which is annoying, standing there in dark clothes looking warm and not like he has broken ribs or a sprained wrist, laughing at him. Mocking laughter, Graves could have handled. Or no, he’d be mad, but it’s worse knowing that Makarov is just genuinely amused by him. 

In hindsight, it’s stupid to throw a punch at a guy who probably has several weapons and a killer dog who responds to commands at his side, but Graves does it anyway. His knuckles on his right hand are bruised, but that’s fine. If he could just break Makarov’s nose he’ll feel a lot better about all of this. For at least five or six minutes. 

Makarov says something in Russian, clearly surprised, but he's former Spetsnaz and every bit as much a soldier as Graves, so he recovers quickly. And he grabs Graves by the shoulder, snarling something as he throws him down on the hard ground again. Right on a branch, the fucker. It knocks the wind out of Graves, who tries to get up again – and he half-expects the dog to come slobber on him before it rips his throat out – but he can’t. Not because of Ivan the Slobberer, but because Makarov slams his boot on Graves’s throat and presses down hard enough to stop his breath. 

“Try that again and I’ll let Ivan eat you alive, ” Makarov snarls, and, well, if nothing else, at least he doesn’t sound amused anymore. Mission fucking accomplished, kinda. One objective out of – a lot more than that. He’ll take it. 

Graves can’t get enough of a breath to speak, and Makarov is apparently warming up to his monologuing, how nice for him. “You are going to follow me to the car, and if you try and put your hands on me again you’ll see exactly why I earned that spot on the Interpol list, da?” 

Makarov doesn’t usually tack on Russian at the end of sentences like that. He must be mad. Graves smiles. Good.

He stops smiling when Makarov speaks again. “Or, I’ll just kill you. One bullet, no time to dread it, and we both know you’d hate that.” 

Well, now it’s Makarov who is smiling down at him, and he so very graciously lifts his boot a bit so that Graves can answer. “Hate the bullet? Being dead? Yeah, obviously.”  

“We both know that’s not what I meant, but keep playing the fool, if you like. You seem better at it than escaping.” Makarov increases the pressure again, not enough to make him choke, but enough to make a point. His voice is suddenly infused with that particular dominance of his; it makes Graves think of a single blinding-white light hanging above a chair in a soundproof room, or the pointed painful instruments of torture arrayed on a tray just waiting to bite into skin. Pure dread in a Russian accent. 

“You just said it was a trap,” Graves manages, unable to keep his fucking mouth shut. 

“ You said that, not me. Are you going to behave, Graves?” 

“No? Literally never, but I can lie real pretty about it, if you want, Vlad.” 

There’s a very long moment of silence, and Makarov says in a voice somehow colder than the frigid night air, the ground below him, and the snow that’s starting to fall, because of course it is. “You’re not nearly as good a liar as you think you are, cowboy.”

Graves really hates him. He lays there, basically bruises and sprained ligaments in the shape of a person, and holds up his hands. “Oh, no, I’m so fuckin’ insulted a terrorist doesn’t think I’m a better liar .” Actually he kind of is insulted. 

The boot presses down again. Graves is pissed off, cold, in pain, and turned on , which is apparently his new normal. Ivan the dog – a great dane, or doberman, one of those big fucks who stands as tall as a person on their hind legs – sits next to him. 

“I’d be careful throwing that word around like it’s something foreign to you.” Makarov presses harder, and Graves chokes, hands going for his ankle – but Makarov lets up on the pressure before he can get a proper grip, so he drops his hands. “If you think you don’t kill civilians while you’re carrying out your marching orders from your imperialism warmongering dogs –”

“The irony of you saying this,” Graves interrupts, scowling and hitting at Makarov’s boot  when he presses the toe of his boot down again. 

“Perhaps we should revisit Las Almas, and what you did there?” 

“No, thanks. Once was enough. I ain’t goin’ back to Mexico unless a beach and a margarita is involved,” Graves manages, glaring up at him. “I’m no fucking traitor, Makarov.” 

“Neither am I. But you’d be surprised what they call you, the government, when you play by your own rules instead of theirs.” 

“Spare me the socio-political commentary,” Graves drawls, and he can’t look at Makarov – he’s had a fucking day and Makarov’s dominance is almost more choking than the boot at his throat. “Maybe rephrase your question, I haven’t behaved a day in my life and I sure as fuck ain’t starting now.” 

Makarov sighs and takes his boot off his neck. Then, to Graves’s complete and utter shock – he holds one gloved hand out to him. “A smart man takes his allies where he can find them.” 

“You’re a wanted terrorist, comrade,” Graves says, sitting up, not quite sure whether he should take Makarov’s hand or not. He wants to stand up, of course, he’s just not sure if not stumbling and potentially falling on his face is worth it whatever this might mean. 

Makarov laughs, chilly as the snowflakes that are beginning to dot his dark wool coat. “As of about two hours ago, so are you.”

Chapter Text

Graves is quiet on the drive back. He’s not sure what to think. 

Makarov doesn’t explain much, but he does give Graves a bottle of water and a thermos of hot coffee that doesn’t taste like thick grainy sludge, so that’s something. Makarov is driving, which is new, and the dog is between the seats like they’re going to the park, panting softly, teeth bared like he’s smiling. 

“Can I just ask,” Graves starts, surreptitiously aiming the heating vent at his face. He has on a warmer sweater and the torn blanket is in the back of the car – Makarov didn’t want to litter, which is sort of funny, all things considered. “Why the fuck did you do that? Leave the car, the fake intel.” He hopes the intel was fake. That file folder is long gone. 

“I’ll explain, but I was curious.” Makarov’s profile is severe, sharp, and Graves shifts in his seat, thinking of those words – as of two hours ago, so are you – and puts them out of his mind. “If you were the type who would take an opportunity.” 

“Uh, what kind of prisoner doesn’t take the keys and the car and walk out the unlocked front door, Makarov?” 

Makarov makes a soft click , gloved hands turning the wheel as he heads up the gravel portion of the road. Graves can also see the lights from the house up on the hill, and it’s kind of infuriating how not-very-far he managed to get. “That’s not how you say my name.” 

“I don’t care, is the thing.” 

“You might want to start, Graves,” Makarov says, in what isn’t that bad of an attempt at a southern US accent. He says Graves like Grah-vay-ze, though, in a nasally tone that makes it clear he’s making fun of him. 

This is more of Makarov’s personality than Graves has seen since – ever. He didn’t think Makarov had one, outside of monologues and missiles and maybe cigarettes. He’s so surprised he can’t even think of a smart quip as a retort. 

“It’s Mah-car-ov, ” Makarov says. “And my first name is Vladimir, no one calls me Vlad. You say it like you think I am in a vampire movie.” 

“If the fuckin’ shoe fits,” is all Graves has, but it’s something. 

“I speak six languages, you know,” Makarov says, pulling up in front of the house. Graves tries to be depressed to be back there, but if his other choice is frozen and dead in the woods, maybe he’s not that sad about it. 

The dog gives a soft whoof and sticks its head between the seats. Graves eyes it warily. “If I pet the dog, is it gonna eat my hand off?” 

“Not if I don’t tell him to.” 

The car is turned off. Graves stares at Makarov’s profile, only just visible over the dog, who, now that he’s not knocking Graves over, seems determined to stick his wet nose in Graves’s face. Graves, despite still thinking the dog was going to tear his throat out about an hour ago, reaches up and pats it on the head. 

The dog is trying to climb between the seats. Makarov says, “Vanya, nyet!” 

“You said his name was Ivan.” 

Makarov looks at him. He sighs. “Yes. The short name for Ivan is Vanya. ” 

“And yours isn’t Vlad?” 

“No.” Makarov turns the car off, opens the door. The dog bounds after him. He does not explain what the short form of Vladimir is, but that’s fine. Not like Graves cares all that much. 

Graves, tired and sluggish, his muscles one giant ache, also gets out of the car. Significantly slower than the dog. “Just tell me why the fuck you wanted me to drive down a mountain.” 

“I thought you’d take the road like a normal person,” Makarov says. “Why didn't you?” 

Graves stares right into Makarov’s dark eyes and says, without a single twitch in his expression, “Seemed quicker.” 

Makarov smiles, and it’s not exactly nice, it’s sort of that same vicious little curve of his mouth but for the first time, Graves kinda feels like he’s part of the joke, not the butt of it. 

He’s surprised when he goes back into the house that there aren’t any armed guards looming with their rifles, but then again, what sort of threat is he at the moment? He’s surprised again when Makarov says, “On me,” and jerks his head toward the staircase that leads to his bedroom. 

Graves doesn’t argue, even if thinks about it for a second or two. His body responds to the dominance and the military command out of instinct, and he’s too tired to fight so he goes up the stairs. He’s not sure what else to do. At some point, he slips his fingers into his pocket and feels the cufflinks, and the lighter that never worked. 

The lighter. Graves squints at Makarov’s back as he follows him into the bedroom. “The tracking device. It’s on the lighter, isn’t it.” 

Makarov pulls off his hat, his gloves, and the long dark coat, tossing them on his bed. “What?” 

“Was there a tracking device in the lighter,” Graves says, and digs it out of his pocket. He tosses it at Makarov, who catches deftly. 

He flicks it a few times, to no avail. “It’s empty. Why did you take it?” 

Graves laughs. He doesn’t mean to, but he can’t quite help himself. It starts as a sort of derisive snort, moves into a humorless chuckle and then he’s actually laughing. Maybe. It’s a sound like he’s laughing, but it sure doesn’t feel very funny. 

“Dunno,” he manages, then reaches in his pocket and takes the cufflinks. “What about these?” 

“Those are – mine,” Makarov says, glancing over his shoulder to the bedside table. He holds his hand out. “They’re just cufflinks.” 

“The wolf’s head is very edgelord,” Graves says, and his words come out slurred like he’s drunk. He throws them, and they land on the bed. “What the fuck am I doing in here?” 

“You’re probably hurt. You drove a car into a tree.” 

“How did you – was the tracking device on the car or what? The blanket?” 

Makarov reaches up and pinches the bridge between his nose. “There’s one road and a forest, why would I need a tracking device?” 

Graves, who doesn’t actually know what country they’re in, decides it’s best for his own ego not to answer. Especially because Makarov is suddenly right in front of him, fixing him with those dark eyes, and for once he’s not bleeding malevolence as much as command, which is different even than the dominance he’s used on Graves so far. 

He’s speaking to Graves like he’s a soldier under his command, not a captive. It isn’t until he stops throwing dominance like bullet fire at him that Graves can appreciate the difference, but that makes him immediately wary about why he’s doing it in the first place. Either it’s just to fuck with him, or there’s another reason. He hates both of these choices equally. 

“I’m not joining up, you get that, yeah?” Graves asks, as Makarov – without asking, in the sort of casually bossy way that screams I’m a dom who’s never had to reign it in, deal with it – reaches out and gently presses bare fingers to Graves’s stomach and chest. “What the –” He hisses as Makarov’s fingers find one of his cracked ribs. “Hey! The fuck? Yeah, yeah, I made it pretty easy to torture me, but you said it was tomorrow. ” Even he hates how his voice sounds like a whine. But for fuck’s sake.  

“Be quiet.” Makarov doesn’t even look at him, continues to gently run his fingers over Graves’s chest and stomach, taking note of when he hisses. “I’ll tape them. Did you injure anything else?” 

He’s so completely out of his depth that Graves just holds up his left wrist. “Sprained it, but that’s it. Guess I got lucky.” 

Makarov says, “can you shower without taping either? If you can, it’s better.” 

Graves has to swallow twice before he can talk. Did that car blow up and eject him into some weird parallel universe? In which Vladimir Makarov, wanted criminal, is suddenly a paramedic? He wonders if this is how Alejandro, Soap and Ghost felt in Las Almas when he took over. Hopefully he doesn’t have the same stupid look on his face that Soap did, though. “Why are you doing this?” 

Makarov’s eyes narrow, and Graves shivers, because even though he’s not actively trying to scare the shit out of him, it doesn’t mean that he’s not still scary. Even benign, acting like he’s Graves’s CO and not his jailor, he’s intimidating. “I’ll tell you tomorrow. You’ve heard the saying, haven’t you, the enemy of my enemy is my friend?” 

“Yeah, that’s a line in no fewer than six video games my Shadows are always fuckin’ playing at HQ, why?” Graves pulls his shirt off, relieved to feel warm air on his still chilled skin, though even doing that hurts his ribs and his wrist. “Do we have a common enemy?” 

“We do now,” Makarov says. He nods towards the shower. “Go on. Just because I’m not killing you doesn’t mean I particularly like you or want to hear you chatter at me. You also keep dropping twigs and leaves on my floor.” 

“I don’t – fuck you, comrade, you –” Graves stops, a thought occurring to him. “Is it Price?” He knows Price dislikes him on every level a person can, but Graves hates half the US armed forces and still works with them. They’re just assholes, not enemies. That’s how he’s always thought about Price, anyway. He doesn’t think Makarov shares that particular viewpoint. 

Makarov’s eyes flash dangerously, and now there’s dominance and command in his tone when he snaps, “Shower, Graves.” 

Graves takes a shower, trying not to think about how he’s both following Makarov’s orders and also using his shower. It’s not that it’s drastically different than the one he’s been using, but it’s Makarov’s , and he’s not sure why that’s such a thing but it is. It feels like it’s important, but Graves is so exhausted that it’s hard to know for sure what he’s feeling at the moment. The bottles in the shower are all in Russian but he doesn’t care, he takes the first one and dumps half of it on his head. 

He increases the temperature in the shower gradually, until the water is so hot it stings. His cursory attempt to catalog his injuries results in basically I am a fucking idiot, why did I drive a car down a mountain into a tree. He’s scratched up and his wrist and his ribs hurt, and there’s a bruise on his shin and another one on his hip, and a wicked cut on his thigh that must have been from that fucking bush with the thorns. There are scratches on his face and the cut on his head was bleeding a little, hair tacky and staining the water crimson. 

He cleans up as best he can, the hot water making him dangerously tired in a way that is playing havoc with his survival instinct. Or maybe it’s not, and that’s what this is, this strange sort of malaise – he doesn’t have enough information to know what’s going on, and he hates that, but there’s nothing to be done for it until Makarov decides to share whatever intel he’s found. Until he knows what’s up, there’s very little he can do. And he hates that, he does, but also he’s so exhausted that he’s not sure he can care all that much until he’s had some sleep and something to eat. Take care of the body and the brain will follow, or whatever. 

While he’s washing his hair he can hear someone moving around in the bathroom, but when he gets out all he sees is a small stack of clothes on the counter by the sink. Makarov’s toothbrush is nowhere to be found. He smirks despite himself. He’s still not sorry about that little immature fuck you gesture. 

The clothing isn’t much, just a pair of boxer-briefs and plain navy blue sweats, no shirt – and goes back into the main room. Makarov is there, holding a roll of medical tape and dressed as casually as Graves has ever seen him. He has on a pair of plain black sweats and a simple short-sleeved white t-shirt, which is thin enough that for the first time, Graves sees it’s not just his hands that are tattooed. He has ink everywhere.

He’s caught staring and he knows it, so he owns up. “Didn’t strike me as the tattoo type.” 

Makarov shrugs, looks down at his own arms. “Prison is very boring. And we Russians like our symbols. You have them, too, yes? American soldiers usually do.” 

Graves does not have any tattoos. He doesn’t like needles, but he never tells anyone that’s the reason. Also he left the military for a reason, thanks. And having a tattoo of your own PMC seems like wearing the shirt of the band you went to see in concert.  “Not me. Makes you too identifiable.” 

Makarov doesn’t look like he believes that for a second, but he lets it go, moving closer and saying, “Put your arms up.” He looks like he expects Graves to argue, so, Graves doesn’t argue. Just to be different. 

But also he’s exhausted and he can’t fight Makarov’s dominance, it’s too sharply focused on him and he really does need help if he wants this done right. So he puts his arms up, wincing at the pull, and doesn’t say a word as he watches Makarov work. He’s clearly done this before. Graves wonders about him, what he was like as a rank-and-file soldier, before ultranationalists and Konni and Verdansk. It’s hard to imagine him as a young man at some bar in Moscow, shooting vodka with his squadmates. 

Then again, it’s hard to remember himself like that, eighteen on shore leave in Myrtle Beach, burning up with ambition and a bad attitude, realizing it wasn’t enough just to be the guy with the gun. You had to be the guy with the gun who was in charge. 

That makes him think they have a little too much in common, so he stops thinking about it. 

Makarov’s fingers press lightly against the tape when he’s done. “Your wrist.” 

Graves holds out his left hand. Makarov wraps his wrist up tight, and that does help, keeps it from shifting and twinging constantly with pain. With his ribs and his wrist taken care of, the rest of his injuries are surface-level enough to be annoying, not excruciating. 

“You can stop trying to dom me,” Graves snaps, because being gracious is simply not in his nature. “I’m not going to turn away medical, even if it’s from you.” 

“And yet, you can’t simply say thank you ,” Makarov says, arms crossed over his chest. “And before you say anything, you’re the one who came to me .” 

That makes him feel…weird, because it sounds like he showed up with a suitcase and a hopeful smile, not firepower and a mercenary force. Even if, fuck, the suitcase and hopeful smile might have been better. No looking backward. No thinking about the men of his who came with him and died in that convoy. Wait, actually, yeah, he needs to remember that. Needs to remember that he’s here because someone betrayed him. 

“This seems kinda pointless, if you’re just gonna hurt me in the morning.” 

Makarov casts his eyes to the ceiling. “Of course you think torture is about causing physical pain.” 

“Yeah, comrade, that’s what the fuckin’ word means. Look it up, Mr. I Speak Six Languages.” 

Makarov once again moves too fast for Graves to track, grabbing his chin, which sends a flurry of sparks up his spine and annoys him immediately. “Torture means causing someone to suffer, and trust me, you’re not going to like what I have to tell you.” 

Graves wants to fucking punch him . Again. Harder this time. “You – what the fuck, you weren’t going to torture me after all?” 

“Not in the way you were thinking, and I said we’ll talk about it tomorrow,” Makarov says, like Graves is an errant teenager asking why he can’t stay out past curfew. 

“You said that, not me – ” He stops when Makarov’s fingers tighten on his chin. “I told you the dom shit doesn’t work on me.” 

“You say that, but you’re wrong.” Makarov gives him a smile that is nothing close to nice, drops his hand from Graves’s chin to his chest, and lower, over the ribs he taped, his fingers tapping lightly, the potential to hurt there in every tap, tap, tap . “You’re also very obvious. I know what you like.” 

“I doubt that,” Graves huffs, but it’s pure false bravado at this point.

Makarov’s hand feels like a brand on his skin, even through the tape. His eyes are gleaming with an unholy light, but his expression is shuttered, oddly so for the sudden closeness. He moves forward, and Graves can’t help but let himself be moved along with Makarov’s forward motion. He stops only when Makarov does, because there’s nowhere else to go. His back is to the wall – literally. 

“We both know that isn’t true.” Makarov’s eyes are dark as pitch, the pupils dilated like a predator who’s just spotted prey. His fingers are resting just over the worst of his sore ribs, not pushing, just resting lightly. “But I’ll play along. You don’t like pain, but you like the threat of it, the promise.” He taps against the sore spot, and Graves inhales sharply. 

Okay, fine, whatever. “Don’t flatter yourself, comrade. It’s not you. It’s just biology.” 

Makarov raises one eyebrow. “Maybe so. But you knelt for me, cowboy, and I have a feeling you don’t do that for many dominants, da?” 

The Russian throws him again, but not nearly as much as the sudden and shocking realization that not only is Makarov pressed up against him, but his cock is hard against Graves’s hip. He answers before he can think better of it. “No. But I wanted my cuffs off and that’s just what I had to do for it. Now back the fuck up before I kick you in the junk.” 

Makarov laughs. “You liked it. Just like you’re half-hard now. Because I might push my fingers in, hmm? Hurt your poor cracked ribs.” 

He isn’t, though, he’s just…brushing his fingertips over the tape, lightly, and not doing anything else. “That’d be a dick move, you patched me up.” As far as snappy retorts go, that’s not a very good one. 

Makarov’s other hand comes up and brushes over his throat, like he’s petting him. It’s simultaneously the most threatening and delightful thing Graves has ever felt. If he had a gun, he’d put a bullet between Makarov’s sharklike eyes and then another somewhere it’d hurt. That one first, maybe. Yeah. Right in the gut, the center of whatever that tattoo on his stomach is. 

“It’s funny,” Makarov says, his voice soft, almost hypnotic. “I’ve met many people who’s wires have been crossed, yes? In the gulag. Submissives who are sadists, dominants who want to be hurt. But that’s not you, is it? No crossed wires in your head, I think you just like being afraid.” 

This is so stupid. It’s so stupid, and it’s so hot, Graves can’t catch his breath. “Don’t flatter yourself, Makarov. ” He deliberately says his name wrong, viciously pleased when Makarov’s dark eyes narrow at him in response. “It’s biology. No more personal than if I had an itch.” 

“You say that,” Makarov continues, petting his throat, pressing too close and Graves really – really doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do, here. He’s hard because Makarov is fucking terrifying like this, that soft dreamy voice and the unholy light in his eyes, the firm ridge of his cock against Graves’s hip. Graves is also hard, but for some reason, that’s less disturbing than Makarov being into this. Into him . “But you’re lying. You liked it. Kneeling for me. You liked that I made you.” 

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Graves says, but even he thinks that sounds weak, a protest that’s too much of a lie to be believable. “You should probably be insulted, I don’t think I’m into decent people.” That’s the most honest he’s been in a while, to someone else. 

“I’m not insulted, but then again, I’m not a decent man, am I?” Makarov’s thumb presses, just lightly, into the aching rib beneath. Graves hisses; Makarov smiles, pressing closer, tattooed fingers caressing the racing pulse at the base of his throat. “I could have you on your knees again. And once I tell you what I’ve found, I wouldn’t be surprised if you knelt just because of what I’m going to give you.” 

“What’s that?” Graves asks, and his voice sounds breathless and faint, almost desperate, even to his own ears. “Because you gave me a car and I drove it down a mountain.” 

“Yes. Do you know why? It’s the same reason I found my toothbrush floating in my toilet. You’re petty enough to want what I have to offer you.” 

This guy is fucking unreal. Graves has to take a few tries before his words are there. “Getting my dick wet? No thanks, you're not the first dom to try and tell me I want to kneel.” 

Makarov makes a soft sound, like a laugh. “No, but I’m the first one you want to kneel for, and you can lie but we both know I’m right.” 

Graves, in lieu of anything productive to do, says in an absolutely wrecked voice, “That just means I don’t like you.” He is petty. He’s never denied that. 

“It means you’re afraid of me. That’s fine.” Makarov leans in, and his breath is warm on Graves’s shower-damp skin, too warm, hot like fire. “Most people are. You’re just the only one who seems to like it.” 

Graves wants to argue. He does. But he can’t, because Makarov leans in and kisses him, mouth hot, and he tastes like cigarettes and tea, and he isn’t biting Graves’s lip or hurting him, it’s just a kiss. A good one. He hates that more, somehow, which is probably why Makarov just did it. 

He kisses back for one wild, breathless second, fear and adrenaline hardening his cock and making him feel like he’s a grenade with a pin half a second from being pulled. 

Makarov puts his mouth right next to his ear, and says softly, “How badly do you want to be on your knees for me right now, Graves?” 

The combination of Makarov’s sinister voice and the implication that he knows Graves does want to kneel, it lights him up like a firecracker. No, something far more dangerous – an RPG, yeah, that’s a better analogy. Firecrackers are supposed to be fun things for a celebration, even if they are sometimes dangerous. RPGs are meant to target and destroy. That’s far more fitting. 

“Not even a little,” Graves says, against his mouth. It’s a lie, he does want to kneel, he just hates it. Hates Makarov. This is not the win that Makarov seems to think it is. 

And no matter how many times he tells himself that, it just doesn’t feel like the truth. 

Makarov kisses him again, bites so gently at his lower lip that Graves has to trap a moan behind his teeth. It would be easier to fight back if it hurt, but it doesn’t. 

“Go to bed, Graves,” Makarov says, moving back, dominance heavy in his words, sharp like shrapnel. “We’ll talk in the morning.” 

Graves’s dick is tenting out his sweats. He refuses to look at Makarov, doesn’t want to see him in a similar state because he’s not sure what he’ll do if he does. 

Instead, he pushes past Makarov, heads for the door and goes back to his room in such a daze, he doesn’t remember getting there. But as he climbs in the bed he thought he’d never see again, he wonders if maybe it would have been better to just freeze to death instead of burning alive with this horrible, unsatisfied desire. 

You’re petty enough to want what I have to offer you.  Maybe he’ll want it, but the real question is, is he stupid enough to take it .

Chapter Text

Graves is sore in the morning but not too bad. Andrei returns with a shirt, thankfully, and Graves pulls it on and brushes his teeth. He’s curious about the intel, is both ready and not to know who sold him out. He has his suspicions, but he’d rather just hear it straight. He puts on new socks, dry boots that aren’t caked in mud, and heads downstairs. 

Graves finds Makarov in the kitchen, making himself tea. He nods at Graves, standing by the electric kettle while it bubbles and boils. He looks coldly unapproachable, which is a bit of a relief. It means Graves won’t think about last night, about Makarov kissing him. About kissing him back, even briefly. About those tattoos under his shirt. How there were so many. 

“There’s coffee,” Makarov says. 

So much for not thinking about it. Graves takes a mug off the rack and says, “The good kind you brought me yesterday, or the kind that tastes like diesel fuel that you’ve been giving me until now?” 

“All coffee tastes like diesel fuel to me,” Makarov says. “But the same as I brought you, yesterday.” 

Thank Christ. Graves pours a generous amount of it into the mug. He also fixes some kasha and ignores Makarov’s pointed look as he puts a frankly ridiculous amount of butter, salt and pepper on it – hey, if kasha is going to go around pretending to be grits, he’s going to eat them like they really are. 

The noticeable lack of armed guards from last night is continuing today, but Ivan is there, sprawled next to Makarov’s usual chair. He lifts his head from his paws, growls softly at Graves, but then Makarov gives him an absent pat and his tongue lolls, the growl fading as he lays down again. 

Makarov doesn’t make him ask. He pushes a printed piece of paper across to Graves, who picks up and nearly chokes on his first mouthful of decent coffee. He can’t believe what he’s seeing. 

“That went out on the wire yesterday,” Makarov says, watching him. "Shortly before I left to come find you." 

Graves is so furious he’s shaking. It makes the paper tremble, but he can read enough – Phillip Graves, officially declared a hostile operator – wanted for treason – believed to have defected to join Vladimir Makarov, on whose orders Graves carried out a blue-on-blue attack in Las Almas, Mexico, against Task Force 141 – 

“What the fuck, I didn’t defect !” Graves shouts, and the dog sits up, barking, like he’s just as mad on Graves’s behalf.  What a good boy. “Who the fuck –” He sees the answer before he even finishes asking the question. 

On the orders of Gen. H. Shepherd, Graves is to be considered armed and dangerous. Eliminate with prejudice. Detainment strongly discouraged, entry to all US territories and embassies denied.  

“Motherfucker, he told me to take over in Las Almas! Not you, you weren’t even there!” 

“I make a very convenient scapegoat,” Makarov says. He’s stirring something in his tea, sugar, maybe. 

“You’re a terrorist,” Graves snaps, shifting his ire to the man across from him. “And you can’t deny it.” 

“I’m not denying they call me that, no,” he says calmly. “And now they’re calling you one, too. Who gave you the intel, Graves? That I would be in that caravan.” 

“It had to be him.” Graves reads the paper again, taking a vicious bite of his breakfast. It tastes like righteous fury and butter. “He knew I’d fucking go for you, it’s the one thing I could do for the country that he couldn’t, apparently.” 

“You came after me to restore your reputation, not for your country,” Makarov reminds him, like that’s anything Graves wants to hear at the moment. “Be honest about that, at least.” 

“Like I said, comrade. All the best plans end with more than one favorable outcome.” Graves reads the missive again. It’s the equivalent of a burn notice, and it also means that somehow Shepherd knows he’s not dead. “How’s he know I’m alive?” 

“No PID left among your convoy,” Makarov says. “I suppose they learned their lesson on that one, with you, yes?” He sips his tea, but Graves sees his satisfied little smirk right before it disappears into the rim of his cup. 

“So this is why you brought me back? Or why you gave me a car? I’m still not real sure about that.” 

“I wasn’t sure if it was true or not,” Makarov says. At Graves’s glare, he clarifies, “You are the commander of a lucrative private militia. If you were defecting, I’d be stupid to waste that as a resource.” 

He feels sick to his stomach. Graves knows he’s done some shit that would get him squarely kicked out of the Boy Scouts, but he’s done it for his country. Because he can do shit as a PMC commander that would otherwise be hampered by six leagues of red tape in the military, and Shepherd was smart enough to understand that and utilize it as needed. 

Hell, Graves barely spent the – very lucrative – amount of money he earned running Shadow Company. Because he wasn’t doing it for the money. He was doing it because – 

Because now I’ll never be that kid cowering in a bathroom or a closet or a crawlspace full of bugs. Because I’m the man with the gun and the man in charge. Now I have a fucking army and no one can make me feel like that, ever again. 

Apparently that’s a lie. Because that’s how he feels right now, like he’s a kid again, hiding from bigger, meaner men with bigger, better guns. 

“Son of a bitch,” Graves swears, softly. “I was convinced it was fucking Price.” He fixes Makarov with a sharp look. “You were too, huh. That’s why you kept me alive.” 

Makarov is just looking at him. Graves frowns. “What? Is that wrong?” 

“I was given intel that you were coming,” Makarov says, very slowly, and Graves knows he’s missing something and wishes he could just figure it out before Makarov has to spell it out for him. “The wording was…ambiguous.” 

“Ambiguous? You were there when we showed up, how ambiguous could it be?” He drums the fingers of his right hand on the table, breakfast forgotten, his stomach is in knots and even the coffee is a no-go right now. The good coffee, even. The world is truly full of injustices meant to vex him. 

“You’ll see.” Makarov waves another piece of paper, without handing it to him. This isn’t the kind of dread that makes Graves hot, unfortunately. “This is in Russian. The…construction of the sentences. I could tell it wasn’t a native speaker.” 

“Shepherd speaks Russian,” Graves says. “Ain’t real sure if he can write it, but he must be able to. He went through school when y’all were the biggest baddies we had, so.” He narrows his eyes. “Hand it over, Makarov.” 

“Nothing in my offering you a temporary alliance suggests you can speak to me like that, Graves.” 

“Fucking doms,” he mutters, because they’re all like that, so convinced that someone who just wants to see the intel that nearly got him killed and has him branded a traitor to his country is trying to top from the bottom. Which okay, he is, but he has a pretty good reason for it. 

“As I was saying,” Makarov continues, “this isn’t anyone who knows Russian. You don’t, do you?” 

“I know a little but not a lot,” Graves says, in Russian, a little smug at the look of surprise that flashes across Makarov’s face. “Surprised a dummy like me can figure out your language, Vladimir?” 

“Plenty of stupid people speak Russian, believe me. And I will give you all the credit you clearly want, if you can tell me what country we’re in right now.” 

“Not mine,” Graves says, pointedly. “So it’s in Google translate Russian? That what you mean?” He tries to grab the paper, it goes about as one would expect, Makarov playing keep-away and scowling at him for the attempt. 

“It says I should consider you and your Shadows as a gift.” 

Graves leans back in his chair. He winks. “That we are.” 

Makarov doesn’t crack a smile. “A gift for me, I assumed.” Makarov’s intonation sounds like a judge delivering an execution sentence, but apparently, that is the kind of dread he’s into. 

“Well, sure, the kind that comes with an RPG and a bodybag.” He frowns. “You don’t mean, like…a gift to keep, right? Touch black no take-backs?” 

Makarov mutters something in Russian. “As I said, the wording was ambiguous. Maybe when you see who sent it, you’ll understand my confusion.” He pushes the paper over. Finally. 

Graves looks at the paper. Of all the names he expected to see there, this is the absolute last one. 

The signature on the paper is his. 

“Ah, now you see my confusion. Why would you, an enemy commander, bring a portion of your PMC with you to hand over to me? We are…diametrically opposed, you and I. If you were making a gift of your Shadow Company, that would be a significant difference in our relation to each other.”

The nice way of saying that would be treason.  

“I didn’t write this or sign it,” Graves says, and his voice is a whisper, he’s never been this furious in his life. The signature looks like his, but that’s criminally easy to do if you know the right people. “So you thought I was bringing you some recruits and weapons? Really? Despite the fact we’d never met, other than that one time your goons stole those missiles from me?” 

“They weren’t yours, you stole them from someone else.” 

“Not me,” Graves argues. “Shepherd. He arranged that delivery, which thanks for that, his shitty cover-up has caused me no end of problems.”  

“You’re welcome. And no, of course I didn’t believe that. I wasn’t born the day before,” Makarov says, messing up the idiom in a way that Graves would correct gleefully if he wasn’t so furious. “I’m also not unaware of happenings in the intelligence community. I knew what happened in Las Almas, as I said. I saw your congressional hearing. It was very clear, to me anyway, you were thrown to the wolves, as the saying goes.” 

“That’s why you kept me alive and killed my men,” Graves says, mind racing. He sips the coffee and pushes back from the table, restless and unable to sit still. Makarov watches him, quiet and dark-eyed, but doesn’t tell him to sit down. “To find out if I was defecting or not.” 

“Yes. Well. No. I ordered my men to take out your unit, you included.” 

“Yeah, makes sense.” Graves shrugs. “Unlike some operatives I could name, I get how the fuckin’ game is played, yeah? I came here to kill you, you’re a lot of things but you’re not dumb.” 

“High praise.” Makarov lifts his mug in a mocking little toast. “But when they told me you were the only person left alive, I changed my orders.” 

A dark, uncomfortable swirl of something dangerously close to heat unfurls in his stomach. He should be used to it by now, and yet. “If I was defecting, if I’d sent you that letter, wouldn’t I have wanted my men alive?” 

Makarov is quiet for a bit, his attention turning to the window to Graves’s right. “Not necessarily,” he says, after a minute. “When I was younger, we heard about the Soviets who would defect. Three or four at a time would make the plan. But it was either none of them made it, or only one. Three can keep a secret if two are dead, hmm?” 

“They – why’d you want to kill someone helping you get the fuck out?” 

“Because it wasn’t easy, and if you were found out, it was a death sentence. But if you turned in a high-ranking party member who was going to defect…” Makarov gives him a pointed look. 

“Realize it’s never gonna work, turn in your comrades, reap the benefits?” 

Makarov lifts his mug again, this time in silent agreement. “That didn’t seem quite in keeping with American intelligence SOP, but I like to have all the information. But when you were so adamant that you weren’t here to join up …I realized it was a trap. A trap for you , and I wanted to know why. Who wanted you dead enough to wrap you in a bow and leave you on my doorstep?” 

Graves paces, and the dog, seeing movement, paces with him. It’s sort of cute. Less cute is the idea of himself wrapped up in bondage rope, which is the hotter version of a bow. “But the first thing you said to me was that I’d been sold out.” 

“Yes,” Makarov agrees. “I did. At that point I realized f you were really trying to defect, you would have said so.” 

And he had, hadn’t he? He’d said something about lest your government thinks you’re here as my comrade. 

“Why didn’t you kill me?” It’s a fair question. He’s not even all that mad when he asks, just curious. “Either way. If I was defecting, all my, uh, gifts were dead.” 

“You’re still a significant player in the intelligence community, specifically of those nations with whom I am engaged in conflict,” Makarov says, so casually, the military-speak making Graves’s head hurt. 

“So you thought you could piss me off and get some intel out of me, huh,” Graves says. “Just say it that way, ain’t gotta talk like a textbook.” 

Makarov casts his eyes to the ceiling again. “I thought I could piss you off and get intel out of you, yes.” 

“So instead of torturing me, you gave me a car?” Graves is missing something. That doesn’t make any sense, and Makarov seems like he thinks six steps ahead of every move in a way that is, frankly, exhausting. In this case it feels like taking the same dead-end path out of a maze three times in a row, and being surprised when it’s never the exit. 

“I knew you’d been betrayed, so I wanted to see where you’d run to with the intel I left.” Makarov snorts, suddenly, like he can’t help it. “Then you drove the SUV down the side of a mountain.”  

“Impressive, huh,” Graves drawls. 

“That wouldn’t be my first choice of descriptors, no.” 

“I thought it was wired,” Graves says. “The car. Explosives set to detonate at ignition. When it didn’t blow the second I turned the key, I figured the real danger was a tracking device. Road’s are fairly straightforward, the woods less so. And you have to be a little impressed, come on.” 

“I was…surprised,” Makarov allows. “That’s all I’m giving you. If you want to impress me, try harder.” 

“Yeah, never happening, nice try. Okay, so, you…let me go? Were you really going to?” 

“Actually, yes,” he says. “I figured if you survived the night you’d find the road, and I could see where you went. If you didn’t, then that took care of the problem. But then I saw the intel and I realized somehow Shepherd knows you’re alive. He shouldn’t know.” Makarov’s eyes go icy, his voice so cold Graves has to stop himself from shivering, fuck. “Which means I have a leak. And I will find it.” 

Graves would normally be happy about someone fucking up Makarov’s operation, but whoever it is, they fucked him over, too, so. “I’m guessing you brought me back to help you find the leak?” 

“No. I can handle that. Help me find Shepherd. You get what you want, and I get what I want.” Makarov smiles, the sort of smile he probably uses with anyone in the service industry and doesn’t understand why they start crying. “A solution where it ends in nothing but benefits, yes?” 

Graves leans against the table, studying Makarov. He is not thinking about last night, both of them hard, Makarov whispering silky threats in his ear. This isn’t about sex, it’s about the international covert ops community thinking he’s a goddamn traitor because the real traitor used a fake signature and Google translate while he was trying to escape Russia. Georgia. Whatever.  ““So, what are you offering?” 

“I am offering an alliance to take down Herschel Shepherd,” Makarov says. “In a way that will allow you to clear your name, or stay MIA, if that’s your preference. I’ll take the credit for killing him, and no one ever need know we worked together.” 

“Why?” Graves asks. “If you’re so sure it’s Shepherd, why do you need me?” 

“You have the necessary intel and you’re petty enough that I think it overrides your patriotism.” Makarov’s smile went mocking, not nice. “Individualistic culture at its finest.”  

Graves stares at him. “Every time you say shit like that I remember you’re the actual bad guy, here.”

Makarov looks unimpressed. He says something in Russian that Graves can’t follow, then translates, “It means, two in distress make trouble less – you would say, I think, misery loves company, yes?” 

“That’s what we’re doing, here, is it? You and me? Being miserable company?” 

“What was it you said before? If the shoe fits?” Makarov shrugs. “Your patriotism becomes terrorism when the people at the top decide they have no more use for you. The only thing to do about that is you become the person at the top. The only one.” 

Not just the guy with the gun, but the guy with the gun who’s in charge. 

“And what, you take credit for killing him and I get my name cleared, then we go back to fighting each other? Even after our pleasant little misery vacation?” 

“I assume so, yes.” Makarov’s entire demeanor was colder than Graves had ever seen it. He really was fucking terrifying. “You’re just another resource to use until it’s depleted. And don’t look at me like I’m offending your patriotism, soldier. You’re a mercenary. You kill for whoever pays the bills.” 

“I formed a PMC because I hate the military’s inability to do anything without sixteen committees and four years of senate hearings,” Graves snaps. “I do the shit that needs doing. And sometimes, Vlad, that don’t really fit into the approved rules of engagement,  you feel me?” 

“I’d assume Shepherd feels the same way, Phil, ” Makarov says snidely, and Graves feels himself flashing a grin, amused by the shortened version of the first name no one ever calls him. “That what he’s doing is just what needs to be done.” 

“So maybe I should let him,” Graves says. “The reason I work in private security is because money doesn’t come with personal feelings.” This is such a lie, he can’t believe he’s even saying that. Money is always personal, because only people give a shit about money in the first place. “Or ideologies.” Also a lie. Ideologies without funding are just college clubs with a faculty advisor renting a weekly space in the student union. 

“You drove a car down the mountain and pissed on my toothbrush,” Makarov points out. “You’ll understand if I don’t quite believe you above pettiness.” 

“There’s a difference between petty and becoming a fucking war criminal.” 

“Of course you say that. Your country is always the one deciding what that line is, and somehow, it’s only the rest of us that ever crosses it.”  Makarov gets to his feet, hands on the table, leaning forward, and there’s a fire in his dark eyes, a tone to his voice – dominance, yes, but this complete and unwavering belief in his own bullshit, in this – this fucking war he’s got going on with the US or the West or whatever, and Graves wonders if he’s figured out that the war he’s fighting? The real enemy? Is someone he’ll never be able to defeat. 

Because you were small and helpless when they hurt you, and ruling the world can’t fix what made that seem like the only way you’ll ever be safe.

Turns out being the guy with the gun who’s in charge isn’t quite as untouchable as he once thought. 

“Petty is pissing on a toothbrush,” Graves says, because he really, really doesn’t want to think about similarities between himself and Makarov. “Not blowing up an airport.” 

Makarov hits his hand on the table and his voice rises, which is startling because Graves has never heard him shout before. “Your country didn’t win its independence by dumping tea in a harbor. It won it through warfare and, because no one from America bothers to learn about anything that happened before the 1980’s, you allied with the French. Who, since I’m sure you don’t –” 

“Were the enemies of the British, yeah, c’mon, I know that, and for someone who’s never been to America you sure seem to spout off about it a lot.” 

Makarov’s smile was slow and cold. “Who says I haven’t been?” 

Well, that’s incredibly unsettling. He lets it go, though, more concerned with his own safety than anything else, as selfish as that might be. One thing at a time. “And when we’ve taken him out, then what? I take the fall, you take a win getting rid of both of us?” 

“Tempting,” Makarov says, but shakes his head. “But no. Once our partnership is completed, do what you like. Stay officially dead, go back to fighting me, but remember that I’ll know the truth. That you let a terrorist help you take out a patriot .” He faintly sneers the word. 

Graves thinks about this. He has to proceed very carefully, here. He’s a PMC commander, technically a private citizen, but this is still treason. It’s still a death sentence, regardless of what any court would sentence him to, if he were to be caught. “I’m guessin’ if I end up in front of a judge, you aren’t gonna show up and say it was all your idea, huh.” 

“I’ll write you a character reference,” Makarov says. 

Graves snorts. “Then I’ll definitely be up the river, thanks.” Can he do this? Make a literal deal with the devil? Is he really that petty? Is it even pettiness, though? He was sold out twice by General Shepherd. Surely returning the favor is just good fuckin’ manners, yeah?

Still. He needs more information. “And if I say no thanks to your offer? Huh? Then what?” 

Makarov’s eyes are impossibly dark and equally as impossible to look away from. “I think you know the answer to that.” 

Heat rushes over him, and he still can’t look away. An expression twists over Makarov’s face that is knowing and amused, and maybe even a little interested, which is…yeah, no. This is a decision he has to make right now, and it can’t be based on his weird biological reaction to Makarov’s fondness for softly-spoken threats.  

“You’ll do it yourself,” he hears himself say. “Not one of your lackeys.” Talking, of course, about what would happen to him, what will , if he says no. 

“I’ll even let you get off first, if you want,” Makarov offers, and Graves can feel the spread of a flush on his cheeks, his neck. 

“Fuck off.” 

“Only offering. Yes, I’ll take care of it myself. After all this time, I’m hardly going to let anyone else have the pleasure of shooting you.” 

“Ha, ha.” Fuck, now he can’t stop thinking about that, Makarov taking him outside to kill him. He’d probably make Graves kneel, first. Maybe that whole thing about digging his own – 

“I’m telling you the consequences of refusing me will result in your body buried in a pit no one will ever find, Graves. I’m not trying to give you material for your next shower, hmm?” 

“You’re gonna let me shower before you pop me?” Graves is aware this isn’t helping. “If I help you, you could, at any point, tell someone. No matter what I did, I could fuckin’ single-handedly save the world and it’d never be enough, not throwing in with someone the US considers a terrorist.”  

“Depressing thought, isn’t it? And that’s fine. You have intel on me, too. This location. I’d prefer not to have to abandon it.” 

“You’re holding my life over my head, and I’m holding, what? A two-bed, two-bath a-frame with a decent view?” 

“And a private road, plenty of room for a dog,” Makarov adds, which is – is he joking? That’s objectively true, but it was also sort of funny. “It’s fine. Mutually assured destruction will keep us on an even playing field.” 

“Because that’s historically worked so well for both our countries, yeah,” Graves drawls. He flashes a wild grin at Makarov. “I ain’t as dumb as I sound or as I look.” 

“You’re not, are you?” Makarov studies him like Graves is a mildly difficult crossword puzzle clue. “You play up your accent, I noticed. It’s a common trick. I’ve done it myself, to pretend I don’t speak English.” 

“Same,” Graves’s jokes, and he narrows his eyes a little. Makarov rarely offers personal information, he wonders if this is some trick to convince him to go along with his plan. Which makes him ask, cautiously, “Do you even need me to do this?” He hates to admit it, given how he likes to think about himself and his skillset, but Makarov probably doesn’t. His network seems extensive enough, and if he can get into the US on his own…or get Shepherd to come to him , then what’s the point of Graves being there? 

“I think it would be of some benefit, clearly, or you’d already be dead.” 

Graves hears a soft whine and looks down. Ivan is sitting by him, head tilted in that way dogs have, like they’re trying to figure you out. Both the dog and Makarov clearly figured out there’s more going on than he lets on, which is an odd thing realize for a man who manages to trick most people into thinking he’s just a jarhead from Texas with a promotion and a god complex. 

He pats the dog on the head. Ivan licks his hand in response. “You know, last night was the second time someone’s threatened me with being eaten by a dog. Can you believe that?” 

“Yes, actually. Easily.” 

Graves rolls his eyes, goes down on his haunches to rub the dog’s massive head, tug on his cute pointy ears. “Guess it wasn’t quite the same. You had a specific dog. She had a vague idea of several dogs. Yours was the better threat, if you want a compliment.” 

“Oh, don't I. What did you do to make her threaten you with dogs?” 

“I like how you assume it’s my fault.” Graves stands up again. The dog barks and trots over to Makarov, who pats him on the head idly, gaze still fixed on Graves. “I asked Valeria Garza out for drinks. She’s a cartel leader in Mexico.” 

“Yes,” Makarov says, sounding amused again. “I know. That’s bold of you. I hear she doesn’t like Americans.” 

“She don’t like nobody, comrade, but yeah, definitely not me." 

“You’re sure she didn’t figure out that was your idea of a good date?” Makarov laughs. 

Graves glances sharply over at him. That was an actual laugh. He’s having whiplash at how quickly Makarov switches from benign, to amused, to cold and terrifying. “Pretty sure. Real quick, do I have a choice that isn’t do what I want or die ?” 

“You didn’t even have that before, so I wouldn’t be so dismissive of my generosity.” 

“See, this is why people don’t like you.” Graves thinks about that. “Well, that and the terrorism. You gonna give me a gun? ‘Cause I could always bring you back as proof I wasn’t a traitor.” 

“Bring me back, how? To whom? You’re a wanted criminal in the States now. Just like I am.” Makarov sits back down, takes his mug again, sips his tea like they’re in a cafe or some shit. “I’m surprised it’s taking you this long. I thought you had a stronger sense of self-preservation and pettiness. The man who drove my SUV down a mountain didn’t take this long to decide to avoid the road, hmm?” 

“Yeah, well, I thought the car was gonna blow up, okay? I kinda think I should take my time, deciding to commit treason. ” 

“You already have,” Makarov says, sounding bored. “According to your government, you’re almost worse than I am. I said almost ,” Makarov adds, when Graves opens his mouth to protest. “But perhaps it will ease your conscience if I simply hire you.” 

“Hire me.” Graves goes back to the table. The food he doesn’t want, and the coffee is too cold, but he pushes his luck and says, “Can I have a cigarette?” 

“I should say no, you stole mine.” Makarov slips a hand into his pocket. Graves wonders if he has a gun. If he got ready this morning, put the smokes in one pocket and the gun in a holster. If he was going to slot killing Graves in between coffee and lunch. Makarov tosses the pack at him, along with a lighter, and Graves catches them. 

“Thanks.” He lights a cigarette, inhales – he doesn’t smoke very often, but it’s a lot less dangerous than his job and men in his line of work rarely die from anything other than violence. It tastes like kissing Makarov, which he…hates…tapping the edge of the cigarette against the ashtray that Makarov also pushes over to him. It’s one of those cut-glass things, green, like something your grandma would have. 

It reminds him of the blanket he’d run off with. “Whose house is this, anyway? Before it was yours.” 

Makarov’s little archaic smile gives nothing away. Graves takes another long inhale. He can practically feel the nicotine sink into his veins, buzzing in his head. He doesn’t think Makarov is going to let him stall much longer. 

“You wanna hire Shadow Company? That’s putting a lot of people who aren’t me in a bad spot, you know. Again.” He winces, thinking of the men sacrificed without a thought by Shepherd, all because Graves refused to roll over and play dead in that fucking congressional hearing. 

He’d heard from Shepherd exactly once after that. A simple phone call from an unlisted number, a voice mail left and quickly deleted. 

You’re in it too deep not to drown now, son. I’m the chain around your ankle and I will drag you down to hell for that little stunt. 

That “little stunt” being him not taking full responsibility for an operation Shepherd himself ordered in front of congress. “He hired me, too,” Graves says, and his voice is furious, low and cold. “And I can’t help but think a bullet’s a quicker end than whatever you have planned.” 

Makarov leans across the table, and then his tattooed fingers reach out, nimbly taking the cigarette from Graves in a move he honestly did not see coming. Makarov takes a drag from the cigarette, and Graves has the wildest urge to lean in, grab his face, and shotgun the smoke from his mouth. 

“You’ll like it less, though,” Makarov says, and laughs, handing the cigarette back. 

“I don’t know if I like you acting like a person,” Graves says, and he means that, one thousand percent. “Go back to smoking in dark corners and saying cryptic shit.” He takes another long drag of his cigarette. “Okay. Here’s where I’m at. You’re fucking right, I’m a goddamn patriot but I’m also not gonna let Shepherd get away with this. Not just because of me —” mostly, but not only – “but this is twice he’s wanted me to take the fall for him fucking up and I don’t rightly like that, so. The enemy of my enemy, sure, let’s be fucking friends, Vlad…imir,” he adds, at the end. He points at Makarov with the cigarette. “But before you get all smug, I got a few rules.” 

Makarov’s eyes glint at him. His voice is heavy with natural dominance. “You don’t make the rules here, Graves.” 

“Yeah, yeah, but I do when it comes to my Shadows.” Graves doesn’t actually like getting them killed, he just doesn’t feel that bad when it happens because they know the risk and he pays them better than literally anyone else ever will. But he does feel bad when it happens because he’s some fucking patsy in a scheme Shepherd tossed him into. “I gotta talk to Oz – Osmond Ryan, I left him in charge. He’s useful if he hasn’t thrown me under the bus Shepherd’s driving. And you’re not getting any of my weapons or men unless it’s to fucking kill Shepherd.” 

“That would be the point, yes,” Makarov says. There’s something tight around his eyes, like he’s annoyed, but it’s gone too fast and also, who cares, he annoys Graves constantly. It's only fair. 

“And you don’t get to be pissed if I’m handling my own PMC, I’m still the commander and it don’t mean shit to me if you’re a dom, got it?” 

“Watch how you speak to me,” Makarov says, dominance sharp as a knife between the eyes. “I’m not commanding Shadow Company, but we both know who holds all the power here, and it isn’t you.” 

“Well, if you need me to find Shepherd, then it isn’t all you , either.” Graves smiles, and he feels…fuck, he feels better than he has in days, just having a plan, a way to get someone back for fucking him over, goddamn he can’t fucking wait. 

There better be explosions. Let me blow up one helicopter. 

For his own personal vindication and…America, obviously. They can’t have a corrupt general out there, playing spy and pitting the good guys against each other, sending patriots like Graves to fight with men like Makarov. 

Makarov takes out a cigarette of his own, a classic smoker’s move when someone is smoking around them. “I didn’t say I needed you to find him. It’s an offer.” 

“Yeah, c’mon, it’s not and you know it.” Graves laughs, shifts his chair, kicks his feet up to put his boots on the table. “You would’ve just shot me if you didn’t want my help.” 

“I’m going to shoot you if you don’t take your feet off that table, where were you raised, a barn?” 

“The bayou. Louisiana.” Graves takes another drag of his cigarette, hears a click, and glances over to find Makarov leveling a pistol right at his temple. “Think you can make that headshot while smoking?” 

“From this distance? Easy.” Makarov puts the cigarette in his mouth, then mimics shooting him. “I’ll show you if you don’t do what I said.” His words are slightly muffled due to the cigarette, and he’s still sighting the gun at Graves’s head, steady-handed and his eyes burning. He looks like any hotshot soldier showing off when he shouldn’t be. 

Graves swings his feet down. “You don’t hit any American targets while we do this and I’ll help you take him down. My men stay mine and they never set foot in Russia without having a real long talk about it first. Don’t pay me, either, that’s an act of terrorism if I take money from a hostile foreign power. And yeah, yeah, I know what you’re fixin’ to say and look, I’m taking out a traitor, not becoming one.” 

Technically that’s probably not true, but he can live with it, now that what he wants to do makes sense with his general worldview. “And you gotta let me take the goddamn dog for a run, or let me shoot something, blow something up. I’m goin’ a little stir crazy, and I bet you are, too.” 

“You have a lot of demands,” Makarov says, putting his pistol on the table. He smokes, squints at Graves, like he’s trying to figure him out. “Barely allies and you’re already asking for a gun.” 

Graves puts his hands up. “I wasn’t going to shoot you, c’mon, I know you heard what happened at Las Almas but look, Makarov, I got that job done first before we, ah, switched tactics.” Before Graves turned the guns around on his allies, is what he means. But Makarov knows the risk. He knows exactly what Graves has done. And he's done a whole lot worse, so Graves isn't about to lose any sleep over his own past actions, here. 

Move forward. Eyes on the horizon, soldier. Keep marching. 

Makarov stands up and puts his cigarette out, then walks over and pushes the gun across the table toward Graves. “If you betray me before our deal is over, it won’t be me that makes you suffer and you won’t like it, not even a little, no matter what you’re thinking right now.” 

Graves, a little annoyed that he’s both turned on and trapped, pushes back so he, too, can stand up. Posturing will be so much easier now that he’s armed. He takes the gun, checks it, sees it’s hot and flips the safety on, hiding a little rush of delicious fear that Makarov was literally pointing a loaded gun at his head while smoking a cigarette over breakfast.  “I ain’t promising it won’t happen when we’re back on our respective sides, but for now? Allies. What the hell, comrade.” 

This time, he actually means that word. It probably doesn’t sound different, but it feels different, that’s what matters. 

Makarov has that strange, considering look on his face again. Like he’s trying to decide if he believes him or not. “It’s Volodya,” he says, finally, apropos of nothing. “The short form of Vladimir. It’s Volodya, not Vlad.” 

“That’s like, the same number of syllables as Vladimir , though.” 

Makarov pats him on the shoulder, very briefly. “We can debate the peculiarities of the Russian language, or we can get to work. Which would you prefer?” 

“Hell, that’s easy.” Graves grins at him, holds out a fist. He’s a mercenary. He knows how to play nice with the client, and even if Makarov’s not paying him, it’s probably best to think of him that way. “Let’s go hunt an eagle, Volodya." 

That sounds a little more Louisiana than Russia, but whatever, he’ll get the hang of it eventually. Just like Makarov with his return fistbump.

They gotta start somewhere, don't they? 

Chapter Text

Graves takes a coat and follows Makarov out of the house after their breakfast meeting. It’s the first time he’s really able to see the other buildings, and there are quite a few more than he thought there were, various single-family homes, outbuildings and detached garages. 

Makarov takes him into one of the houses, which is full of people – Andrei, Piotr, and a few others he doesn’t recognize, but figures they’re Makarov’s inner circle, given how close this is to the house where he’s staying. There’s a modern television with a soccer game on mute, people are playing cards, and Andrei and Piotr are smoking with a third man near an open door in the back of the house, which leads to a small deck. Someone else is reading a magazine on the couch, and there’s a man and a woman in the kitchen, arguing loudly in Russian and stopping immediately when they see Makarov. 

There’s another woman in the dining area, sitting at the table and cleaning a rifle. Graves is surprised, but he’s not sure why – either he didn’t think Makarov would have respect for women soldiers, or else he didn’t think women would be that into Russian supremacy or whatever his whole thing is, it’s still not that clear. 

The soldiers all stand at attention, and Makarov waves a hand and says at ease, or whatever the equivalent is in Russian as they all relax. He gestures to the woman in the kitchen, who is very striking, tall with dark black hair and light-blue eyes. She’s built like she could beat Graves to death and not break a nail, or smudge her very red lipstick. 

Graves has soldiers of all genders in Shadow Company, but he can’t recall if any of them wear that much makeup. 

“Masha, translate,” Makarov says. She nods, and Graves can see everyone is looking at him, clearly intrigued. “Graves. Masha will translate what I am saying in English, as I am saying it.” 

“All right,” Graves says. He gets it. Makarov is doing this so that Graves knows whatever he’s telling his people about him and their partnership, implying that the hot lady translator wouldn’t have a script to follow ahead of time to trick him. He appreciates the transparency – kinda wild he didn’t even get this amount of fucking respect from General Shepherd. 

Makarov starts talking, and Graves wonders, as he waits for Masha to translate, if whatever…strange reaction…he’s been having to Makarov will ease now that they’re allies. Reluctant allies, but maybe that’s enough to douse this incredibly inconvenient flame of attraction that he does not want to deal with on top of everything else. But he’s also not sure he likes the idea it’ll go away. He’s so fucked up. 

“This is Shadow Company Commander Phillip Graves,” Masha says, then her nose wrinkles, slightly. “Is that really your name, because it sounds like I am saying to fill  –” 

“Let it go,” Graves interrupts, amused. People can laugh about the Phil Graves thing all they want, he still thinks it’s fuckin’ cool, and it’s his goddamn name. 

She shrugs and Makarov continues, the Russian too fast for Graves to catch more than a few words. Graves is beginning to realize, with a slight sense of growing horror, that he’s got a bit of a thing for Makarov speaking Russian, and what the hell is up with that? 

Well, hell. Maybe he really should fuckin’ defect. 

Masha translates the rest of his speech, which is basically that Graves is a temporary ally to take down a larger target – General Shepherd of the imperialism American military industrial complex (bold words from a man who’s trying to take over the world or whatever), and when he’s finished speaking, his soldiers all look at each other and grin . And then they cheer. 

Graves, because he, too, really likes the idea of fucking killing Shepherd, gives his own Shadow Company yup-yup in response with a raised fist. This is a smart move – he can tell immediately just by the approving looks the others are give him. 

Makarov is staring at him with a look Graves isn’t sure he can parse. He’s clearly pleased, but there’s a heated light in those dark eyes of his that makes Graves remember being pushed against a wall, Makarov’s voice in his ear. I could have you on your knees again

Oh, fuck, could he? He is pretty goddamn riled up about this whole taking out Shepherd thing. And Graves has to admit that he’s slightly fascinated at the behind-the-curtain view of bad guy ops, even if it’s never beneficial in active combat to remember you’re fighting people who have hobbies, favorite soccer teams, and a preferred shade of lipstick. That’s how the job works. You accept you’re going to have to, at some point or another, look at human beings as targets. You also accept you’re going to be viewed the same way. Until Makarov’s little speech, Graves was nothing but a faceless enemy in a sea of them - same as everyone in this room would be, to him.  

Maybe for some people, that realization would be enough to retire. Maybe it will be for him one day. Today is not that day, and it won’t be until Shepherd’s six-feet-under. Hell, Graves doesn’t even want to be the one who kills him – better for his future if that’s Makarov and there’s proof – but he sure as fuck wants to be there, wants Shepherd to see what Graves was willing to do to get rid of him. 

You think you love America, boss? I love America so much I’m gonna get in bed with the enemy to get rid of you.

He is not going to think how literally he means that. Instead he’s going to think about Makarov saying something scathing with a gun at Shepherd’s fucking cueball head. Graves can’t imagine that old buzzard ever begging for his life, but he can picture just how furious he’ll be when he sees who Graves threw in with, and that is sure a pleasant daydream, isn’t it? 

“When you go back,” Piotr says, to him, once Makarov’s finished explaining. “You will be…enemy, again?”

“That’s right.” Graves can’t imagine how this would go any other way. “So if you got any bootleg US shit you want, ask me before I have to put one between your eyes.” 

This is just banter, soldier shit, stuff he says with his Shadows all the time. Piotr knows, he grins and makes a finger gun at him.  “Maybe if you get me good stuff, eh, I will only shoot to injure, on the battlefield. Your knee, yes? Not your head.” 

“We never shoot to injure,” Makarov says to Piotr, in English, with a pointed look at Piotr and so much dominance that Graves has to shift his gaze, and he sees a few others in the room do the same. 

They go to a room in the basement, which is half an armory (and he’s not above the low whistle when he sees it, that’s some heat, goddamn) and half a war room of sorts, with a long table, monitors, the usual sort of set-up. It’s not quite the hi-tech version he has at Shadow HQ, but it’ll do. 

That reminds him. “I need to talk to Oz. Osmond Ryan. The guy I left in charge of Shadow Company. Someone needs to figure out how that intel got to me in the first place and how Shepherd knew I was still alive.” 

“Do you trust him?” Makarov asks, and he’s all business, reaching for a bottle of water and opening up a laptop on the table in front of him. He slides a bottle of water to Graves, who catches it in his palm and twists off the top. (He’s been drinking tap water up to this point. Being on the bad guy side means better snacks, apparently.) “This Oz. Because it would seem to me that he benefits, yes, from your country’s betrayal?” 

Graves almost says technically it was Shepherd, not America, but he doesn’t. He has no thoughts of talking Makarov out of his fanatical anti-Western bias, that would require some black ops MK Ultra shit at this point. The only guy he kinda knows who does that is retired. And doesn’t technically exist. 

“I mean, yeah, there’s that,” Graves concedes. “But my gut says he’s golden, so.” 

Makarov squints at him. “You’re very confident for a man who’s working with his enemy because he was betrayed twice .” 

“Thanks for the recap, but Oz never betrayed me. My Shadows are loyal.” He sees Andrei and Makarov exchange a look and scowls. “The ones who aren’t, they get gone, got it?” 

“No?” Andrei says. “That English was too strange.” 

Makarov cuts Grave off before he can explain. “Normally I would not care, but now I must, so I will ask again – are you certain this man is not involved in a plot to discredit you?” 

“I’m about as sure as I’m willing to be, and Oz lost friends – we both did – when your men attacked. Good friends. One of ‘em was more than that, for Oz, if you take my meaning.” 

“The intel resulted in the death of his lover, and you’ve joined the other side, you don’t think that might make him inclined to betray you?” 

“Negative,” Graves answers, shaking his head. “And I didn’t join you, Makarov, it’s a temporary alliance. Semantics aside, though, yeah, I mean, Spaulding knew the risks comin’ here just like he did in Las Almas. Part of the job.” 

Makarov makes a tsk sound. “Personal relationships are dangerous. They lead to complications.” 

Graves really wants to look at Andrei when Makarov says this, because he’s still not sure what’s going on there and he doesn’t think for a second Andrei wouldn’t kneel for Makarov if he had a hint Makarov wanted him to. 

Or you’re projecting, a voice says, and Graves decides that voice is stupid and it needs to be quiet. 

“I don’t know if it was personal or just fucking,” he says, because he doesn’t, and he’s never cared as long as his people keep it professional when it matters. “But I don’t think he would have let Spaulding go on the mission, if he knew no one was supposed to come back.” 

He also couldn’t see Oz cheerfully sending them all to die, even if he did look sometimes like he should be fronting a metal band instead of a PMC.  “We need someone who can follow the intel online and get more , and if you’ve got another suggestion for a hacker who can do that in the US with high-level security clearance I’d love to hear it.” 

He and Makarov stare at each other, commanders locked in a standoff. He’s pleased when Makarov nods, once, and has Andrei show him the comm unit to use.

“Don’t tell him where you are,” Makarov instructs, like Graves has never done one single covert op anytime in his life before now. 

“The whole joke was I didn’t know, remember?” Graves says, idly, scanning the channels. 

“I remember. But it wasn’t a joke. A lie. Just like the one where you know more Russian than you pretend that you do. You can tell him who you’re with, just not where you are. You understand me?” 

Graves narrows his eyes at him. “I’m gonna put you in a car, blow it up, drag your ass out of a ditch with a head injury, shoot some drugs into you so you take a nice long nap and then deposit you in the American midwest, and you tell me if you know what state you’re in, comrade. Because if all this shit looks alike to me? Then I bet you ain’t gonna know Iowa from Idaho or Kansas from Nebraska.” 

Makarov is smoking again. He exhales through his nose, which is strangely sexy of him, and squints through the smoke. “Kansas has tornadoes.” 

One of the most shocking pieces of intel Graves has managed to gather from this little adventure is that Makarov has a sense of humor. It’s dry as a county in Tennessee, but it's there. 

“The other one, Idaho. It has potatoes,” Andrei offers. “We know things about America.”

"Maybe more than you do, about Russia," Masha adds.  

Graves just rolls his eyes and finds the channel. He’s not entirely sure of the time difference, but Oz would have to be dead not to answer this particular channel and even though Graves is starting to suspect it’s nearly midnight back in the States, Oz answers with a hissed, “Actual ?” 

“Be quiet,” Graves says, immediately, all business. “Get somewhere safe and alone, and when I say safe, I mean safe. ” 

There’s a rustle, a soft curse, and a door slams and Oz’s gruff voice is saying, “Yeah, okay, fuck, Graves? Are you – man, what the –” ‘

“I didn’t defect,” Graves says, immediately. “And I swear to Christ, Oz, you go around sayin’ I did? You go around believing that I did? I will demote your ass so fast, you’ll be doing tech support and askin’ recruits if they tried turning it off and turning it on again.” 

A pause, then a soft exhale and a weak chuckle. “Holy fuck, man. What the hell happened?” 

Graves says, first, “I’m sorry. About Derrick.” That was Spaulding’s name, wasn’t it? He was sorry, he liked Spaulding. They just don’t use first names often, given how they were all ex-military. 

There’s a long moment of silence, then, “Don’t be. He knew the risks. It was worth it to him.” 

Graves isn’t sure either of them believe that, but they don’t have time to debate it. “All right. Look. Things went tits up but I’m not trying to move to fucking Russia.” 

“Yeah, that was a hard sell for me. You hate the cold.” 

“Goddamn right I do.” Graves smiles, momentarily homesick. He considers Oz an actual friend, which is rare for him. “I intended to do exactly what I said and bring back the HVT.” 

Makarov casts his gaze briefly to the ceiling, which Graves has figured out is how he rolls his eyes. He does it a lot around Graves, which makes Graves very happy. 

“So, uh – you solid, Actual?” 

“Affirmative,” Graves says. “Solid as can be, a few bumps and bruises.” He’s pretty sure he knows what’s coming next. 

“Location?” 

“Negative,” Graves says. “But my, ah, situation came with a new ally. So, any and all current operations with regards to the HVT need to be stopped. No exceptions. No. Exceptions. Tell no one anything, lie your fuckin’ face off if you have to, it’s important.”” 

Oz is silent on the other end for about four seconds. Then, Graves winces as he shouts, what the fuck loud enough that he’s sure Makarov and Andrei can hear it. “Oz –” 

“What the – what the actual fuck, literally, Actual, what the – you’re really with Makarov ? Get the fuck home, man, it’s not worth it!”  

“Shepherd sold me out three times!” Graves snaps, his temper dangerously frayed. “First in Al Mazrah when he let my Shadows get gunned down and those missiles were stolen – missiles that he sent, by the way – and then insisted we cover it up and had me doing his dirty work in Mexico” Which he’d been mostly all right with at the time, all things considered, but that wasn’t the point! “Then at the congressional hearing when he threw me under the bus for following his goddamn orders, and now, and hell, we might as well say it’s four times since he set me up and sent out a fuckin’ burn notice when I didn’t die like he wanted!” 

The same thing he would have done to Soap and Ghost, if he could have. 

“Vladimir Makarov is a wanted terrorist,” says Oz, carefully, like maybe Graves forgot that part. 

“Yeah, well, guess what? Now, so is Herschel Shepherd,” Graves snaps and he can hear the rage in his voice, the anger. “And may I remind you, Oz, if I hadn’t put you in charge you’d have come with me, and be just as dead. All those Shadows, hell, Spaulding? Those deaths are on his hands as much as anyone’s.” 

“Yeah, Commander, I know. But you’re joining up with the side that did the shooting, that doesn’t seem kinda counter-productive to you?” Oz asks tightly, and his dominance is coming through the comms enough that it sets Graves’s teeth on edge. His dominance is not like Makarov’s. It feels more like sandpaper on a sunburn. 

In response, Graves switches tactics, aware he needs Oz to agree, and fast, before Makarov thinks he really isn’t loyal.

Doms have dom voices, and submissives have their own version. It’s the one part of his alignment that he likes, because he quickly realized that with the accent and a grin it came across more like charm than anything. “Look, Oz, I get it. Believe me. But the world knows Makarov’s a menace –” he can see Makarov smirking in his peripheral vision, leaves it be – “and they think Shepherd is a good guy .” 

“Who’s they, exactly?” 

“The – look, how many more fuckin’ Shadows does this asshole get to kill before I put him down?” Graves asks, and if he puts a little more of that submissiveness in his voice, who can blame him? “At this point, he’s a bigger threat to us than Makarov.” 

“And when he’s no longer a threat? Can you live with it, Graves? Making a deal with the devil? Selling your fucking soul to get one man?” 

Is that what he’s doing? He looks at Makarov again, who taps his wrist and swirls a finger in the universal sign for wrap it up, and Graves waves a hand, which he can tell from Makarov’s slightly-narrowed glare doesn’t go over that well. 

The thing is, Graves isn’t making a deal with the devil. Makarov is just a man, he’s not some supernatural deity or some otherworldly being. He’s as susceptible to a bullet as  the rest of them. What he’s doing is using an asset that’s become available to eliminate a covert threat to the safety of his country. He’s a patriot. A patriot willing to get his hands dirty. Same as he’s always been. 

“Not real sure I believe in souls and all that shit,” Graves says, because that old adage about there’s no atheists in foxholes just isn’t true. There are plenty. They usually are the ones who survive. “But I probably don’t have much of one left to sell.” 

Oz sighs. “I’ll help, Actual, you know I will. Shepherd’s fucking gone off his rocker, but…guess I just don’t want to see you go down the same path.” 

“Selling out my own people? I won’t do that. And I know. Believe me, I get how it looks.” Be glad you don’t know the rest of it. “See if you can find me who sent the intel – I’m especially interested in who told Shepherd I was even still alive. I don’t think that fuck is working alone.” 

“I’m on it,” Oz says, and then he gives a soft laugh. “Actual, did you really use your sub voice on me?” 

“Oz, I will use whatever the fuck I have to, pretty sure you already knew that about me,” Graves says, testily, because he can see Makarov’s little smile and that’s still as annoying as ever. But he reads the coordinates Makarov writes down for him, makes Oz swear that will tell not a single soul that they spoke, even though promises are fucking useless for the most part. But Oz is a good guy. There’s a reason Graves left him in charge. 

The last thing he says is, “Graves, if you need exfil, you find a way to let me know, okay?” He says it quietly, and Graves is touched by the display of loyalty. 

“Yup-yup,” Graves says, voice gruff. “Hey. One other thing I need you to do. The Shadows who came with me….take care of the paperwork, yeah? Add double the hazard bonus. We can afford it.” 

“I’ll take care of it, Actual.” 

That’s a relief. “Thanks. Actual-out.” 

The rest of the day is spent coordinating what they know, making a plan, the same shit Graves has done a million times before a mission. And he realizes pretty quickly that his – fuck, fine, he’ll call it what it is – attraction to Makarov isn’t dissipating. Apparently even when they’re working together, he’s scary enough to do it for Graves. 

It might...be worse, actually, because they’re working together. He’s still practically bleeding dominance and menace, and twice Graves is distracted watching his hands – he’s not wearing gloves and Graves keeps looking at his tattoos. This is so stupid. And the worst part of it is, even if it were possible to spend a few hours fucking someone or getting dicked down proper, it wouldn’t help. He doesn’t need sex, he needs to fucking submit and using that voice on Oz didn’t do anything but make it worse. 

It’s late evening when they head back to the house, Andrei accompanying them. Makarov is on the phone, talking animatedly in Russian. The snow has accumulated six or so inches over the afternoon, which is a lot, but no one else seems to really notice or care. They’re probably used to it. 

Try mid-August in the bayou and see if you can ignore the weather so easy. 

“I am arranging helo transport at the base of the mountain,” Makarov says, once they’re inside, and Andrei has taken Ivan the dog for a walk. He goes to the kitchen and pulls out a bottle of vodka from the freezer. “We’re going to Moscow. You’ll need to try and blend in. Practice your Russian or lose the accent.” He holds up the bottle. “To our joint venture and its success, Shadow Actual.” 

A throb of heat hits him low when Makarov calls him that. Now he’s turned on when Makarov uses his call sign, shit. “Hey, well, look at that. Been holding out on me, Czar Actual?” 

“Prisoners get the bad vodka. American prisoners don’t get any. You don’t know the difference between what is good and what tastes like paint thinner.” Makarov pours two glasses and pushes one over to Graves. “Shoot it. Sipping it is an insult to your host, who is me.” 

“Thought you said it was the good vodka,” Graves says, taking his glass. He doesn’t drink very much, and all he had for lunch was a sandwich on that thick dark bread and a bag of chips that tasted like sand. He would give his soul for a bottle of hot sauce. That’s probably about what his soul would fetch on the market, come to think of it. 

“It doesn’t matter. That’s the custom.” He raises his own glass, then says something in Russian. “It means, to success .” 

Graves repeats the toast, then touches his glass to Makarov’s. Their eyes meet as they both take the shot. The vodka is good, cold and crisp, and it settles warm in his stomach immediately. Makarov holds up the bottle in silent question, but Graves gives a shake of his head and Makarov puts it back in the freezer. 

The liquor gives him a bit of courage to ask something he’s wanted to know since he woke up in this fever dream. “So, you and Andrei…is that a thing?”

“What?” Makarov stares at him. “What do you mean by that?” He takes out another cigarette, which he is apparently having in lieu of dinner, and doesn’t even ask before pushing the pack over to Graves. 

“He’s a submissive.” Graves takes a cigarette, lights it, leans back against the counter. He doesn’t usually smoke this much, either. This country is bad for his fucking health. 

“Yes, he is – oh.” Makarov must cotton onto his meaning, because he shakes his head. “You mean, is he my submissive? No. He’s very loyal. A good soldier. But we are…not compatible, in the way you’re suggesting.” 

“Fucking?” Graves drawls, inhaling slowly, and he can feel the tension between them growing, and for once…he lets himself like it. Why not? He’s already thrown in with Makarov on a professional level, might as well stop acting like his more personal interest isn’t there. 

“Any of it,” Makarov says, waving a hand. “I don’t fuck my soldiers. It only leads to complications. And I don’t need any of them kneeling, they already do what I say.” His dark eyes settle on Graves, who can’t look away even though he can feel that dominance now, can see a different sort of tension in the lines of Makarov’s shoulders, the intense way he’s looking at Graves. “Why? Are you asking because you need to be settled?” 

That’s the million-ruble question, isn’t it? Why he’s asking, what he’s trying to say. Yes, he probably does need to kneel, submit, even if he still doesn’t think he’s ever been put under. What he is, though, is under more stress than usual, and while he’s always enjoyed the slight discomfort of riding the edge of his own need, this plan they’re putting together means he’ll have to be at the top of his game. 

“You have a few doms here, I noticed,” is his very stupid answer. That’s objectively true, but Graves doesn’t give a shit about any of them but one. “If I did need that. Not saying I do.” 

“Mm,” Makarov says. “But you don’t want any of them.” 

That confidence is as infuriating as it is attractive. “Maybe you’ve got one stashed somewhere. Commander Graves, your dominant is in another safehouse.” The Super Mario Brothers reference goes over his head, which isn’t a surprise. 

Makarov lifts a shoulder in one of his careless little shrugs. “I have many dominants under my command, yes, and not a one of them will touch you.” 

Graves turns to the sink and runs the water over his cigarette, merely to have a reason to look away from Makarov’s knowing look. “Aw, well, better that I not ruin them for anyone else.” 

When he turns around, Makarov is – right there. Graves should have heard him. He should also not startle, but he does, and of course Makarov laughs at him. 

“What?” He is really starting to get tired of being pushed up against immovable surfaces. He’s a submissive. He’s still dangerous. 

“Since you are no longer my prisoner and are instead my…let’s say probational ally …there won’t be guards in this house anymore. After my last stay in prison, I like my privacy.” 

Graves stares at him, and he can feel his biological urge to lower his gaze kick in, to kneel, and it’s stronger than he’s felt it in some time. He’s sure Makarov is ramping up the dominance on purpose, and he has to force his usual drawl when he answers, has to fight to keep that submission out of his voice. “That your way of telling me to pack up my shit and go sleep with the other foot soldiers, comrade?” 

Makarov’s laugh is soft, sinister. The look on his face is so smug, Graves decides to indulge his submissiveness for just a second and look away. It feels good and now he doesn’t have to see Makarov’s face. Win-fucking-win. 

Except then he says, “No. Look at me.” 

That’s too much, the command feels like a leash pulling at a collar, and he is not fucking thinking about that, thank you very much. Graves shifts his gaze back to Makarov. “You’re not very good at personal boundaries, anyone ever tell you that?” 

Makarov reaches out and Graves has all the time in the world to stop him, but he doesn’t. In fact, when Makarov wraps one of those tattooed hands around his neck, not squeezing, just…holding, Graves tips his chin up. He hears the slight inhale that gets from Makarov, and he suddenly has the feeling he’s not the only one whose alignment is in need of attention. Makarov’s not been doing very much commanding of anyone lately, other than Graves. Graves, who’s been resisting as much as he could, because they’re enemies. 

Were enemies. He was Makarov’s captive. Things have changed.

Makarov leans in, and Graves reaches out and grabs at the counter with one hand, skin biting into the edge, the pain doing nothing but making it worse. If he’s ever been so close to kneeling without being told to in his life, he can’t remember when. 

“I’m saying that you know where to find me, cowboy.” He squeezes his fingers lightly, just enough to make Graves catch a moan behind his teeth, then he steps away. He leaves without another word, and he doesn’t look back. 

Graves turns and grabs the sink with both hands to keep himself from just…sinking to his knees on the cheap faded linoleum floor. He’s breathing too fast, staring down at the drain because he simply can’t raise his head. Even though Makarov isn’t in the same room anymore, he can still feel that dominance. A tease, promising what he wants. What he’s never had, because he’s never found anyone who could give it to him. 

Well, now he has. And apparently, he can get it if he wants it, as long as he goes and asks for it. 

Yeah. He’ll be drinking margaritas on the beach with Los Vaqueros and the 141 before that happens. At least, that’s what he’s telling himself, panting and half-hard and wondering why the only person who’s ever made him want to kneel is the man the entire world wants dead. 

You’ve always been a contrary fucker . 

Graves steadies his breathing, then turns on the water and, despite thinking this is a trope in movies that no one ever does in real life, splashes cold water on his heated, flushed face. It doesn’t help. He wonders how much trouble he’d get in if he went after that vodka bottle. If he had that for dinner. 

Probably a bad idea. Liquor might make him do something stupid. He’ll be fine. As long as he forgets the way those tattooed fingers looked around his neck, how warm they were, a strange contrast to such a cold man. 

Makarov’s voice murmuring you know where to find me, cowboy, right in his ear – 

Son of a bitch.

Chapter Text

Two nights later, Graves gets out of bed at half-past ten and goes downstairs to the kitchen, heading right for the vodka. 

Not because he can’t sleep – even though he can’t – and not because he’s suddenly deciding he wants to become a heavy drinker, although that’s probably a healthier decision than the one he’s about to make. That’s what he needs the vodka for. 

Thankfully he finds there’s enough for two quick swallows right out of the bottle, which is probably some sort of crime if anyone catches him, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He puts the bottle back in the freezer and heads to the staircase that leads to Makarov’s room. 

He’s done enough thinking about this. He can turn this over and over a thousand times, but he’s going to be right back here, wanting the same thing, with the same offer to come and take it. 

He doesn’t bother to knock, just opens the door and walks in. Makarov is walking out of his bathroom when Graves enters, clearly having just showered, in joggers and a plain white tank, his hair damp. He barely has a chance to meet Graves’s eyes before Graves is moving, wanting to stop thinking about what he’s doing, to not have to ask, to just get this fucking going, already. 

He shoves Makarov back against the wall and kisses him, biting his mouth, hand on his chest. “Let’s not pretend you don’t know why I’m here.” 

Makarov responds with the same sudden violence, biting him back before shoving him so he’s no longer being trapped against a wall. “Maybe I want to hear you say it.” 

Graves feels like he’s losing his mind. “Then you better make me, I guess,” he manages, and before he knows what’s happening the world goes topsy-turvy and he ends up on the floor. But this isn’t Graves’s first rodeo, far from it, and he hooks an ankle around Makarov’s shin and throws up an elbow to try and dislodge him. 

Because fuck that, he’s gonna at the very least make Makarov work for it. 

He gets Makarov on his back and throws a forearm over his throat, pinning him, catching his breath and trying not to pay too much attention to how Makarov feels there, all warm skin and muscle and soft cotton. “I’m gonna say this one time then I’m done, but I’m not a masochist and I don’t want you to fucking hurt me. Copy, Czar-Nine-Zero-Actual?” 

Makarov goes still, looking unfriendly and annoyed in a way that is only turning Graves on even more . He reaches up and grabs Graves by the hair, shifting beneath him to get a knee between his legs, pressing up against his already hardening cock. “I know what you want, Graves. And I really will hurt you if you don’t get off me. ” 

Makarov always speaks with an accent, but it’s heavier now than Graves has ever heard it, and for some reason that gets him going even more, makes him feel like he’s burning up into ashes. “And if I do? Get off you?” 

“Then I’ll give you what you want,” Makarov snaps, and shoves at him with his other hand. 

Graves gets to his feet, and Makarov is on his own only a second later. He looks annoyed, which is arousing for all kinds of fucked up reasons, and the dominance in his voice is barbed like concertina wire. “If you came in here to submit,you’re not doing a very good job.” 

“No, I’m just not making it easy,” Graves says, and he’s so hard up for it that the dominance works like a fucking charm, making him shift his gaze down even without necessarily intending to. Proving it is that fucking easy, goddamn it. 

“Don’t touch me unless I say so,” Makarov says, in that same tone. “Do it again and I won’t finish what you’ve started.” 

Fucking hell. Graves has to consider it, because he does want his hands on him – isn’t even sure if it’s for violence or sex or submission or all three – but he also wants to see if he can do it, submit, let someone dom him into subspace. It occurs to him briefly that it’s less that he’s never found a dom who could tap into his specific desires enough to put him under, but that he didn’t trust any of them enough to let them try. 

Makarov is in a strangely unique position, given he’s still terrifying and Graves is trusting him with something a lot more fucking serious than this. It might be the one time in his whole fucking life he can see what the fuss is about when it comes to this shit. And if Makarov can’t do it to him, then he’s real fucking broken and that’s that. At least he’ll finally know for sure. 

“You came in here for a reason,” Makarov says, quietly. “Graves. Look at me.” 

Graves does, hating that it takes the permission to make him, but following the simple instruction is…good. Yeah. It feels a bit like it did when he knelt to get those cuffs off, only there isn’t a bright incandescent flare of rage at having followed Makarov’s orders, so this is actually better. 

“I thought since you came to me, it meant you were giving in.” 

“Yeah, but like, not graciously, ” Graves says. “What fun is that?” 

“How would you know if it’s fun or not? I don’t think you’ve ever done it.” Makarov tilts his head, considering him. “And as contrary as you are, I don’t think you’re the type that wants to fight and lose.” 

“Losing does piss me off, and not in a fun way,” Graves agrees. 

“And I don’t like wasting my time or my effort, so let me make this clear – I will put you under, but only if you stop fighting – yourself and me, Graves – and submit. It’s the only way you’re getting what you want out of this.” 

What do you want out of this? Graves thinks, but doesn’t ask. Makarov doesn’t come out and tell him to kneel, but the implication is there. If Graves wants this, he has to show it, make it clear. And he does want it, more than he’s ever wanted to do this before, so…

What the hell. He’s no fucking coward. 

Graves goes to his knees, hands behind his back, the awkwardness lasting all of three seconds before a sense of relief washes through him so strongly, he gasps out loud. “Fuck me .” 

“Ah, now, see,” Makarov murmurs, and oh, holy fuck, he sounds so pleased that it shivers over Graves like a caress. There are fingers under his chin, and then two of them are sliding in his mouth as Makarov looks down at him, all dark-eyed and smiling like a wolf scenting prey. “There’s a good boy.” 

“Oh, fuck off,” Graves mumbles, but he sucks on Makarov’s fingers and can’t help the gasp when Makarov drags them over his cheek. He should be annoyed at how obviously pleased Makarov is with him, but he can’t do anything but feel proud about it. 

It’s fine. This is what he’s here for. Some of his tension eases from his shoulders, though it just goes somewhere else, far lower. 

“Stand up, strip, and go kneel in front of the window, facing out,” Makarov says, rubbing a thumb over his lower lip. 

The urge to resist, to snap no and lash out, is still there. But it’s not quite as strong as the urge to do what he’s told, and with another mental reminder this is what you came here for, Graves stands up and gets naked. Makarov isn’t even paying attention, has turned and wandered over to his dresser, rummaging through a drawer. 

Graves does take a half second to notice that he’s got a tattoo on his back, his entire back, and the white tank he’s wearing – just a regular sort you’d put on under a dress shirt – is thin enough that Graves can see the design is a snarling head of a wolf. “Why doesn’t that surprise me,” he says, padding naked over to the window, looking out at the dark expanse of moonless sky and snowy forested ground. “That you have a wolf tattoo.” 

“I told you. Prison tattoos are very meaningful in Russia.” 

Graves kneels in front of the window, finding it much easier the second time to go to his knees and even puts his hands behind his back. He sees his own reflection in the glass but switches his attention to Makarov instead, following his movements in lieu of looking at himself – kneeling naked with his cock hard and his skin flushed, already breathing too fast. 

His breathing stops entirely when he sees what Makarov is holding when he pushes the dresser drawer closed and turns around. A length of what appears to be bondage rope and a gun . It’s a handgun, an X13 automatic. Graves can’t catch his breath or swallow. The fear is there, immediate and hot, because while he doesn’t think Makarov is really going to shoot him – he’s had plenty of chances before now – there’s enough uncertainty there that when he does get his breath back, he starts fucking panting for it. 

Makarov stands behind him, and it’s easy to see him in the mirror, dark-eyed and tattooed, and when he puts a hand on Graves’s bare shoulder, he jumps despite himself. Makarov smiles, clearly pleased. “You don’t have to be quiet,” he says, fingers oddly gentle as they slide up into Graves’s hair. He pets the dog the same way. 

And Graves responds much like Ivan, leaning back into the touch because it feels good. “Thought you’d want me to shut up.” 

“When I want you to be quiet, you will be,” Makarov says, simply, and he – scratches at Graves’s scalp, and the combination of his quiet voice, dominance bleeding from him like smoke and the gun held loose in his other hand…it’s all very confusing and it’s real fucking hot. “Because you’ll have something in your mouth. Ty ponimayesh', mal'chik?”

The last is in Russian, and it takes him a few seconds to work out the translation. It isn’t difficult, and he says it slowly enough that even in his slightly fogged brain-state he knows he’s supposed to both understand it, and respond accordingly. 

You understand, boy? 

He tells himself it’s hot because it’s in Russian and that’s why he doesn’t balk at boy , and sure, he’ll go with that. He knows enough Russian to answer, at least. “Da, ya ponimayu.” 

“Khorosho, eto khorosho.” 

Good, that’s good. 

“Fuck,” Graves whispers, when Makarov’s hand leaves his hair. He’d expected this to be a little rougher, maybe, given that Makarov is a violent man and Graves apparently has a hard-on for danger, but then again, dangerous doesn’t always have to mean loud, does it? 

Makarov doesn’t say much as he gets down behind Graves to bind his arms, but the ropework is steady, precise, tight enough without being too restrictive – Makarov also checks the tension, sliding a finger in between the ropes and Graves’s bound wrists, which strikes him as sort of unnecessary and a little silly, but he supposes that’s as clear as any that he’s not really going to end up tortured. 

A little thrill goes through him at the idea of Makarov making the ropes tighter, of making it hurt, even if he wouldn’t like it. He shifts on his knees, and Makarov laughs, the sound quiet and full of menace. “You take what I give you, Graves.” 

It’s a testament to how this is actually working that he says nothing to that, just shifts again on his knees, testing the rope binding his wrists behind his back, and he can’t help but like how it feels that he can’t get them free. It doesn’t feel anything like the cuffs he’d worn before, and it’s not even because before his hands were tied in front or bound with leather. 

Some part of him might have liked it, before, but this time, he wants it.

Makarov does something for a bit behind him that Graves can’t make out in the reflection, then moves around to stand in front of him, blocking Graves’s view of the window. He has the gun in his hand, and he’s apparently put on a pair of black boots – the kind made of black leather, heavy-tred, worn by soldiers the world over – and the sight of them makes his cock twitch, holy fuck. 

“I did tell you, didn’t I,” Makarov says, stroking Graves’s cheek with the barrel of the pistol and it doesn’t really matter anymore that Makarov said he wouldn’t hurt him, having a pistol so close is always scary as shit. “That I would have you on your knees again, for me.” 

Graves is quiet, battling his sudden rising fear and equally rising desire, cock hard and he flushes hot when Makarov’s eyes flicker down briefly and back up to his own. Since he still hasn’t answered, Makarov slides the gun under his chin and tilts it up. 

“Well? I asked you a question.” 

“Yeah,” Graves says, then, when Makarov makes a displeased little clicking sound, he says, “yes,” because he’s not saying sir to him. Makarov hasn’t earned that yet. 

“You’re a lot less chatty now, cowboy.” Makarov draws the barrel down over his throat, up his jaw. “Nothing to say to me?” 

“Is that loaded?” Is what Graves says, though he’s not sure if it’s what he wanted to say, or not. 

Makarov’s smile is pure malice. “Do I look like a man who ever keeps a pistol unloaded?” 

It’s hard to really understand what that does to him, because just as he draws a breath to – moan, tell Makarov to get him out of the fucking ropes, say prove it, I don’t believe you – the barrel slides into his mouth. 

“Look at me, go on,” Makarov says, and his voice sounds different, still heavy with dominance but there’s a darker sort of excitement in it, now, enough to thrill Graves and scare the fuck out of him at the same time. He very deliberately clicks off the safety, and this time, Graves does moan, his eyes on Makarov’s, unable to look away. “There we are.” He starts sliding the gun in and out, fucking Graves’s mouth, and Graves has to open his jaw wider so the sight doesn’t scrape the roof of his mouth or knock at his teeth. 

“Maybe I should take a picture of you,” Makarov continues, and that excitement is mixing with a vicious cruelty that Graves hasn’t ever heard before. “Show it to Shepherd, hmm? How his lapdog went so easy to his knees for me. Did he have you like this, Graves? On your knees, letting him use your mouth like you let him use your mercenaries, your guns?” 

The gun in his mouth is slick and cool, it tastes like metal and oil, and it takes Makarov’s words a minute to filter through and when they do – he jerks his head back, trying to get his mouth off that gun so he can tell Makarov exactly what he thinks about the mere suggestion of that idea, but Makarov doesn’t let him, grabs the back of his head and holds it still so he can push the gun in deeper. 

He also shoves one boot between Graves’s legs, and it’s a bit like that night in the forest when he had the same boot on Graves’s neck but somehow it is also nothing like that at all. 

“No, you don’t like that, do you? I wonder if you know that’s why I kept you alive.” Makarov has never sounded so mean, it’s the best word for it, like a playground bully but if he had a gun and an entire army at his disposal. “You’re very much like the rest of your ilk, Graves. Proud and resourceful, but only when you think the world is playing by your rules.” 

Graves tries to – move, get up, scramble back, do something, the fear is burning through him now and making his mouth dry, the gun is too deep and he can’t think, Makarov is pressing his boot against his cock and he’s never been so turned on in his life. He should – stop this, say something, but what? He can’t speak, he can’t signal with his hands that he wants this to stop ( he doesn’t want it to stop, he does, he doesn’t ) and when he kicks his bare foot against the floor, Makarov just laughs and fucks his mouth harder. 

The sight of the gun scrapes the roof of his mouth, just enough for Graves to taste the copper tang of his own blood. He can’t tell if he’s more turned on or terrified. It’s goddamn awful and terrible and wonderful at once. 

“I don’t play by your rules. I’m not bound by your convictions or conventions. You know exactly what sort of a man I am, and yet…how easily you believed me.” 

Graves is absolutely losing track of the conversation, his own reactions and what he’s supposed to be feeling. It’s like one of those dreams where you’re trying to dial a number and keep hitting the wrong buttons on the phone, or the one where you run down a hallway that never gets any shorter. He’s achingly hard and rocking his hips against Makarov’s boot b to get friction on his cock, and yet there’s blood in his mouth and he no longer has any idea if the gun’s loaded or not. 

“Believed me that I wouldn’t hurt you, believed me that any of the intel I showed you was real. That I would help you and your corrupt cabal of imperialists do anything to fix your problems. Shepherd doesn’t get to kill you, I do. ” 

Then he lets Graves breathe, just a little, pulling the gun out enough so that he sees there’s blood on it. Graves can’t stop humping his cock against the leather of Makarov’s boot, and Makarov takes the gun all the way out of his mouth just so he can lean down and spit directly in his mouth. 

Graves nearly comes right then. 

“You shouldn’t trust anyone that easily,” Makarov says, face very close to his, and his eyes are fever-bright, his accent so thick it’s hard for Graves to understand the English. “Take that lesson to hell with you, cowboy .” 

“Fuck –” Graves does try and say something, shout, yell, spit back but he doesn’t do that because Makarov has the barrel in his mouth again and has the gun shoved in so deep, he can feel Makarov’s fingers on his chin. He chokes, gags, there’s spit running out of his mouth tinged red with his own blood, and he’s about two seconds away from coming all over Makarov’s leather boot. Also maybe dying. He’s not sure. 

“What do you think I lied to you about, Graves?” Makarov continues, flexing his own shin so he can give Graves more friction on his cock. “The gun being loaded? The intel? Being your ally ? Promising not to hurt you? I said I’d put you under, do you think I meant under ground ?” 

This is not – he can’t think, he needs to think, do something, react, get the fuck away – 

Makarov’s fingers shift, one is on the trigger of the gun. “I guess we’ll see, won’t we? I’ll count to three, how’s that. In Russian, so it’s the last thing you ever hear. If there’s a bullet. If I’m going to kill you.” He laughs, and it’s slightly wild, heated, and Graves is a little too far gone to really do more than notice the fingers holding the gun are shaking slightly. 

“Odin.” 

He knows that means one, and there’s adrenaline and blood flooding his mouth, the acrid taste of fear in the back of his throat, and he’s still frantically grinding his cock against Makarov and there’s a smear of pre-come on his boot, slicking up the leather, he’s so – close, he’s – 

“Dva.” 

Two. 

Graves’s entire body is strung wire-tight, there’s sweat in his eyes and he’s making some sort of sound that’s a cross between no, don’t, and don’t stop and fuck you, or maybe that’s not it, maybe it’s just please, please, over and over again. 

“Please, please,” he says, just in case he hadn’t been saying it and should be. 

“Please? Please what ?” And with that, Makarov yanks the gun out, they have one more number, and Graves is no longer certain if he’s going to make it out of this and honestly doesn’t even fucking care as long as he gets off first. 

Instead of saying that, or – doing anything sensible, really, Graves gasps out in a voice that sounds like he’s eaten nothing but broken glass for three days – “Please, sir .” 

A pause, and then – Makarov grabs his hair and yanks his head back. He looks crazy, which Graves notices in a daze, because he’s probably in no position to talk. “Prosti, chto?” 

Somehow, despite being either about to come, die, or both, Graves knows what he’s saying, or at least he’s able to use the context clues. Please, what? 

“Pozhaluysta, sir,” Graves tries. It’s the worst pronunciation of please in Russian that anyone’s ever heard, probably, but at least he gets it out. 

Makarov shoves the gun back in his mouth. “Let’s see how much of a slut you really are for me, Graves.” After half a second, he says, “Tri.” 

Then, he pulls the trigger. 

Graves comes so hard his vision goes white, he can taste the fucking trigger pull and that’s it, he’s done, he’s gone – he’s not dead, but he’s under, and for a moment it sort of feels like it’s the same thing, like Makarov maybe just murdered him with nothing but that cold voice of his, one regulation army boot, and a gun without a bullet.

Time goes hazy, soft, and Graves loses track of himself for a bit. He has some memory of Makarov taking the ropes off his wrists, of – crawling, maybe, he’s not sure – over the carpet of the room, and then he sort of drifts off and away somewhere quiet, lying on his back on the bed, naked and a little shivery as the sweat dries and the cool air drifts over his skin. 

Gradually he comes back to himself. He turns his head, seeking out Makarov, too new to the concept of subspace and being under to know why he’s unable to stop tracking him with his gaze. Makarov re-coils the bondage rope with a precision that says he’s done this before, and Graves watches him reload his pistol and switch on the safety before putting it back in the drawer. Makarov has also taken off his boots, and there’s something incongruous about watching him walk around in a pair of socks. 

He brings a bottle of water to the bed and holds it out. His expression has lost the somewhat manic cruelty from earlier, and he looks…the same as he usually does, maybe a little more relaxed, slightly less tension in his shoulders and his mouth.

Graves reaches for it, hands still shaking slightly, and he’s still too content to be annoyed that Makarov has to twist the top open like he’s a weak little child. The water is cool and takes away some of the worst taste of gunmetal and oil, and while the top of his mouth is sore, it’s not bleeding. 

So that had all been…just to get him here, in subspace. Because if that didn’t put him under, the only thing that would ever do it was a bullet. 

He hands the empty bottle to Makarov. “Thanks.” He stretches on the bed, sure he’s going to have some existential crisis about this later, and looks up at Makarov. He has maybe never felt this good in his entire life, who knew. “You were fucking scary as shit, comrade.” 

Makarov stares down at him with a strange, distant look, like he’s not even seeing him. But then his focus seems to sharpen, his gaze clear and direct. “Is that what you’re thanking me for, or is it the water?” 

Graves can’t hold the look for long, but this time he makes a show of lowering his gaze, a bit like he’s flirting. “Both.” 

“So, was it worth it? Being under?” Makarov’s accent is still heavy, but the cruelty is entirely gone, and Graves should probably find it worrisome how hot it is that Makarov can turn it off and on again like it’s a setting. 

“Hell yeah.” Graves yawns, stretching again, enjoying the simple feeling of the soft bedding on his naked back. “But hey, no more mentioning Shepherd and sex in the same sentence.” He gives a dramatic shiver. “I might only be into doms who scare the shit out of me, but they at least gotta be hot. ” 

“Thank you,” Makarov says dryly. “I draw the line at being thought of as attractive by anyone who can say that about him .” 

Any number of his usual witty, brilliant retorts flit through his brain, but Graves says none of them. Makarov is close enough to the bed that Graves can reach out and touch him, but he isn’t sure, in this strange floaty place he’s found himself, if he should without asking. And normally asking would be the last thing he wants to do, but he finds it much easier to do it now. “You want me to do something? Blow you? You wanna fuck me?” He offers it easily, because sex has always been far easier for him than submission. 

“No, it’s fine. Do you want more water?” 

Something cold slithers through the contentment of subspace at Makarov’s response, like spotting a snake in the grass at a summer picnic. It makes him wonder if he did something wrong, which he knows logically is because he’s in subspace even if it doesn’t help chase the discomforting feeling away.  “You don’t want me to get you off at all? Come on, you had to have thought that was hot, fucking me up like that.” He’s going to be incredibly offended if Makarov didn’t think that, what the hell . 

“Of course I did. It isn’t you. I’ve spent the last four years in prison. I don’t always like being touched.” This doesn’t seem to keep him from touching Graves, which is a simple, brief hand on the shoulder. “It doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy fucking you up, Graves.” 

“Bet I could make you like being touched right now,” Graves says, not letting it go. He pushes up on his elbows. “I’m pretty good at it. Couldn’t you tell when I was sucking on your gun?” 

“You remind me of these punching bags we had in Spetsnaz training,” Makarov says, outright amused now. “They were weighted in the bottom, yes? No matter how hard you punched them, always they came back up for more. That’s you.”  

Graves flutters his lashes. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” 

“I think it wasn’t. What do I have to shove in your mouth to make you quiet for longer?” 

“A gun with a bullet, probably. If you’re not into it, you can just tell me.”  If Makarov isn’t attracted to him, he’s not going to keep offering to suck him off, that’s just humiliating. In a way he won’t like once he’s not under. Right. 

“Into what? Shoving a gun in your mouth? I don’t know very many people who wouldn’t want to do that. Anyone who’s met you, certainly.” 

“Sure,” Graves says, because he can’t lie about that. “But I’m pretty good at sucking cock.  You got me under, I’m not gonna like, try and bite your dick off.” 

“What a charming image, and I know you won’t.” Makarov keeps staring at him like he’s trying to mentally work through a math problem. Graves is a problem, sure, but math wouldn’t have been his first guess. Though the confidence is attractive, Makarov’s surety that he has Graves where he wants him and is Graves ever going to be able to do this with someone who isn’t a violent terrorist with whom he has a tentative alliance? Probably not. That’s about his luck. 

“Look, I can go back to my room or I can get you off, can you just tell me what you want?” He yawns, sleepy and satisfied and feeling that sort of unreal haze threatening to drag him under again. 

“What I want,” Makarov says, softly, but if that’s a sentence, he doesn’t finish it. 

“Wait, do you just hate admitting you find an American attractive?” 

“The more you talk? Yes.” Makarov shoves at his legs, which Graves takes to mean he wants to sit on the bed. “But that’s more specific to you, I think. It would be the same if you were British. Canadian. Maybe even Russian.” 

“Whatever. I got you hot driving an SUV down a mountain, don’t lie.” Graves slides down on the floor, pleased to be on his knees again and wondering how much he’s going to hate that he thought that, later. 

“That is not – why you keep insisting that’s what got me hot is very strange.” Makarov sits on the edge of the bed, knees slightly apart. “All right. Impress me, cowboy. See if you can get me as good as I got you, hmm?” 

Graves kneels between his spread legs, waiting for some hint he’s allowed to proceed. “Does that mean I can touch you?” 

Makarov nods, and Graves takes the hem of his shirt and pulls it up and off – he’s curious about the tattoos. He tosses the shirt aside and then settles back on his knees, face-to-face with cyrillic letters curving over his Makarov’s stomach. 

“Do you know what it says?” Makarov asks, leaning back just enough that he can see Graves’s face. 

“I can speak a little Russian but I can’t read much of it,” Graves admits. He reaches out, glances up briefly before he touches even though he’s been given permission, and Makarov just nods at him so he traces the letters with his fingers. There is something almost wildly thrilling about touching him, being allowed it, like the panther at the zoo deigning to allow you to rub its ears before going for your throat. 

“Volkov boyat'sya v les ne khodit,” Makarov translates. “It means if you’re afraid of the wolves, don’t go into the forest .” He’s watching Graves with a sharp gaze, but Graves notices his voice is a little huskier, his breathing coming faster.

Well, he fucking better , Graves is under but he’s still himself and goddamn it, he’s sure he looks good on his knees especially when no one else has ever managed to put him there. That makes him laugh quietly, tracing every letter of that tattoo very slowly. “That’s it, that’s what I did to get you hot, huh.” He glances up at Makarov and grins. “I was wondering what it was. You said it wasn’t me driving down the mountain, but I bet it’s when you got me to kneel with those cuffs on.” 

“Is that what you think?” Makarov tilts his head, inhaling a sharp breath as Graves leans in and very deliberately licks the lines of the letters of his tattoo. His hand comes up, sliding in the back of Graves’s hair, and tightens briefly – like he’s not sure if he wants to stop him or not. Graves goes still until Makarov’s fingers ease their grip, and he takes it as encouragement to continue, so he does. 

He’d ask what the other tattoos meant, because he does want to know, but apparently this is doing it for Makarov enough to get over not wanting to be touched, because his cock gets all the way hard, tenting out his joggers and that’s suddenly more interesting than tattoos. 

There is a moment as Graves reaches in to pull his cock out that he thinks of the absolutely insanity of what he’s doing – kneeling and under for Vladimir Makarov, who is breathing fast and turned on for him and who has his hand on the back of Graves’s neck, those tattooed fingers dragging him closer. 

This part, at least, he knows what to do – although it’s certainly different when he’s under, he doesn’t tease or subtly fight for control, which is what he usually does when dominants try and fuck his face without asking him first . Makarov doesn’t ask and Graves doesn’t fight it, choking on his cock like he’d choked on his pistol, hands sliding up firm thighs while he rubs the flat of his tongue along the shaft. 

He briefly feels Makarov rub his thumb over his bottom lip again, where it’s stretched over his cock, hears him say, “Etot tvoy rot sozdan dlya togo, chtoby sosat' chlena,” in a rough voice. It’s followed by something that sounds like yes, yes, so it seems like he’s doing well. Which, yeah, Graves doesn’t bother doing anything he’s not good at, so he’s pretty confident this is going to be good for them both. 

Graves bobs his head, keeps his teeth back because while some people he’s been with like that, he’s pretty sure Makarov wouldn’t, call it a hunch. The room is filled with the sound of his harsh breathing and wet, sucking sounds interspersed with choking when he holds Graves on his cock just so he struggles and thrashes on his knees. He’s not sure he’s ever given such an enthusiastic blowjob in his life, and he’s not even doing it to hurry things along because he already got off. He just wants it to be good. 

Makarov pushes him off after a bit, taking himself in hand, and Graves is sinking into subspace again so he can’t quite look up to see his face – but he doesn’t care because that means he gets to watch Makarov work his cock with those inked fingers of his and that’s…yeah, fuck, if he gets out of this whole thing he’s probably gonna end up with a kink for guys with tattooed hands who know how to speak Russian. 

“Open your mouth,” Makarov bites out, dominance like a knife at his throat making Graves tilt his head back and do as told, even if he’s pretty sure he knows what’s going to happen here and it’s something he’s never once let anyone do to him. 

Then again, as he’s learned very quickly, being on his knees to suck cock is nothing like sucking cock after he’s been put on his knees . That thought has him shiver when he hears Makarov make a soft, choked groan and then feels him come on his face. 

This is probably what I should have a problem with, later, he thinks drowsily, but forgets all about it when he blinks his eyes open and sees Makarov there, sprawled back on the bed catching his breath, still shirtless, cock lying wet and spent on his inked stomach. Eventually he sits up and tucks himself back in his pants, then motions for Graves to come closer so he can clean off his face with his discarded shirt. 

They don’t speak. Neither one of them seem to quite know what to say. For once, Graves doesn't take it as a personal challenge, that silence, and lets it be.  

Chapter Text

“You know, when we got to your mountain terrorist village, I was kinda judging you for your stuck-in-the-late-nineties aesthetic. But this? This is way worse.” Graves is standing in the middle of what is supposed to be a living room, or maybe an office, of the safehouse in the Moscow suburbs. It’s hard to say what exactly this room is supposed to be used for – he can’t quite see past the purple.  

There’s so much of it. It’s everywhere. 

There’s a purple couch that appears to be made out of velvet, with black lacquer framing and over-large, jacquard print black-and-white pillows. A purple shag rug is on the floor, with a glass-top coffee table that looks like the same one from every single 80’s movie where people do cocaine at a party. The drapes are a black jacquard print on purple fabric, there’s a purple round chair with black poofy pillows, a white shag rug and a gold vase with bright purple and red plastic flowers – it’s like someone took their decor inspiration from Willy Wonka, just without any of the whimsy. 

“I have so many questions,” Graves says, taking in the garish display.  He turns to Makarov. “Is interior design your passion?” 

“No. The house was purchased by my financier.” Clearly, internet humor is also not his passion, if the blank look Makarov gives him is any indication. 

“Is your financier mad at you or something?” Graves follows Makarov through the rest of the house, which is a strange mishmash of marble-and-gold, tacky purple plush velvet and occasional fairytale iconography that seems wildly out of place with the rest of the decor. For example, one room has wooden beams on the ceiling like something out of Game of Thrones, an elaborate castle-and-knights scene hand-carved into the mantle above the fireplace, with a glass-tile mosaic unicorn set on the floor in front of it. Then there’s one of those chairs under the far window that is clearly just for fucking – also purple, why not — and a stripper’s pole on a raised base that rotates at the flip of a switch. 

The lack of separation between the castle-and-unicorn and pole-and-fuck-chair is very disorienting. 

“Is your financier someone you trust? Might wanna look out for a new guy, I don’t know if you want someone spending your money who can’t commit to an aesthetic.” 

“She should be trying to earn back my trust,” Makarov says. “She’s the one who told Price and his goons about my holdings in Moscow, all because she was worried about her money .” He practically spits the word, with far more vitriol than Graves is used to hearing from him. And it’s not like he hates money, that’s step one in their kill Shepherd plan – money gets information, and they need both. 

Graves is still not entirely sure if Makarov believes his own bullshit when he spouts off about evil Western imperialists and the dangers of capitalism or whatever. He’s half-convinced Makarov wants to rule the world like a supervillain, and if so, this house is a great step in that direction. He’ll need some kind of trap door to a dungeon with a few death machines, unless he just wants to force someone to sleep on that fuck chair in the fairytale room. But the whole Dr. Doom-esque wear a silver mask and shout at the sky with raised fist doesn’t seem to be his style. 

For all that Makarov is capable of violence, incredibly calculating and committed to chaos, Graves doesn’t often see him in a temper. Then again, perhaps it’s a danger to assume he knows this man at all. Fucking around once doesn’t give him any particular insight, other than knowing what Makarov sounds like when he comes, how the edges of his accent get sharper when he’s turned on and speaking English, how he loses the language entirely when he has his cock in someone’s mouth. 

They haven’t said a word about what happened, which is fine with Graves. He woke up that morning in Makarov’s bed, alone, and went back to his own room to shower and pack up his few belongings before they left to meet the plane that was bringing them to Moscow. He’s in a good mood, though, because it’s a relief to have that taken care of. Like going to bed with a migraine and waking up pain-free or some shit – and yeah, sure, it’s all biology, baby, but that doesn’t take away from the satisfaction. 

“I always heard that money couldn’t buy taste, but maybe that’s just good taste.” Graves snorts as they head upstairs and find the bedrooms. The master bedroom has two different wallpapers – both florals that don’t match – purple curtains, wainscoting that goes with nothing, mirrors on the ceiling, a single bed that could fit half of Shadow Company with a purple fuzzy comforter, and a vase in the corner that is almost as tall as Graves and has a weird, stylized face like an Easter Island statue gazing imploringly at the rest of the room with an air of, but, why ? 

Graves goes over and turns the face-vase toward the wall. He likes to think he’s doing the thing a favor, and it’s very disconcerting to look at it anyway. In this room, that’s saying something. There’s a hot tub in the corner, or that’s what Graves assumes it’s supposed to be because it looks homemade – PVC pipe, rubber hosing, and for fuck’s sake, someone painted it purple.

“I think Milena bought this from a former member of the Russian underground crime syndicate,” Makarov says. “One of them must have heard that purple used to be known as the color of royalty and…well. Mobsters are not always known for subtlety.” 

“Yeah, ours either,” Graves murmurs. “But hell, whoever these guys were, they could give any tacky American McMansion a run for their money. This is like a before picture on one of those reality house shows.”

“I don’t know what most of that means.” Makarov holds up a hand. “That isn’t an invitation, because I also don’t care, so don’t explain. You can have this room. Tacky, as you said. You’ll feel right at home.” 

“No, no, I couldn’t, comrade. I insist.” Graves waves a hand. “You’re the one with the call sign Czar, and didn’t you say purple was for royalty ?” He reaches out and flips a switch on the wall – the recessed lighting turns on, only it isn’t just lighting, it’s some kind of strobe situation that throws swirling circles of changing colors on the polished wooden floor. “Aw. Look. Comes with a nightlight.” 

Makarov reaches up and briefly pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s in pain. It’s nice to know that even the vast differences in their outlooks on international politics and human rights don’t stop them from agreeing on bad design. “I’ll sleep on the couch.” 

“The one downstairs? Or do you mean the fuck chair? Kinda don’t see much of a difference, I think that’s the same velvet. Definitely the same shade of purple. Unless – wait, are you color blind?” 

“I am now,” Makarov mutters, and jerks his head toward the hallway. “We won’t be here long.” 

That’s good. The house is huge, much bigger than the A-Frame at the mountain compound, but cold – the marble and the lack of furniture isn’t helped by the fact every footstep echoes and there’s some kind of banal classical music piped in through the speakers set into the wall. He suddenly misses the death metal from their first trip, it seems like it would be more appropriate. Either way, it feels like being in the world’s most garish museum, though a museum for what, Graves can’t be sure. 

Graves follows Makarov to a suite of rooms in the back of the house, lacking in hot tubs but also mirrored ceilings and purple velvet, and he finds Piotr there with two suit bags, waiting expectantly. 

“We are going to an event this evening,” Makarov says, sitting at a desk and opening a laptop, all business, which is admittedly less absurd than if he were being all business on a purple velvet couch. “You’re not going to blend in, being that you are loud and American and your Russian makes me want to weep into my samovar, but that’s fine. We’ll play to your strengths.” 

Graves flashes him a grin as he sees Piotr unzipping the bags to produce two different suits, both of which he assumes are for him. “Be loud and American?” 

“Something like that, da.” 

“Cool.” Graves studies both of the suits, trying to decide which he hopes will fit best. He’s half-convinced the house will magically turn them purple if he’s not careful. “And you’re gonna be, what, hot and Russian?” 

Piotr is looking at Graves like he lost his mind, switching his gaze between Graves and Makarov like he’s watching a tennis match, but one that might, at some point, involve landmines. Which is funny, because as far as shit he’s said to Makarov, that was pretty tame. Just a statement of fact – he is Russian – and a compliment which is also a fact, because he’s also hot. Maybe he’s not Piotr’s type. 

Makarov smiles at him, with teeth – it’s that grin of his that Graves doesn’t like to admit gets his heart kicking up because it’s just a little feral, a little mean. “Pick whichever of those suits makes you look like I hired you for the evening.” 

Graves snorts, not bothered by that in the slightest. “Sure. As long as you wear something that says I’m expensive.” 

He tries on the suits. The first one is a bit too snug in the shoulders and the pants are too long, but the second fits perfectly, a nice charcoal gray suit with a black shirt and a vest instead of a tie.  

Makarov doesn’t pay him any attention as he strips, which is mildly annoying since Graves would like to think he looks good in nothing but his underwear, thank you. He’s slightly mollified when he finishes putting on the suit and Makarov deigns to look up from his phone, giving him a cursory once over when Graves holds his arms out to show off the fit of the suit. “That’ll be fine.” 

“No, hey, cowboy, you clean up pretty nice for me?” Graves asks, only a little serious. 

Makarov gets to his feet, stretches languidly like a panther waking up from a nap in a sunbeam, and comes to stand in front of him. “Maybe I prefer you messy.” 

That sends a bolt of unexpected heat through him, and he’s almost not sure he heard him correctly. But there’s a little smug smirk on Makarov’s face that says he did, which is likely some tactical attempt to keep Graves from getting too comfortable. It’s working, and he likes it, and he doesn’t even have a twinge of regret about that. 

“Then you should let me wear tactical gear and a cracked helmet instead,” Graves says. 

That gets Makarov’s cast-his-eyes-to-the-ceiling version of an eye roll, but he surprises Graves by patting him once on the shoulder and saying, “Behave yourself and we’ll see.” 

Graves narrows his eyes, and damn it, he’s being baited and he knows it, goes for it like a fish who knows the worm wriggling in the distance is attached to a hook and doesn’t care. “It wasn’t just me that liked it, you know.” 

“Did I say it was?” Makarov really does look like he’s about to laugh. “I didn’t expect you’d need so much feedback , Graves. You don’t seem very lacking in confidence, I didn’t think I’d need to, what’s the expression, hmm? Pump your tires?” 

“From the man who knew to check the ropes around my wrists before making me think the gun he had in my mouth was loaded, right before he pulled the trigger?” Graves is looking right at Makarov when he says that, and it’s mollifying to see the sudden flash of heat in Makarov’s dark eyes, hear his soft indrawn breath. “You’d think you’d know you’re supposed to –” 

Makarov quiets him by rubbing his thumb over Graves’s lower lip. Graves bites it, and Makarov gives his little huff of a laugh. “Supposed to what? Make sure you liked it? I already know that you did.” 

“Well, I know you did, too,” Graves returns, the retort at about the same level as a schoolyard I know you are, but what am I? 

“Yes. Go get ready. We’ll debrief in the car.” He pats Graves on the side of his face, harder this time, which makes Graves want to tackle him to the ground and pin him. “You should shave.” 

Graves runs his own hand over his face, feels the slight burr of facial hair against his palm. There’s not much, which isn’t a surprise, he’s never had much luck growing a beard and given he’s been in the military most of his life, well, he’s not here to look like a fuckin’ seventies porn star, Price. 

“You think there’s a razor in this house? If not, you’ll have to make do with me being scruffy.” That does make him think about what happened to his tactical gear. All he had with him when he woke up were his dog tags and borrowed clothes. “You have my gear stashed somewhere?”  

Makarov nods. “Yes. Andrei has it. You have a razor in there? Spoiled capitalist.” 

Graves snorts. “No, I have a knife and a fuckin’ knowledge of how to use one instead of a razor. Unimaginative Ultranationalist, it ain’t rocket science.” 

Sometimes he’s not entirely sure he’s not still laying in that ditch, and all of this is the long, drawn-out, last gasp of his subconscious before the hail of bullets rain down and end his life. 

Instead, he’s got Makarov grabbing his shirt and pulling him in, kissing him, but not in a very nice way – more like he’s trying to be the bullet that wasn’t in his gun last night. “You don’t need to backtalk if you want me to scare you, Graves. You can just ask.” 

Graves would really like to ask the universe why is it only this dom who makes me want to kneel so bad, why, but honestly, he’s pretty sure he already knows. Because you are pathologically addicted to danger, adrenaline and being a contrary SOB, that’s why. “Well, now, see – I’d be backtalking you just as much even if you didn’t put me under. Part of my charm, comrade.” 

“If you say so, cowboy.” 

This time it’s Graves who leans in to kiss him, which Makarov allows for about two-point-three seconds before he bites hard on Graves’s bottom lip and gently pushes him back. Graves can practically see him switching the hot scary dom button to pause and that’s a disappointment, but they do have work to do, even if he hasn’t seen fit to let Graves in on the plan beyond we need money and intel. Which is basically the first part of any plan, ever, so it’s hardly exclusive knowledge. 

“Andrei has my shit, you said?” Graves asks, when it’s clear their version of flirting has been put on hiatus for the moment. He’s glad to hear that. Like most soldiers, from the army to spec ops to PMCs, he has a strong attachment to his tac gear. It’s on him all the time, basically, and at least before when he didn’t have it he knew where it was. It feels like part of him has been amputated, a phantom ache where he’s used to the comfortable weight and heft. 

“Yes. I’ll have him put your gear in the bedroom.” Makarov picks up his phone, thumbs moving over the screen, and Graves thinks it’s sort of hilarious he texts like a millennial even though it occurs to him he’s not sure how old Makarov is.

“How old are you?” 

Makarov doesn’t even look up from his phone. “How do you not know this? I know how old you are.” 

“You have all my gear, meaning, you have my military ID. And it was probably on that intel you got on the wire,” Graves says. He’s stalling, he realizes, because he’s not sure what their sleeping arrangements are going to be and asking feels desperate. “And you could be lying.”  

Makarov slides his phone into his pocket. “Your birthday is listed as the thirteenth of June, but it’s a day before. You’re thirty-six. Why did you change it?” 

Graves shrugs, changing from the suit back to his regular clothes so he can take a shower and shave. This time, Makarov watches him, which is gratifying enough that he answers honestly. “I was eighteen. It sounded edgy. I was a dumb kid, like every other idiot Marine who goes through basic and starts calling himself a trained killer . But yeah, that’s right, although I’m real curious how you found out about my actual birthday and my real name.” 

“Negative, Shadow Actual, that’s classified.” Makarov’s eyes flicker to his dog tags, lower to his tight stomach, back up again. He doesn’t look quite so cold anymore, and Graves feels the heat of that look like a caress, skin prickling. “My date of birth is on my Interpol listing, you realize.” 

“Yes, of course, I memorize all the top baddies' information like they’re Pokemon stats,” Graves says, words slightly muffled by the sweatshirt as he pulls it on. He’s not surprised Makarov doesn’t get that reference, either – maybe he should spend more time on Internet memes and less on terrorism. The world would be a safer place, and he’d appreciate Graves’s quippy one-liners. Everyone wins.

Before he can ask for the information again, Makarov rummages through a bag on the desk and tosses something at him. Graves catches it reflexively, glancing down. It’s a phone, and when he presses it, the screen lights up. It’s nothing fancy, and all of the names for the apps are in Russian, but the little wi-fi icon is lit up, and there’s even a service indicator. 

He looks at Makarov, brows raised. “Want me to call Interpol and ask?” 

“ Thank you in Russian is pronounced spasibo .” 

That gets a snort of laughter from him, and he shakes his head. “You really want me to look up Interpol’s website on here?” 

“If they were that competent, I’d be back in prison,” is Makarov’s answer, so Graves does as bidden and navigates to the Interpol website. 

“First time I’ve googled someone on this list who’s right in front of me,” Graves says, and finds Makarov’s entry under the Red Notices section. “October fourth, and you’re forty-three. Also, why are you shirtless in this picture? Is that why you look like you wanna murder whoever took it?” 

“I did want to murder whoever took it, I was in prison,” Makarov says. Looking at him there, dressed down and leaning against the desk, he seems like a different person than the man in the photograph. “And I was stripped, that’s why I wasn’t wearing a shirt.” 

He says it in a very offhand manner and without any particular expression, but Graves hears the harsher edges of his English and figures he probably hated that lack of control, which he seems to crave like air in a way that seems far above and beyond even being a dom. He remembers seeing that knife tattoo when he was on his knees, the one that looks like it went through Makarov’s neck. He taps it with his finger. “What’s that one mean, the tattoo of the knife? They all mean something, right? Or is that your version of choosing the thirteenth for your birthday ‘cause it sounds edgy as fuck?” 

“It means I killed someone in prison,” Makarov says, as easily as he asked if Graves wanted a bottle of water in the car, earlier. 

Graves sort of wants to ask, but he doesn’t, because they are still going to go back to opposite sides of an ideological divide after this and Makarov has to know that Graves absolutely will report back the intel he’s learned here to the appropriate people. Those being the people who haven’t fucked him over, obviously. He reads through the laundry list of Makarov’s crimes, suddenly curious as to if he has one – maybe not Interpol, but at least the FBI, right? He wants to know but he doesn’t, because his blood might boil if he sees suspected domestic terrorist when he is a goddamn fucking patriot. That he’s in fucking Russia and fucking a Russian is because he was set up, not because he would have chosen it. 

“Graves.” 

The dominance in Makarov’s tone gets his attention immediately. He looks up from the phone. “Yeah?” 

Now Makarov does look like his photograph on the wanted list, or at least, his eyes look the same – cold, empty, like the man who’d just said maybe I prefer you messy, is nowhere to be seen. He does that so easily, Graves is both a little scared, a little turned on, and more than a little impressed. 

“I do not deal with betrayal like John Price or your military,” he says, and Graves tries not to shiver at the cold threat in that simple statement. “There’s no prison sentence, no hearing, no convention whose rules I am bound to follow. There’s only one way it ends, do you understand?” 

Graves gets it, then – the phone is for him. He has a way of communicating with the world, he has a weapon, and he’s about to have his gear returned to him. He nods, mimics a gun with his right hand and taps two fingers to chest twice, then puts his fingers next to his temple and mimics firing once. 

Two to the body, one to the head. That’s how you make sure the target is down for good. 

Makarov nods. “Good. Then we’re clear.” 

Graves slips the phone in the pocket of his borrowed joggers. “Crystal, comrade.” He wonders if it’s being settled or if he’s just fucked up, because he feels incredibly warmed by being trusted and that can’t mean anything good. He can kneel for Makarov, he can want to be fucked hard and get out of his head for a bit, hell, he’ll do that shit with the gun anytime Makarov wants but he won’t be this man’s soldier. He can’t be. 

Because when this is done, when Shepherd is nothing but a lump of cold flesh in a morgue’s meat locker and Graves’s reputation is restored, he’ll be right back at it – fighting the good fight with the heroes, not skulking around mobster’s houses and going to parties with the villain. He has to remember that when they go back to their sides of the ideological line that divides them, Makarov isn’t a hot dom with tattoos he wants to lick and a voice that makes him shiver whispering threats in his ears – he’s a fucking wanted terrorist who needs to be stopped, and it very well might be Graves and his Shadows that are tasked to stop him. 

Makarov goes ahead and says the quiet part out loud. “At some point it will occur to you, maybe, that killing me might be more effective than Shepherd when it comes to clearing your name.” 

Graves doesn’t bother putting his boots back on, just picks them up and slings them over his shoulder by the laces, suit bag draped over his arm. “I know you don’t think much of my smarts, comrade, but I thought about that the second you gave me a gun. Tempting, but I know how that shit plays out. Shepherd gets the credit and a medal and I’m pushing up fucking daisies from six feet under. No fucking thank you.” 

“You could still end up dead some other way,” Makarov says, the cheerful motherfucker. 

“Thanks, but I figured that out real quick back when I joined the fuckin’ Marines, comrade. It ain’t the thought of being dead that’s pissing me off, it’s the idea of it being Shepherd I can’t fucking stand.” 

“I think you don’t want to be dead, either.” 

“I mean, no, but trust me. I’d rather you kill me than Shepherd ,” Graves says, spitting out the name like it’s rotten fruit. 

Makarov smiles at him, slow and a little wicked and once again, Graves is left with a vague feeling of whiplash and a half-hard cock. “At least you’d enjoy it, is that what you mean?” 

“No,” Graves says, emphatically. Maybe a little too emphatically. “ No. The point is that I hate him that much, hell, I’d let Price finish me off before — mmph.” 

Makarov slams a hand over his mouth, eyes glinting. “No one gets the pleasure of killing you but me, Graves. Vy ponimayete menya?” 

He knows that one – do you understand me? – and he also knows that he’s hard now, fully, and if he wasn’t holding his boots and a suit bag he might have gone to his knees just because of how hot that was. Fucked up, yeah, but still hot. “Da, ser. Ya ponimayu.” 

Yes, sir. I understand. 

Worth it for the flash of heat he sees when he says it in Russian, and maybe that should bother him, too, but it doesn’t. A lot of things should probably be bothering him that aren’t, but Graves leaves the room and heads to the master suite – PVC hot tub, round bed and all – to get ready, marble floors cold on his socked feet, the piped-in music following him on his way. 

The tune is something he knows well enough to whistle along with the melody, but not well enough to know the name of it. If he were in a mood for self-reflection, he’d maybe think about that, how it’s a metaphor for how he ended up in this situation in the first place. That he sort of has a tendency to think he knows everything because he can, metaphorically speaking, hum the tune when he hears it…despite missing a lot of crucial information like who composed it, or what’s it called or who sent the intel that nearly got me killed and branded me a traitor? 

But he’s not in that mood, so the only self-reflection he gets is his own, starfishing on the round bed, upside down on the mirrored ceiling. 

It’s not particularly meaningful, but it is funny.  

Chapter Text

“Well,” Graves says, breathing hard, squinting as he aims the sight of the pistol out the shattered remains of the back window. He fires twice – once at the driver, once at the tire – and ducks down again when a bullet whizzes through the car and shatters what’s left of the front window. “At least we didn’t do this back at the party. That house had way too many windows.”

Makarov shouts something at Andrei, who is driving what’s basically a bunch of broken glass and two flat tires that used to be a car, and Andrei gives a shout and a wild bark of laughter that is probably a stress response as he jerks the wheel hard and throws on the brakes. It makes their pursuers fly by, and Makarov and Graves both pop up from the back and take shots like a deranged carnival shooter game.

One of the cars screeches off the road ahead, but the other seems to realize they’ve passed their quarry and they try to turn around. Clearly they’re not used to high speed pursuits, as their attempt to make the world’s fastest u-turn sends them spinning out of control and crashing into a post.

 “Suka,” Makarov swears, under his breath, scanning the road. He looks pissed. “Someone’s paying for this.”

“You’re hard on a fleet of vehicles,” Graves answers, breathing hard, adrenaline racing as he, too, waits with his weapon drawn for any sign of company.

The party did not go as planned.

It started out fine. They arrived, Graves noted with amusement how most of the people there were too afraid of Makarov to speak to either of them, but they also didn’t want to turn their backs on Makarov, either, so there were a lot of situations in which they’d walk into a room and people would rotate like Christmas trees on a motorized base or something – it was pretty funny. The house looked like one of those for-profit online universities where you bought a degree, or the headquarters for an essential oil MLM – all glass windows and concrete outside, harsh white lights and industrial fixtures on the inside.  

Gregori and Anushka Petrov were oligarchs who made a lot of money in banking after the fall of the Soviet Union, and were apparently the People You Spoke To ™ when you needed something, or someone, moved in or out of a secure location. They used their money to bribe various officials, from people in airport security to the passport offices to weigh stations on the roads. Makarov hadn’t gone into extensive details about why he knew this or what he might have contacted them for in the past, which was fine – Graves really didn’t want to know, anyway. But he was also trying to find out if the Petrovs were trying to play both sides, as in, doing favors for Makarov – for which they were very well compensated – and simultaneously aware they could make better money, and better friends, by turning in a wanted man.

Apparently they’d decided to go for the latter, because Petrov had wanted to “speak to” Makarov in his office, privately, and all of the alarm bells went off in Graves’s head. Makarov pulled him aside and murmured you have execute authority when he’d followed Petrov into his office, and Graves had easily charmed a champagne server into showing him how to get outside to the garden. Then he’d found a spot by a hedge, watched the meeting for about two minutes until he saw the red dot from across the yard, luckily visible in the foggy night air. He dropped the shooter and told Makarov via a hidden comms link, who kept Petrov in his office talking while Graves went back inside and started a long, boring conversation with Anushka that she was clearly wishing she could end. While he was doing that, the plan was for Andrei and Piotr to sweep the grounds and take out any remaining hired goons.

That was what was supposed to happen, but a harried-looking young man came up to Anushka and said something Graves couldn’t catch with a nervous look his way, and Graves gave a tight smile and quickly spoke into his comm, think they found the tangoes, comrade .

A single gunshot, then Makarov walked out of the office with a pistol in his hand and murder flashing in his dark eyes, and ignoring the crowd of people shouting and running in all directions, he simply lifted the pistol and shot Anushka Petrov right in the head without a word. She crumpled like a rag doll, and Graves turned to say something and saw another guest going for a gun with a shaking hand.

They’d probably miss and shoot themselves in the foot before actually dropping Makarov, but Graves had his own gun out and sighted in seconds. “Nobody needs a bloodbath, pal. Slide that over to me on the floor, real slow, or I’ll show you why we Americans like our guns so much.”

He wasn’t sure if the man followed his English, but he slid the gun over all the same and no one else seemed inclined to try anything similar.

Makarov gave the room a cold stare, turning in a slow circle to look at the faces of the guests who hadn’t run off. Graves couldn’t get a lot of what he was saying, but his voice was so full of dominance that the young man who’d spoken to Anushka went to his knees, and Graves felt a phantom ache in his own, an echo of that desire ringing through him like a bell. Whatever Makarov was saying was clearly making the people there scared, and Graves had about two seconds where he felt like a real piece of shit for being slightly jealous of how they were being threatened and he wasn’t.

Then the universe proved that the saying be careful what you wish for is a real thing, because there were shouts and headlights beyond the wall of glass windows -- someone had called in backup.

“Who did this?” Makarov snapped, slowly enough that Graves could translate the Russian. 

No one answered, but they really didn’t need to. Graves knew who it was, and he said, “Him, probably,” and nodded at the young assistant who was kneeling and trying to look like a piece of furniture.

Makarov did a little jerk of his head, and Graves shot the assistant without a word as he followed him out of the room, Makarov issuing orders to Andrei they were ready for exfil.

The gun fight in the car was unexpected, if only because the sort of goons the Petrovs hired usually didn’t go out of their way to kill off someone if their employers were already dead.  

Maybe they thought they could get paid twice if they got Makarov and Graves, but they seem to have given up because the only thing on the road now is fog and some various pieces of several cars, the smell of burning rubber and sulfur. Andrei is on the phone, likely calling for a new car, and Makarov is staring into the dark, smoking, standing by the smoldering remains of the vehicle they’ve exited.

Graves walks over, gun still in hand, checks his magazine. Makarov hands him a smoke and Graves puts it in his mouth, leaning in for the lit match that fizzles before he can light it. Instead of striking another, Makarov grabs him by the back of the neck and pulls him close, so that Graves can light his cigarette off Makarov’s.

“Fuck,” Graves says, around a mouthful of smoke, and then – his adrenaline is still amped up to eleven so he doesn’t think about what he’s going to do, just inhales again, fills his lungs and grabs Makarov, kissing him and shotgunning the smoke into his mouth like he’d thought about before.

Makarov kisses him back, maybe just as caught up in the rush from that gunfight as Graves or maybe he really wants the nicotine that bad, either way it’s hot as fuck. They pull apart when headlights break through the foggy haze covering the road, and Makarov looks briefly, uncharacteristically rattled as he runs a hand through his hair, but by the time the car comes to a stop, he seems mostly normal, looking a little sinister in the light thrown on the asphalt by the headlights as he speaks to Piotr, who brought them a car to return to the safehouse. 

Andrei comes over and nods at him. Graves smiles, gives him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “That was some damn fine driving.” 

Andrei’s mouth eases into something that is maybe the world’s smallest smile but is, still, a smile. “Spasibo, prizrak. That is – ah. Shadow. Close enough. Good job with the shooting.” 

Well, well. Look at that! He got himself a nickname. Kinda. He’s been a soldier long enough to know that’s significant, anyway, and it should maybe not make him happy – these are still the bad guys, or will be, once they’re done with Shepherd – but it does. It’s nice to be appreciated. “Thanks.” 

Makarov gives Piotr a pat on the shoulder and comes over to where Graves is standing with Andrei. They have a conversation that seems to be a mix of are you all right and a logistical discussion of the mess back at the party and how best to see who’d sent the goons after them. 

Two more cars show up, both driven by Makarov’s men, and Makarov jerks his head toward one of the vehicles when a man gets out and leaves it running with the keys in the ignition, a clear indication that Graves should follow. He does – Makarov’s brimming with some strange energy he can’t quite place, but it’s almost addictive, he couldn’t do anything else but obey even if he didn’t want to. 

This is only the second time he’s been in a car with Makarov driving, and it’s a bit different from their quick return to the compound in the mountains.  The road is flatter, for one, and Makarov drives fast, too fast, gloved hand shifting gears and some song blaring on the speakers that’s loud and all in Russian. 

Graves’s eyes are fixed on Makarov’s fingers, clad in black leather, curled around the gear shaft. Every time he switches gears, Graves’s cock twitches, growing harder by the second. He should probably ask something about what just happened, or the plan, or if they learned anything – instead, he feels like he can’t look away from Makarov driving the car, the music a pounding echo, thrumming through him like a heartbeat. 

When he finds it impossibly hard to look up to meet Makarov’s gaze, he realizes he’s half-under. Great. He’s so into this stupid asshole, he’s domming him into subspace by his driving. 

Graves slumps briefly in his seat, staring up at the ceiling of the car. “I appreciate your help with Golden Fucking Eagle, but I do not appreciate you making me realize how fucked up I am.” 

He’s not even sure he says that loud enough to be heard over the music, but Makarov gives a little huff of a laugh, so, yeah, apparently he did. Whatever, it’s fine, it’s not like it’s not true. 

Makarov says nothing until he pulls the car up to the safehouse – the Purple Palace, as Graves is calling it in his head – and then he throws the car in park, and suddenly he’s all over Graves. He practically drags him across the center console by the lapel, kissing him with far more intensity than he ever has, like he’s trying to win an argument or prove a point or maybe, possibly, kill him dead with how hot he’s being. 

“What the fuck got you so wound up?” Graves asks, practically panting when Makarov pulls away. 

The only answer he gets to that is a sinister little smile that gets him going, and then Makarov turns the engine over and Graves gets out of the car, dazed from the sudden passionate kiss and the inevitable, post gunfight adrenaline crash. Makarov is acting incredibly weird, like a panther at the zoo who just got the zoomies after it ripped out the zookeeper’s throat. He goes right up the stairs to the hideous master suite, and Graves is barely through the door before he’s grabbed, again, this time by Makarov’s leather-clad hands on his face. 

“What the fuck, comrade,” Graves asks, trying to focus. “Also, ease up on the dominance, I get it.” His knees ache, and he’s having a hard time standing up, Makarov’s dominance bleeding so strongly it’s like he can feel it on his skin.

“You were so good for me,” Makarov says, in a voice that he’s never once used with Graves and which goes directly to his cock and whatever part of his brain is in charge of his alignment, a bullseye hit if there ever was one. 

“The fuck,” is Graves’s answer, because he’s suddenly very sure he shouldn’t ask for clarification, should take the win or whatever’s on offer here and let it be. Of course he doesn’t do that, though, because that’s simply not who he is as a person. “You’re this heated because I stopped an assassin from dropping you?” 

Makarov pulls him in and kisses him, biting at his mouth. “Among other things.” His hands are pushing at the jacket of Graves’s suit, and he’s brimming with energy, dominance and something else that’s almost just as addictive but Graves can’t quite figure out what it is, yet. 

Graves kisses him back, lets him get the suit jacket off him and when he tries to do the same, Makarov makes a warning sound and shoves at him, so he doesn’t. His thoughts are stormy, a swirl of confusion and lust and the urge to submit, it’s hard to separate any one of those things from the other. “Okay, yeah, great,” he says, dazed, because Makarov is stripping him, kissing him and rubbing a hand over his hard cock with the same sort of precision and focus he’d used when shooting out of the back of a car. 

It’s hot as fuck, and Graves isn’t going to stop him for a conversation about what exactly he did that was so great – he’d been pretty sure the whole evening was a fucking disaster – so he helps Makarov get his shirt off and pulls him in for a biting kiss of his own. “Gunfights really get you hot, huh.” He gets that, absolutely. Most everyone he knows would admit to the same, at least to each other. 

“Da, but it isn’t really the gunfights,” Makarov says, and takes Graves’s face in his hands again. His eyes look wild, burning like an oil fire, and his voice is so rough it makes Graves visibly shiver. “It’s loyalty .” 

It finally strikes Graves what the other thing is that’s working on him like a drug – not Makarov’s dominance, though there’s that, too, but it’s his approval. He’s so pleased with Graves it’s like a physical touch. 

Graves is a lot of things, but he’s a damn good soldier and he always has been. His commanding officers praised him for his tactical thinking, his natural athleticism, his marksmanship and even his shit-talking when it was appropriate. Not once, not once, did it ever make him feel like this. 

Not even with Shepherd, who absolutely used his dominance on Graves whenever he thought he needed to. It mostly just annoyed him, grating on his nerves like sandpaper, because it was unnecessary – he didn’t need to be dommed into loving America, thanks. He needed Shepherd’s permission to act accordingly, and that he got by being smart and having a damn good PMC, not because he was a sub. 

Makarov being pleased with him is the best fucking thing he’s ever felt, second only to when he came with his gun in his mouth. 

“I’d be pissed if I agreed to this and you ended up shot in someone’s office by a sniper in the woods,” is what Graves says, blinking. Makarov is doing a fucking number on him. 

“Yes, I know. That was a good shot, cowboy, but it’s not what I meant.” Makarov drops his hands, shrugging out of his own suit jacket and making short work of his shirt, hands bare of the gloves, tattooed fingers deftly undoing buttons as he shrugs it off. “The man you shot. The one who called for backup.” 

Who? Oh, right – what’s-her-name’s assistant. Graves isn’t sure why that’s got him so wound up more than the assassin, who had an actual gun sighted on him, but he’ll think about that later. Right now, Makarov is pressed up against him again, all warm, tattooed bare skin and his mouth is against Graves’s ear, and he’s saying, “Now, be a good boy and kneel for me,” and that’s all just a little too much. 

He’s on his knees before he can really think about it, breathing too fast and too loud, staring at the floor with his hands crossed at the wrists behind his back. 

“Posmotri na menya, mal'chik,” Makarov says, and then, when Graves doesn’t do anything but pant at the floor, adds, “Ya, znayu, ty ponimayesh', Graves.” 

Look at me, boy. I know you understand, Graves. 

Graves looks up. Makarov is standing there, breathing just as hard, cock visibly hard in his trousers, staring at Graves like Graves just brought him Shepherd and Price’s head on a goddamn platinum platter. Makarov rubs his thumb over Graves’s bottom lip, briefly, then hooks the inside of his cheek and pulls. 

It should feel silly, like a fish hook on a line being hauled into a boat, but somehow, it’s sexy as hell even though he’s drooling and it hurts a little more than he’d like. Makarov’s fingers don’t taste like gunpowder but he sort of wishes they did. He’s not crawling but he’s moving on his knees, unable to do anything else as Makarov walks backward until he runs up against the edge of the bed. Eventually, he takes his wet fingers from Graves mouth, hums in approval and drags them not over his cheek, but his throat, which Graves tilts his chin to bare to him and that gets another flash of heat from Makarov, who says something under his breath in Russian that Graves is pretty sure is a curse. 

“Want my mouth on you?” he asks, his own voice harsh with desire. “I can take it rough.” 

“Mm, I bet you can, cowboy. And no. I want to fuck you.” Makarov’s hand settles tight around his throat, squeezing a little, just to get his attention. “Do you want it?” 

“Jesus fucking Christ, yeah,” Graves says, blinking up at him. He puts his submission into his voice – what the hell, why not – and grins wildly up at him. “I can take that rough, too, comrade.” 

Makarov hauls him to his feet with that same grip, which does make him choke a bit until he gets his footing. “And I can give it to you rough, too, cowboy.” With that, he forces his fingers into Graves’s mouth one more time to open it, leans in and spits right on his tongue. “Swallow.” 

Graves does, and he’s not quite sure he believes this but he’s half-under from foreplay, and it’s not even really foreplay, it’s mostly just Makarov shoving him around and calling him a good boy and oh, hell, that probably is foreplay, isn’t it, when you mix submission with sex? Fucking hell. 

“You really gonna do this on this bed with a mirrored ceiling?” Graves asks, sitting on the edge of the bed to take off the rest of his clothes while Makarov rummages around for something in the bedside table, which, the decor sucks but how nice of the former owners to leave an unopened bottle of lube, that’s improving his rating for this particular safehouse for sure. Graves looks up at the ceiling, sees their reflections – himself, naked and turned on, Makarov the same, all those tattoos on display, staring at Graves like he wants to fucking ruin him and okay, maybe the mirrors can stay. 

The bed, though – 

“I don’t care,” is what Makarov says, and then he’s shoving Graves back on the bed and climbing naked on top of him. The comforter is fuzzy and too hot, but there’s a lot of skin against his own and a cock against his own, just as hard, and fuck the decor, this is definitely more important. 

Graves reaches up to grab at his shoulders, remembers at the last second to tack on a hurried, “Can I?” 

Makarov is biting bruises into his neck, and it’s entirely wild how a man who’s usually so composed and cold is pinning him down and rutting against him, biting his neck like he’s trying to tear out his throat. “Da.” 

He’s in good shape, Makarov, maybe a little thinner than he was before prison, lending a sharpness to his lean, muscular physique that makes Graves think about knives and machetes, serrated blades, jagged things that tear and make you bleed out slow and terrible. Graves gets his hands on him and submitting during sex might be a new experience in some ways, but he’s a little more familiar with fucking than kneeling, thank god. 

Graves is always happy to switch it up in bed regardless of his partner’s alignment – fuck, be fucked, both, neither, whatever –  but it doesn’t even occur to him to ask in this case. He wants Makarov to fuck him out of his head, quiet that lingering whisper of a thought that says he should be a lot more worried about how happy Makarov is with him – and why – than he is. 

Makarov is saying something, and Graves is torn between telling him ( asking him ) to speak in English or translate, because he likes the way the Russian sounds in his voice, rough and heated. And maybe it’s better not to know. He pushes up on his elbows, looking down at him, and Graves can see in the mirrored reflection above the snarling wolf tattoo on his back, watches as he runs his fingers over it. “You’re so hot, it's so fucking annoying.” 

Makarov makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a warning growl, kissing him again. “The feeling is mutual, cowboy.” His accent is heavier than usual, which is also attractive, as is the slick slide of his hard cock, the way his muscles tense as Graves rubs his hands up and down his back like he’s trying to – fuck, he doesn’t know. Just get his hands on him, maybe. 

It’s been a hot minute since he’s done this, but he doesn’t tell Makarov to slow down when he gets the lube and kneels between Graves’s spread legs, slicking up his cock, face flushed and breathing like he just ran a marathon. As much as he likes being able to look up at the ceiling and as good as it feels for his alignment being on his back, he shifts so he’s on his hands and knees, figuring this will be easier to get what they both want. 

Makarov isn’t gentle and Graves doesn’t expect, or want, that – but he is careful when he gets his cock where it needs to be and presses in, the same way he was with the bondage rope when he made sure it wasn’t too tight on Graves’s extremities. He’s got one hand on the back of Graves’s neck, steading him while he says, “Good, that’s good, take it,” and his other hand wraps around Graves’s cock, giving him a rush of pure pleasure as the sharp pain of his cock switches to a deep, full pressure that’s just on the edge of feeling fucking great. 

Graves pushes back, wanting it hard and fast, hands shaking and slipping on the faux-fur bedding beneath him as he struggles to take it all. Makarov slaps him on the flank and says, “Take what I give you,” in a voice sharp with censure. 

Graves makes an annoyed, frustrated sound into the bedding and says, “Then give it to me like you promised, comrade, come on ,” and the smack on his flank is harder this time, but then there’s a hand on his cock again so that’s fine. He’s used to doing this sort of thing with a little more lead up and a lot more preliminaries, but they skipped all of those (or they’re counting the gunfight as the foreplay, why not) so it helps to have something to thrust into while he adjusts to the slow push-and-pull of Makarov’s cock inside of him. 

When he finally starts actually fucking Graves, it’s intense and rough and messy – the stupid bedding is bunched up uncomfortably beneath him, his fingers are pulling bits of the fake fur out and he’s also breathing some of them in since his face is pressed against the bed, hips canted up. “Fuck me, come on, what’s the hold-up, here?” 

A strong grip in his hair, pulling his head up – and Makarov is suddenly right there, pressed up against his back with his cock buried to the hilt, his voice a ruin in Graves’s ear. “I like hearing you beg me for it.” 

Graves is way too far gone to care about that. “Sure, great, fuck me, please and thank you – mmph.” His face is summarily shoved into the bedding and then pulled away again, Makarov should be doing that with his cock, what the fuck, not Graves’s hair . 

“Skazhi po russki,” Makarov says, and bites his ear. “Ty znayesh', chto ya khochu uslyshat'.” 

Say it in Russian. You know what I want to hear. 

Graves takes a breath, happy it’s not filled with pieces of purple fake fur, and tries to make the Russian words sound halfway correct. “Pozhaluysta, trakhni menya, i sil'no, pozhaluysta, i spasibo, ublyudok.” 

Please fuck me, and fuck me hard, please and thank you, motherfucker.

The last gets a huff of a laugh, and a bite on his shoulder. “I should have shot you when I had the chance.” 

That gets him hot, of course, Graves is so fucked up. He moans, rutting into Makarov’s hand, or trying as best he can for something. Makarov’s cock is hot and hard inside him and his hand is a little too tight on Graves’s dick and he’s not moving either. It’s infuriating. “I mean, yeah, probably,” he says. “But right now you should be fucking me.” 

“If that’s how you think you ask nicely,” Makarov says, biting the back of his neck, hard enough that Graves bucks under him and kicks at the bed. 

“Comrade, if you wanted nice, you wouldn’t be in bed with me, and you can take that any way you want, literally, figuratively, just fuck me already, please, sir, ” Graves manages, and if the first part of that gets Makarov shoving his face in the bedding again, the sir must mollify him enough to finally start fucking Graves as hard as they both want. 

It hurts until it doesn’t, and the switch happens so fast that Graves can’t hold back the filthy moan when Makarov hits him perfect and those sparks of discomfort turn into flashes of spine-tingling pleasure. He gets his hands steady to push up and back, and Makarov’s answering hiss as Graves goes tighter around him and fucks himself on Makarov’s cock is viscerally arousing. The hand on his cock works in time with the cock dragging over his prostate, and Graves is close way faster than he should be, when it’s like this. 

Makarov pulls out abruptly, which gets a whine out of Graves that he will deny until his dying day, but then he’s being manhandled around until he’s on his back again. Makarov smacks him on the thigh in clear command, and Graves does it without needing the words, feeling the dominance now just as strongly as the lust. When Makarov pushes back inside him, there’s not a single flash of pain, just the good kind of pressure and the shuddery-good feeling when his cock rubs against his prostate. It would probably be a lot better for his well-being – not to mention his mental health – if the sex wasn’t this goddamn good, but it’s impossible right now for him to care about anything but the orgasm building at the base of his spine. 

Makarov is staring down at him with those burning dark eyes, nothing cold about him now, fucking him so hard the comforter is slipping. Graves has his legs tight around Makarov’s narrow hips and they’re both panting, skin sweat-dampened, and Makarov’s speaking in a mix of Russian and English, it’s hard to tell which is which with his voice as rough as it is, and Graves fucking loves it even if he really can’t tell what it is he’s saying. 

“Ah, fuck, yeah,” he moans, when Makarov slides those tattooed fingers around his neck. “Goddamn you really are giving it to me good. Fuck me just like this, bent over Shepherd’s desk, after you put one between his eyes.” 

Makarov smiles, slow and so fucking menacing that Graves almost comes all over them both. “After? That’s uninspired.” He tightens his fingers around Graves’s neck slightly and immediately eases up, like he’s teasing. “I expected you to say during .” 

“Fuck,” is Graves’s brilliant response to that, because it’s…hot, and it shouldn’t be, but he doesn’t care. He also absolutely believes Makarov could drop a man while fucking someone, and he wants to grab his cock and come right now, but instead he decides maybe Makarov’s earned a little something for being so fucking good at this. 

Graves tilts his chin back so he’s baring his throat, and instead of grabbing his cock or even Makarov, he crosses his wrists and puts them over his head. He catches his own reflection in the mirrors above, and he’d be appalled at how slutty, how submissive , he looks if not for the reaction he gets. Makarov clearly likes it, fucking him harder, and now the pleasure is taking on that certain twinge of near-pain that sets his teeth on edge and means he’s real fucking close to coming. 

“Snachala sprosi menya,” Makarov bites out, hand on his neck tightening, and Graves has no idea how he’s going to ask anything when he can’t take a breath enough to speak. 

That’s fine. He doesn’t need to breathe, he just needs to come, but he can’t unless he asks and he can’t ask unless he can breathe, and he also doesn’t want the choking to stop because it’s really doing it for him and he knows just how good it’s going to feel when he is allowed to come. Makarov’s wild-eyed and practically trying to fuck him through the mattress to whatever tacky room is below this one, and Graves wonders briefly if he’s even aware how hard he’s choking Graves, or how Graves can’t ask anything until he eases up. 

He almost taps Makarov’s wrist, but he doesn’t, because the thought what if he just doesn’t stop hits at whatever mental hard-on he has for fear, and he’s shaking, can feel the tremble in his thighs wrapped tight around Makarov’s hips and in the arms stretched above his head, thrashing a bit but still not trying to make it stop. 

Makarov shifts suddenly, tapping the side of his face with the hand not choking him, and Graves looks at him, face red and spots dancing at the edges of his vision, but he still doesn’t say anything. Just a little more. It’s too fucking good, he’s never found anyone to do this to him before where he’s actually scared . 

“O da, ty mog by byt' moim, ne tak li?” Makarov says, softly, and Graves knows it’s a question of some kind by the inflection, but the roaring in his ears is too loud for him to make out whatever the question is , or even if he knows enough Russian to translate it. 

It doesn’t matter, because just as he starts to really panic and thrash – Makarov moaning since it makes him so impossibly tight around his cock – he half-snarls at him, “Do what I told you,” and takes his hand away. 

Graves can either fill his lungs with air to breathe or ask to come, and it’s no contest of which he picks. “Pridi ko mne, pozhaluysta, seychas –” 

It’s the right words, maybe, or maybe not, and it’s all in the wrong order but it’s good enough. Makarov nods and says, in English. “Come for me just like you shot that man because I told you to,” and Graves can do nothing other than obey. He comes so hard it feels like he’s being choked again, pleasure whitening out his thoughts and his vision both, and the sound he makes is probably very unattractive given it’s some sort of hybrid gasp-choke-moan-cry-cough thing that isn’t sexy in the least. It goes on for what feels like an eternity, calves cramping from how tense his muscles were before relaxing. 

Just like before, he’s under when the last of it pulses through him, adding to the mess on his stomach. He came untouched, which he’s never done before, and he smiles a little, stretching, blinking his eyes open to see Makarov still staring at him and fucking him hard. He slides his inked fingers up Graves’s stomach, and while Graves still can’t quite breathe like a normal person, he doesn’t protest when they’re pressed to his lips and he licks his own come off them like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. 

Fuck, he feels good. He’s a little overstimulated but that’s fine, he watches Makarov as he nears his own peak, and very easily bares his throat when Makarov pulls out abruptly, jacks his cock – and fuck, that’s hot to watch, Graves is going to go back to America with a fetish for tattooed fingers and the Russian language, great – and gets his knees on either side of Graves’s chest so he can come all over his bare throat. Makarov’s head tilts back slightly, eyes closed, mouth parted – he’s quieter than Graves when he finishes but he wasn’t being choked halfway to death, either. And it’s very hot to watch him open his eyes, to see his usual sharp, cold gaze all hazy and lust-blurry, chest rising and falling as he catches his breath. 

Makarov pats him on the side of the face. “That was very good, cowboy.” 

The praise makes him smile, and Graves turns his face into the touch, not even really aware that he did so. “Yeah. It was.” His voice sounds like he’s eaten glass. He stretches, forces himself not to close his eyes while he drifts, under and relaxed in subspace. “Thanks, comrade. You solid?” 

“Yes.” Makarov climbs off the bed and walks naked into the bathroom, Graves watching, feeling vaguely sticky and like he’s going to end up covered in that purple faux-fur like a second skin. He doesn’t do anything about any of this, because he doesn’t fucking have to, he’s the sub, here. 

Makarov comes back with a towel and wearing a pair of loose black sweats that are just a size too big for him, hanging low off his hips. He has a warm hand-towel and he looks for a moment as if he’s going to offer it to Graves, frowns over some internal monologue he’s having with himself, and then sits on the bed to do it himself. 

Graves yawns. He gets it. If he wasn’t in subspace, he’d want to clean himself, probably shower off instead of using a towel. “Just go with it.” 

Makarov cleans him off, looking quiet and almost relaxed, eyes sharp again, clear and alert. He doesn’t say anything while he gets the worst of it off, and when he’s done, Graves pushes himself up off the furry comforter and stretches, naked and sore and feeling pretty fucking pleased with himself. It’s difficult to remember why he was so adamant he’d never mix submission with sex, it’s great . 

Makarov pulls off the comforter with a look of pure disdain, tossing it to the floor. They both stare at what’s underneath – black silk sheets, or fake silk, since Graves is pretty sure nothing in this house is actually what it’s pretending to be. 

“Of course,” he says, patting the slick surface. “What else did you expect? Flannel?” 

Makarov snorts. Then, he laughs. It’s a real laugh, too, and for half a second, the briefest of moments – he doesn’t look like a scary villain trying to burn the world to ashes for whatever reason. He looks like a dom who just fucked a sub into a sweaty, panting mess on a circular bed with mirrors above it and a fake purple fur blanket hiding black fake silk sheets. Just a man, and maybe a hint of who that man might have been, if not for whatever made him into who he is in the first place. 

But it’s there and gone in a flash, so quickly Graves isn’t sure he saw anything at all. 

There’s nothing there to see, he tells himself, for all the good it will do, don’t get it confused. He’s a guy that fucks you good, it don’t make him a good guy, soldier. 

Graves has never denied he has blood on his hands. He doubts Makarov would ever bother, either, not when he inks his crimes like a tapestry of misdeeds on his skin. They have the same blood on their hands tonight, and Graves has to admit that when it comes right down to it – blood is blood, and it doesn’t really feel that different than it ever has.

Chapter Text

Graves wakes up to a blizzard. 

It’s half past ten, which is later than he’s slept in forever, but he wasn’t sure what time exactly he’d gone to bed and he did have quite a fucking day, so he’s too worried about it. Makarov isn’t there, but Graves woke up shortly before dawn, looked over and caught him sleeping just like an actual human. Granted, he was still as death itself and probably would wake up if Graves so much as breathed on him, but it still counted. 

His eyes were moving under his lids, though, which meant he was dreaming. In that quiet hushed bedroom before dawn, Graves wondered what sort of things Vladimir Makarov saw in his sleep. If it was blood on an office floor, burned rubber and broken glass on asphalt, prison walls, the earth swallowed by flames of his rage, whatever else. 

Graves on his knees, maybe, but if he’s dreaming about that, he better be reacting a little more or Graves is gonna be insulted as fuck. 

The room is freezing when he wakes up, there’s no fire in the fireplace and the sheets are actually silk, slippery and cold, and the fuzzy comforter is still bunched up on the floor. If this McMansion has central heating, it needs a serious upgrade. 

He gets out of the bed, whistling as he makes his way to the bathroom, hands rubbing together like he’s trying to spark a fire between his palms. The water heater isn’t a lazy bastard, thankfully, and he turns it on full blast and waits for the shower to start steaming before climbing in. The shower feels good on his sore muscles and it helps bring his temperature up to something less frigid than a popsicle. 

There’s clothing in the walk-in closet, along with what looks like two bags of money and a set of golf clubs that he’s almost positive have never seen a course and were used for some other kind of thing entirely. There’s a mess that looks like dried hair and blood on the driver, so yeah, definitely not taking these out for a few holes on a Sunday. 

He rummages through the illicit clothing, leftovers from the mobsters and some supplies that Piotr had brought along, and snorts quietly at the velour tracksuit, trying to imagine Makarov in it with some gold chains, a la Tony Soprano or some shit. The track suit is big enough for both of them and Ivan the dog, though. And even if it wasn’t, Graves doesn’t care how cold this place is, he’s not walking around in velour, thanks. 

He finds a pair of sweats and a plain dark blue t-shirt, then adds heavy wool socks and shoes because people keep showing up with guns and sometimes shooting at them, and he’d like to not go out in a Russian winter without boots, thanks.  

The last thing he grabs is a sweatshirt, which is black with a Spetsnaz logo – a black bat flying over what looks like a radar screen encased in an eye-blindingly yellow circle – and pulls it on, then goes back into the bedroom, intending to go find Makarov and coffee and some breakfast – and then he glances at the window. 

“What the fuck?” Graves storms over like the weather showed up just to fight him personally, glaring at the snow that has blanketed the yard and why is there so much? There was barely any snow when they got back! “Where – why ?” 

“Winter in Russia,” he hears, and he’s too mad at the thousand inches of sudden snow to care that he jumps from the surprise of Makarov’s voice behind him. 

“Well, it’s stupid, why didn’t anyone mention there was a fucking blizzard?” He turns to glare at Makarov. “My phone didn’t give me a weather alert.” 

Right as he says this, the door opens and Andrei comes in, carrying coffee and a sheaf of papers. He frowns. “There is weather that needs an alert?” 

“Uh, yeah?” Graves waves a hand at the window, indicating the tableau of frozen terror beyond. “The snow? Look how much more there is than yesterday!” 

“There was some snow yesterday,” Andrei says, looking between Graves and Makarov like he doesn’t quite understand. “Now there is more snow. It is winter, prizrak. This is how it works, yes?” 

“Graves would like to be notified ahead of time that the snow will be here,” Makarov says, like that’s somehow unreasonable. 

“You know this in the summer, that always winter comes,” says Andrei, nodding, and Graves bites back the urge to ask if he writes fortune cookie slips in his spare time. He doesn’t think Makarov is the type of boss to be all that forgiving of moonlighting, even if it does involve cookies. 

“Graves, do you also need an app to tell you when the sky will be blue, hmm? Or the sun will rise in the east?” Makarov smirks at him, but then he notices the sweatshirt and his eyes narrow slightly.  

“First? It’s called a weather app, it’s not witchcraft or rocket science. Second? I’m gonna bring you to Louisiana, comrade, and see how you handle a hundred percent humidity when it’s ninety-two and there ain’t a cloud in the sky. And that’s about thirty-six in your version of the weather, so.” Graves tries to imagine Makarov in the bayou, in linen pants and sandals, and absolutely can’t. Then again, it’s next to impossible to imagine himself there in that get-up, so. 

Makarov takes a mug of coffee and the sheaf of papers from under Andrei’s arm, and Graves startles a bit as Andrei hands the second cup to him . He’s aware that Andrei is something of a right-hand-man (a nicer term than he’d use, maybe, if they weren’t temporary allies) but that’s for Makarov, not him. 

“You don’t have to get me coffee,” Graves says, lifting it in a salute. “Thanks, though. Uh. Spasibo za kofe,” he says, trying it in Russian.  

Andrei winces just a bit, like Graves’s attempt at his mother tongue may physically pain him, but he wasn’t even trying to exaggerate his own accent this time. Graves takes a sip, surprised to find that it’s been sugared exactly as he likes it, a little less than half a teaspoon, just enough sweet under the bitter.   

Graves looks at Makarov, eyebrows raised. He assumes it was him who told Andrei how he likes his coffee. 

Makarov shrugs, barely looking up from whatever information Andrei brought him. “That’s how you make it every morning.” 

Graves has learned that Makarov is very detail-oriented as a person, but it’s somewhat of a surprise to learn he studies Graves’s coffee habits that closely. “Yeah, thanks.” 

It’s probably not that strange, considering Graves knows Makarov likes strong black tea with lemon and no sugar – all bitter with no sweet, just a bit of sour. Graves hides a smile in his first sip of coffee. 

Andrei leaves and Graves looks out the window at the snow again. It’s still coming down, which makes him shudder and feel vaguely nauseous, and he realizes that Makarov and the rest of his men are probably so used to it, they don’t notice how you can practically see yourself breathing in here. 

“There any firewood? Piles of papers you need to safely destroy?” Graves asks, bringing his coffee to the sofa and sprawling on it. “I’d suggest the furniture, particle board shit takes forever to start but it sure burns hot and it burns fast.”

Makarov looks over at him. “There’s central heating, just go turn it up if you’re cold.” 

“It kinda feels like I'm admitting defeat if I do that,” Graves says, but he’s going to, this is ridiculous. “Like turning on the air conditioner before July, yeah? Oh, wait, let me explain. Air conditioners are for places where –” 

“Graves,” Makarov says, eyes narrowed slightly as he sips his tea. The dominance in his voice is enough to make him quiet, but that’s only because he fucked him well enough last night to earn at least a little of Graves’s cooperation. 

Just a bit, as a treat. 

“Also, I’m guessing this is yours?” He plucks at the sweatshirt. At Makarov’s nod, he flashes his best, most irritating smarmy grin. “You don’t strike me as the merch type.” 

Makarov does that thing where he simply chooses to ignore him, and Graves takes it as a win. He adds, “I can’t help but think this is the lamest logo in the history of special forces.”

“What was it you said, about the house decoration?” Makarov’s dark eyes flash with amusement as he sips his tea. “Logos were not their passion?” 

That makes Graves laugh. “I can’t say ours is much better,” he admits, after a moment. “MARSOC anyway, it’s a skull and some stars. Typical bullshit. Less use of eye-catching yellow, though.” 

He settles with his coffee on the hideous sofa, which isn’t comfortable but that’s fine, the coffee is warming him up and he stacks his booted feet on the table and settles back, oddly relaxed. It’s the gunfight and the sex, and fine, the submission, but it’s strange enough that he notices. Graves isn’t a man who relaxes often, despite the easy-going swagger he projects. 

Oz told him once I’ve never seen anyone spend so much energy trying to look laid-back when they’re as type-A as you, boss. He would tell Oz that Makarov could give him a run for his money, but Makarov doesn’t really try to pretend to be less intense than he is. 

Graves sips his coffee, nodding at the papers. “Anything good in your morning intel?” 

“The Petrovs’ phone records.” 

Graves holds out a hand. “Want me to look through some?”

“Da, spasibo,” Makarov says, handing over some papers. “Make a note of the numbers that repeat.” He hands Graves a pen. 

“Sure thing.” Graves sets the coffee down and picks up the pen. The names are all in Cirilic, which makes it easier to focus on the numbers, and he scans a few pages to find the ones that repeat, then makes a quick key so he can easily reference them when asked. 

Makarov gets three phone calls while he’s trying to go over the list, so when he mutters, suka under his breath when the fourth one rolls in, Graves leans over and neatly takes the records from his hands. 

“I’m good at this shit, the hyperactive squirrel on cocaine thing is all an act,” Graves says, arranging the pages and marking them with his key.  

Makarov looks like he wants to argue, but all he says is, “If I thought you were useless, I wouldn’t have let you live.” 

Graves glances over at him, flutters his eyelashes. “Wow. Wow. Hang on, I might swoon from that compliment.” 

“You should. I’ve killed people who are probably more useful than you.” 

Graves grins, he can’t help it. “My pretty face and hot body saves me again, good to know that gym membership comes in handy.” 

Makarov gets another call and Graves goes back to his work, and when Makarov pockets his phone, he holds his hand out to Graves. “That was the last time I should be bothered, I can take the rest.”  

“Already done.” Graves’s voice is no longer teasing, all business, as he shows Makarov the simple key and how it corresponds to the numbers. “This one shows up the most,” he says, tapping it. “And this one, second.” 

Makarov’s eyes go ice-cold, like Graves spilled his coffee on the snow outside and it froze there. “Suka, ya dolzhen byl znat', chert voz'mi,” he snaps. 

Graves gives a low whistle, picking up his coffee again. “I know that first word, comrade, so somebody’s gonna be in a world of hurt, huh.” 

Makarov gets to his feet with a singular graceful movement, pulling out a cigarette like he would rather bite it in half than smoke it. “Milena,” he says, and for a second, Graves thinks that’s another Russian curse he doesn’t know. 

Then he puts it together. “Ah. Yeah. The financier?” 

“She was… approached …by Price’s royal minions and she gave up my location,” Makarov says, around his cigarette. “She’s not a soldier, but she cared more for her own financial security than her loyalty, and at the time, I foolishly let her live.” 

“Were you sweet on her, or what?” Graves asks, unsure he likes how it feels when he asks that. 

Makarov’s brows draw together. “What?” 

Maybe the expression doesn’t translate, but Graves doesn’t think that’s it. “Hey, now, comrade, I know the whole I don’t speak your language trick. You ain’t ever tired of tellin’ me how many languages you speak, yeah? So I’m pretty sure you know what that means.” 

“If you think my language skills include your bizarre American slang –” 

“You fucking her or not?” Graves interrupts. “And before you get mad, that’s a damn good reason for people to get pissed off. Pretty sure if I ever see Simon Riley again, he’s got a few knives with my name on them just ‘cause of MacTavish.” 

Honestly, Ghost should be sending him a thank-you card for that. Technically, he’s the reason they had all that bonding time, isn’t he? 

You’re welcome for the hot boyfriend-slash-submissive, where’s my cookie bouquet? 

Makarov squints at him. “No. She – tried, once, when I was first out of prison. I declined.” 

“Why?” 

Makarov looks as if he’s annoyed by the question, which means Graves is somewhat surprised when he actually answers it. “Why did she ask, or why did I decline?” 

“I mean, isn’t the answer to the first one kinda obvious?” Graves tilts his head. “She’s into you?” 

Makarov gives a snort. “I doubt that.” 

“Why? C’mon, sheltered rich girl and dangerous bad boy, it’s a fucking classic for a reason,” Graves points out. “There’s about four, five million pop songs about it, is it that hard to believe? You have too many tattoos not to get that, Makarov.” 

Makarov very suddenly fixes Graves in the center of his attention, which has been mostly on his phone calls and his paperwork that morning, reminding Graves of how he’d looked last night, shooting out of a busted window and later, on top of him in bed. “You assume people want to sleep with me more than is normal.” 

“Huh?” Graves has the distinct feeling they’re having two different conversations. “You just said she did want to sleep with you, though.” 

“It’s not because she wanted me, it’s because she wanted my protection.” Makarov shrugs. “I was in prison for four years while she ran Konni, which meant I wasn’t in the picture, not really, and now I am. She knows what I’m capable of, I killed her husband.”  

Graves blinks. “On purpose?” 

“Yes, Graves,” Makarov says, a thread of amusement in his chilly voice. “On purpose.” 

“Well, if she still worked with you, I guess she wasn’t too mad about it,” he says, shrugging. It seems sort of silly to make a fuss about it, that’s hardly the first – or last – person Makarov has killed. 

“She wasn’t, trust me. But it wasn’t necessary, as I told her, and I think she was relieved.” 

“She a dom?” Graves asks. Some doms like fucking other doms just for the inherent tension. Others found navigating the push-and-pull too tiresome to navigate. And then there were people like Graves, who tried their best to keep their alignment separate from sex – until they couldn’t, and ended up in bed with a terrorist. 

Well, he wasn’t a sheltered rich boy, but the pop songs weren’t wrong about the appeal of tattooed, dangerous bad boys, apparently. 

“Yes, but that isn’t why. Milena isn’t interested in a dangerous bad boy, Graves. She's interested in financial and personal security. Her offer was for that, nothing more, and I was barely hours out of prison. She wouldn’t have liked going to bed with me regardless, but especially not then.” 

A shiver of heat goes up his spine at that. “Guess she’s not as fucked in the head as I am, huh?” 

“No, but it isn’t that. It’s that I spent four years in prison, and if I fucked someone it wasn’t because I wanted them. Prison is very much like taking packs of wild dogs and letting them loose in a junkyard.” Makarov’s eyes go distant, cold. “The prisoners, the guards, all of them. Sex wasn’t because someone looked good on their knees, Graves.” 

Graves gets that. It was some combination of subtle dominance fighting and stress relief in the Marines, for him. He can see how that might be even more so, with so many people confined in one place. 

“Also, she’s not exactly as sheltered as you seem to think,” he continues, in a dry voice. “She knows what she’s doing, and her selling me out to Petrov is the same thing in the end as offering to go to bed with me. She thinks that’ll keep her safe from my…displeasure…in her inability to keep her fucking mouth shut.” 

Graves points at him. “So we’re clear, that’s not why I went to bed with you. I can protect myself.” 

Makarov pointedly does not mention that he found Graves in a ditch on the side of the road with nothing but a cracked helmet, a head injury, and a single bullet in a gun he was too dizzy to aim. “Yes, I know. You would have asked for it sooner if it was a manipulation tactic.” 

“I don’t think it would have occurred to me to try,” Graves says, and then realizes how that sounds when Makarov’s brows go up. “I mean, I guess dangerous tattooed bad guy does it for me ‘cause I think you’re hot,” – he can’t in good conscience refer to Makarov as a boy – “but I ain’t no honeypot and besides, you’re way too paranoid for that to work.” That makes him curious about something. “Is that your thing, then?” 

“Being paranoid?”

Graves finishes his – now cool since it’s the approximate temperature of the North Pole in here –  coffee in a single swallow, the remnants of the sugar a burst of sweetness on his tongue. “No. Threatening people. Mindfucking them.” 

Makarov smiles, very slowly, menace etched in every line of the expression and shining in those chilly eyes of his. “What do you think, cowboy?” 

Well, the coffee might have cooled but now Graves is heating up again, and he honestly has never been this into someone – it strikes him this is probably why he shouldn’t have spent so long denying himself and actually let himself submit to someone who wasn’t wanted by Interpol and several other international law enforcement agencies. 

Graves thinks about this. “I think you like control. Which is pretty obvious for a dom, but, yeah, you’re a little more feral for it than most.” 

Makarov shrugs one shoulder. He doesn’t look annoyed, but honestly, could he argue about that? 

“And you like bondage,” Graves continues, remembering the skill Makarov showed with the rope, how he knew the right tension to use, his familiarity in coiling the rope back into a neat bundle. “Or you like rope bondage, anyway. Otherwise you seem more like an honor bondage kinda guy. You know, stand in the corner with your arms behind your back for two hours and don’t speak, just because I said so. ” 

“What would I have to shove in your mouth to get you to do that?” 

Graves flashes a grin up at him. “All those flashy guns in your armory, comrade, prolly. Maybe a grenade or two.” 

Makarov shakes his head. “More guns, that is fine. A grenade puts me at risk, I don’t want to shut you up that bad.” 

“Secretly you like me running my mouth, I get it,” Graves says, and this feels…strangely comfortable, and maybe that’s the aftermath of trauma bonding (causing it more than experiencing it, but it still counts) and a gunfight car chase and sex, but it’s not awkward and he’s yet to feel anything but smug about last night. He’s never been bothered by much of a conscience, but it still seems a bit strange how easy they are in each other’s presence. 

Because Makarov seems relaxed, and Graves is settled enough to pay attention to someone else for once. He remembers how Makarov was so intense last night, not exactly passionate, more possessive, and how it’d been from his display of loyalty. “Your version of honor bondage is other people being loyal, yeah? Metaphorical rope or whatever.” 

“Most commanders want their soldiers to follow orders,” Makarov says, but inclines his head. “I take your meaning, and perhaps it’s something like that.” 

“I think you’d rather someone clip a leash to their collar and just offer you the lead, before you had to tell them to,” Graves says without thinking, the words pointed and sharp, hanging above them like a sword. 

Makarov’s cold eyes go liquid-hot, and the way he’s looking at Graves makes him inhale a sharp breath, but he doesn’t lower his gaze even a little. 

“Am I wrong?” he pushes, because he likes being right and he likes hearing he’s right, and yeah, with Makarov doing his best human-sniper-rifle-scope-stare, he’s definitely right. 

“No. You’re not wrong. Masha, she asked me if you fucked your Shadows.” 

That takes him aback and he blinks at the conversational shift, but maybe it’s not that shocking, he did just think of Makarov like a rifle.  Maybe that was the equivalent of a warning shot. “No, I don’t. Why’d she ask you that?” 

“She’s…amused at how you seem to think I’m sleeping with so many of my soldiers.” 

“I don’t, though,” Graves protests. “I asked about Andrei, and Milena, who isn’t your soldier. I didn’t even ask about anyone else!” 

“I think it’s more that people don’t typically…think of me that way,” Makarov says. 

“Well, yeah, you said most people are afraid of you, but you don’t mean your people, do you?” He tries to think about Piotr and Masha, the few others who seem to be around the most. He would say they seemed more respectful than fearful, but maybe not. 

“They know what I’m capable of and how I handle disloyalty.” Makarov’s mouth goes tight. “Which I thought Milena understood, but apparently not.” 

“And you even gave her a second chance?” Graves whistles. “People with money, man. They always think they can smooth everything over, like everyone rolls over and shows their belly if you flash enough cash around.” 

Makarov laughs, and it’s one of his very rare laughs that doesn’t sound cold or menacing. “That’s your entire country, Graves.” 

“Didn’t say it wasn’t,” Graves says, shrugging. “Money talks, sure, but that ain’t just in America, comrade. But it could have also bought her a new identity and somewhere else to live, yeah?” 

“Yes. It could have. If you want the truth, I assumed it would .” Makarov’s eyes narrow slightly. “It was the only consideration I was willing to give her, as she was no longer involved in my finances. But this is personal, so I will take care of it…personally.” 

Fuck, why is it so hot when he sounds like that? Hell, it was hot when Makarov had that chilly, threatening tone in his voice and he was talking to Graves about his own survival, he really is all kinds of fucked up. But this isn’t directed at him, so it’s fine. Graves tips his head back to rest on the back of the couch, looking up at Makarov (and if it’s showing his throat a little, what of it?) with his eyes half-closed. “Too bad Price’s guard dogs didn’t get a little trigger happy, or maybe you’d rather do it yourself.” 

“I’d rather it not be a problem. I’ll need her phone records to make certain, and to see who else she’s calling.” 

“Want me to ask Oz? Bet he could get those.” He can tell Makarov isn’t entirely sure if he does want the help or not, which makes sense. “Oz doesn’t like you, and he really hates that I’m working with you, but he hates Shepherd more.” At least, Graves is about ninety-nine-point-five percent sure of that. 

“Notice I’m not asking if you fucked him,” Makarov says. 

Graves laughs up at him. “Unless that is you asking. And the answer is yes, once, right after I met him. But that was it, ‘cause then I realized he was a better Shadow and a one-night-stand than anything else.” 

“You use so many words to answer questions.” 

Before Graves can explain that is literally due to his being born both an American and a Southerner, Makarov grabs his hair and tugs, pulling his head back even more, spine arching as he shifts with the forced change in posture. 

“If you want to show me your throat, then show it.” Makarov’s voice is sharp, and he draws the bare fingers of his other hand over Graves’s neck, and Graves feels it like it really is a knife kissing soft across his skin. 

“You wanna get on with it, stop being hot and let me call Oz,” is Graves’s response. His voice sounds rough, and he’s surprised to realize he’s half-hard and would not in the least mind going back to bed or getting on his knees again. This is ridiculous. 

Makarov is still staring down at him, one hand tight in his hair – Graves really needs to cut it, it’s longer than he usually wears it – and the other sliding up to tap two fingers on Graves’s mouth. Graves has the strangest sensation that Makarov would also rather go back to bed, or maybe he’s just a little too full of himself at the moment. 

“You’re distracting me, and I should probably kill you. I thought about it, the first night you knelt for me, when I had my pistol in your mouth. You were sleeping in my bed and I stood there, a gun at your head, and you didn’t even know I was there.” 

What the fuck? Graves can’t even get his thoughts together enough to say that, though, all he’s doing is thinking about being asleep in Makarov’s bed back in the mountains and Makarov there, weapon hot and pointed at Graves. 

“You like that, don’t you, cowboy?” Makarov says, in that low, heated voice that means he knows the answer and just wants to hear Graves admit out loud just how fucked up he is. 

Graves has to take a few breaths, and fuck it, what the hell – he’s here willingly (willingly enough , anyway), and it’s not like he’s going to act like some fucking blushing schoolboy about this. “Yeah. I mean, I like it and it scares the shit out of me, just like you knew it would when you told me. Why didn’t you do it?” 

Makarov is taking a little too long to answer this, which makes Graves narrow his eyes. “This delay better be you organizing the list of all the ways I’m fucking great, comrade.” 

“You’re a strange man,” Makarov says. “You like it when I scare you, but you’re also being very helpful. My people like you – they’ll still kill you if they have to, of course – and I assumed you would try and betray me before we even left the mountains.” 

‘Why, because of that shit in Las Almas? Look, all those morons had to do was step off and I wouldn’t have had to draw down on them –” 

Makarov puts his fingers on his mouth again, lightly, just a tap and that makes Graves quiet again. “Because that’s how I am used to things working, Graves. Allies are temporary. I’ve known Milena since I was twenty and she betrayed me. What do you think I expected from a faithless Yank?”

“I guess not much,” he says, breath spilling against Makarov’s fingers, which carry the slightest hint of smoke. “Which is kinda insulting, comrade, I gotta say. I never agreed to this plan because I’m hot for you, you’re good in bed but no one’s that good.” He smirks. “Or am I, and that’s why you were gonna shoot me?” 

“I don’t know if I have an answer for that.” His fingers slip into Graves’s mouth, and Graves bites them just because he can. Makarov’s smile flickers briefly before he pulls his fingers out, wiping them on Graves’s cheek in a move he’s done a few times before – a dom he fucked tried that once, and Graves punched him in the stomach and threw his car keys into a pond. It makes his breath stutter when Makarov does it. “But I’ll let you know if I figure it out.” 

“You didn’t shoot me because I’m useful and you like the novelty of having me ask for it,” Graves says. “I mean, seems like that’s the easiest answer, but you’re like, sixteen kinds of complicated so who the fuck knows, comrade.” 

“Who the fuck knows indeed, cowboy.” With another sharp tug on his hair, Makarov surprises him by leaning down and kissing him, which is a bit awkward given the angle but it’s fine. Graves kisses him back with the same energy as he’d bit his fingers, and Makarov makes a sound into his mouth, hungry and a little bit of a warning all at once.

Graves needs a few seconds to get himself under control, and he’s grateful that Makarov leaves him alone to make his phone call – even if he would rather walk naked outside in the snow than admit it.

Chapter Text

Oz immediately recognizes it as a text-app number, which he spends about five minutes razzing Graves for how the fuck do you not know about those, what number do you give out at bars to people you don’t want calling you ? 

“I tell them to fuck off,” Graves says, smiling. “But okay, a – a what, now?” 

“WhatsApp? TextNow? There’s a million. You ever watch a single episode of Catfish, Actual?” 

“Oz, some of us work for a living.”  

“Yeah, yeah, Actual. Guess that’s true, hard not to think of you on some kinda vacation or whatever. But you probably wouldn’t pick Russia, huh.” 

Graves gives a non-committal response to that — he might be appreciating the country a little more than before – and Oz signs off none the wiser, promising to let him know what he finds about the numbers. He’s thinking about the whole thing with Milena, if the number Oz is looking for belongs to Shepherd. It was his intel that led the 141 to her in the first place, wasn’t it? What the fuck, is this still all because of those missiles? 

He eventually leaves the bedroom, heads downstairs and finds something to eat. It’s warmer now, as if someone did turn up the heat, so there’s that. It might be pretty outside to people who like the snow, but that person is not Graves, so he just hates it. 

There’s very little to do, with Oz still looking into the numbers and the rapidly-increasing snow making even the Russians cautious about travel, so Graves eventually finds himself restlessly wandering through the house, marveling at the tacky decor and pretending he’s not looking for Makarov. 

He finds him eventually, finishing up in the home gym which has the least offensive decor in the entire house and an entire wall of windows that overlook the wintry horror of the backyard, the treeline beyond obscured by the swirling snow that’s still pouring down like they woke up in a snow globe turned upside down. There are a few weight sets, a bench, and a state-of-the-art treadmill – none of it looks as if it’s been used all that often – and one of those adjustable pull-up bar things. That’s where he finds Makarov, and Graves leans against the doorway and watches him. 

“This is the most prison thing I’ve seen you do,” Graves says, blatantly enjoying watching him lift and lower himself on the bar. “Other than the tattoos.” 

“Not the part where you saw me kill someone?” Makarov asks, voice a little strained from exertion. 

“I mean…no?” Graves shrugs. “Plenty of killers don’t go to prison, including me. Not, might I add, for lack of certain people trying to send me there.”  

Makarov’s breath comes out in a huff, mouth twisting in that quick little smile of his that Graves has figured out is actually genuine. “Maybe I should be insulted, hmm? That they caught me, but not you.” 

“I mean, come on, you were literally hanging out in the parking lot or something in an ambulance, right?” Graves peers at him. “When I was taunting Soap in that tank I was using remote tech so he wouldn’t notice me leaving. Gotta say that was probably why I didn’t end up in prison and you –” he stops, eyes narrowing. 

Makarov is quiet, lifting up and down, the simple tank undershirt he’s wearing damp with sweat, ink visible through the white cotton. “And me, what? Finish your sentences, cowboy.” 

“Wait,” Graves says, and then – he laughs. “You wanted to get caught, you motherfucker, didn’t you.” 

“I can’t say I wanted to, no,” Makarov says. “But I knew it was a possibility, so I planned for it. I did the same with several other potential outcomes, including the one where they put a bullet in my head.” He smirks. “The smart thing, which they didn’t do, and I very much am looking forward to making them pay for their kindness .” He fairly spits the word. 

“No argument here,” Graves says. “I would’ve thought they knew better, too.” He’s not sure what to say. That happened years ago, the incident he’s referring to, and things might have been a lot different if Price had put a bullet in Makarov’s skull. He’s not going to think about whether he'd prefer that or not.

Then he forgets about that entirely, because Makarov drops gracefully to the ground like some kind of tattooed, lightly-sweaty bat. He’s right there in Graves’s space, menacing and staring at him with such sudden, intense heat, it’s as if he’s trying to bore a hole into Graves’s skull with the force of his glare. 

“It won’t keep me from killing you,” Makarov says, all cold menace and soft voice, and he’s not trying to back Graves up but his dominance is all at the surface, like a porcupine’s quills raised in warning. “Whatever this is we’re doing. If it’s necessary. I’ll do it.” 

Graves gives him an unimpressed look. The fact Makarov thinks he needs to keep reminding Graves of this is insulting, unless he’s trying to be sexy, then it’s fine.  “The scary dom shit makes me wanna blow you, so if that’s what you’re after, fine, you can just tell me. Save the threats for when you want me on my knees for you.” 

Makarov’s lashes lower in a slow blink, and Graves can almost see him switching off the terrify the target with my ice-cold stare button. The dominance, on the other hand, he doesn’t pull back – but that’s fine, Graves wouldn’t want him to anyway. “I think you really would come before I shot you.” 

“You think?” Graves waves a hand. “Probably, and no, I don’t care about admitting it –” 

“I know you wouldn’t care,” Makarov interrupts, stepping away from him to go get a towel and wipe off his face. “You’d like it. The – last laugh, yes?” 

“Da, comrade,” he says, shrugging. He grins. “What can I say? You were right. I really am that level of petty. And greedy, I guess? Whatever.” 

Makarov actually smiles at him, which thaws his cold-coffee eyes a bit. He really is good looking, but Graves can see why his appeal might be limited to people with…very niche-level kinks. He’s attractive physically, but that’s never been enough for Graves. Soap was the kind of hot you saw in porn that you had to pay for, but it never would have made Graves even think about kneeling for him, even if he was a dom. 

Makarov on the other hand, whatever he’s got that Graves likes, he’s got it in spades. And he clearly knows it, too, the satisfied smirk twisting his mouth gets Graves’s blood heating immediately. 

“Maybe that’s why I wanted to shoot you,” Makarov says. “I’ve gotten used to people being afraid of me.” 

“That’s the thing that’s so great about me, Volodya.” Graves puts a little of his submission into his voice, because he can see the way it affects Makarov and it’s hot to watch that flush spill over his cheekbones, watch his eyes go liquid-warm like lit coals. “I wanna blow you because you’re scary.” 

“Even if I’m not scaring you, personally?”  Makarov tosses the towel over his shoulder, ignoring it in favor of stalking toward Graves like a panther. 

“Yeah, even then.” Graves’s mouth is a little dry, but he doesn’t mind. There’s really no point in pretending he’s not into this, is there? Especially now, when – despite how fucked up someone else might find it – he can tell the atmosphere here is more playful than anything. “Got me plenty hot last night, remember?” 

“It was just this morning, so, yes. There’s nothing wrong with my memory.” Makarov backs him up against the closed door, which Graves lets him because why not, interested in where this is going, the tension a low electric buzz between them. 

Graves inhales sharply as Makarov puts one hand on his chest, holding him against the wooden door, leaning in like he’s going to kiss him even though he doesn’t.  Graves feels like there’s something Makarov wants from him, but he has no fucking idea what it is. “Am I supposed to apologize for something? I’m really not the type.”  

Makarov slides the hand on his chest up, resting it just lightly so it’s almost – but not quite – wrapped around his throat. “Nyet, if I want you to apologize, you’ll know. And you’ll do it.”

Graves just raises his eyebrows and stays quiet about that, because he’d really like to argue but they both know Makarov is probably right. “Then what’s up with the scary dom act, you really can just say you want me to blow you.” It’d be nice to do something to get out of his head, might as well be suck cock, he knows he’s good at it. 

“People at that party, they stared at you when we arrived, did you know that?” Makarov slightly tips Graves’s head up, and his mood is suddenly no longer quite so playful. “I don’t know that I liked it.” 

The one and only relationship Graves has ever had in his life lasted for about three months. The reason it ended was that Graves didn’t like being told you’re mine or don’t fuck anyone else , because he made the rules at work and he didn’t want a CO for his sex life, thanks. 

This is not how he feels when Makarov says that. “Probably trying to figure out who the hell I was, given you don’t really like Americans.” 

“A secret for you, Graves,” Makarov murmurs, nipping at his jaw, his voice low. “I don’t really like anyone.” 

“A secret for you, Makarov,” Graves says, shifting, hands curving around his hips to pull him closer. “I kinda already knew that, you psychotic misanthrope. Normal, well-adjusted people don’t detonate so many warheads.” 

Makarov laughs, which is probably disturbing, and grabs Graves’s hands, slamming them over his head and pinning them at the wrists. “Normal people don’t get hard watching me kill, either.” 

Well, yeah, probably not. Graves kisses him because that seems obvious enough to not require his input, and Makarov kisses back, mouth hot, fingers tight on his wrists. He has a soldier’s grip, and he knows exactly where to restrain Graves if he wants to break his bones. Heat shudders through him and he doesn’t bother catching his moan, because why should he? 

“Well, if it matters,” Graves says, breath coming short when Makarov finally pulls back, “nobody at that party was anything to me but a target.” 

Makarov all but shoves him back against the door again, one hand keeping Graves’s wrists pinned above his head and the other grabbing at his chin to hold him still to kiss him. Graves maybe had a feeling he’d like that, but it’s the truth. It’s not like anyone at that fancy rich person party could come close to matching Makarov’s dangerous energy. It’s like trying to compare a peacock to a falcon. 

“I’ll give you a proper rifle,” Makarov says, biting hard at his neck. “A suppressor. You can at least kill quietly, eh?” 

“Mm,” Graves says, cock getting hard so fast he’s dizzy. “Sure can, comrade, but I think you like it when I’m loud. Fuck the rifle, you want a show that’ll get you hot? Give me a gunship. I’m a damn menace with an AC130.” 

“You’re a menace without it,” Makarov says, and kisses him again. 

Graves tries to get to his knees, but Makarov doesn’t let him, pushes him back against the door again, hand tightening on Graves’s throat lightly in warning. “Stop that. Kneel when I tell you to. If you want my dominance, submit .” 

Fucking hell, why is he like this? Graves bangs his head back against the door, lightly. “You know, you should be enjoying the fact I’d actually kneel for you because I want to, that’s literally never happened before.” 

“Maybe this is me enjoying it,” Makarov says, leaning in, biting at his neck. “And you always want to kneel for me, you have since I met you.” 

“I mean, that’s…not really a compliment, is it? Given what I’m into?” Then again, maybe it is. He’s into scary, and Makarov clearly likes inspiring fear more than desire, so – 

What’s doing it for him with me, then ? “And hey, if you don’t fuck people unless you’re showing you’re the alpha dog or whatever the fuck, what’s up with this?” 

“I wasn’t aware you needed reminding I was a dominant,” he says. “And I’m not in prison, despite your feelings about the weather and mine about the decor.” 

“I don’t, and I know – that’s my question,” Graves asks, aware he’s literally doing the equivalent of the middle-school do you like me, check yes or no thing, and with the guy who is definitely the type to scratch out both options and write neither, or put a checkmark next to the word or and send it back. “Thought you said you didn’t just fuck for the fun of it.” 

Makarov pulls back, squints at him. “I didn’t say that, I said I didn’t fuck people in prison because I wanted to fuck them.” 

“So…you just wanna fuck me?” 

Makarov is staring like Graves has lost his mind, which, fair, he clearly has. “What are you asking me, here?” 

Fuck. Graves tilts his chin up a little. “You don’t have to do this to keep me in line, comrade. First, I’m not yours to keep in line, and second – mmph! “

Makarov grabs him around the throat, slams him heavily back against the door and bites his lip, hard enough that it splits and he tastes the copper-tang of his own blood. Graves makes an affronted noise –  he likes threats of violence to his person, not the actual violence, thanks – and tries to kick free, but Makarov, for as lean as he is, it’s all muscle and he’s fucking strong. 

He’s kissing Graves, licking Graves’s blood out of his mouth, practically, sucking on his sore lip and shoving a thigh between Graves’s legs. 

“But you are mine,” Makarov says, eventually, when he finally needs to breathe. “Didn’t you just say you wouldn’t kneel for anyone else but me?” 

Graves is very rarely speechless. Part of his strengths as a soldier are his adaptability and quick mind, and honestly, it’s likely because of how he used to have to charm his way out of his father’s temper when he was a kid. Or that’s what the MARSOC therapist who did his eval said, anyway, and the shrinks usually knew what they were talking about. It’s why he prefers overwatch and manning the AC130 – there’s no need to playact, code-switch, whatever the therapist called it. He can just do his goddamn job. 

This? This is not the same as being around clients he needs to charm, or even temporary allies he needs to pretend he’s just one of the guys with. This isn’t about work, and that’s what the problem is, isn’t it? He doesn’t have a personal life. Graves is a soldier with a PMC and a vendetta to carry out. Put that on a fucking Tinder profile and see how many matches he gets. 

Graves is still not sure what to do with his hands, this doesn’t feel quite the same as wanting to be put under and maybe that’s because he’s settled enough to not need it, who knows. “And you just stopped me from kneeling, comrade, so if it’s not that…what’s this about?” 

Makarov goes very still, and then laughs, a dark chuckle against his neck that makes Graves bite back a shiver. He looks – amused, younger than he almost ever does, a flush on his cheeks and his eyes bright. “Sex, cowboy. Da?”

“You – want to have sex with me.” 

Makarov’s stare goes from amused to slightly concerned. “Graves.” 

“No, I –” Graves hits his head against the back of the door, wondering why he said anything. He could have kept his mouth shut, let Makarov shove him around a little, make out until he put Graves on his knees. He could still do that, in fact. All he has to do is not say anything else. And be another person, because he already knows he’s going to say something. “You said you weren’t into it. Sex.” 

“Did I say that before or after I fucked you until you begged me to come?” 

Makarov’s dirty talk game is definitely getting better, which is great, except right now it’s  making his brain short-circuit out. “Thought that was ‘cause I shot someone for you.” 

“Mm, I did like that,” Makarov says, all over him again, mouthing at his neck. “Graves, what is it you’re trying to ask me?” 

“You’re attracted to me – okay, you don’t have to keep looking at me like that, you’ve just made it pretty clear you’re not really into sex with most people, is all.” 

Makarov seems to have decided that Graves is talking but not trying to stop him, because he’s gone back kissing him. “I’m not. But if what you’re asking me is if I’m physically attracted to you , I would think the answer is pretty obvious, hmm?”

He supposes it is, and maybe it makes sense – Makarov uses his dominance enough that he wouldn’t need to rely on sex alone to satisfy it, and that tracks, given Graves is the opposite. “You know, I don’t even know what you like – you’ve put me on my knees and put me under, but if that’s not what you’re after right now, what do you want?” 

He’s asked Makarov that before, hasn’t he? The first time they did this, when Makarov seemed hesitant to let him put his mouth on him? He hadn’t answered, so Graves easily spreads his legs and relaxes, because sex is easier for him, and Makarov looks pretty hot with his eyes blurry and his mouth slightly stained from Graves’s bloody lip. 

Makarov makes a pleased sound at Graves’s clear submission, pulling off his sweatshirt and the t-shirt, tossing them so Graves is shirtless against the door. “Going to figure me out, cowboy?” 

Graves is actually pretty smart, even with all his blood going south at the moment, and he takes the bonus intel in the spirit in which it’s given. “Sure. Let’s see, I got a few ideas.” He reaches out, but he waits, still aware of Makarov’s dislike of being touched. “Gonna put my hands all over you, if you don’t tell me not to.” 

Makarov goes very still against him. “You don’t have to ask me. I’ll tell you if I don’t want you to touch me, da?” 

There is a sudden, unexpected rush of warmth when he hears that, similar to how it felt when Makarov gave him a gun but somehow it’s different, stronger. More like how he felt when he woke up and saw Makarov actually asleep next to him. Of all the shit that’s happened to him since he got on the plane to Las Almas, from the nuke to chasing the 141 through empty houses to the fucking court hearing…this is the one that’s throwing him the most. It’s a strange emotion, one he thinks he’s felt before, maybe, but not for a very long time. 

He chooses to ignore that in favor of the immediate – and easier – situation to navigate, which is sliding his hands under the thin cotton shirt Makarov is wearing to pull it up and off. Then, he grabs Makarov by the back of the neck and kisses him. He’s no dom but he’s fully capable of taking charge, and he does that now, pushy and eager as he grabs Makarov by his tattooed shoulders and turns them so that he’s up against the door instead. His skin is warm under Graves’s fingers, and this time, it’s Graves who bites him on the neck and scratches just a bit with his fingers down his chest – not too hard, just trying to figure out if he likes any kind of pain. 

Makarov grabs at his wrist and Graves goes still; he’s not in the sort of headspace that would make him panic at the sign of disapproval, but it’s still there, a thread under the surface that he can’t help but notice. But the fingers around his wrist gradually ease up, and Graves murmurs against the side of his neck, “That a keep doing it or stop, comrade?” 

“Try it and see,” is the answer he gets, and Graves laughs softly and shifts so he can do it again, but on Makarov’s back this time. The idea of scratching lines down that vicious snarling wolf tattoo is getting him hot. 

“I’m gonna get on my knees so I can suck you off,” Graves says, after a few more lazy, long seconds of doing nothing but making out like teenagers – and Makarov does seem to enjoy being scratched, a little harder than maybe Graves would normally with a partner who wasn’t a masochist. “But if it’s gonna offend your dom-senses to not tell me to do it first, go ahead.” 

“Thank you for the permission,” Makarov says, and the thread of amusement is there, beneath the rougher timbre of his voice. “But maybe just try asking for what you want , Graves.”

He squints, because he really does hate that, but Makarov looks pretty fucking hot all turned on and flushed and half-naked leaning against the door. Fine. Whatever. “Can I?” 

Makarov’s smile hits like a missile strike, and he reaches out to grab Graves around the back of his neck, fingers tightening. He doesn’t say anything, he just stares at Graves, waiting. 

Graves is really into him, but that doesn’t mean he’s not the fucking worst. That’s probably why he’s so into him. “Mogu ya, pozhaluysta, vstat' pered toboy na koleni i pososat' tvoy chlen?”

Makarov’s eyebrows go up – fine, he might have learned that particular phrase (“May I please kneel in front of you and suck your cock?”) on purpose just to show off. He throws a little of his submission in there, just for an added gift, and is rewarded by Makarov dragging him in by the back of the neck and kissing him hard enough to make his split lip bleed again. 

“You learned that just for me, didn’t you,” he says, all heated and pleased. “And you try and say you’re not mine.” 

“I never – you don’t even want –” Graves has no idea what to say to this. “That’s what you want? Me to be yours?” He really doesn’t like what saying that is doing to him, or how he’s wondering, for the first time in his fucking life, what a collar would feel like. Not any collar. Makarov’s. 

It’d be a dog collar with a bullet engraved with your name on it and a leash lead, probably. Graves has to bite back a moan at hte thought of that. What the fuck is wrong with him?

He’s being pulled in and kissed again, and now the hand at the back of his neck is around the front of it, squeezing enough to choke him just a little. Before he can find a way to say can’t you just say yes, let me kneel and choke me with your cock, I thought that was the plan, here, Czar Actual, Makarov says, “You think you aren’t mine? You have been since you knelt for my gun in your mouth, Graves. And if I didn’t want you, I wouldn’t have you. But I do, don’t I. Have you.” 

Graves can’t seem to catch his breath, and this time it’s not from the fingers around his neck. Finally he manages to say, in a voice that isn’t very steady, “Yeah. Guess that means you want me.” 

“Mm,” Makarov says, his forehead pressed to Graves. “It seems that way, doesn’t it, cowboy? Just remember what happens if I want something and I can’t have it.” He pulls Graves’s head back and leans in, then bites him again – right at the base of his throat. “I make sure no one else can have it, either.” 

“Yeah? Gonna set me on fire if I try and get someone else to fuck me?” Graves tilts his head back, aware that showing his throat after that somewhat violent pronouncement is akin to agreeing, but honestly, was he really going to respond any other way? 

“Not just you. Anyone who tries. If you didn’t want my attention, you shouldn’t have tried so hard to get it. Because now, cowboy? Now you have it.” 

Graves moves in a sudden burst of violent need, biting his mouth until Graves tastes the copper of someone else’s blood with his own. This is – something. Insane. Dangerous. Probably going to get him killed. Also inevitable, and really fucking hot . “This ain’t me sayin’ shit, comrade.” 

That’s not any sort of agreement, at least vocally, but that’s fine. The kiss was enough of a promise, the only kind they’ll make, the kind you have to bleed to prove you mean it. 

Makarov doesn’t tell him to kneel, he just gets a hand on Graves’s shoulder and shoves him down. Graves pulls Makarov’s pants down enough to get his cock out. He doesn’t suck it right away, though, because he finds himself kissing at the tattoos on Makarov’s stomach, his ribs, whenever he can reach. He bites the scale tattoo on his lower stomach, and he really does want to ask one day what they all mean. And he’s got more of them, Graves saw them briefly last night – on his thighs, his calves, even the knees, which he can’t imagine didn’t hurt like fuck. But Makarov must be over the foreplay, such as it is, because he grabs Graves’s hair in one hand and his cock with the other, and then Graves isn’t thinking about tattoos or anything that isn’t this. 

It’s rough, of course, because it’s them; Graves doesn’t pace himself and Makarov doesn’t either, so he’s shoving himself deep right when Graves is opening his throat to take him in. He chokes, gags, it’s probably not very sexy and it makes his eyes water, but Makarov is definitely into it, both hands on Graves’s head, strong fingers tight in his hair as he fucks his face with a relentless, harsh pace.

Graves fucking loves it. 

If he’s honest he’s always liked this, having his breath restricted, it’s a very easy way to cause fear without too much pain. But it’s different, with the memory of that strange, bloody promise sealed with a kiss, Makarov’s murmured just remember what happens when I want something and can’t have it, the threat that he’s going to set someone on fire for trying to touch him – mixing with the dark thrill of and also set me on fire – is too much, and he tries to shove a hand down his own pants. 

He doesn’t, because he gets a sharp tug on his hair and Makarov staring down at him, pupils dilated so his eyes look pure black. “Nyet, kovboy, ty moy, i tvoy chlen tozhe.” 

Graves knows enough of those words to put together he’s being told no, that’s mine, too, and at least the moan that gets from him is half-hidden by the sound of him choking on Makarov’s cock. 

He feels a shove on his shoulder after a bit, then another – and it takes him a few seconds to realize what’s happening, that Makarov is trying to warn him that he’s about to come, since he’s no longer holding Graves by the head. But Graves doesn’t move, keeps his cock where it is and it’s messy as fuck, his face smeared with spit and come, but fuck he likes the satisfaction of a job well done and Makarov makes a very hot noise, bending half at the waist like he can’t quite stand up, and that makes Graves’s dick throb in his pants. 

Eventually, he gets to his feet in time to be pulled in for a kiss, Makarov’s tongue in his mouth like he’s trying to taste himself and that’s – yeah, fuck, it’s hot. Makarov gets him off by pushing him against the window and pinning him there with his chest to Graves’s back. He pins one of his arms behind his back and gets his hand on Graves’s cock, then jerks him off while talking in Russian – some of it Graves understands, some of it he doesn’t, but it’s a lot of vaguely threatening and possessive language that is hotter than it should be, probably – Graves’s breath fogging up the window as he pants and shakes and moans without bothering to try and hide it.

Makarov doesn’t tell him to ask him before he comes, which is for the best, because it happens a mere half-second after Makarov bites the back of his neck and says right against the sore skin there, throbbing and probably marked with Makarov’s fucking teeth, “I’ll get you a collar you won’t ever take off,” and something about rigging it with grenade, it’s absurd and improbable and Graves would balk at it simply for the aesthetics alone – he can’t imagine how cumbersome and ugly that’d be – but the very thought is enough to make him shudder and come all over Makarov’s tattooed fingers. 

When all of that is over, Makarov tosses him the sweatshirt. He’s put his undershirt back on – Graves has learned he doesn’t like to be undressed all that much, likely a prison thing, or so he’d guess – and he says, “That’s why.” 

Graves blinks, not understanding the words, pulling on the t-shirt and staring at the Spetsnaz sweatshirt in his hands. “Huh?” 

“You asked me why I wanted this, just now,” Makarov says. At Graves continued confusion, he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You. Why I wanted you, Graves. Sex? The thing we just did, hmm?” 

Oh. Right. “Me in a sweatshirt just makes you want me to suck you?”

“It’s mine,” Makarov says, slowly, like Graves might be too stupid to follow the logic. “I like how it looked on you.” 

Graves stares at him. Makarov stares right back. Graves can feel himself smiling in unholy, wicked amusement.  This is absolutely ridiculous, how did this even happen? “Well, I guess this just means maybe you’ll put up with more of my bullshit before you wanna shoot me, yeah?” 

“I’ve never stopped wanting to shoot you,” Makarov says. “You're mistaken if you think the things I destroy aren’t ever things that I like. Sometimes those are the most beautiful to watch burn.”

It’s probably not smart that Graves thinks that’s romantic, but that’s where they are, so. He came to Russia to catch a terrorist, and he did, but now the terrorist is his sort-of boyfriend whose amorous attentions he caught by wanting to suck on a loaded gun and wearing a vintage Russian special forces sweatshirt, in a house with too much purple that used to be own by a Russian mobster. In the middle of a snowstorm. 

No wonder he’s always found dating so dull. That’s all a lot more exciting than the standard long walks on the beach or candle-lit dinners. 

“I don’t know how this is gonna play out,” Graves says, and he’s absolutely serious. “But I feel like it’s either gonna work itself out, or we’re gonna both end up dead in some weird murder-suicide.” 

Makarov shrugs, and he smiles at Graves, shows teeth. “Probably, yes.” 

Well, as long as they’re on the same page. He feels something vibrate, realizes it’s his phone and pulls it out. “Text from Oz. He’s got a lead on the numbers, and some intel he says I really gotta hear in person.” He glances up to see Makarov’s no longer smiling, is all business again, nodding and saying they can contact Oz on comms back upstairs. 

It should be more of a whiplash than it is, going from the sex and the only real conversation they’ve had about whatever this thing is they’re doing to getting right back to planning his former boss’s death. But it isn’t, not really, and maybe that’s a problem or hey, maybe that’s what it means when you’re dating your kind-of-captor, kind-of-ally, kind-of-enemy.  

He’ll tell himself that, anyway. For now, his thing with Makarov is the one thing that isn’t stressing him out, and that’s sure as fuck saying something, isn’t it?

Chapter Text

If this snowfall happened at home, Graves would simply shut himself inside and not leave until it melted. But that is not how Russians handle snow, and two days later they’re Oscar Mike to an old rundown warehouse on the outskirts of an industrial district, catching a helo to another location, where a private plane is sitting on a snowy field. The place is swarming with Konni soldiers, far more than Graves has seen around thus far, and Makarov is all business, issuing orders with his long wool coat snapping in the wind like a pair of great, black wings. 

Oz’s intel had been mostly what Makarov expected – it was indeed Milena who sold him out, though Oz was less certain about the identity of her American contact. Graves was almost positive it was Shepherd – who the hell else would it be? – but Oz was still looking for the so-called smoking gun to prove it without a doubt. He also told Graves he had a lead on something else, and while he wouldn’t go into details, the tone in his voice suggested whatever it was, it was nothing good. 

First, though, Makarov has a traitor to deal with. For some reason that Graves isn’t told and doesn’t really care about, they’re stopping over for two days in London, which likely has something to do with the fact that Makarov is a wanted terrorist – or, okay, fine, they’re both wanted men, though Graves is still not on the Interpol list, which he’s only a little miffed about -- and can't move quite as easily in and out of international borders as people who aren't wanted for crimes against humanity. 

Their flight is relatively uneventful. Graves sprawls in a comfortable leather seat next to Makarov, with Andrei across from them and a small table laden with papers and coffee making a pleasant little lounge area. The plane looks like every private plane that Graves has ever been on, though admittedly a little dated – the armrest still has an ashtray in it, like some commercial flight from the 80’s. The snacks are all in Russian but there are snacks, so he can’t complain too much. Especially because there’s not a bunny bar to be found. 

He looks up when, after about thirty minutes of being airborne, he hears a very soft throat-clear and finds a Konni soldier in full gear – mask and rifle included – standing at attention. When Makarov looks up, the soldier snaps a salute and clears his throat again. He’s very obviously nervous, which Graves notices immediately and tries not to smile. 

“Da, soldat?” Makarov asks, and Graves also notices the soldier swaying a bit, either from the slight turbulence or Makarov’s dominance, heavier than Graves is used to and that’s saying something. 

The soldier answers in Russian, and Makarov’s expression shifts slightly as he looks at Graves. He doesn’t smile, but Graves has a feeling he sort of wants to when he says, “You may ask him, but I doubt it.” 

“Prizrak, ty igrayesh' v duraka?” 

Graves knows that’s him, because the first word – prizrak – is the one Andrei uses for him, which is supposedly shadow but can also be the Russian for the word ghost, which Graves thinks is very funny. He’s been trying to learn a little more Russian thanks to a language app, but the sorts of conversations he has with Makarov and his men aren’t really the sort that owl likes to have on Duolingo.  

“Do I…play…what was that?” He can’t figure out the last word. 

“Durak,” the Konni guard says. “It is. Ah.” He mimics something, and it takes Graves a few seconds to realize it’s shuffling. 

“Oh, cards?” Graves shrugs. “Sure, I play cards. What’s the game?” 

“Durak,” the soldier says, then looks at Makarov. 

“It’s a Russian card game,” Makarov explains. “I’m not surprised you don’t know it. The word means fool .” 

“That why you’re asking me? Wanna win some of my American bucks, eh, soldier?” Graves smiles to show he’s kidding, but he’s almost positive the soldier – who looks painfully young, even though all Graves can see of him is his eyes – doesn’t understand him at all. 

“Why don’t they ask you?” Graves turns to Makarov, amused. “I bet you’re not too bad at poker.” He’s mostly teasing – he’ll play the card game if someone can reasonably explain the rules enough for him to understand – but he’s surprised when Andrei does the universal I’m pretending I’m not laughing by coughing thing into his fist.  

Makarov fixes him with a pointed stare. “Andrei.” 

“What?” Graves looks between them. “Now I gotta know.” 

“We don’t ask Commander Makarov to play cards,” Andrei says, and he’s very clearly trying not to laugh. “Once, he put a knife in a man who beat him at Preferans.” 

Makarov deliberately shifts his attention to the papers he’s holding, flipping the page with the sort of annoyed gesture Graves knows means he’s not reading a word. “He was cheating.” 

“You killed a guy over a card game?” Graves asks, snorting. “Where’s that tattoo? Don’t remember seeing one with a spade with a knife, or a heart crying blood on the back of a fuckin’ eagle or whatever the fuck.” 

“I didn’t kill anyone over a card game,” Makarov says, with another pointed flip of a page. It’s as close to huffy as Graves has ever seen him, and it’s sort of hilarious. “You can live without a pinky finger.” 

Graves gives a very loud, surprised bark of laughter. “For fuck’s sake, wow, I did not see that revelation coming about you, at all.” 

“Volodya doesn’t like to lose,” Andrei says, in such a deadpan tone that it takes Graves a moment to realize he’s actually teasing Makarov. 

“Andreyusha,” Makarov says, in a sharp voice. “Ostorozhno, bratok.” Careful, brother. There’s a slight smile when he says it, though, that suggests he’s not really that annoyed. 

“I don’t know that game,” Graves says to the soldier, who looks like he wants to shrink into the background, possibly leap out of the plane. “But sure, I’ll play.” It seems like a good idea. And there’s something about this – Makarov and Andrei’s bickering like brothers, the soldiers playing cards – that reminds him of being at home with his Shadows. He misses that, and maybe part of it is he misses giving orders and having someone do what he says, but it’s probably saying something that he feels as comfortable with the Konni mercenaries as he does with his own. 

The card game is not too difficult to pick up once Masha joins the group to translate the instructions. It’s a game similar to a few others he’s played, using a partial deck to try and “attack” the other players and shed your cards first. After a bit of confusion about the concept of attack-and-defend, Graves gets the hang of it enough that he’s relatively certain he’s not embarrassing himself.  

The other Konni operatives are clearly curious about him, but for the most part they stick to the game – though Graves does answer a few questions about Louisiana, after patiently explaining that no, he’s not from Texas and yes, there are other places in America where people have an accent like his. They’re all young, they chain smoke through the entire game and they don’t seem to give a fuck about either American or Russian politics. Just like his own Shadows, who like a steady paycheck and not being beholden to the whims of the American government. 

It’s a little disturbing if he thinks too much about the similarities between his PMC and the Konni soldiers, so he’s simply not going to worry about it. 

He wins one hand, which feels like a decent showing for a game he just learned, played in a language he barely speaks, and the Konni soldiers thank him in broken English for playing with them. Graves gives an easy wave of his hand and a nod, and they wander off, leaving him at the table all on his lonesome. He’s just about to get up and wander back into the main cabin when a soldier sits across from him. 

He hasn’t seen her before, which is surprising, because he would have definitely noticed her. She’s barely five-foot-four, has bright electric-blue hair braided around her crown, and she’s covered in more tattoos than even Makarov, though hers are all in color and seem to be centered around a flora-and-fauna, avian theme. She seems young, at least until Graves meets her eyes. They’re as dark as he once thought Makarov’s were, all black, barely any pupil. There’s something in them that he recognizes, the I’ve seen some shit before I ever picked up a rifle look, and he wonders if she sees the same in his.

Some languages are universal. 

The other fascinating thing about the soldier, besides her slight stature and the fact she doesn’t look a day over twenty-five, is that Graves finds it hard to meet her gaze and realizes with a shock it’s because of her natural dominance. After Makarov, she’s the strongest dominant on the plane, and while it’s a fact of life that alignment has fuck-all to do with physical traits, gender, or anything else…he’s still surprised. 

“You’re…Prizrak, yes?” She asks, and slides something across the table to him. 

“I – yeah,” Graves says, momentarily distracted by what she’s giving him. It’s a single Bud Lite, the can cold and dotted with condensation, and he has no idea where it came from or why she’s giving it to him. 

“American,” she says, nodding, and Graves doesn't know if she means the beer, or him. But she’s clearly waiting for him to drink it either way, so he opens it and takes a swig. 

Graves drinks beer only very occasionally, and he likes craft beers from microbrews, not shit that reminds him of what his fucking dad used to put away by the case. Not Bud Lite – that would have been too expensive – but the cheaper knock-off version. Still, he remembers Makarov giving him vodka when they made their deal, and figures this is similar. 

“Spasibo,” Graves drawls, popping open the can. It’s not good , exactly, but it’s…a Bud Lite. A little reminder of home. Just like America, the beer is over-marketed and over-hyped and basically tasteless. 

“I’m Wraith.” 

He blinks, setting the can down, at first not quite understanding – then he realizes it’s her name. Graves smiles at her, puts on a slightly dialed-down version of his usual charm and says, “Graves. That’s a pretty bitchin’ name, Wraith.” 

She smiles at him, and for a Russian – at least the ones he’s been around, of late – it’s almost a grin. “I’ve tried a few names. This one is favorite.” 

It fits, given how slight she is, and the fact she’s maybe the palest person he’s ever met, under those tattoos. He doesn’t ask what her actual name is. In his experience, people who use their call signs outside of mission perimeters don’t want you to know it. “Seems like it suits you. You been with Konni long?” He can’t help the question, given her age. Graves prefers his operatives to have a good amount of military experience before switching over to the private sector of a PMC, so most are in their late twenties, early thirties.

She snorts, like she understands what he’s really asking. “Four years. I was at Bolshoi, before, do you know this?” 

The Russian word sounds familiar but he can’t quite place it. In answer, she gets to her feet and raises her arms above her head, going on her toes and turning in a slow circle. The plane hits a few bumps at the same time, but it barely seems to faze her, and that display of balance tells him all he needs to know. 

“Dancer,” Graves says, snapping his fingers as he remembers what the Bolshoi is. “Ballet, right?” 

She nods, sitting back down, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a defiant tilt of her chin, like she’s daring him to say something about it. He doesn’t, what the fuck does he care if she’s smoking? “How’d you end up in Konni?” She clearly wants him to ask, and he can’t lie and say he isn’t curious about her story. 

“I was given place in Bolshoi, dancer in corps de ballet. Prestigious, yes?” She turns her head to exhale, which is very polite of her, and unnecessary, given how much smoke is still lingering from the card game. “But there is important man, oligarch – ah, you know this word?” 

“Sure,” Graves says, leaning back in his chair with another pull on his beer. The sooner he finishes it, the better. “Rich assholes.” 

That gets a smile out of her, clearly approving. “Da. One night, I am told, I will go to party for…ah.” She pulls her phone out, types something with the rapid-texting style of everyone under twenty-five, and mouths along with the words before she says, slowly, “Donor of money.” 

“I’m following,” Graves says, intrigued. He’s never met a ballerina in his life, much less one who ended up covered in tattoos, smoking a cigarette with a rifle resting against her chair, on a plane full of mercenaries under the command of a terrorist. “Rich donors, fancy party.” 

“But when I am there, there is no party. Oligarch, he saw me dance, decided I should perform for him and only him.” Her eyes flash, and her smile shifts, becoming something jaded, cold. “He says he pays Bolshoi money for me, and then, I am no longer dancer. I am his whore.” 

Fucking hell . “Goddamn, what the fuck?” 

His horrified reaction at least seems to be the one she wants, because she gives a slight nod and continues. “One night, he tells me, dangerous man coming to meet with him. I must be polite. Nice to this man, who oligarch wants to make deal with, but if he can’t make deal, he will…” She mimics shooting her own head. “Take care of him, yes? I know this means I will be kept forever, with this man I hate. So, when dangerous man comes to house, I write note and give to his guard.” 

Graves assumes the dangerous man meeting with the oligarch was Makarov, and now he’s even more fascinated by this story. “Must have been a pretty damn impressive note.” Maybe that’s what he should have done, rather than showing up with a convoy of armed soldiers. 

Then again, he remembers the poorly-translated note in Russian, signed by “him,” that announced his plans to defect and make a gift of his Shadows. That worked on Makarov because he was suspicious, though, not impressed. 

“I tell him that oligarch take me away, keep me, won’t let me go. That he has gun in his office, in potted plant by window. I try to say everything I remember, since oligarch thinks I am stupid, too dumb to listen, to remember things.” Her smile is pure malevolence. “But I remember. Like they are dance steps. I remember them.” 

Graves’s smile is slow and his voice is rough, fierce, when he says, “Good. What a fucking prick. So Makarov – you don’t need to bury the lede, darlin’, I know who you’re talkin’ about – read your note, found the gun…?” 

She shakes her head, leaning forward, like she’s sharing a secret. “Nyet. First, he sends Captain Nolan to get me, bring me to office. He has oligarch on floor, kneeling. Oligarch, he is crying, ha, offering money, begging.” She makes a dismissive sound. “He sees me, says I am whore, he can have me if he wants, sell me, make money.” 

“Seriously hope you capped this guy, Wraith.” 

“Am getting to good part,” she says, spritely, a gleam in her dark eyes. “Commander Makarov says nothing, just hands me gun. Says if I am not lying, this is my way out. I ask, how many bullets in gun? Commander Makarov says I need only one, from this distance. I shoot him twice, but not in the head. Guess where I shoot him, Americanski.” She waves a hand imperiously, dominance echoing in the small cabin like a bell. 

“In the fuckin’ dick if it were me, soldier,” Graves says, and her smile tells him that he’s right. 

“Then I shoot him in stomach. See in movie, once, this hurts most. I give gun to Commander Makarov, he says I can have job. On way out, he shoots oligarch in head, says you don’t leave your enemies alive, even if you think maybe they are buried.” 

“So you took him up on the job offer, decided not to go back to dance?” he asks, once she’s finished with her story. 

“No. I train whole life to dance. Russia, we are best at ballet, yes? I give talent to Russia, what does Russia give me? Oligarch sweating on top of me, hurting me, because he has money ,” she hisses. “Russia, my country, did not help me. Commander Makarov did. So now, my talent, I will give it to someone who deserves it. Do you think that strange, Graves?” She rolls the r in his name, which he likes.  

“No,” Graves says, and then – in a strange moment of solidarity with this young woman he doesn’t know, he tells her something he’s never told anyone, not Oz, not Shepherd, not even the boyfriend he had for three months, nor the boyfriend he seems to have collected on this little adventure. “I joined the Marines ‘cause my old man liked to beat me up and let other people do shit I didn’t want to me for beer money.” 

Graves always had been the pretty one in his family, taking after the mother he’d never met or even seen a picture of. “Was either kill people for America or kill ‘em for myself, figured the first would keep me out of prison.” 

Wraith looks like she’s going to say something, but her eyes flicker over his shoulder and she jumps to her feet, saluting and standing at attention, more graceful about it than any soldier Graves has ever met. It also means he knows exactly who he didn’t hear come up behind him, because the look on her face is very close to the same one Andrei gets around his commander. 

“Commander Makarov.” 

Makarov walks around and nods at her, and she relaxes, though she doesn’t sit back down. 

She says, in careful English, “I ask your prizrak about name. He says is good name. Americans, they are dramatic, yes?” 

“Yes,” Makarov says, looking at Graves. “They are.” 

“Told her it’s pretty badass,” Graves says, kicking his feet up on the table because like hell is he jumping to attention like Wraith. 

Makarov tells her to do something, too fast for Graves to translate, but he hears Captain Nolan and sees a brief flash of an expression on Wraith’s face that makes him wonder if maybe Wraith is a bit sweet on Makarov’s right-hand man. 

“She brought me a beer and told me she was a ballerina you saved from an evil oligarch,” Graves says, pushing the Bud Lite a bit away from him. “I hate this shit, but it seemed rude not to pretend to like it, since she gave it to me.” At Makarov’s raised brow, he shrugs. “I got manners, comrade.” 

“Tovarisch,” Makarov says. 

“Gesundheit,” says Graves. 

“That’s what the Russian is. For comrade,” Makarov says, going to sit across from him in Wraith’s vacant chair.

Graves is starting to feel like he’s in a job interview, with a rotating panel of prospective employers. “So you’re a big fan of ballet, are you, tovarisch ?” 

Makarov winces. “Maybe stick with comrade. And no. I respect the discipline to be good at something that difficult, but I haven’t seen a ballet since I was eight and I recall falling asleep during the middle of it.” 

Graves has a hard time imagining Makarov as a child, mentally seeing him as just a shrunken-down version of his current self instead, suit and tac vest included. “Never been to one, but I’ve seen it on tv and that shit looks hard. That why you gave her a job?” 

“Partly, yes. I respect initiative, you know that. She certainly showed it.” 

“She’s almost as dominant as you are,” Graves says. “I know it’s all a crapshoot how that works out, but I didn’t expect it.” 

“Yes. It will serve her well, I’m sure.” Makarov’s eyes narrow, and he squints at Graves through the haze of his cigarette smoke. “Don’t get any ideas, she’s barely twenty-five.” 

“What?” Graves huffs out a laugh, amused. “Comrade, don’t worry, she ain’t really my type. Besides, I think she’s sweet on your captain. You’re gonna break her heart if you don’t send her wherever Andrei is, or vice-versa.” 

“Andrei’s place is with me, and this is you, again, thinking all my soldiers want to fuck each other,” he says, voice dismissive. 

“Hey, I call it like I see it, yeah? And look, maybe they don’t want you to know, but I promise you, your soldiers hook up all the time for stress relief. It’s the same thing in Shadow Company. Pretty normal shit, wanting to blow off steam and handle the adrenaline crash after a mission.” 

“You don’t do it, though,” Makarov says, and now he sounds entirely too smug. 

“No,” Graves admits. “I don’t. Didn’t. At work, anyway – I did fuck around with other people, you know. Just not my people. Guess you don’t really have that option, since all the people you’re ever around are yours.” 

Makarov’s sharp stare is like a bullet between the eyes. “Da, cowboy. All the people around me are mine.” The including you is as obvious as if he’d said it.  

That gives Graves a pleasant little shiver, and he leans forward, pushing a little just because he’s figured out that he can. “Then I guess maybe you are fucking one of your people, since you’re fucking me.” He’s still not calling himself Makarov’s soldier, no thanks. 

He would honestly swear in front of that joke of a congressional hearing – a joke because how dare they believe a decorated military general over a private mercenary company commander! – that Makarov practices smoking to achieve the maximum level of both sexy and dangerous. 

“That I am,” Makarov says, at the same time he exhales, and yeah, honestly, Graves is convinced he wouldn’t even need the fear kink to find Makarov hot. Probably because after submissive with a fear kink his alignment would be contrary with a death wish. “I notice you’re not trying to say you’re not mine.” 

Ah, fucking hell . “Wouldn’t really do any good to argue, would it?” 

“Nyet, cowboy. We both know you are.” 

Graves has never once in his life wanted to join the Mile High Club, but he’s considering it. He’d probably let Makarov rail him over the table if he wanted to, hell, he’s not shy. A lot roomier than a tiny bathroom, that’s for sure. 

The thing he is shy about – or maybe it’s not the right word, maybe wary is better – is asking, and what about when we’ve done what we’ve teamed up to do? Will you still want me to be yours? 

The fact that even occurs to him, sticking around after Shepherd’s a stain on the floor, isn’t one he’s comfortable with, makes him nervous in a way he definitely doesn’t like. Because he’s starting to think he might be a little more into Makarov than just hot scary dom who can fuck me up and fuck me good while we work together to kill a common enemy . Romantic attachments and – feelings – are not in his five-year plan. Or his ten-year plan. They’re not in any plan, and yet. 

“Tell me something,” Graves says, very quietly. “Please, sir.” 

Surprise flickers over Makarov’s face – the respectful address has nothing to do with any sort of military operation or allyship, and he knows it. “Yes?” He sounds like he’s expecting Graves to ask him to recite fucking poetry or some shit, which Graves supposes it’s nice to know he’s just as bad at this as Graves. 

“Were you ever planning to let me go? I know that’s what you said you’d do, after we pop that asshole, but did you mean it?” 

Makarov’s expression gives nothing away, his whiskey-cool eyes as empty as clear glass. “From the way you’re asking me, it sounds like you didn’t expect me to.” 

“I didn’t,” Graves admits. “Deep down, anyway.” 

“And it was worth it to you, even knowing that, to go along with my plan?” Makarov asks him, as emotionless as a stone. 

“Yup-yup, comrade, that’s affirmative. At least it wouldn’t be him, Price, or any of his boyos getting one over on me. But, seriously, were you planning on burying me after we buried him? You can tell me.” 

“Thank you for your permission, Graves.” 

“Welcome. So?” Graves reaches for the cigarettes, less because he wants one and more for something to do with his hands. “Were you?” 

Makarov takes a minute to answer, sliding a lighter over to Graves for him to light his smoke. “I hadn’t made up my mind, if you want the truth.  Mainly it depended on you. If you were helpful, if you didn’t try and gather intel against me to use when our partnership was over, if you attempted sabotage, that sort of thing.” 

Those are indeed all things Graves might have done, so he can’t really argue that he wouldn’t have, but hopefully it’s clear he hasn’t done any of that. Just in case, he points that out. “I haven’t.” And, because he might as well admit it, he says in a much softer voice, “And I won’t.” 

“I know you won’t.” Makarov tilts his head, studying him. “Now I have a question for you . If you really thought that, why did you come to me, get on your knees and submit like you did in the mountains?” 

“Might as well go out on a win,” Graves answers, a little flippantly, but he shrugs and takes a drag, lets the smoke fill his lungs while he thinks how to give an honest answer. “I’ve known for a while what I was into, and it’s a bitch, see, ‘cause my fucking job means danger close has gotta be real fucking close to get me going, yeah? And if danger gets that close, usually I have to do something about it so I can’t really stop and ask the danger if it minds me kneeling, can I?” 

“Most people, I would say, no. You?” Makarov’s mouth ticks up at the corners, and there’s a bit more warmth in his eyes when he says, “it seems as if that’s exactly what you did.” 

“I didn’t do it until we were allies, though,” Graves says. “And don’t pretend like you couldn’t tell I wanted to kneel for you before that, because I did, but I wouldn’t, because…danger close, yeah?” 

“I wouldn’t dare pretend I didn’t know something that obvious,” Makarov says dryly. “And yes, I could tell. I thought you were trying to manipulate me.” 

“What changed your mind?” Graves grins at him. “Was it –” 

“ Nyet ,” Makarov says, stopping him, enough dominance in his tone to make Graves shiver. “It was not your drive down the mountain, before you ask.” 

Graves huffs, ashing his cigarette into the beer can. He can’t lie, that’s what he was going to say. “Okay, fine.” 

“What changed my mind wasn’t something you did, exactly. If you really want to know, it’s how irritated it made you that you wanted it. You didn’t act on it until we were allies, either, when it gained you nothing.” 

“Oh,” Graves drawls, giving him a look from under his lashes, “I wouldn’t say it gained me nothing, comrade. Give yourself some credit, you’re pretty fuckin’ good at it.” 

Makarov tilts his chin up, eyes glittering, looking at Graves through the haze of smoke. “How nice to know I impressed you.” 

Graves holds his gaze for a few seconds, but he eventually has to look down, the press of his dominance too much to resist – and honestly, he doesn’t really want to. “Impressive enough I went to your room even though I was pretty sure you were gonna kill me after you shot Shepherd.” 

“I thought you’d want to do that.” 

Graves does look back up at that, surprised. “You’d let me?” 

He inclines his head. “I let Wraith shoot the man who raped her, didn’t I? And she wasn’t even one of mine, then. It’ll be enough that he’s out of my way, and I will enjoy him knowing just who helped you take him down.” 

A pleasant shiver runs through Graves at that, and with a cursory peripheral glance to make sure no one was watching them, he leans back in the chair, as slutty as he can possibly manage…which from the flash of heat in Makarov’s usually cold eyes suggests is quite slutty indeed. 

“So you’re not gonna kill me.” 

“Oh, eventually, I’ll probably have to, won’t I? You don’t care about my cause, you won’t be my soldier, and I think I wouldn’t want you if you’d give up your Shadows so easily, hmm?” 

“Yeah, well.” Graves isn’t bothered by that. “No, of course not. Your fucking kink is loyalty. And I wouldn’t, that’s true.” He puts the rest of that aside, because it seems like any future bullet won’t be heading toward his head in the immediate future. In his line of work, that’s enough of a reassurance. 

“That day in the mountains,” Makarov says, slowly, and there’s a carefulness in his voice, like he’s offering up serious intel or, to put it in less military terms, some sort of trust. “When you called Oz, yes?” 

Graves nods but stays quiet. 

“You said, what was it – how many more fuckin’ Shadows does this asshole get to kill before I put him down ? I respect that, Graves. You might not approve of my cause or understand just why I hate what the government has done to my country, and that’s fine. But like your Shadows, my soldiers wanted something better than the scraps they were given in the armed forces. Konni is a PMC, you realize. Just like your Shadow Company. Maybe we are different leaders, and our reasons for leaving the systems that made us, trained us, betrayed us are different. But you’re right. I value loyalty more than I value anything. Yours, to your men, I respect that. And I respect that you know your government is as corrupt as mine. Once you are free of Shepherd, maybe you will see that the world isn’t meant to be split up into pieces and ruled by councils of weak, ineffective bureaucrats. Power should only be wielded by those strong enough to take it and keep it .” 

Charismatic is not a word Graves would have ever thought to use to describe Makarov, because to most people it means lively and engaging, and that isn’t at all what Graves thinks of Makarov. But people have called Graves charismatic before, and what he’s almost positive they really mean is emotionally manipulative and a liar, even if that’s not the traditionally accepted definition. For the entirety of their association, Graves would say Makarov tended more toward severe and determined than anything close to lively, though Graves can’t deny the engaging part, though that could honestly just be him. 

But this man, speaking to him with a fire behind his eyes that for once isn’t anger but conviction, is definitely charismatic. It’s not even that Graves disagrees with him – he also thinks the military is hampered by too many rules and regs, that’s why he left. It’s just the fondness for chemical warfare and false-flag operations he’s not sure he’s entirely able to justify. 

It’s not the same sort of rousing speech Graves might give his Shadows, but damn if it isn’t effective all the same. Graves could try and argue with him, we don’t kill civilians, we don’t send arms to warmongers, we don’t barter with cartels, but the truth is? Yeah, they fucking do . Graves himself has done all of that, and he could try and say it was different but…was it? Or was it just under the orders of someone just as convinced as Makarov in the rightness of what he was trying to accomplish?  

“Same methods, different sides, I guess,” he says finally, shrugging. “I guess when you leave the brass behind, you leave some of the bullshit they use to justify doing the same thing the other side is doing.” 

“Yes, Graves. Very good. That’s it, exactly. I respect your initiative in coming after me – do you remember when I asked you if you came for me for your own reputation or for your country? You answered me flippantly, then. What would you say if I asked you now?” 

He’s leaning across the table, hands folded, and his dominance is so heavy that Graves is having a hard time concentrating on the question. “Could you pull it back, comrade, or I won’t be able to fucking answer you.” 

“Answer the question. You’ve never cowered from me, don’t start now.” 

It takes more of an effort than he’ll ever admit to meet Makarov’s intense stare, and he looks more like a panther poised to tear the throat out of an antelope than ever, and Graves isn’t even sure he likes this fucking analogy – antelopes aren’t sexy, first, and second, he has no idea if panthers hunt them, where the fuck do either of those things live? – but it’s impossible to think of Makarov as anything but a predator. 

“I did it for me, obviously. And my Shadows, they follow my orders, so when I’m fucked over, so are they. I love America, comrade, it ain’t that. It’s just the fucking government I can’t stand.” 

“And that particular sentiment is one we share,” Makarov says, in that same hypnotic tone. “Imagine America ravaged by the idiocy of weak-willed men, all because they are too afraid to take power in the way it is meant to be taken. Now you know how I feel about Russia. Now you know why my soldiers are loyal. Why I let a ballerina kill an oligarch and gave her a gun. That hunger, that’s what they don’t have. Maybe the world burns, maybe it doesn’t. But I would rather start the fire and burn to ash in its flames, than shiver in the dark because I could not find a match.” 

Graves can’t keep his gaze on Makarov’s – he can only fight his biology so hard – and his hands are crossed at the wrist behind his back even though he’s still sitting at the table. “You’re not usually this chatty.” 

“I don’t usually speak to you about anything outside our shared mission objective,” Makarov says, the military-speak oddly comforting after the intensity of his I’d rather start the fire speech. “But that’s why I didn’t kill you. Your loyalty isn’t to a flag, a country, a government – neither is mine. Your loyalty is to those who have earned it from you, and a country you think deserves better than the people running it into the ground.” 

There is a difference here, and Graves would really like to point out what it is. But at the moment…maybe it makes more sense than it should. But he frowns, because it doesn’t sit well with him, these sorts of comparisons between Konni Group and Shadow Company. He’s not going to lie and say what he did in Las Almas was by-the-books, but that’s the point of being the commander of a mercenary force, isn’t it? He’s the one writing the book. 

And he still wouldn’t do half the shit Makarov’s done, or so he tells himself. “It’s not that I don’t understand what you’re doing. You wanna destroy shit and rebuild it so it’s better, but comrade, that ain’t how the world works. This ain’t warfare with pointy sticks and arrows on fire or whatever the fuck they used back in the day, it’s drones and bombs that wipe out a country with a button, you feel me?” 

“The tools of warfare have changed, da. But the goal never has. How many civilians did your government kill to end the second world war?” 

Graves has the strangest sense that Makarov isn’t trying to make him agree necessarily, or even recruit him into slapping a Konni patch on his arm, but he seems to at least want Graves to somewhat understand his point of view. Probably it’s not a good sign that he sort of does, even if he still thinks Makarov’s plans border on the sort of over-the-top evil beloved by Marvel supervillains. 

“No amount of talking has ever changed the world. It responds to violence. Your country would still be ruled by Britain if you didn’t fight back.” 

“Maybe they’d do a better job,” Graves mutters, but he shrugs. “Look, it’s not that I don’t get what you mean in theory. Hell, I run a PMC, you think I’m gonna sit here and say official channels get shit done? They don’t, but I do.” He thinks about Las Almas again. Those were civilians on paper, but they were narcos-harboring sympathizers or dirty cops – just as guilty, if you ask Graves, as the cartel goons. The benefit of being a mercenary was he didn’t have to ask anyone else if they agreed, he just carried out the client’s orders. The client who, in that situation, was General Herschel Shepherd. 

“You think I’ve crossed a line that you wouldn’t,” Makarov says softly, and Graves finds himself unable to look away from his coal-fire dark stare, this time. “But once upon a time, you never thought you’d cross the ones you already have, either.” 

Graves takes his time to respond to that. “I know what people think about - well, me, and Shadow Company, and PMCs in general. We’re killers who do it for a paycheck, but sometimes, Makarov? I think that’s easier than doing it for morals. Cleaner. It’s the reason I can work with you, even without the other shit. I show up for the gunfight, I don’t give a fuck about the politics for the most part. If I take someone’s money for our services, I can turn around and take their enemy’s money just as easy, because at the end of the day I’m a salesman, not a revolutionary.” 

“Then why do you want to go back to a country you’ve repeatedly expressed your disgust with, Graves? Why is the American government worth the consideration you won’t give your other clients?” 

Graves shrugs. “Hell if I know, Volodya. When I figure it out, I’ll let you know. What’s this recruitment speech about, anyway? International politics or me, personally?” 

Makarov goes very still, eyes clear and empty, that thing he does where it looks like he just shoved all his personality in a box and shoved it under the metaphorical bed. “I want you to think about what you want when this is over, Graves. Because it seems to me, cowboy, what you want is to run Shadow Company, and no one ever said you had to do it in America.” 

Graves stares at him. “Volodya. Are you asking me to move in? I don’t think Russia is really my kinda place, comrade. Too much fucking snow and I’m never gonna be someone who drinks hot tea with lemon .” 

Makarov doesn’t so much as blink. “Who said it had to be Russia? I give opportunities to those who earn it, Graves. You might find your potential pool of clients open up, when you’re not determined to serve the whims of an imperialist government with a well-funded, brainwashed army of mindless automatons on their side.” 

His eyes narrow, hackles raised by the implication he earned something on his back that should be earned on both feet with his rifle. “How’d I earn it, exactly? Sucking cock? Being hot?” 

“No, I told you, that has nothing to do with it. You earned it by being just as loyal as you assured me you would be. My currency isn’t cash, it’s assistance in a personal vendetta, but you’ve still acted like an ally in every way that counts. Think about it,” he says, again, getting to his feet. “I was planning on installing Wraith at Plutus to take over running Konni – at least on the administrative side –  but she’s young, inexperienced. She could benefit from seeing how it’s done by someone with more experience.” 

Graves can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. He, too, gets up, bracing himself on the table and widening his stance, long-used to bumpy rides in aircraft. “And this is all, what, just professional?” 

“You’re very good in bed, Graves, but this is about your skill as a commander. I admire your loyalty to your men and your practical outlook on the nature of your work, save your strange hard-on for the mythos of the land of the free –” 

“America’s a trash fire, but it’s my trash fire, and what I like about it ain’t the government. Probably the same way you like vodka, that card game, snow, and soccer.” He holds up a hand. “Which, before you tell me I’ve never heard you express one single opinion about soccer, I know you have one. Every fuckin’ non-American I’ve ever met does, except the goddamn canucks and that’s all hockey.” 

Makarov reaches out and takes him by the back of the neck, pulls him in and kisses him. “I don’t like soccer, but I do like hockey. I played it until I was twelve.” 

That’s the first personal thing he’s ever told Graves, and Graves smiles into the kiss. “I’m from the south, I don’t know shit about hockey beyond the basics. What position?” 

“Goalie,” Makarov says, backing him up. “I don’t like letting things past me, or letting other people win.” 

Graves laughs against his mouth, hands on his lean hips, annoyed by their tac vests which are impeding his ability to put his hands other places. Probably for the best, they’re not exactly alone. “Not a surprise. I liked baseball. Pitcher. I liked making the other kids mad when they couldn’t hit what I threw out there. Didn’t even care if it was a strike or not, just made me happy when they whined about it.” 

Makarov’s laugh is just a huff, but it still warms him a bit to hear it, and ah, hell – he is so, so fucked. He came here to catch a terrorist, not catch feelings for one. 

He disentangles himself eventually, turned on and breathing too hard and annoyed that Makarov looks as cool and composed as ever. But before the plane begins its descent so they can board yet another one, he catches Makarov by the strap of his tac vest and tugs him back. He assumes the you can touch me unless I tell you not to permission extends to places where his soldiers are, unless otherwise informed, and Makarov never has seemed to care if his inner circle know that he and Graves have a…situationship. That seems a safe enough word, for the moment. 

“Putting aside all the professional shit, this sounds like you want me to stick around for other reasons besides my skill at running a PMC,” Graves says, pulling him in, pitching his voice low and, what the hell, putting enough of his submissive’s tone in there to make Makarov’s eyes flash hot. “And before you get all like you get about shit, yes, I know you’ll still kill me if I fuck up.” 

“You wouldn’t want me if you didn’t believe I’d do that,” Makarov says, and okay, fine, Graves can’t really argue with him about that. “You can’t be mine, can you, Graves, unless you believe I could shoot you and watch you die without saying a word?” 

“Would you stop,” Graves mutters, face flushed, unsure he likes how hot that was. “And I don’t believe that part about you not saying a word, comrade, sorry to say.” 

“You’re the talker, not me.” 

“I have actual evidence not to believe that, Czar Actual, just ‘cause some of that dirty talk is in Russian don’t mean you ain’t sayin’ it.” 

Makarov looks briefly pained, like Graves’s exaggerated southern drawl and deliberately incorrect grammar is making him question all his life choices – or at least the ones involving Graves. 

Good. Graves doesn’t want him to be complacent. Where’s the fun in that? 

There’s a crackle and the pilot’s voice comes over the intercom, and Graves understands enough to know the plane is descending into London – or England, a field somewhere, he’s still not sure how they’re managing to get in and out of countries as easily as a breeze. 

He goes to take his seat again, buckling his seatbelt and pulling out his phone. He has a lot to think about, sure, but right now – the mission takes priority. He glances sidelong at Makarov, who’s back to his papers again and talking to Andrei, and wonders how furious he is about Milena. If that woman has any sense, she’ll hightail it off that resort island as fast as a sinner speeding to church on a Sunday, but if she were that smart, she wouldn’t have betrayed him in the first place. 

Graves might have been stupid enough to catch feelings for Makarov, but he sure ain’t stupid enough to betray him. And that probably says more than anything about what he wants to do when this whole thing is over, even if he’s not quite ready to admit it. 

Chapter Text

The safehouse in London is a furnished flat in a centrally-located high rise, and the place looks as if no one’s been there since the last trendy upgrade was installed in the kitchen. It has that too-clean, vaguely bleach-ish smell, and it reminds Graves of his own condo back in Georgetown. It looks just about as lived-in, too. 

“I can’t figure out your taste in decor,” Graves says, yawning, dropping a newly-acquired duffel full of also newly-acquired necessities on the floor. He looks around, takes in the floor-to-ceiling windows, the wide-plank laminate flooring and the light-gray walls, the sleek furniture and the industrial-but-make-it-chic light fixtures, and gives Makarov a slow, teasing grin. “You go from rustic mountain lodge with grandma-core afghans, to tacky mobster purple palace, to every HGTV reno on the damn channel, huh?” 

“I’ve never been here, before,” Makarov says, shrugging out of his coat and dropping his own bag of recently purchased supplies. He glances around, giving the flat a cursory once-over. “It’s a stop-over, nothing more.”

“Sure.” The place reminds him of one of those sterile, personality-less Airbnbs investors went nuts for a few years ago. “Do you have an actual house that’s like, yours? An Apartment? Batcave? Abandoned missile silo bunker?” 

Makarov squints at him. “Yes, Graves, you’re standing in one.” 

Now he’s just being deliberately obtuse. “Yeah, but like…a place that’s your actual home, with like, stuff in it. Not a backdrop for a TikTok tradwife cooking show.” 

Makarov shakes his head, and Graves has the feeling he’s clueless about the TikTok comment and choosing not to ask. Wise man. “No. It’s much less risky to use safehouses than have a permanent address.” 

For some reason, that strikes him as…maybe not sad , exactly – Makarov’s life is the way it is because of what he’s done, and if he doesn’t feel bad about it, Graves isn’t going to on his behalf – but it seems a bit transient, restless, like Makarov is a weapon, a missile constantly armed and waiting to detonate. 

“Do you ?” 

Graves pulls himself out of his thoughts and nods. “Yeah,” he says, running a hand through his hair. He really wants to find a way to get it cut, it’s way too long. “A condo, I bought it two years ago. Spent maybe a total of three weeks there, all told, but it’s nice.” Mostly he bought it because it was in the wealthiest section of the DC metro area, Georgetown, and he liked it simply for the fact it was light-years away from that shitty trailer park in Louisiana. 

He has the strangest thought that he might never go back to it, but maybe that’s just his mood. Since that conversation with Makarov on the plane, he’s felt oddly unsettled. It’s a combination of things, most likely – the fact he finally has to admit that he’s into Makarov in a way that goes beyond sex and submission, the glaring similarities between his own work with Shadow Company and Konni Group, the stark reminder that Makarov’s ultranationalist agenda was exactly the sort of thing his company was paid to put a stop to. 

Or maybe it’s being in London, seeing people going about their daily lives and speaking a language he knows, which makes that safehouse in Russia, that mountain house where he’d first knelt for Makarov, seem very, very far away. 

Makarov is also in a mood, which goes beyond his usual quiet watchfulness into something that reads very much like sullenness . That’s not really something he’s used to with Makarov, and it makes him edgy, restless, in a way that isn’t unlike the moments before hitting a dropzone, or the quiet, tense seconds before the AC130 reigns fire on the enemy. 

Graves, in a stunning moment of clarity that involves thinking about someone else instead of himself for once, says quietly, “You need to put me on my knees, comrade? You’re looking kinda tense over there.” It’s something about the way he’s standing, the set of his shoulders. Makarov doesn’t ever really give off relaxed as a vibe, but he seems a little more tightly-wound than usual. 

“Do you need me to?” Makarov asks, and Graves realizes what’s throwing him – it’s that his dominance is as heavy as usual, but it’s all over the place in a way it usually isn’t. “If you do, that’s fine, just ask.” 

Graves narrows his eyes, leans back against the counter. It’s very cold – quartz, probably, a thing he knows only from picking out finishes for his own place – and hard against his back. “It’s less about me and more about you, comrade. You’re spilling dominance like a shitty car leaks oil, but it ain’t the same as when you dom me , so, what’s up?” 

“What’s the difference?” 

For a second, he thinks Makarov is just being argumentative for no reason, but then he realizes it’s a serious question. “Uh, well, usually it’s a lot more focused. Like the tip of a knife. Especially when it’s just us. But when you’re using it with a lot of people, it’s more like…” He tilts his head, thinking through weapons for the best analogy. “A mace. That ball thing with spikes? Like that. Wider, but still sharp. Right now it feels more like, hmm.” He snaps his fingers. “Someone throwing a handful of knives and hoping they land somewhere useful.” 

“That’s…an incredibly complicated way to say scattered, ” Makarov says, staring at him. 

“You said it, not me, comrade. And I’m a Southerner. We don’t say in two words what we could say in twenty-two, yeah?” 

“Only twenty-two? That seems modest.” Makarov sighs. “I have a lot on my mind, Graves. It’s nothing personal.” 

“Didn’t think it was. Doesn’t mean I can’t tell you’re all…” he waves his hand back and forth, like maybe that’ll explain it. “Agitated.”

Makarov is still staring at him like he’s trying to see directly into Graves’s brain, which, well, that’s never going to help clarify anything, Graves is a fucking mess. “I’m not clear if this is you asking me for something or not. If you want to kneel, go ahead. It doesn’t displease me to see you on your knees, you know that.” 

That’s nice to hear, and while he wouldn’t mind being put under, his current desire isn’t really for Makarov to put a gun in his mouth and sexily gaslight him into thinking he’s going to pull the trigger. It’s more a desire to submit because he thinks it might be helpful, which…well, there’s a first time for fucking everything, isn’t there? 

Now, how to own up and admit this? That’s the part he has trouble with. Just wing it. It’s worked so far. “Okay, so, don’t make this a thing, but maybe I could…do something. For you. That you liked. Whatever that is.” 

“ Maybe you could? Or you will if I want you to? Those aren’t the same thing, you realize.”  

Fucking hell. He looks at him, shivers a little because Makarov’s dominance is already more focused, bullet-tipped and heading right for him. “I will,” he says, and then, because this is the thing he’s really trying to get across, here – “I want to. For you.” 

Hearing that out loud makes his face hot, and he lowers his gaze, Makarov’s dominance too heavy to do anything else. Makarov doesn’t let him, though; he moves closer, stands directly in front of him and takes him by the chin, gently raising it so that Graves is forced to meet his gaze. “There. That wasn’t so hard to admit, was it?” 

“I mean, yeah,” Graves says, finally. “It kinda was. But I did, so, what is it you want? What gets you in topspace, or whatever you doms call it?” 

Makarov studies him, fingers warm on Graves’s skin. “What if it’s something you hate?” 

“I think we’ve established I’m off my rocker when it comes to this kinda shit,” Graves says. “But try me.” 

Makarov smiles at him. It’s not a very nice smile. It makes Graves’s cock hard and his breath catch, goddamn it. “Mmm. Wouldn’t you rather not know ahead of time? I think you’ll like that better.” 

Well, he can’t say no to that, can he? Then why is he going to ? “I mean, yeah? But, look, comrade – I meant it when I said I was offering for you , not me.” 

“How selfless of you.” Makarov lets go of his chin, rubbing his thumb over Graves’s mouth, then lower, making him shiver as his bare, tattooed fingers glide over Graves’s bare neck. “But you’re mistaken, if you think I don’t like making you nervous.” 

“Then make me nervous,” Graves says, voice husky. “If you’re so sure I’ll like it.” Of course he’ll like it. But he’s trying to be generous, here. 

“What don’t you like?” Makarov asks. “Is there something? Do you even know if there is?” 

It’s a fair question, given how long he’s avoided indulging his submission. He thinks about it. “I got a few guesses, yeah. I already told you that I don’t like pain. Degradation – like, calling me worthless or whatever, that’ll just piss me off and make me wanna get in a fistfight. If you tried spanking me I’d probably laugh, and that congressional appearance was enough humiliation to last me a lifetime, thanks.” 

“Believe it or not, I’m not much of a sadist,” Makarov says, and honestly, Graves would never have thought he was. He has a few in Shadow Company, and he figured out real quick letting them do interrogations was never a good idea, they took for-fucking- ever . 

Makarov moves in closer, trapping Graves against the counter, which…well, he certainly likes that, doesn’t he, pinning Graves against doors, walls, other surfaces? He taps him twice on the mouth. When he finally says something, it has nothing to do with their conversation. “I’m hungry.” 

This is the first time Graves has ever heard Makarov admit to a need that isn’t for unwavering loyalty or the fall of the West, save maybe a cigarette or a bottle of water. Before he can make any kind of comment about it, Makarov steps back and says, “I’m going to shower. Find something to order for dinner, send it to the lobby. Use your cell number for a contact, don’t give a name, they shouldn’t need it. Use one of those pre-paid credit cards I gave you. Copy, Shadow Actual?”

“Copy, Czar Actual.” Graves gets out his phone, downloads a delivery app and sits on the couch to scroll through the options while Makarov showers. Normally he’d like to go in there, too, see that very nice body of his all wet, lick drops of water off those tattoos he’s so enamored of. But he gives Makarov his space, figuring he’ll get his hands on him soon enough. 

Besides, he has a challenge – finding somewhere to order a decent meal in London, where they think salt and pepper are exotic spices, and that might be able to send along some good vodka or a bottle of decent wine. 

By the time Makarov re-appears in the living area, Graves has placed an order and followed the instructions for setting up the delivery, and he’s also changed from his new clothes into another recent purchase; a plain black tee with a skull on it, and a pair of pajama pants obnoxiously patterned with the Union Jack. He’s sitting on the couch flipping through television channels, studiously avoiding the news and settling on a trashy reality show he’s vaguely aware exists. 

He’s never pretended to be a man of sophisticated tastes when it comes to entertainment. He even laughed a few times at The Hangover. 

Makarov also bought new clothes, but he’d opted for one of those severe black suits he likes, which is fine with Graves, who thinks he looks very good in them. His choice for leisurewear is far less garish, a simple pair of black sweats with nary a flag to be found, and a white tank that shows off all those tattoos Graves wants to lick. His only response to the novelty pajama bottoms of Graves’s is a slight cast of his eyes to the ceiling, and Graves grins, considering it a win. 

Makarov lights a cigarette and goes into the kitchen, rummaging around the cabinets until he finds a glass, ashing his cigarette in the sink like a college student in cheap student housing who doesn’t expect to get their deposit back. He fills the glass with tap water from the sink, ignoring the filter on the fridge, and drinks it all down without a pause. He does it a second time, and when he fills it up again, Graves says, “Is the true target of your terrorism dehydration, Volodya?” Makarov really does drink a lot of water. Other than his very sporadic consumption of vodka and his morning tea, that’s all Graves has ever seen him drink. 

“Nyet. I’m recovering from four years of constant dehydration,” Makarov says. “You don’t think a glass of water is a luxury, until you have to pay a guard with a pack of cigarettes to bring you one.” 

Graves supposes that makes sense. “Is that also why you keep chain smoking? You had to barter away all your smokes?” 

“Probably,” he says. There’s something about Makarov walking around barefoot in sweats and a simple white tank that makes him look younger. He’s no less imposing, but he seems almost too normal to be Vladimir Makarov, wanted terrorist. “Concerned about my health, are you?” 

“More impressed with your cardio, if you can smoke that much and still run,” Graves says, only half-joking. “By the way, I ordered Italian. Figured it was pretty easy, most people don’t complain over pasta.” He taps on the track your order! button on the app. “Be here in twenty, it says. Got some wine, hope you don’t mind red.” 

“That’s fine.” Makarov finishes his third glass of water and says, quietly, “Spasibo.” 

“Ne bespokoysya,” Graves says, pleased to have remembered. No worries. 

Makarov makes a phone call, so Graves goes back to mindlessly watching television, barely taking in anything he’s seeing. His phone buzzes a few minutes later, just shy of the twenty-minute mark, so he gestures to the door for Makarov’s benefit and heads down to pick up their dinner. 

It’s pretty basic stuff, but it’s filling and that’s good enough. The wine is decent, both of them more inclined to pick up their water glasses instead, but it’s enough to mellow Graves out a bit. 

“Where’s everyone else, am I allowed to know?” he asks, wishing for some red pepper flakes or cayenne pepper to put on his cacio e pepe, but at least it’s got something of a spice, even if it’s only black peppercorn. 

He ordered that and a linguine in a white wine sauce with grilled chicken, so they could each have half since he had no idea what kind of pasta Makarov liked. He can’t say he knows any kind of food Makarov likes, but he’s eating half of each, so Graves’s instincts must not have been too off. It’s gotta be better than Russian gulag grub, so there’s that, at least. 

“I sent them all ahead to Plutus,” Makarov says, sipping his wine. “Except for Andrei and Masha, they’re in a flat a few buildings from here.” He watches Graves add more pepper with a raised eyebrow. “Isn’t this pasta already flavored with pepper?” 

“My Louisiana soul craves spicy, let me live.” Graves is hungrier than he thought, polishing off both halves of the entrees and several pieces of the warm, fresh bread included with their order. It’s not surprising – he’s existed primarily on snacks, it feels like – and it’s pretty good, for something he chose because it was open and had a fast delivery time. 

There’s still half a bottle of wine left when they’re finished, but the combination of the rich food and the wine he did consume leaves him as close to relaxed as he ever is, and Makarov seems to be the same – the intensity of his dominance, while still as present as ever, is a bit more tightly contained, no longer quite as scattered. He’s also in a chattier mood than Graves is used to, which might not be the same level as other people, but for Makarov it’s noticeable. 

“So you could have been the next…uh, who’s a good Russian hockey player? No lie, I don’t know shit about it,” Graves admits, as they finish their glasses of wine. “How come you stopped playing?” 

Makarov is holding his glass, turning it so the light shimmers in the deep red, but he only takes a sip every so often. He seems a bit reticent to answer, but eventually, he says, “I told you my father hanged himself when I was twelve, da? I’m the one who found him, when I went to get my gear for practice.” 

“Fucking hell,” Graves says, shaking his head. “I would have fucking thrown a goddamn party, if my father did that.” He winces, realizing how that sounds almost as soon as the words are out of his mouth. “That was tactless, shit, sorry.” 

Makarov gives a careless shrug. “It’s fine. My mother sent me away to school after that, that’s the main reason I stopped. Football was more popular there, and I suppose I could have played goalkeeper, but I was…not very social, in school. Even before that. And there are many great Russian hockey players, but Americans typically only know Alexander Ovechkin, because he plays for your team.”

“My team?” Graves blinks. Oh, wait. He snaps his fingers. “Right, the Capitals. I guess I do know one hockey thing, I’ve heard the ads on the radio when I”m home.” It’s not surprising that Makarov wasn’t very social as a teenager, he’s still got that lone-wolf vibe going on.  “You have any siblings?” He’d glanced a few times at Makarov’s file before leaving for Russia, but his interest was more in his recent past than anything. 

“No. I’m an only child. Do you have siblings?” 

Graves nods. “I have three brothers, or at least, I did. One’s in jail, locked up in the same place as my old man and one of my loser uncles, and the other two are probably in the same goddamn trailer park, being mean to their kids if they have any.”  He hopes not. No kid should have to put up with his family ever again. 

“I heard you speaking with Wraith,” Makarov says, carefully enough that Graves knows he’s going to bring up shit he hates talking about. “It seems you were telling the truth, when you said you changed your name to distance yourself from your family, not protect them.” 

“Yeah, honestly, I didn’t want them tracking me down later and asking for money,” Graves says. “Or calling and asking me to bail them out of prison. Let ‘em rot, especially my old man. He made my life hell as a kid, he deserves to know what it’s like to get knocked around by someone bigger and stronger than he is.” Graves sips his wine, barely tasting the sharpness of it, unsure why he’s telling Makarov any of this. 

“Is he supposed to be released, soon?” 

Graves shrugs. “I have no idea. They got him on aggravated assault, grand theft auto and vehicular manslaughter – got drunk, beat some guy up and stole his car, then hit some poor lady and her son driving home from a baseball game. The son ended up paralyzed and the woman died, and the whole thing was captured on a traffic cam, so. No real way out of that one, but who knows if they’ll make him serve his whole sentence or not.” Graves laughs, the sound bitter, sharp. “They might have to make room for a non-violent person who had an ounce of weed and dared to be not white, it’s such a fucked up system.” 

Makarov’s expression doesn’t change, but he clearly wants to ask something – Graves can tell. He remembers what he said earlier to Wraith, and if Makarov heard that….he sets his wine glass down with a sigh, going a bit tense. “Go on and ask, let’s get this over with.” 

Makarov doesn’t bother denying he’s about to bring up something Graves hates talking about. “And your father…sold you?” 

He still can’t believe he even implied that happened when he was talking to Wraith. “Yeah. I don’t really talk about it, ever, but Wraith, she gets it. He used to…let people do shit to me. Not for very long – one of my brothers decided not to be a useless lump for once and clocked him with a baseball bat when he found out – but long enough. About the only thing my brother did that was useful, that and he gave me a switchblade and said if the old man tried to do it again, I could at least defend myself.” 

“And did you? Have to defend yourself?” 

Graves shakes his head. “Not from that, no, he never did it again.” Graves suspects that’s because he was too old for the sickos who were once interested, but he’s not saying that. “But the next time he came at me drunk, I did. Pulled the knife out and told him to stay away or I’d stick him like a pig.” His mouth sets in a hard line. “Despite being drunk and probably on meth, he was a strong motherfucker, and I was just a kid, thirteen maybe, no match for whatever superpower being that out of your mind on substances gives you. He knocked me down, stepped on my wrist so hard it broke and got the knife. Gave me this,” he says, pointing to the scar on his cheek. “I think he probably would have killed me if he wasn’t so fucked up.” 

“What made him stop?” 

“I’d like to say it was me, but it wasn’t. Someone came by, honked their horn, and I guess he had more exciting plans than bury my kid in the yard ‘cause I accidentally cut his throat. ” Probably it wouldn’t have been an accident – he still remembers that wild look in his father’s eyes, the panic of being trapped beneath him, the pain and the way the blood felt on his face, the smell of it.

It broke something in you, when your parent stared at you like a bug they wanted to squash instead of their kid. Like you weren’t anything worth protecting, just something easy to hurt. 

“I can see why the military was an attractive choice,” Makarov says, voice even. If he feels any type of way about that story, it’s impossible to tell. 

“Yeah. Like I told Wraith, I was pissed off at the world and it seemed to me it was either that, or pick up the bottle and end up just like him. So I left home at seventeen and never went back.” 

“What is your brother in jail for, then?” 

“Same sorta shit, basically. No vehicular manslaughter – yet –  but the same dumb petty crimes and drunken fuck-ups that started my dad on his glorious path to being a felon. Wouldn’t be surprised if he ends up in there for something just as bad, though.” Graves might be a killer, but at least he was a trained one. At least what he did mattered .  

“And your mother?” Makarov asks, sounding genuinely curious. 

“No idea, don’t even know her name or if she’s my brothers’ mom, too. I used to be mad about her not being there, when I was a kid, but now…well, people who are well-adjusted don’t get mixed up with people like my old man, it’s entirely possible she was just as much of a fuck-up as he was.” 

This is more than he’s thought about his childhood in years, and more than he’s ever told anyone about it, so he switches the subject and asks, “What about you? Your mom still in the picture?” 

Makarov immediately looks cagey, which he expects, but he does answer the question, which is something of a surprise. “She’s alive, if that’s what you mean. We’re not in contact, but I know where she is.” 

“So, you must not be estranged or, like, despise her or whatever, right?” Graves asks, curious. “Because if you were, I imagine you wouldn’t care if anyone knew who – or where – she was.” 

“No, I don’t despise her and we’re not estranged, exactly – it’s only that she’s safer without anyone connecting her to me, for obvious reasons. She understands that.” He says it so confidently that Graves has to believe him, but he can’t help but wonder what his mom thinks about his…escapades. Surely she’s seen news coverage, regardless of her location? Does she think it’s worth it, not speaking to, or seeing, her son? He doesn’t ask, but he sort of wants to. The idea of Makarov with a mother is strangely shocking, even though it shouldn’t be.  

“So, you’re not gonna introduce me?” Graves flashes a grin at him. “Don’t want her to know you hooked up with an imperialist dog?” 

“I’d never live down the shame,” Makarov says, raising his glass in a toast. “An imperialist dog, a tool of the Western butchers, and a capitalist?” He clicks his tongue, shakes his head. “She’d be so disappointed.” 

Graves narrows his eyes and points at him. “You call me a capitalist and how many houses do you own, comrade? ‘Cause it’s more than me, and most Americans, you know.” 

Makarov just sips his wine and stares at him without comment, and Graves feels a pleasant rush of nerves as he meets those cool eyes of his. “And you never tried to find her, your mother?” 

“Nah. I thought about it, once I was in MARSOC and had changed my name, but hey, if she wanted out, she got out. Seemed easier to just let it be.” Graves shrugs. “Family ties aren’t very safe in my line of work, which you know.” 

“Mm.” Makarov inclines his head in acknowledgment. “Maybe you should introduce me to your father,” he says, shocking the hell out of Graves, who is only happy he wasn’t taking a sip of his own wine when Makarov says that. There’s a glint in his eyes that looks dangerous, a hint of it in his quiet voice. 

“Negative,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t think they’d let me bring you in as a guest, and what if someone recognized you? You’d end up in a Louisiana prison and trust me, summer’ll hit and you’ll melt like a popsicle in a forest fire.” 

“You say that like I haven’t escaped from prison before,” Makarov says. “I highly doubt your American jails are as daunting as the gulag in Zordaya.” 

“My American jails,” Graves snorts, and laughs outright. “Do you try and sound like a bond villain, or does it just come naturally?” 

“Naturally,” Makarov says, smirking at him. “A good commander has to be eloquent, Graves.” 

Graves laughs, enjoying their banter, which seems far too relaxed for who they are and why they’re here, much less how this whole thing started with the two of them. “I couldn’t agree more, Volodya. My briefings are legendary in Shadow Company.” 

“Yup-yup,” Makarov says, in a terrible southern US accent, and this time, Graves does choke on his sip of wine. 

“Ura-ura,” he says back, in an equally absurd Russian accent. “So you went to fancy boarding school, huh? What was your favorite subject?” 

“Science,” Makarov says, without hesitation. “What was yours?” 

“If you go by the thing I attended the most? Detention. But, I guess…maybe math? I didn’t really care about any of it, I just wanted to get good enough grades to join up and being at school was better than home, so. Most of the shit I learned that I actually use, that I was taught in MARSOC. What kind of science? Chemistry?” That would make sense, given Makarov’s fondness for…toxins. 

“Da, I did like chemistry. I liked meteorology, if you can believe that.” He leans back in the chair, watching Graves, as if he expects him to laugh. “Chaos theory exists because of trying to predict weather patterns, did you know that?” 

“Yeah, but only because I read that Jurassic Park book once on a plane. Someone left it in the seatback.” He laughs at the huffy look that gets him. “But okay, sure, I can see you being into chaos. Actually, that’s what I like about the AC130. I like the quick thinking and strategy required to unleash hell like a force of nature.” 

“Not surprising in the least.” Makarov stands up, leaves his unfinished wine on the table and gathers up his dishes. Graves does the same, and they spend five minutes companionably doing the dishes, which could actually be the most surreal thing he’s done with Vladimir Makarov in the entire time he’s been with him. 

“So what were you gonna do, if you didn’t join the army? Be a meteorologist? Solve the Dyatlov Pass incident?” That surprises him, Graves can tell. He does like when that happens, with anyone, but especially with Makarov. “Hey, now, I told you. I ain’t as dumb as people like to think. I listen to podcasts.” 

Makarov, unsurprisingly, fills up the glass with tapwater again after they’re done cleaning up from dinner. “Everyone knows that was an avalanche,” he says, and then – for the next ten minutes, they have an actual debate about the cause of the incident, which Graves really wants to be aliens or some Russian cover-up conspiracy, only because it keeps irritating Makarov that he won’t let it be something simple and obvious, like snow falling down a mountain. 

“Graves, if the Russian government could successfully cover something like that up, my country wouldn’t be in the state it is, today,” he says, finally, pointing his cigarette at him. “Next you're going to tell me you believe that absurd theory about the moon landing being faked by Hollywood.” 

“Oh, please, give me some credit, yeah? If the governments of the world who they say are involved could really work together to keep that a secret for this long? Neither one of us would have a job, comrade.” 

“Probably not,” Makarov agrees. “That won’t stop people from believing it.” 

“Well, no. People are idiots. And not just Americans. There are plenty of idiots in Russia, too.” 

“Believe me,” Makarov says, and actually laughs . “I know.” 

Graves is about to ask if he wants to go to bed – because he would very much like to do that, he’s distracted by the tattoos and maybe he can finally ask what they mean – but before he can do that, Makarov is right there, in his space, and he puts two fingers under Graves’s chin, tilting his head up to meet his eyes – Graves was barely aware of having lowered it, fuck – and then he says, all traces of his earlier amusement gone, “You were right, what you said before.” 

Graves loves being right, and he loves hearing that he’s right, so he smiles widely and says, “About the aliens or the cover-up?” 

“Graves,” Makarov says, dominance sharp in his tone, making him shiver. “Not about Dyatlov. In Moscow, what you said about things I liked. Rope bondage. I do like that, very much. If you meant your offer to submit for whatever I wanted to do, that’s my answer.” 

Graves fights back the initial, immediate urge to just – kneel, right there in the kitchen, which is so foreign to his nature that the contrariness springs up just as quickly along with it. He wants to say yes, do it, he wants to say, fuck, no, but all he says in the end is, “I really hate being restrained.” It’s true – the most he’s ever allowed a dom to get away with, before, during sex? He would sometimes put his hands behind his back while sucking cock. Maybe, if the dom wasn’t a jerk about expecting it. 

“I know you do,” Makarov says, quietly. “That’s why I said it. If you don’t want it, say so.” 

He doesn’t, really. It was hot that first time, because he was so overwhelmed and desperate that he didn’t much care, but this is not like that. He’s relaxed, actually enjoying himself, and he would have said he was more in the mood to be fucked hard than put under. But he’s suddenly struck by the thought that he’s being given a choice, here – and that seems incredibly rare, at least for Makarov, so he doesn’t agree or disagree immediately, takes the time to think about his answer. 

“Think you can put me under, doing it?” He asks, finally. “‘Cause if you think you can, then okay. If not, though, I’ll just be pissy and you’ll get annoyed and probably want to shoot me. More than you usually do, even,” he adds. 

“I don’t want to shoot you at the moment,” is Makarov’s answer to that. “And yes, of course I can.” The confidence is attractive, and honestly, probably warranted. He seems to have Graves’s number when it comes to this sort of thing, that’s for sure. 

What the hell, might as well try, right? He did offer, didn’t he, to do something for Makarov that he liked? Reneging now that he knows what it is, well, that just doesn’t sit well with him. He likes a challenge, and he’s also a little interested to see what will happen if he does it, submits and lets himself be tied up in some – probably complicated, highly elaborate – rope bondage. And the part of him that keeps thinking about what a collar would feel like around his neck, not just any collar, but Makarov’s…it’s more intriguing than the prospect would be with literally any other dom. 

So. 

“Yeah, okay,” he says, making up his mind. “But if it doesn’t put me under, I get to tie you up.” He does not think that will actually work. 

It doesn’t. “Nyet, but that won’t be a problem. Go attend to whatever you need to, and strip. I am not tying you up in those ridiculous pants you’re wearing.” 

Graves rolls his eyes at the comment, but he nods, and Makarov drops his hand and takes a step back. “Do you even have any bondage rope, or are we gonna have to Doordash it?” He hopes not. Waiting too long might result in him changing his mind, or drinking more wine and falling asleep before it got there. 

“I’m always prepared, cowboy. I would think you should know that about me, by now.” 

Graves smokes a cigarette before he goes to get ready, not so much stalling as giving himself a minute to get his thoughts together. The prospect of being restrained gives him the same sort of feeling as talking about his childhood and family at dinner – vaguely uncomfortable, far too vulnerable and exposed, like he’s been stripped down to the bone. 

The fact he did talk about it, and the fact he’s going to let himself be bound with rope, all stems from the realization that he must, in some sense, trust Makarov. Which is also an unsettling thought, because he doesn’t do that. Oh, he trusts some people with very specific things – Oz with running Shadow Company in his absence and having his back, for one – but mostly, the only person he trusts implicitly is himself. He doesn’t even know if he can do this – he wants to, he realizes, but he also knows himself and how he might very well respond, which he doubts a dom like Makarov will appreciate. 

“Hey,” he says, softly, using his submissive’s tone without really meaning to. “Sir.” 

The combination of the term of address and the tone gets Makarov’s attention, and there’s a new sort of tension in his voice when he says, “Yes?” 

Ah, fuck, but that is doing something dangerous to him, the use of the title and Makarov’s obvious pleasure in hearing it. “If I – get too up in my head about it. Will you stop? I feel like you ain’t gonna want to fight me like you’re hogtying a sheep at a rodeo, yeah?” 

Makarov looks briefly, hilariously confused by the metaphor, but then he shakes his head. “No. I don’t want you to fight. This time,” he adds, which gives Graves another little pleasant shiver. “I don’t mind a little resistance, that’s quite attractive. But if you sub drop, it won’t be very enjoyable for either of us, and that’s the point, isn’t it?” 

Graves knows what it means to sub drop, despite his lack of experience with properly – or perhaps a better word is fully – submitting. When this works, it’s like a current flowing smoothly between dom and sub. When he thinks about that first time with Makarov, kneeling back in the mountains, what he remembers is the threat, the leashed violence, the taste of gunmetal and oil in his mouth, the way the sight knocked at his teeth, the sinister, almost cruel tone of Makarov’s voice. He remembers the rope was there, but it was everything else he was into. “Probably not. What’s a word I can say that’ll make you want to stop, if I say it because I want you to?” 

He’s thinking of something like – Dyatlov, or Union Jack , maybe, given Makarov’s reaction to his pajama pants. But then, almost as one, they say in tandem – “Price,” and Graves laughs, loud and sudden in the quiet flat, and weirdly he feels a lot better about this. Maybe even eager to see if it will really work, because he likes a challenge and he definitely likes that all of Makarov’s attention will be on him. 

And fine, maybe he’ll also like that Makarov will be pleased with him if he does it, but that’s the whole point in offering, isn’t it? Which he already did a few hours ago, so, no reason to beat himself up over it now, was there? 

“Price it is,” Graves says, and puts his cigarette out in the sink before the filter burns his fingers. “Be back in a few.”

Makarov watches him go without a word, but Graves feels his eyes on him, all the way to the bedroom.

Chapter Text

Graves doesn’t hurry. He takes care of his bodily needs and then showers, shaves, and brushes his teeth, combing his wet hair off his forehead with his fingers as he stares at himself in the mirror. His cheeks are a little flushed and his eyes are fever-bright, and he’s bouncing lightly on his heels, a little like he’s waiting for the bullets to start flying. He’s been a soldier too long to get caught up in the nerves, it’s not uncommon –  it’s just the unknown mixed with a spike of adrenaline, same as always. 

Most people, he thinks, would have a lot more nerves about the gun-in-the-mouth and being told I’m going to pull the trigger on three and not knowing if the person with their finger on the trigger meant it or not. That, for him, was pure, grade-A fantasy fuel. 

Not being able to move, being helpless – it’s too much like the story he just told Makarov over dinner.  

Graves pushes the thought aside, takes a deep breath, and says to his reflection, “Get up and get it done, soldier,” before turning and walking out of the en-suite bathroom. Maybe a little dramatic for something he genuinely does want to do, but everyone could use a little pep talk now and then. 

Makarov has drawn the shades on the wall of windows and turned off most of the lights and the television, and looks mostly the same as when Graves went into the bedroom, though he’s now holding a length of black bondage rope. His eyes run over Graves’s body, and that’s nice – he’s not shy about being naked, and he definitely doesn’t mind being appreciated in that state. Maybe he does all that cardio and strength training for work, but it’s a benefit when people like the results. 

“Tell me something,” Makarov says, and all his earlier scattered dominance is focused now, fixed and unwavering like crosshairs in a sniper rifle. “Do you really not have any tattoos because they make you too easy to identify?” 

Fuck, he wants to lie. But he doesn’t, partly because starting this off that way seems like a bad idea, even though it really has nothing to do with Makarov tying him up, and partly because he’s not sure Makarov would believe him anyway. “No, not really. I don’t like needles. Or pain, remember? And c’mon, I was a Marine. Do you know how many stupid, ugly, misspelled tats I’ve seen?” 

Definitely not as hot as Makarov’s, that’s for sure. Then again, he wouldn’t know if any of those were misspelled, would he? He hasn’t quite gotten to the Common Phrases in Russian Prison Tattoo Culture lesson on Duolingo. 

“You seem to like mine, I wasn’t sure.” 

“I do like yours, yeah. They’re hot. On you ,” he adds. “But I went with a buddy back in MARSOC to get one, thinking maybe I was over it, maybe I’d get one too – the second that machine switched on, I realized it wasn’t for me. How the hell did you even get a tattoo machine into prison, anyway? Someone bake it into a cake or something?”

“Your ideas about prison are entirely from movies, aren’t they,” Makarov says, shaking his head. “But, no, it’s the traditional style. Ink and a variety of different sorts of implements capable of pricking skin. Needles, other things of that nature.” 

Graves winces. “Yeah, that’s my goddamn nightmare.” He thinks about the snarling wolf tattoo, the one that takes up most of Makarov’s back. That’d take quite a long time even with modern machines, much less something as time-consuming as needles and whatever the fuck “other things” were. “Didn’t that take for-fucking-ever, though?” 

“Da. I told you, prison was very boring.” A pause, and then he says carefully, “I don’t always hate it. Pain. In prison, it helped me think, plan. It’s too easy to get complacent in prison. You have to keep your mind sharp.” 

Graves’s brows go up. Secret Masochist Makarov? Who knew. Before he can get any more intel on that, though, Makarov goes all hot dom again, snapping his fingers. “On me, Graves.” 

Sure, that sounds great, but I thought you wanted to tie me up. Since he’s being agreeable or whatever, he doesn’t say that, which is a bit of a minor miracle and proof just how much Makarov’s particular dominance affects him. But it’s just like his earlier thought, isn’t it – this is a circuit, and if he’s affected by Makarov’s dominance, he can see the flash of heat in Makarov’s eyes when he obeys and crosses the room to him, knows Makarov likes his submission just as much. 

When he’s standing in front of Makarov, he’s expecting to be told to kneel. Instead, Makarov surprises him by gripping his chin, holding him still and kissing him. “You’re nervous, cowboy. I like it.” 

There’s so much heated approval in that I like it that Graves makes a soft, needy sound into Makarov’s mouth and doesn’t even hate himself when he hears it. Nor does he bother being concerned how fast he’s on his knees when Makarov says kneel, especially when doing so brings a shudder of both relief and delicious anticipation. 

Makarov runs his fingers through his hair, and Graves says in a voice he barely recognizes it, “Before we do this and I forget – I need a fucking haircut.” 

“You do. So do I. We’ll see to it before we leave.” He gives Graves’s hair a tug. “I don’t care if you talk, but don’t chatter at me, and if I tell you to be quiet, then do so. I also don’t mind some resistance, as I said, but while there may come a time I might actually like you resisting and my having to – what was it you said, hogtying you like a sheep? – that time is not now. Tell me you understand, soroka.” 

Graves doesn’t know that word and makes a mental reminder to ask about it, later. “I understand, sir.” He adds the honorific without thinking, but it’s fine, especially when Makarov gives a little hum of approval and tugs at his hair, again. 

“Good. All right.” With that, Makarov gets to work. 

The rope is specifically made for bondage, so it’s not the rough stuff they use in training – or in the field – so that’s nice. Graves’s hands aren’t bound immediately, in fact, when he tries to put them behind his back on instinct, Makarov makes a sound and says, “No, don’t, I’ll put them there when it’s time,” which has the added benefit of arousing his fear kink, because he’s already dreading that part the most.

It’s not…bad, really. It’s nothing like the capture scenarios he’s had to run with his Shadows, where tying and restraining someone needs to be done quickly, but not necessarily gently. Makarov moves him about as needed, and Graves isn’t so much apprehensive as he is having trouble staying still. It’s interesting to see the pattern emerge, the criss-crossing of the ropes slowly forming a recognizable, harness-like binding on his upper torso. But it’s also not quite the rush he’s used to, and he’s definitely not bored , but it’s beginning to feel like he absorbed Makarov’s restlessness from earlier. 

You said you’d do this, so do it. He groans inwardly at his subconscious for reminding him of that, shifting a bit on his knees one last time and trying his best to stay still. It’s not uncomfortable yet, but it will be if he has to stay here kneeling for much longer without something to distract him. “Where’d you learn to do this?” he asks, because Makarov said he could talk, and honestly, he’s surprised he waited this long. 

Probably because Makarov said he could, if he’s being honest. 

“Videos, mostly. There are many on the internet.” 

Graves blinks, turns his head to look at Makarov, who is moving to his left side, slightly behind his shoulder. “Is that a joke? Now that I know you make those, kinda feel like I should ask.” 

Makarov’s eyes meet his and Graves looks down immediately, unable to fight the natural instinct to lower his gaze. It feels good, at least, a pleasant rush in his head that makes him forget, temporarily, about kneeling on a hard floor. 

“It isn’t a joke, no. I’m not that much older than you, Graves, I know what the internet is. We do have it in Russia, you realize.” 

“I know that,” Graves says, and lets Makarov adjust his posture, the black rope sliding across skin, making a soft susurrus as it does so. “It’s more the idea of you admitting you didn’t know how to do something that surprises me.” 

Although, he has to admit the image of Makarov patiently googling how to tie up people as dramatically as possible using the most complicated method known to man is sort of funny. 

“No one knows anything, until they learn it,” Makarov says, like he’s a character in a David Mamet film. “It’s a skill, like anything else. Too many people think instinct is the same as knowledge. It isn’t.” A warm hand lands on his bare shoulder. “Are you all right?” 

Graves nods, slightly surprised by the question. “Yes, sir. Why?” 

“You’re being remarkably well-behaved. I didn’t expect it.” 

“So much for all your planning,” Graves says, smugly. 

The hand on his shoulder gives him a brief little smack to the back of the head, enough that Graves smiles down at the floor. 

“That’s more of what I was expecting. It wasn’t a complaint, just a question.” 

“I’m fine.” He can hear the rain gently pattering against the windows, because of course it’s raining, they’re in England. And at least it isn’t snow. Makarov is tying knots in the ropes now, forming a perfectly symmetrical line down his sternum to his navel. “Curious, though. What about this do you like?” 

Makarov is quiet, but Graves knows by now that he’s just putting his thoughts together – apparently think before you speak is a real thing some people do, who knew? “It takes time, concentration, which I find relaxing,” he says, a little slowly, as if this is somehow important intel he’s sharing under duress. “It also takes effort and practice to do properly, and I like a challenge.” 

That all makes sense. Or at least, it does for Makarov. Graves would already be bored, would have someone’s wrists tied to their ankles and call it good. He’s never really thought too much about what he’d like as a dom, but he has a feeling it would simply be the inverse of what he likes as a sub. Putting the gun in someone’s mouth instead of sucking on it, for instance. What a goddamn shame that’d be. 

“And I like how it looks,” Makarov continues, and Graves inhales sharply as he feels the rope circle around his midsection. “Especially on you.” 

“Because you like tying up imperialist dogs, or whatever you call me?” 

“That isn’t what I call you. Even if it’s true.” Makarov steps back, studying him, then fussing with a few of the ropes and adjusting his knots, retying one entirely to reposition it a bit higher up. 

“What was that word you called me, earlier? The owl hasn’t taught it to me, yet. Sor–something?” 

Makarov taps him gently on the side of his face, bringing his gaze up – and Graves loses his breath for a few seconds, because for as even as Makarov’s voice is, the intensity in his eyes, the way he’s staring at Graves, the razor-thin, deadly-sharp dominance directed at him…fucking hell. “Stand up.” 

He gets to his feet, grateful for all that core work at the gym, and gives his head a bit of a shake. Maybe it was the wine on top of the carb-heavy meal. That’s probably why he feels a bit like he’s drifting half a second behind reality. 

“Soroka. It means magpie – the bird, yes? You remind me of one. People think they are only loud, but they forget they’re smart. Resourceful. That noise is just a distraction, they do it on purpose.” 

That’s a nice compliment, actually, even if he couldn’t tell a magpie apart from a robin, and would rather be compared to some kind of badass bird like a hawk or something. “About time you admitted I was smart.” 

“Just because I assume you to be of normal-to-above-average intelligence, in general, doesn’t mean I haven’t personally witnessed you do any number of idiotic things, Graves. And, yes, this time I am referring to you driving an SUV down a mountain.” 

Graves smiles at the floor again. “It might’ve been stupid, but c’mon. You’re still gonna lie and say it wasn’t sorta badass?” 

“You change the adjective every time you try this, did you know that? There’s no need. I’ve already told you the ones that I would have used.”  Makarov’s voice goes sharp, pointed. “Graves. Look at me.” 

He lifts his gaze, focuses on Makarov, whose stare is so intense it’s almost impossible to notice anything else about his expression. 

Graves can only hold his gaze for about three seconds before he simply has to look down, again. He has to physically bite his lower lip to keep from apologizing , what the fuck ? He’s never been this accommodating in his goddamn life, including when he was this man’s prisoner. 

“Are you lowering your gaze because you don’t want to look at me, or because you can’t help it?” 

He really, really wants to say it’s the first one. But it isn’t. “It’s – I can’t help it. You’re really into this, I can tell, so that and your dominance – I can’t fucking look at you.” There’s less vitriol in his voice than he might have expected, admitting that out loud. “Sorry.” That slips out before he can stop it. 

“It’s fine.” Makarov’s fingers are under his chin again, but he doesn’t force Graves’s gaze to his. “I’m only making sure. But when I said I liked how you looked in the rope, it wasn’t meant as some symbolic analogy referring to our differing political viewpoints.” His fingers are warm, moving up Graves’s jaw before tracing lightly over the scar on his face. 

Graves shivers, and Makarov sounds pleased when he speaks again. As usual, the approval feels amazing . “I meant that you, personally, are attractive like this.” 

Right. Graves exhales, shifts on his feet, lets himself look at the floor and tries not to wish he was still kneeling. “Thanks.” 

Makarov gives a little huff of a laugh. “I’m not the only one this is working on, am I?” 

“No,” Graves admits. “I guess you’re not, but I have no idea why. I don’t really like restraints that much, and that was only one compliment about my looks. If you wanted me to act nice, comrade, usually I’d need more than that.” 

“What was it you told me, in Moscow? If I wanted nice, I shouldn’t go to bed with you?” 

“Jesus Christ, do you ever forget anything?” Graves mutters, a little miffed but it doesn’t last, he’s fighting that bizarre fog again as Makarov moves behind him, placing the rope against his back, expertly tying knots to match the ones on the front. 

It’s weird how affected he is by this, because it’s not like being restrained – not yet, his hands are still free – it’s more like he’s being slowly turned into some weird avant-garde art installation project. Great, one more extremely niche and hard-to-satisfy kink to add to the list. Wonderful. 

“When I decide to pay attention to something? Rarely.” Makarov’s hands skim over his back, between the sections of the rope he’s knotted into place, sliding the end under the rope that’s already there, like he’s weaving. “Did you know this used to be a torture method?”

He did not know that, actually. “Really? Huh. Was the rope barbed or something?” This isn’t painful at all, but he supposes it could be, if the ropes were tighter. Seems like a real long, involved way to torture someone. “‘Cause if not, ripping someone’s fingernails off would be a lot quicker.” 

“Mmm,” Makarov says. “I suppose if you went about it gradually, loosening and tightening them in turn, perhaps suspending someone with them, it would be effective with minimal initial set-up.” 

He’s just about to say isn’t suspending someone with a rope just called hanging, and  then remembers that Makarov found his father hanging by a rope – he assumes, anyway – and wonders if this has anything to do with that, his enjoyment of the ropes. If it does, he sure as fuck isn’t bringing it up to ask. Talk about ruining the moment. 

Instead, he says, “Yeah, it’s a real bummer, all that productive time lost to torture implement set-up,” and Makarov laughs, the same laugh he’d made that night after they had sex the first time and Graves made that comment about the sheets. “Your real kink, efficiency.” 

“That’s not entirely wrong.” Makarov works the end of the rope under a new section, twisting, pulling it through, then repeating it. “I do like that. When things get too complicated, it always ends in chaos.” 

Graves clears his throat. “I’m feeling a little personally attacked here.” 

“Don’t. You’re really not all that complicated, cowboy.” 

That does get a laugh out of him. “And you’re a lot less chaotic than I thought. Actually, we kinda have that in common, don’t we? We both like causing chaos, as long as we’re not involved. Or, you know. Implicated.” 

“That’s not entirely wrong,” Makarov allows. “I prefer things to move smoothly, da. But, and I’m certain you’d agree, there are times it is quite rewarding, handling chaos from the midst of it.” 

“Eye of the storm, and all that,” Graves says. “Sure. Like I said, it’s why I like the AC130. But that don’t mean I ain’t showin’ up for a gunfight or two. Keeps you sharp. Seen too many soldiers rely on drones and shit, can’t hold their own when the bullets start flying.”

“Infantry has always been the soul of an army,” Makarov agrees. “If you won’t fight for your convictions with a rifle, you don’t really have them to begin with.” 

He might argue about that second part, if they were, say, having the same sort of debate as they had with the Dyatlov Pass incident, but now isn’t the time. And he knows that, all jokes aside about efficiency, Makarov really does like loyalty. But he’s starting to think that Makarov’s actual kink is control and obedience.

He falls silent as Makarov continues with the ropes, and the harness he’s creating goes from simple to more elaborate – apparently it’s only mission plans he likes to keep simple, not trussing up Graves – more and more layers, knots, criss-crossing over his body. 

It’s not painful, but instead of the rush of adrenaline that he’s used to when he’s subbing for Makarov, it’s a low-simmering need and a little bit of unease as more and more of the rope ends up wrapped around his extremities. Maybe he kinda does see how they used this for torture. It’s not the kind of dread he usually likes, probably because he knows there’s no threat of future pain. The slow, gradual encasement of his body in the ropes is absolutely working on him, though, making his brain turn fuzzy. Like he drank all of that wine instead of two glasses. 

“So if you need someone tortured, who does it?” Graves asks, because he feels so strange, like his body is under but his mind is not. “Or you want me to use the acceptable term and call it interrogation ?” 

“If someone has failed me that badly, I don’t bother with torture, I just shoot them.” Makarov’s hands settle on Graves’s shoulders, and he leans in close, breath a whisper over his skin. “Are you saying you find this tortuous?” 

“No,” Graves says, softly. “No, it isn’t torture.” The conversation helps, and honestly, having Makarov’s attention – and his hands – focused entirely on Graves? It’s…yeah, he’s into it. Not in the same way as he was with the gun in his mouth or even Makarov choking him while he fucks him, but it’s a different sort of enjoyment. 

“What does it feel like?” Makarov asks, after a few more minutes spent tying and knotting the ropes, in which Graves finds himself feeling that strange sensation of being half a second behind reality again. 

“Like I’m…” Honestly? It feels like he went to take a thirty-minute catnap and fell asleep for three hours instead, waking up groggy and confused. That is not something he’s going to say, partly because it sounds pathetic and partly because he has about an easy of a time imagining Makarov napping as he did imagining him as a child. The better analogy is the one where his body feels under, and his brain doesn’t. 

Except that isn’t what he says. “Like I’m telling you that fucking story about my dad again.” 

Makarov goes very still behind him, hands resting on Graves’s shoulders. “Interesting,” he says, and his hands run up and down Graves’s arms, like he’s trying to calm him or something. Like he’s a skittish horse about to bolt. That’s all he gets, though, because suddenly Makarov is drawing his arms behind his back and the rope is slithering across his skin again, over his upper arms and winding down, over his elbows. Restraining his arms, the part he was dreading. 

His brain perks up at that, at least, fizzing to life and making him go tense as his breath catches. He knows that Makarov will stop if he says the word , but he doesn’t utter Price’s thrice-damned name.  He’s gone this far, he’s no coward. And now he really does want to see if Makarov can make good on his promise to put him under with this. 

“You don’t have to be still,” Makarov says, as the rope continues to wind around his arms, tighter and tighter, and Graves’s hands flex behind his back, shoulders going tense, entire body poised like he really is about to bolt. “Just don’t fight me.” 

Why is that so hot? And why does he wait for permission before he shifts, slightly, not trying to jerk free of the restraints but struggling enough to make Makarov work a little harder to get him bound. 

“Who did you even practice this on?” The talking is good, makes him focus on Makarov’s voice instead of how he’s binding Graves’s arms behind his back. 

“Myself, for the most part.” 

That’s hot as hell to imagine, damn – until Makarov says, “And Andrei, once,” which brings a sharp spike of jealousy he’s not prepared for and immediately hates. Makarov, who isn’t stupid, must notice because he adds, “That’s how we knew we weren’t compatible, yes? He wouldn’t stay still and I wasn’t interested in doing what he needed to make him.” 

Ah, that’s the mystery solved, then. “More of a masochist than you like since you’re not a sadist, and he topped from the bottom too much for you to enjoy?” 

“Da,” Makarov agrees. “Well. That, and I wasn’t…interested in him, in the same way.” 

“The same way as what?” He forces himself to stop flexing his fingers, to ease his shoulders down and to try and relax, trying to steady his breathing. 

Makarov’s breath spills warm against Graves’s sensitized skin. “We didn’t have any interest in fucking each other, cowboy.  We’ve always been soldiers-in-arms, and that’s it. Bratok, it means brother, but not in the way you would use it with yours, those who are your biological family.” 

“I wouldn’t call those losers anything of the sort,” Graves says. “But I know what you mean. I guess that explains why he’s not into you, if he wants a sadist.” He thinks about Wraith, that look in her eyes when she talked about the oligarch and what happened to him. Her pleased little smirk while she lovingly described shooting him in the balls, how she’d wanted him to suffer. If Andrei’s into sadists and likes danger, that’d be a good match. 

“It’s very funny you think that’s the only reason,” Makarov says, continuing, and he seems to be taking his time on the arm restraints but that could just be his imagination. “Not everyone seems to find me as irresistible as you do.” 

“Let’s not go that far.” Graves wonders if maybe he’s protesting a bit too much. “I just mean that if I met you at a bar and didn’t know you were wanted by Interpol, I’d probably hit on you just because you’re hot.” He thinks about this a bit more. “I might’ve anyway, even if I did know that.” 

“I’m unsure how this scenario is different from what actually happened,” Makarov says. 

“I didn’t hook up with doms for them to put me under. That’s what I wanted from you, the first time.” 

“And that would have been different, if you’d met me at a bar?” Makarov finishes whatever he’s doing with the ropes on Graves’s arms, moving to his wrists, his hands. “Would I have had to threaten you with a pistol? Or would it have been enough if you had known I was wanted by Interpol?” 

“Maybe,” Graves admits, but he’s…starting to get that hazy fog in his brain again. “Probably not, though.” He’s honestly not sure why he’s still talking, but it feels like there’s something he’s trying to say. Something he wants Makarov to know. But trying to think about it just gets all his thoughts caught and tangled, knotted up like the ropes in which he’s slowly being bound. 

So, he decides not to think and just talk – that’s more his style. “I just meant I think you’re hot, not only because you’re dangerous, good with a gun, and know how to put me under.” 

“I know that,” Makarov says, moving around to the front again, which means Graves’s arms are well and truly bound. “And you’re chattering again, yes? You’re trying not to think about your arms being restrained.” 

Well, that’s infuriating that he picked up on that. “Yeah. Fine. I guess I am.” He breathes out, gaze on the floor as he focuses on how it feels to have his arms completely immobile. He gives an experimental tug, but the rope holds firm, and it’s not tight enough to hurt but there’s no hint of a give in the tension, either. 

“Tell me what it feels like,” Makarov says, and snaps his fingers when Graves doesn’t immediately answer. “Graves.” 

“I don’t know,” Graves says, shoulders rolling, trying to figure it out. “I don’t hate it as much as I thought, not nearly as much as the time you had me in cuffs. Maybe ‘cause I can tell how much you’re into it.” 

“Can you?” 

“Yeah. It’s…different, too, than that first time with the gun. You were definitely doing that for me, but I can tell this is all for you .” 

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Makarov murmurs, fingers tilting up Graves’s chin, forcing him to meet his gaze again. “I don’t think I’ve ever fucked someone’s mouth with a gun before, and shutting you up was very enjoyable.” 

Normally, he’d have some quip for that, but for now, he doesn’t. The ropes are still winding around him, and he’s gone quiet again, unable to think of anything else to say or ask about that wouldn’t be – chattering, to use Makarov’s word. This isn’t anything like he imagined, and he’s unsure exactly why it’s affecting him so much. Partly it’s Makarov’s clear interest and pleasure in what he’s doing, which is making his dominance feel particularly delicious and his own submission is desperate to match it, wanting more of whatever gets that approval from him. 

That is absolutely not something he expected when he agreed to this, nor is he used to it, but it also is very telling about his lack of experience in submission, and Graves typically hates admitting anything of the sort – even to himself. 

There’s a push on his shoulder and he kneels without being asked, a little thrown when Makarov kneels, too – though he’s winding the ropes around Graves’s thighs and down to his knees, which makes him slightly apprehensive about being rendered completely immobile. But Makarov doesn’t bind his feet or his ankles, leaving off right above both knees and somehow bringing one final length of the rope up behind Graves’s back as he rises to his feet. 

“You’re fighting it,” he says, and Graves blinks, because he’s…not? He’s perfectly still, in fact, head still bowed and gaze on the floor. Before he can make his fogged-up brain produce a coherent sentence to that effect, though, Makarov clarifies, “You’re fighting me in here, Graves,” and taps the side of his head. “Why?”

He’s about to say because I’m not under, but then he realizes that isn’t true. Makarov’s right, he could be, but he’s actively fighting it and he doesn’t know why. Is it because this isn’t frightening enough? That can’t be it, he’s been in a low-level state of apprehension and mild dread the entire time, and that part, he actually likes . He can’t explain it, and that’s frustrating, but even if he did have full use of his mental faculties at the moment he wasn’t sure he’d do any better at making sense of it. 

“I don’t know, sir,” he says, and again, the honorific is just there, because Makarov earned it. 

Makarov goes still for a moment, hand on Graves’s shoulder. He’s probably just as surprised as Graves by the lack of a quippy response, as would be his norm instead of outright admitting ignorance. He moves in front of Graves, taking his chin in hand, and this time he doesn’t bother telling Graves to look at him, he just raises his gaze where he wants it. Graves is momentarily distracted by how turned on Makarov looks, there’s really no other word for it – even if all he’s looking at is his face, it’s clear, given he has a substantial pool of knowledge about that, now. 

His face is flushed, his eyes both bright and slightly blurry, a bit like they were that night after the Petrov’s party when he dragged Graves upstairs to fuck him. His breathing is a little too fast, and his accent is heavier, and Graves shifts on his knees because that – that helps, seeing it. It also has him saying, completely without meaning to, “I don’t want to. Go under. I might –” say something I don’t want to say to you “--be a mess.” 

“You’re already a mess,” Makarov says, as close to fond as Graves has ever heard him. He rubs a thumb over Graves’s lower lip. “And that’s fine. I fucked you up like you wanted me to, didn’t I, with the gun? Now I’m fucking you up like I want to, eh, cowboy? It’s all right if it takes some time. I’m a patient man. I’ll get you there eventually.” 

The confidence is as potent as a bullet, and Graves inhales sharply, lowering his gaze because it’s the last thing he can do of his own volition – he could say the word, he knows, but he’s not going to. 

“You really are very attractive like this,” Makarov continues, dropping his chin and patting him on the side of the face, a little too hard, getting a sound out of Graves that he’d normally try and stifle but can’t be bothered at the moment. Fuck, he sounds so goddamn pleased , even more than that night after the party. “In a moment, I’ll show you.” 

Before Graves can ask if that means he’s about to star in some kind of pseudo-kidnapping photoshoot (and damn if that doesn’t get his cock harder, which he…hadn’t realized it was even hard at all until now), Makarov moves around behind him, doing something with the end of the rope and the top of the harness at his back, which doesn’t make sense until he feels Makarov slip the rope around his neck. 

The alarm bells are a little too loud, this time. Graves isn’t experienced with rope bondage, but he knows this is a pretty firm no-go zone. He’s assuming Makarov did something with the harness in the back since he’s putting the end of the rope through it, maybe a way to keep the tension under control, but that’s not a fail-safe. Nothing is, when it comes to playing at this sort of thing. It’s always dangerous, just like Makarov choking him is always dangerous. 

“You trust me or you don’t,” Makarov says, dominance implacable, a steel wall with no chance of breaching it. 

Graves does trust him. At the very least, he trusts that If Makarov was going to kill him, he wouldn’t waste this much time on it. But he still can’t seem to relax, or calm his sudden, panicky breathing. “It’s – not you, Volodya.” 

That’s all he can manage but the use of his familiar name must get the point across, because Makarov’s hand joins the rope on his neck, just a bit above it, squeezing slightly. Not to be painful, just reassuring. “You think you’re going to break for me, don’t you?” 

“No,” Graves bites out. I know I am. He doesn’t say that part, but the tightness in his voice gives it away clear as anything. 

“You do, and you are, and I want you to,” Makarov continues, like there’s simply no other choice but to follow his orders. Like Graves is an automaton, or a drone he’s programming, unable to fight the commands it’s being given. “You don’t mind going under when it’s exactly how you want it, but you’re not the dominant here, hmm? I am. And this time, boy, you’re going under like I want, and it’s fine if you don’t trust yourself not to fall apart. The only person you need to trust right now is me.” 

If Graves has the sense of self-preservation he likes to think he does, he’ll safeword the fuck out of this, right now. He absolutely cannot hand over trust to Makarov that he doesn’t have in himself – but unfortunately, the danger inherent in that thought is enough to nearly white his brain out entirely. It’s the most terrifying thought he’s ever had in his life, scarier than being in that ditch and certain he was about to die disgraced and bullet-riddled in the snow, scarier than not entirely knowing if Makarov was going to pull the trigger on three and feed him a bullet, scarier than being a child trapped by a father too drunk and high to recognize he was holding a knife to his own son’s throat after scarring him for life in more ways than just one. 

A confusing tangle of emotions blooms in his mind, lust and fear and mistrust, desire and anger and desperation, all jockeying for attention like weeds strangling a garden full of flowers in their fight to reach the sun. 

Graves is not a man who breaks. Ever. He doesn’t have to now , he knows that, he could put a stop to this and he doubts much would change between them for the duration of this little team-up of theirs. But he also knows that if he does, what breaks isn’t just him but the fantasy that he’s going to wrap this up all neat and tidy and go back to his life in America like this never happened. 

You wanna know what a collar feels like, here’s your chance. 

The rope is lying around his throat, but lax, and he’s suddenly very aware of Makarov’s thumb rubbing up and down his nape. He’s not speaking, just waiting for Graves to agree, and he focuses on the sensation, the little shivers of pleasure from where Makarov’s touching him. 

“Just remember you fucking asked for it,” Graves manages, and Makarov gives his neck a slight squeeze, maybe in warning, but Graves hears his soft snort of amusement anyway. 

“Nyet, soroka. You did. But I can handle it, Graves.” He pats his shoulder again, and pulls at the rope, slowly, drawing it out – and that’s clearly not only for Graves’s benefit, because he can hear Makarov’s breathing go quick and light, again – until the rope is snug, but not tight, around his neck. “Ah, ochen' khoroshiy mal'chik, ty tak khorosho vyglyadish', kak budto ty moy, i tak ono i yest', ne tak li?” 

That’s way too many words in Russian for him to figure out, but he thinks he hears good boy and mine,aren’t you in there, and that’s fucking him up almost as much as the rope around his neck. He should have maybe expected that Makarov’s obsession with loyalty would lean pretty heavily into possessiveness, but maybe he did. Maybe that’s what he wants. 

He’s almost shocked that he’s not fully under when Makarov tugs lightly on the rope, not enough to choke him, but enough for Graves to scramble to his feet when he realizes that Makarov is using it as a leash , holding the end of the rope in one hand. Graves is barely aware of what he’s doing, he just follows where he’s led into the bedroom. Makarov keeps pulling him along, the tension just enough for Graves to feel it on his throat, and they don’t go to the bed – unfortunate – but into the bathroom, where Makarov stops in front of the mirror, turning Graves to face it. 

“Look,” he says, simply, and Graves raises his gaze to the mirror to take in his reflection. 

He’s not quite prepared for how he looks. The rope is wound so artistically around him, various knots and loops making a sturdy harness on his chest, and the ropes on his thighs are equally as perfect and aesthetic, and his cock is hard, though he’s far more interested in the way the rope looks around his neck, the closest thing to a collar he’s ever allowed. He barely recognizes himself, the flush on his cheeks, his eyes – normally on the cooler, grayish side of blue – bright and feverish, his mouth parted, his chest rising and falling beneath the ropes. 

Before he can even try to speak, Makarov has his hands on his shoulders, turning him slightly, so he can see the back. The harness is slightly less elaborate but the ropes are still perfectly aligned, and the bindings on his arms go from his wrists to his shoulders and they’re…lovely, really. There’s a gap near the top of his spine where he’s slipped the end of the makeshift lead, which he imagines is to help control the pull against the loop around his neck. 

Either way, it’s…he doesn’t know. He really feels like he is some sort of human fetish art, and when Makarov turns him back to face the mirror, Graves’s chin goes up a bit. He’s proud, he realizes, at how he looks in the rope. He can’t quite say that, but that’s fine, it’s probably clear as a fucking bell anyway. 

“I thought you’d like that,” Makarov murmurs, all warm and pressed up behind him, and then – from somewhere, he’s holding a knife. 

Graves has no idea where he got it from, being as Makarov was as dressed down as Graves before he stripped, but there it is – a service knife, nothing fancy, something Graves himself has used a thousand times throughout his career, from cutting through underbrush to opening MRE boxes to slitting someone’s throat when he’s been disarmed. He wonders if Makarov wants to cut him out of this thing, which he might protest because honestly now he sorta likes it and he’s not sure he’s ready to be taken out of it, but that’s not what happens. 

Suddenly the rope around his neck tightens a shade past comfortable, Makarov a menacing, looming presence behind him, one arm tight around his stomach to hold him there. Fear shudders through him, delicious and arousing, but Graves can’t look anywhere else, his gaze fixed on Makarov in the mirror. 

“You said your father gave you this,” Makarov says, and the knife traces over the scar on Graves’s face, and he doesn’t know how to process it, the words and the confusing sensations in his body that should not exist when anyone talks about his father. “And I told you, hmm, that no one hurts you but me?” The possessiveness is addictive, he can easily admit that, now, under as he is. 

In fact, he leans back, resting his weight against Makarov’s, which earns him a murmured, “Vot i vse, khoroshiy mal'chik.” 

That’s it, good boy. 

“So this isn’t his mark on you anymore,” Makarov continues, and the tip of the knife rests very gently against the sliver of a scar, all that’s left after all these years. “You’re watching, Graves?” 

He can’t nod, so he’s going to have to answer – and it takes longer than he wants it to, saying it. “Da, ser,” he manages, the simple Russian still sounding clumsy, his voice unsteady. 

“Now, it’s mine .” 

He sees the blood before he feels the pain, it’s that fast. A flick of his wrist and the blood is on his face, just like it was when he was a kid, but no, nothing about this is the same. 

“Just like you are,” Makarov says, pupils dilated so that his eyes look pure black. He runs a thumb up the fresh cut, and while Graves watches, he holds his thumb up to his own mouth and licks the blood off. “Yes?” 

There’s really no way to deny it, is there? “Yes,” Graves says, and he doesn’t recognize his own voice – it’s thick, heavy with emotion, and he feels a sting at the back of his throat, an answering burn in his eyes. To his horror, he realizes he’s about to cry. 

That is, of course, why he didn’t want to do this. It’s like he somehow new this was the inevitable result all along. 

There’s a bit of a blur over the next few seconds, him struggling, Makarov – no longer holding a knife – keeping him under control, refusing to let him move or even hide his face. “I told you I wanted you to break for me. Stop fighting and do it.” 

There’s simply no way he could do anything else. Graves hasn’t cried in years, his childhood made such expressions too dangerous and forced him to rely on coping mechanisms that, over the years, grew into his ability to shift allegiances and loyalties for a paycheck with ease. He’s never been loyal to anyone but himself, an unmoored ship seeking no port, no familiar route, no crew or cargo or purpose other than to keep sailing. 

And he’s sailed his metaphorical boat right into the one storm he can’t push through, with no choice but to take on water and sink . 

It feels like he’s sobbing, but he’s really not – his shoulders are shaking a little, and he can hear the slight soft sounds he’s making, and there’s tears mixing with the blood on his face, which Makarov also runs his fingers through, licking them like it’s a delicacy, this evidence of how utterly Graves has submitted. But as dramatic as Graves can be, and that’s very dramatic, thank you very much, he isn’t being anything but honest. The tears aren’t even for any specific reason, they feel more like some kind of emotional release than an expression of any genuine grief or sorrow. 

Like a pressure valve that’s built up and built up, finally released. He has some vague awareness of Makarov cleaning his face, as deliberate and efficient with his aftercare as he is with everything else, though it’s a strange, hazy realization that Makarov is a terrorist and a violent man, but he’s a very good dom, when it comes to this sort of thing. Graves’s face hurts a little, but the bleeding from his new, fresher cut has already stopped, and a cursory glance at the mirror shows his eyes are reddened but clear, his shoulders relaxed, breathing slowly coming back to normal. 

He’s mostly composed himself by the time Makarov leads him back into the living room, though he does so with his bare hand on Graves’s back instead of using the end of the rope like before. It helps, that contact, and when he sits on the low sectional couch, Graves doesn’t even ask before sinking to his knees. This time, he barely notices the floor. He kneels there quietly while Makarov smokes a cigarette, all his attention on Graves as he blinks the last of his sudden tears away. When he shivers from a chill that seems to come out of nowhere, Makarov snaps his fingers and says, “Come here.” 

So Graves does, shuffling closer, and puts his head on Makarov’s thigh. This is – not something he’d usually want, but it stops his shivering immediately just to have closer contact. Makarov smokes his cigarette, running his fingers once through Graves’s hair with his other hand. He’s not at all an affectionate man or much of a cuddler – Graves has been sharing a bed with him since Moscow, and he sleeps on his back like a weirdo or a vampire, with a don’t get in my space force-field like a ship in a sci-fi movie – but he puts his hand on Graves’s shoulder again, skin warm, touch firm. It’s more steadying than it should be, such a simple thing, and Graves isn’t sure how to feel about that – about any of this, really. 

But he also doesn’t care, and he presses his face into Makarov’s thigh, breathing in the scent of laundry detergent and the faint lingering odor of the cigarette he’s smoking. 

“Are you solid, Graves?” 

He nods, because – and here’s a first – talking feels too hard, and also unnecessary. He wonders if he should move away, but when he shifts a bit, he gets a nyet, stay there, and so he does. There is a dangerous, gaping maw of emotional vulnerability just on the edge of his hazy thoughts, and he doesn’t want to tip over into it. An emotional catharsis is…fine. He supposes he was probably thirty-something years overdo, really, but staring into the abyss is a sure way to subdrop, and that, well, that’s not the kind of mess that’s going to leave either of them happy in the end. 

“Maybe I’ll keep you like this,” Makarov says, accent so heavy it takes Graves a second to realize he’s not speaking in Russian. “Naked, tied up for me. Quiet and obedient. It looks good on you, submission.” 

“You can keep me, but don’t get used to quiet and obedient . Naked? Sure. Tied up? Maybe on your birthday.” Graves mumbles, into Makarov’s thigh. He’s coming back to himself a bit, but not quite enough to want to move. 

“Do you even remember when that is?” 

“Mm. October fourth,” Graves answers, rubbing his face on the fabric of Makarov’s sweatpants. “I can pay attention, too.” 

Makarov’s hand slides up and around the back of his neck, squeezing again, right above the rope. “I am, you know. Keeping you.” 

Graves doesn’t raise his head, but that’s fine. Everything is fine. “Fucking right you are, comrade. Just saying, don’t get used to me being quiet or obedient, it’s not my normal setting.” 

“I can make that rope into a gag,” Makarov threatens, but Graves doesn’t think he really means it. And if so, Graves would probably just end up liking it anyway. That seems to be a recurring theme. 

Graves wants to tell him that despite what they’ve just sort of decided here, he meant it when he said he wouldn’t be Makarov’s soldier and had no plans to replace his Shadow Company insignia with a Konni patch. He also wants to climb in his lap and kiss him, or suck him off, or – better yet – have Makarov fuck him in this elaborate rope get-up, because he’s basically sitting between his legs and his face is close enough to Makarov’s cock that he knows he’s turned on. Graves is, too, which takes him a few long seconds to realize, he’s far more attuned to Makarov than himself. 

His dominant, he supposes, which gives him a little thrill. 

Graves doesn’t do anything but sit there, his equilibrium returning gently, the sound of the rain growing fainter against the glass windows. Makarov doesn’t say anything either, clearly enjoying Graves’s silence, which is fine, because he earned it. He thinks about the cut on his face, pulls lightly against the ropes still binding his arms behind his back, and marvels that now it doesn’t feel like he’s suffocating. 

Instead, strangely enough, it feels like he can finally breathe.

Chapter Text

Given how long it took for Makarov to put him in this get up, getting out of it doesn’t take nearly as long. Then again, Makarov’s level of patience seems to have decreased quite a bit, and Graves can’t help but feel a little smug about that. 

He’s surprisingly hot for it, given he just cried while he was tied up, but here they are. Makarov working the knots like a man possessed, and Graves – under enough not to make it difficult, but not quite enough to be quiet or respectful about it – is left to his own particular brand of encouragement. 

“You could just cut them, you have a knife,” Graves points out. “Unless you’re now so fond of this rope because of how good I looked tied up in it, you can’t bear to destroy it?” 

Makarov doesn’t look up from where he’s undoing the knots on Graves’s chest when he says, “If you don’t watch your mouth, I’ll use it to gag you.” 

“You won’t,” Graves says, smirking. “You like my dirty mouth.” 

“Do I? You seem very certain of that.” The rope slides and slithers against him as it slips free from the knots, and Graves obediently twists around when he’s directed so that Makarov can follow the line of the rope around to his back. 

“Well, I’ve got a pretty fair amount of experience to make that claim,” Graves says, spinning like a top as he’s unwound. “You didn’t want to fuck me in this? Kinda thought you might want to.” 

Makarov does look up at him, then. “I expected you would want them off, given you don’t like restraints.” 

There’s a very warm rush of something dangerously close to affection when he hears that, and Graves has to bite his lip and look away before he says something he really shouldn’t. “I didn’t mind it as much as I thought. I looked pretty good all tied up, didn’t I?” 

It’s a testament to how he’s under that he adds the question at the end, because normally he’d just say it as a statement, no need to be reassured that he’s right. 

“You did,” Makarov says, and pulls the last of the rope from him. “And I’ll keep that in mind, cowboy.” 

Before he can say anything, Makarov shoves him, hard, toward the bed. There’s a glint in his dark eyes that is both really hot and more than a little dangerous, which is probably why Graves finds it so attractive.  And while this is always intense, there is something about this that feels even more so, like that night in Moscow when Makarov couldn’t seem to keep his hands off him.

He clearly liked both the bondage and making Graves break for him, which will probably be more annoying in the morning when he’s not so turned on.

The bed is blessedly normal, a king with bedding that doesn’t feel like someone skinned a Muppet and turned it into a comforter. He tries to get on his hands and knees, but Makarov makes a sound and pushes him onto his back. He’s under enough that he doesn’t mind, and the sound he makes when Makarov grabs him around the throat is obscene. 

“Ty by khorosho smotrelas' v moyem osheynike, soroka,” Makarov says, staring down at him like he expects Graves to understand the Russian. 

Graves is aware enough to realize just how up he is, his dark eyes glittering and a flush on his fair skin, but he has no idea what he just said. The only word he knows is the last one. “Not real sure about that one, sir.” The title is automatic, well-earned, he might mean it more than he ever has. 

Makarov doesn’t seem to really care if Graves knew what he was saying or not. He kisses him, fingers still tight around his throat, and Graves kisses him back, arching up off the bed, seeking friction on his cock. He half expects Makarov to tease him or make him wait, but he must be too into it to bother because he grinds down against Graves, clearly just as eager. 

It’s very fast, and Makarov is — for once — more vocal than he is, though he’s speaking in Russian and Graves doesn’t really understand most of it. It’s hot, though, so he can’t complain. His fingers are tight on Makarov’s shoulders, but at some point Makarov stops choking him and grabs his wrists to pin them above his head, and that’s hot, too.

He’s caught by the way Makarov is staring at him while he fucks him, like he’s trying to see into his goddamn soul or something. Graves isn’t sure what he’s looking for, given he feels like there’s nothing much left about him Makarov doesn’t know. 

”You liked that,” he manages, gasping as he feels lube-slick fingers pressing against him. He widens his legs, or he tries, he’s sort of trapped and about the only thing he can do is get his legs around Makarov’s waist. 

”Da, I did,” Makarov says, into the skin of his neck, where he’s leaving bites and sucking the skin hard enough that there will very likely be bruises. “You’re very pretty when you break for me, Graves.” 

He shivers — that sounds sexy now, but probably when he’s not under he’ll be slightly embarrassed — and tightens his legs, panting as Makarov’s fingers fuck him open. He doesn’t spend too long before it’s his cock, and while there’s a momentary discomfort, it’s also a relief to finally get what he wants. 

He tries to get a hand free to get around his cock, but Makarov says nyet, you’ll come from my cock or not at all, and keeps his wrists above his head. Makarov’s fucking him so hard the bed is rattling and the headboard is knocking against the wall, and it isn’t long before the pressure and the overwhelming force of Makarov’s dominance has him arching up, twisting beneath him as the constant pressure against his prostate and the friction of Makarov’s lean, muscled abdominals against his cock has him on edge. 

“You’re going to come for me, aren’t you?” 

That’s in English, and Graves nods frantically as he holds his breath, arches his back, tries desperately to get himself there from just Makarov’s dominance and the sensation of his cock driving relentlessly into him. He wants to come, but that last push he needs remains elusive, release hovering just out of his grasp. 

”Trying, sir,” he manages, eyes squeezed shut and all his muscles tense, straining for it — 

Makarov shifts so he’s only grasping Graves’s wrists with one hand, and then — Graves makes a noise that is far too much like a yelp for his liking, but he can’t help it, the sound is immediate because Makarov just smacked him in the face. 

Graves blinks his eyes open, and before he can even work out how to respond to that, Makarov does it again . The pain isn’t overwhelming as much as it is startling, echoing in his skull like a gunshot. It also makes his cock jump, pushing him that much closer — and then Makarov grabs his chin and forces him to meet his gaze. “Do what I tell you, Graves.” 

That’s it, that’s all it takes. He cries out as all of it becomes far too much, and he comes all over his stomach with a cut-off, choked moan. He’s barely aware of Makarov biting his shoulder, hard enough to break skin, and it’s not clear until he finally comes down from the rush of his orgasm that Makarov came seconds after he did, inside of him this time. That makes his cock give a weak twitch against his stomach, and when he realizes his hands are free, he rubs them up and down Makarov’s sweat-slick back while Makarov pants hotly against his neck, weight resting on his. 

Neither one of them speak for a few long minutes, and Graves is under again, but oddly focused in a way that he’s not felt before. When Makarov moves off him and lays next to him on his back, he has an arm up over his eyes, and he’s still clearly catching his breath. It reminds him oddly of the first time they hooked up in the mountains, when he’d sucked him off and Makarov had done the same after, arm over his eyes like he was recalibrating or something before coming back online. 

Graves almost checks in with him — but the unusual focus isn’t devoid of submission, and he gets out of the bed without thinking too much about why or what he’s going to do. He cleans himself up in the bathroom, grabs his pajama pants and heads into the kitchen. He gets Makarov a glass of water — Mr. Hydration has gone at least an hour without one — and a small saucer to use as an ashtray, then goes back into the bedroom. 

He puts these things on the bedside table, then — because he knows Makarov usually likes to sleep in at least a pair of pants, grabs his plain black ones off the floor and realizes he has no memory of Makarov taking them off, but that’s fine. He drapes them on the bed and goes to lock up, feeling strangely settled by doing small, simple little tasks like this.

He gets back in bed, and Makarov is watching him, looking hot and naked as he smokes a cigarette. “Spasibo.” 

“Yeah, de nada,” he says nonsensically, yawning as he settles back on the pillow. “No one has ever gotten away with smacking me in the face before.” 

“You seemed to like it,” Makarov says, squinting at him through the smoke. 

“Yeah.” Graves shrugs. “Surprised me, but I did. I don’t see the point in getting all worked up on what gets me worked up, and honestly? That’s a lot less weird than some of the other shit I’m into.” 

“I suppose so.” Makarov is still studying him, like he’s a puzzle he’s trying to work out. 

“What?” Graves asks, on another yawn. “Is it weird I brought you water? I know that’s usually you, but you were a little out of it, there, comrade.” 

He leans over and ashes the smoke in the saucer. “You don’t seem inclined to service.” 

“Well, that’s wrong. I was in the service, remember? But I know what you mean, and I’m not. You did a fucking number on me, let’s just leave it at that.” He smiles to show it’s not a problem, because it isn’t. Right now, anyway. 

“Even under, you’re still bossy.” 

Well, at least he noticed. “I am who I am, comrade. And part of that is I’m a PMC commander, you know, just because my alignment likes it when you tie me up and spit in my mouth doesn’t mean I can’t get shit done and be in charge.” Graves never has understood the thought process behind my alignment means I can’t possibly tell you to use the 25 mm gun on that warehouse and avoid the civilians.  “Besides, have you ever been into a submissive that was, like, all proper and shit? Seems like you’d think that was some kinda trick. Too obvious, yeah?” 

It strikes Graves as one of the few times they’ve been in bed together and haven’t been either asleep or otherwise occupied. Chatting is new. 

“That’s true, I dislike submission used as an attempt to influence me, but it’s been some time since anyone tried that.” Makarov gives Graves a sharp look. “Unless this is some very long involved scheme of yours, I didn’t think that of you in particular.” 

“We’ve been over this, comrade, and no, it’s not.” Graves gets under the covers, kicks the comforter down to the end of the bed and pulls the sheet up and over himself. He’s tired, sleep tugging at him, and he reaches over to turn off the light. This should feel more awkward than it does. Maybe it’s being so under that’s making him not too concerned about the ease in which he’s about to go to bed with Makarov, in the most benign sense of the word. 

“Good,” Makarov says, softly, in the dark. “It wouldn’t work.” 

Graves rolls his eyes slightly at that, but he smiles briefly even if Makarov can’t see. He’s so dramatic, he thinks, and closes his eyes. 

He expects to fall right to sleep, given how comfortable and sleepy he is, and how he’s still under – but that isn’t what happens. He turns toward Makarov, almost instinctively seeking touch like he did before when he was still in the rope bondage and kneeling, but he’s not quite under enough to forget Makarov doesn’t like to be touched. And he’s still too under to remember that he’s been told he can touch unless he’s specifically instructed not to, which he hasn’t been. 

He tells himself it’s fine, that to reach out after that conversation will just make him look manipulative at the very worst, and just…pathetically desperate at best. He flips on his side, shoves his arm under his pillow, determined to just fall asleep. 

It doesn’t work. Frustrated, Graves flips over again , suddenly full of adrenaline and a sleepy sort of restlessness that makes him want to get up and do jumping jacks. The urge to move around is so strong, it’s almost impossible to resist, and suddenly the restlessness isn’t sleepy at all. It’s the usual kind, and he’s wide-awake and annoyed at himself for not being dead asleep. He flips on his back, tries to count his breaths, flips to his side again. This is…not like him. He’s a former military man and he’s learned to take sleep when he can get it, which every soldier knows how to do basically by the end of basic – insomnia, at least in his experience, was a long-banished foe by the time he joined MARSOC.

It briefly occurs to him this is the sub-drop he was trying to avoid earlier, but he doesn’t give that thought much attention, more interested in making this strange sensation stop .  

He’s just about to get out of bed after another attempt to get comfortable when he hears a voice say, low and full of dominance, “Do I need to tie you to the bed frame, soroka?” 

Fucking hell, just because Makarov sleeps like a corpse doesn’t mean he’s not every bit a light sleeper as any other soldier. Graves curses under his breath and rolls over to face him in the dark. “No, sorry, just can’t get comfortable. Might go for a walk or something.” 

Everything in his brain is screaming just tell him you need something, that’s what you do when you’re a sub with a dominant. He wants the ropes back, has a visceral yes, I do need that, actually, reaction that he can’t – or won’t, either one – admit to, and that’s not like him. He’s usually not the kind of person to deny himself, but he’s also still under, and that’s got to be why he feels like he’s going to crawl out of his skin. 

“Graves,” Makarov says, and it’s not so dark that he can’t see the look he’s on the receiving end of. “What is it?” 

This whole night has been a lot , with the bondage and the realization that yeah, he’s not planning on giving this up any time soon, and neither is Makarov. His slow, gradual realization that maybe he doesn’t need to run Shadow Company from America. That he isn’t really that loyal to a country that was so eager to throw him under the bus the second a corrupt general told lies about him, but he is to the mercenary company he formed from the ground-up and the operators who work for him.

Or the part where for the first time in his life, he wanted to submit to a dom just because he liked the dom enough to do it. 

The bondage that he would have sworn he didn’t like, but realizes now that he avoided because he didn’t want the emotional response that came with it – especially when it meant there was no way to have that emotional response without someone else seeing it. He cried . He never cries. And fuck it, it’s not some bullshit macho thing either, there are plenty of times he might have wanted to cry and just couldn’t. Some childhood trauma setting that hasn’t been switched off, who knows. 

The fact he’s experiencing sub drop because he wants to touch his dominant and is worried it will be too needy to ask for it. 

And, fine. He’ll admit it to himself if no one else – he’s in love with Vladimir Makarov, the man the entire world wants dead, the man he came here to hunt down and drag back like some dog with a bone eager for a pat from its master. Maybe Makarov deserves it, but Graves, given his own track record, is not the man who should be anyone’s judge, jury and executioner. Or at the very least, not for General fucking Shepherd, not anymore. 

Las Almas was supposed to be the end of it. He’d been so stupid to trust Shepherd. Hell, he should have just told Ghost and Soap about the fucking missile convoy, let them deal with Shepherd, and keep his fucking hands clean of that whole mess. But he didn’t, so there’s no point worrying about it now. He’s got a few other things on his mind taking precedence when it comes to things Phillip Graves should freak out about . 

“I asked you a question,” Makarov says, and he blinks, realizing he’s breathing a little too fast and just staring at him. 

What the fuck does he say? Sorry, just realizing that I’m in love with you and also that I’m intensely fucked because of it, also, how about a cuddle? He starts laughing, and it’s nowhere near normal, sounds just as unhinged as he feels at that moment. Sub drop, it’s a thing, he’s briefed his own operators on it, why is this so hard to grasp? Why can’t he just say what it is? 

There’s a blur of movement, and then he’s pinned on his back, Makarov on top of him with a hand around his throat. “I am not asking you again. Tell me what it is.” 

Graves is absolutely not ready to tell him I love you and that’s probably not going to go anywhere good, huh, so he opts for the other thing and says, “I guess I’m under enough I need you to touch me, but you’re sleeping.” 

He says, to a man looming over him like a threat, staring down at him with an expression like Graves has lost his mind. 

“You were sleeping,” he adds gamely, feeling very silly. “Just, look, never mind. I –” 

“Stop talking,” Makarov says, sharply, dominance enough to quiet him immediately. “You do remember the part where I told you that you could touch me unless I said otherwise, yes? Nod if you remember me saying that, Phillip.” 

This is probably the first time Makarov’s ever used his first name with any semblance of seriousness. He nods. 

“Did I say you couldn’t touch me?” 

Graves shakes his head, because no, Makarov did not say that. But he’s also not a very affectionate man, and hell, neither is Graves – or he didn’t used to be, apparently that’s not what he’s like when he’s under. 

“Then tell me why you didn’t, and you may speak, now.” Makarov is still above him, and it’s a testament to how freaked out he is that Graves finds it reassuring. 

“You’re as cuddly as a cactus,” is what he says, which isn’t really the reason why, but it’s what his obstinate brain and penchant for shit-talking comes up with. It’s also not that true, really, he’s never been rebuffed before. Not since they…started all of this. 

Makarov’s hand on his throat tightens slightly. “Am I? I don’t think that’s true. Not with you, anyway. I’m aware that submissives have needs when they’re put under, and you always want to be touched, that’s why I put your head in my lap, earlier. Did you think I hated that?” 

He feels stupid, and it’s not a very nice feeling. “No. Okay, fine, I didn’t want to roll over and touch you and have you, you know, pull out the weapon I’m sure you have nearby and kill me with it.” 

“My pistol is in the nightstand drawer, where I always keep it,” he says. 

“That doesn’t mean you couldn’t draw down on me, you’re fast.” Graves is aware this attempt at flattery isn’t working. “Fine. Fine! It feels needy and I don’t like it, and if you pushed me away I think I would have been –” emotionally devastated “--irritated.” 

“Irritated,” Makarov repeats, slowly. “Well, we can’t have that.” He clearly understands the real reason is that Graves doesn’t want to feel rejected, and at least he doesn’t find it necessary to prove it by saying it out loud. He rolls off Graves smoothly, lying on his back again. “I don’t hate you touching me, you know. I might be startled if I’m asleep, which I wasn’t, but I’m not going to put a bullet in your skull for it. I am aware I’m not sleeping alone, Graves.” 

“Well, I didn’t know that, did I?” 

Makarov clearly isn’t buying this excuse. “In the future, if you are still under and require some kind of aftercare that you’re not getting, I want to know about it.” He sounds annoyed and vaguely threatening, which is, Graves supposes, par for the course with him. 

And it makes him feel better, which is all that matters. “Okay. Yeah. Sorry, look, I’m not used to any of this, okay? I never wanted to kneel for anyone, much less wear their collar.” 

Oh, right. That’s not what they were talking about. At all. He’s bringing this up, when he couldn’t ask if he could touch him while sleeping , great. This isn’t going to go badly at all. 

But Makarov doesn’t look surprised, which is…well, does he, ever? That doesn’t mean he isn’t shocked, or horrified, or trying to think of a way to say no or get that pistol. At this point, Graves might thank him for it. Usually when he runs his mouth it’s because he wants to, not because he can’t seem to stop himself. 

Graves takes a deep breath. He’s no fucking coward. His chin goes up, and he glares at Makarov like he did grab a gun and laugh at him for even daring to suggest it. “I said it. If you don’t want it, tell me, but that’s where it feels like we’re going with this.” 

Makarov gives a low laugh. “I already said that, too, didn’t I? That I was keeping you? What did you think it meant? I’m starting to think I need to give you some kind of exam to make sure you actually listen when I tell you things.” 

“I mean, usually you’d ask me if I wanted your collar,” Graves says, huffily, but he feels better. Damn it. Of course he does. “Not just say you were keeping me and let me assume .” 

“You mean how you assumed I would pull a gun on you if you tried to touch me in the bed I’m willingly sharing with you, after I fucked you?” 

Graves, incensed at Makarov daring to be right and throwing it back in his face (which he would absolutely do if it were him), sits up in bed and considers what might happen if he hauls off and hits Makarov with his pillow. “You’re telling me right now you’d let me be the big spoon?” 

Part of him is hoping Makarov doesn’t get the reference, but apparently, that concept crosses political lines and language barriers, because he snorts and says, “You’re telling me you want to be?” 

This is stupid. They are in some kind of relationship, regardless of what either of them want to call it or how much Graves is convinced neither of them want to talk about it, so why is he being so recalcitrant and unwilling to speak up? He’s not a man who’s ever been shy about – anything, really. “If I recorded you saying this and put it on Tik-Tok, I think you might earn some popularity points with the rest of the world.” 

“Just what I’ve always wanted.” Makarov pats the bed. “Lay back down. What I really want is to get some sleep, which means finding out why you’re so restless, and now I have.” 

Graves lays back down on his side, facing away from Makarov. The bed shifts, and Makarov throws an arm over him, roughly pulling him back against his chest. He also puts his leg over Graves’s, hooks an ankle around Graves’s and then curls his hand around Graves’s throat. 

This is less a big spoon and more like someone paused the footage of a takedown maneuver right at the end. Graves laughs, but this time it doesn’t sound wild or manic, just amused. “Why does it not surprise me your version of cuddling is to pin me like you caught me in your bedroom trying to rob you?” 

“I said I would do this, Graves, not that I would be good at it.” Makarov squeezes his throat, more of a tease than any real warning. “If you have complaints, take them up with me tomorrow.” 

“You’re not bad at it,” Graves assures him. Honestly, the fact Makarov is a little… intense …about this is part of the reason why Graves feels his earlier restlessness begin to fade. “Try not to choke me out in my sleep, though. I’d hate to miss out.” 

Makarov sighs softly. “No promises. Sometimes you talk in your sleep.” 

He does? That’s news to him. Graves yawns and settles down, remarkably comfortable despite having Makarov latched to him like a lamprey. He isn’t sure this is exactly what he meant when he wanted to be touched, but maybe that was because he didn’t think he could have it. 

This is way too much self-reflection for him for one day. Graves concentrates on the warmth of the body behind him, the strange security of the tattooed hand still resting on his throat, Makarov’s breathing steady and even behind him. He lets himself think the words I love him very quietly in the privacy of his own brain, followed by and now what the fuck am I supposed to do?

Fall asleep, apparently, because that’s exactly what he does.

Chapter Text

When Graves wakes up the next morning, he’s shocked to see it’s half-past ten. He’s even more shocked when he rolls over and sees he’s not the only one who slept in. 

For once, Makarov isn’t sleeping like a de-commissioned cyborg; he’s lying on his stomach, one arm shoved under the pillow. He still looks dangerous, even asleep. Maybe it’s the tattoos, all stark black ink against his fair skin, the simple white sheets. Maybe it’s the fact his eyelids are moving, and Graves assumes he’s dreaming about warheads or bondage rope or some fucked up ( hot ) combination of the two.

It’s still raining, hard enough Graves can hear it hitting against the windows, and he’s really not in any hurry to get up. They’re not oscar mike until tomorrow, and all he has planned today is to get a haircut, even if he has to do it himself with his field knife. So he stretches, lets himself feel the slight ache of his muscles from the bondage and the barest twinge of soreness from the sex, and stays right where he is, thinking about coffee. 

Maybe if he thinks about it hard enough, it will fix itself. 

He’s not surprised when Makarov wakes up a few minutes later, blinking and saying something that it takes Graves a few seconds to realize is in Russian. There’s something charmingly unguarded about that, catching him waking up and speaking his native language. 

“Didn’t catch that, babe.” He tries out the nickname, because maybe Makarov hasn’t woken up enough to either notice or be weird about it. 

“I asked what time it was,” is Makarov’s answer, and okay, fine, maybe Graves should have caught that since the owl has definitely taught him that one. “And don’t call me that, it’s infantile.” 

Graves is impressed at his non-native language vocabulary usage so quickly after forgetting to speak English. “It’s ten-thirty-eight, and I said it ‘cause you’re hot, not because I think you’re a literal infant, c’mon, comrade.” 

“I haven’t been awake long enough for you all your talking.” Makarov pulls the pillow over his head. 

Graves stares at him, because it’s maybe the most human thing he’s ever seen Makarov do. Something dangerous twists in his chest at the sight, too. It feels a little like regret, but it doesn’t linger. He’s long since learned to ignore it for himself, so there’s absolutely no point doing it with Makarov. They both are who they are, and he never got into this with any idea that he was going to change him. Phillip Graves is not a man who will fix someone, he’s far more inclined to make someone worse. 

Makarov removes the pillow, but to Graves’s surprise, he doesn’t get out of bed. He ends up pulling Graves toward him and kissing him, which Graves doesn’t expect but doesn’t mind, either, and kisses him back easily enough. 

“You’re freaking me the fuck out, comrade,” Graves says, but he’s only a little serious. Maybe more than a little. Makarov, all sleep-warmed and shirtless, pushing him back so he can roll on top of him, is…really hot, of course it is, but it’s also intimate in a way he isn’t used to with anyone. 

But this isn’t just anyone, is it? This is Graves’s dominant, the last person he should have ever fallen in love with, who tied him up and made him cry and thinks the Dyatlov hikers were really taken out by an avalanche, lame. Once, Graves saw him stir a spoonful of jam into his tea, and this is a man who has turned up his nose at the concept of coffee. He plays solitaire on his phone. They’re small things, but human things. 

Sure, that’s pretty insignificant compared to everything else, but it’s not like Graves is some shining example of faultless behavior, is he? At least he doesn’t put jelly in tea, just a little sugar in his coffee. Also, he prefers sudoku to solitaire. The point is, they’re bad people, maybe, but they’re still people . And at least he’ll never have to worry that he’s a worse person than his boyfriend. Unless someone went around asking about him in Las Almas, maybe. Makarov should have the spread covered on that one. 

It’s still raining, because of course it is, so they spend a little longer in bed. Graves is on his back with Makarov on top of him, and it’s one of the few times they’ve not gone full-tilt toward getting off. It feels good in a very indulgent, lazy way, and Graves is surprised how quickly he’s hard and panting, just from the slide of Makarov’s cock against his own, the weight of his body pressing Graves down into the mattress. 

Makarov doesn’t seem in a rush to fuck him, so Graves asks huskily, “You want me to suck you?” 

“Mm.” Makarov bites at his neck, a teasing nip that isn’t painful but makes him suck in a sharp breath. “Is that your way of telling me you don’t like this?” 

“I like it,” Graves says, because he does. He’s just not sure if he can come from the friction alone, though, and it’s maybe unreasonable to ask Makarov to dream up some inventive and sexy threats before noon. But his submission seems well-satisfied after last night, which means he doesn’t necessarily need that to get off – some less violent dirty talk might do the trick. 

Hell, Makarov could recite weapons specs in Russian and it would probably work. Instead of suggesting it, he chooses speak first, think never and says, “You want me to fuck you ?” 

Some dominants like that, some don’t, and in Graves’s experience it has very little to do with alignment and more with personal preference. He has no idea what Makarov’s experience or interest in that is, and what the hell, now’s as good a time as any to ask. 

Makarov goes still on top of him, turns his head from where he was sucking bruises on Graves’s shoulder to say, “Do you want to fuck me, soroka?” 

Just hearing him say that in a low, heated rasp is enough to make Graves’s brain short out. It’s so goddamn hot it takes him a minute to get himself together enough to gasp out, “Fuck, yeah. If you’re into it.” 

There’s no point in putting in all the work if the effort isn’t appreciated. 

Makarov lifts his head and looks at him, considering. “You’ve never asked.” 

“I’m asking now,” Graves says. He reaches up and slides his fingers over Makarov’s jaw, runs a thumb over his mouth, thrilling at the touch. He doesn’t think he’s ever touched him like this before. Makarov nips at his thumb, and Graves smiles briefly as he slides his fingers up and into Makarov’s hair, which also needs a cut. “Just curious if you like it. It’s fine if you don’t.” 

“I didn’t say that.”  Makarov is still staring at him, like he’s planning a mission op in his head or something.

Graves almost tells him not to worry about – his cock would really like it if they could go back to what they were doing, and they can talk about it another time. Nevermind it was him who brought it up in the first place, he’s happy to suck Makarov off if that’s what he’s in the mood for. 

Before he can say that, though, Makarov says, “When you earn it. Then, yes. You may.” 

Graves goes all warm at that, then slightly concerned that he hasn’t earned it, yet – what the fuck does that mean? Makarov starts biting down his chest, and Graves is a little distracted trying to guess what he may have to do to earn it – kill Shepherd? Is it like, his bonus for helping out, like the hazard pay he gives his Shadows? 

It takes a few minutes before he realizes that Makarov is still moving, biting his way down Graves’s stomach – and he’s not stopping. “Uh – are you –” 

“Graves, take your gift graciously or I won’t give it to you.” 

He stares up at the ceiling, hands on Makarov’s shoulders. His mind is racing, because there’s a simple, biological response to you pleased your dominant, he’s rewarding you that he’s not used to, and his logical mind wants to know exactly what he did to please him, because he wants to do it often if this is what he gets for it. He’s just about to ask – easiest way to find out the answer to something – but just as he draws in a breath to speak, Makarov’s mouth is on his cock. 

“Well, hell,” Graves gasps, fingers curling into the elaborate star tattoos on Makarov’s shoulders. He’s surprised for all of two seconds, before pleasure drowns him so completely, he’s incapable of feeling anything else. 

Makarov is very good at this – not a surprise, he doesn’t strike Graves as the kind of man who does anything unless he knows he’s going to do it well. But the thing he can’t get over is less that Makarov is good at it, and more that he’s doing it at all. It makes Graves feel smug as hell, too, which means if he’s not careful, this is going to be over quicker than he wants it to. No telling how often Makarov’s going to be in the mood for it, and goddamn, but it feels so good . 

In fact, he’s so stunned by surprise and pleasure that it isn’t until the sight of Makarov’s dark hair between his spread legs goes blurry that he realizes he’s not breathing. He’s also not moving, as if the slightest twitch will make Makarov realize what he’s doing and stop . He expels a breath in a rush, and Makarov pulls off to glance up at him with an arched brow. 

“Something wrong, cowboy?” 

Graves shakes his head, several times – he keeps shaking it, just to make sure it’s as clear as possible that no, nothing is wrong, absolutely nothing at all. 

“Am I boring you?” 

The noise he makes is supposed to be a laugh, but he doubts anyone would recognize it as such. “Uh, no, you’re – really good at that.” He sounds ridiculous, but he’d love to see someone else come up with a clever response when they had Vladimir Makarov sucking them off. 

“Am I? It seems like I am putting you to sleep,” Makarov says, his breath a tease against Graves’s cock. “I’m not going to pull a gun on you if you move, you realize.” 

“It’s not that,” Graves assures him, even though maybe it is , a little. Which, whatever, he’d like that too much and they both know it. “It’s, uh…trying not to go off like a fucking rocket, yeah?” 

In hindsight, maybe this isn’t the man to use military metaphors with while in bed. 

Makarov gives him a flat stare, hand curled loosely around the base of Graves’s cock. “Do you think you’re in control of this, Graves?” 

“I sure do not, Volodya,” Graves manages, fingers tight on Makarov’s shoulders. “But to be fair, here, you didn’t really tell me what to do.” 

“I thought that was fairly obvious,” Makarov says. “If I want you to stop doing something, you’ll stop doing it. I do this very rarely, and you’re offending me.” He smacks him on the thigh, but not hard, and he sounds more amused than annoyed. “I told you that you earned it, yes?” 

“Yes – yes, sir.” Graves takes a deep breath. He flashes a grin down at Makarov, or tries, he still feels a little out of his depth. “Sorry, I’ll be more of a slut while you’re sucking me off, how’s that?” 

“Better,” Makarov says and lowers his head. He takes Graves all the way to the hilt without choking, which says that he’s done this at least more than a few times, and Graves’s eyes nearly cross from how intense the pleasure is. 

“Fuck, goddamn – yeah, that’s –” Words are too difficult, so he stops trying to find any and just moans, instead.

As much as he likes it when Makarov fucks his face and grabs him by the hair, that’s not quite what he’s into when it’s his cock being sucked. He pushes his hips up and fucks his cock gently into Makarov’s mouth, and that gets a little hum of approval which vibrates up and through his whole body, so he takes that as permission and moves a little faster, deeper. But he’s not a sadist, and he’s still very aware that this is a dominant – his dominant – sucking him off. The submission is natural, and he has no inclination to fight it, which for once feels pretty goddamn great. 

He wishes he could think of something in Russian to say, something sexy or at least encouraging, because he thinks Makarov would probably like that. But his mind is blank, he can’t even think of the words in English, so he just gives an appreciative moan and hopes that gets the point across. It must, because Makarov pulls off only to spit on his cock, eyes locked with his, and Graves has to look away because holy shit, fuck. 

It doesn’t take very long before he’s on the edge and no amount of closing his eyes or thinking about Shepherd naked or any number of unsexy things is going to stop it. He’s not sure if he’s supposed to ask to come or what, but he at the very least wants to warn him so he pushes hard at Makarov’s bare shoulder and gasps out, “I’m, sir –  close, should I –” 

He expects Makarov to pull off and use his hand, make Graves rub off on his thigh or something, but that’s not what he does. In fact, all he does is the same thing he’s been doing, which is taking him deep and swallowing around him until Graves shouts and comes in his mouth. Graves feels his calves cramp as he spills, his entire body strung taut, muscles straining as he arches up and pushes in deep. It’s all instinct, just a desire to keep that warm, wet suction on his cock as long as he possibly can. 

When the last pulse fades and he can breathe again, he blinks his eyes open – in time to see Makarov has moved from between his legs and up the bed so he’s looming over him again. He kisses Graves, and Graves has half a second to understand what’s happening when he tastes himself and realizes Makarov hasn’t swallowed and oh fuck, why is that so goddamn hot? He also holds Graves by the chin to keep him still, making sure he can’t move while Graves swallows, and the dominance in both that grab and spitting his own come back in his mouth makes Graves go under immediately. 

It leaves him panting and dazed, relaxed and affectionate enough that when Makarov kisses him again, Graves pulls him close and arches up. Makarov’s hard, which is very satisfying, and Graves gives him a little push, more of a suggestion than an actual attempt to get him on his back. “Mmm. Thank you, fuck, that was good. Wanna ride you, that okay?” 

Makarov goes to his back, all flushed skin and disheveled hair, sprawling on the rumpled sheets with the look of a man who is very satisfied with himself. He should be. That was a hell of a blowjob. “Da, of course.” 

Graves takes his time with it, and while he’s not frantic to get off or anything, it’s still a good time. Mostly because of how he likes to watch Makarov, the way he grabs Graves’s hips and pushes up into him, eyes half-closed and that flush growing brighter on his skin. He’s tense under Graves, fingers gripping tight at his hips, and there’s something deliciously addictive about watching Makarov this close to the edge when he, himself, is still languid and easy in the afterglow. 

The hard press of Makarov’s cock against his prostate gradually gets him moving faster, the pleasure more of an echo than anything, gentler and yet deeper than when it’d been him on his back. They’re both quieter than usual, and Graves has a flash where he remembers last night, stops himself from saying the words he’s not quite sure he’s ready to say right now – if ever. 

He comes again, dry this time, and while it’s not quite the drenching rush of sensation as before, it makes him tighten up enough that Makarov comes seconds after does, for once louder about it than Graves. He likes that, too. 

In fact, if anyone were to ask, he’d say this is the best he’s felt since was on that boat heading to the oil tanker with Soap. 

Makarov smokes a cigarette while Graves drifts a bit next to him, not so under that he doesn’t come out of it easily enough. He’s momentarily concerned about dropping again, so he moves closer to Makarov and finally asks him about the tattoos. He wants to know, and if Makarov is aware it’s a tactic to put his hands on him, he doesn’t mention it.

“I like this one,” Graves says, fingers skirting over the image of a grim angel of death depositing a skull on a prone skeletal figure. “What’s it mean?” 

“Graves, this is obvious enough that you shouldn’t need me to tell you,” Makarov says, turning his head to exhale the smoke from his cigarette. 

“You’re death and you’re collecting materials for your throne made out of bones?” 

“Yes, of course, that’s it, exactly.” Makarov hits him lightly on the back of his head. “It means I’m dangerous and capable of killing.” 

“I mean, that’s kinda on the nose, isn’ t it?” 

Makarov gives him a singularly unimpressed look. “They’re prison tattoos, soroka. Subtlety isn’t really the point, da?” 

“Da, yeah, yeah.” Graves flashes a grin at him. “But you gotta admit, a throne made out of bones would sure make a statement.”  

“It would, but I’m not sure about what.” Makarov leans over to put out his cigarette. “Sounds uncomfortable.” 

“I know! You could paint it purple and put it in that house in Moscow, it’d fit right in.” Graves laughs as Makarov makes a dismissive sound and shoves at him, sliding out of bed and heading to the shower. Graves, because he’s in a good mood, almost follows him – not to fuck around, he got off twice this morning and it’s going to be some time before he’s ready to go again, no matter how hot Makarov looks all wet and sudsy in the shower. But he lets Makarov have his space, no longer under to the point he’s worried about sub drop, and goes to start some coffee in the kitchen. 

Because they’re in England, the kettle is front and center on the stove but he has to search for the world’s oldest Keurig, a single-cup contraption that he doubts anyone’s ever used before. He almost inhales the first cup, which is – fine, it’s from a pod and it’s at least better than the swill Makarov gave him when he first brought Graves to that mountain safehouse, but only by a slight margin. He fills the kettle and waits until he hears the shower turn off before switching on the burner, then goes to take his turn in the bathroom. 

Makarov is shaving in front of the mirror, a towel wrapped around his lean hips as he drags a disposable razor down the left side of his face. Graves should probably do that, too, come to think of it. He has a sudden memory of shaving back in that little bathroom in the mountain house, and is surprised to feel fond when he thinks about it. Great. That’s normal. 

“Kettle’s boiling,” he says, reaching in to turn on the water. 

“Spasibo,” Makarov says, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “Masha is on her way. That haircut we both need, da?” 

“Oh, yeah? Sweet.” His hair is driving him nuts, so he’ll be glad to have it back to normal. He gets in the shower, takes his time cleaning off so there’s no evidence of their morning activities – even though he doubts it’s any kind of secret at this point. 

He asks about this when he’s finished and they’re both in the living room, Makarov with his tea and Graves choking down another cup of mediocre coffee from a pod. 

“So, do your people know that we’re…?” He still doesn’t know what word to use. Dating seems sort of hilarious, considering they’ve never actually gone on a date, unless you count splitting a couple of pasta entrees and doing the dishes while arguing about a team of doomed Russian scientists. 

Which, come to think of it? For them, yeah, that totally counts. 

“I think it’s fairly obvious,” Makarov says, sipping his tea, not even looking up from his phone. “Given you’re still breathing and I’m not in a bad mood about it.” 

Graves bats his eyelashes. “You’re so romantic, Volodya.” 

That gets him a look, and Graves holds it for a few seconds before obligingly lowering his gaze. “Just, you know, I don’t know how you want to handle that.” 

“Exactly the way I am handling it,” Makarov says firmly. “And by it, I mean, you . Unless you have some suggestions, I wasn’t planning on changing my behavior.” 

Graves shrugs, not bothered one way or the other about it. “You just don’t strike me as the type to encourage questions about your personal life.” He thinks about that for a second, because he’s about to add or anything else, but that’s not true, is it? He’s seen Makarov answer all sorts of questions, including the soldier on the plane who asked him if Graves could play a few hands of Durak with them. 

“I haven’t had one for anyone to ask about.” Makarov puts his phone down (which means he probably lost his solitaire game), giving Graves his full attention. “And with you, soroka, I really don’t think they need to ask.” He gives Graves that small, fleeting little smile of his, and his voice is just a bit wicked when he adds, “Andrei, he said something about it. Would you like to know what it was?” 

“Duh, I love when people talk about me,” Graves says, finishing the coffee. The caffeine, at least, is welcome. “Unless it’s mean, don’t tell me. I actually like him.” 

“If you didn’t, would you care if it was? Mean, that is.” 

“Yeah? I don’t give a fuck what people I don’t like think about me, Volodya. Believe me, that’s a lot of people, and they say a lot of shit. What was it?” 

That flash of a smile again. “He said, ‘Ya ponimayu, u vas yest' potrebnosti, komandir, no ne mogli by vy nayti khoroshego russkogo?’ Which means, I understand you have needs, commander, but couldn’t you have found a nice Russian ?” 

“Goddamn it, Andrei.” Graves laughs despite himself. Though he’s not sure you have needs goes any way to explaining what’s happened with the two of them, because it’s not just about that – at least, it isn’t for Graves. And he doubts Makarov would want to keep him around, if that’s all it was for him, either. 

Masha arrives when they’re finished washing up, looking as impeccably put together as ever in her stylish, civilian clothes and red lipstick. Graves wonders what her story is, what brought her to Konni, because she looks like she should be on Tik-Tok making videos about makeup, or married to a professional athlete in the States. 

She nods at Makarov, then surprises Graves by pointing at a chair and saying, “You first, Prizrak.” 

Graves takes a seat in the kitchen on a dining room chair, and Masha steps behind him, drapes a towel over his shoulders and is suddenly spritzing his still-damp hair with a water bottle like he’s a cat who won’t stop jumping on the kitchen counter. He expects her to ask him about how he likes his hair cut, but she doesn’t do that. She’s already running a comb through it and cutting before he can say anything, speaking in fast Russian to Makarov that he can’t really catch more than a few words of, so. 

He’ll get what he gets, but at least it won’t be in his eyes when he’s trying to shoot something. More importantly, it won’t impede his view of Shepherd’s fucking face when he sees just who Graves enlisted to help take him out. Masha’s quick and efficient, and also chatty, goddamn, keeping up a steady stream of conversation as she cuts, combs, and clips his hair in turn. 

When there’s a brief lull in the conversation, he interjects quickly, “Were you a hairstylist before you joined Konni, Masha?” She does seem to know what she’s doing, though to be fair, he hasn’t seen the finished product yet. 

“Nyet, Prizrak. I learned to do this from my mother, she did this job, yes? Now, I do this because the Commander’s forces, we should look fierce, not shaggy.”

“Konni soldiers wear helmets, Masha,” he points out. “Who even sees their hair?” 

“Me,” she says. “I do. And I think we should not look like we just woke up.” She thwaps him lightly on the back of the head with a comb. “Sit still. You move too much, hair will look terrible, I will cut it all off.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Graves says easily, and he can feel Makarov’s gaze boring into the side of his  head like a bullet, a faint curl of disapproval that actually makes him smile instead of worried. “Simmer down, comrade, I didn’t mean it like that.” 

“He is not my type, sir,” Masha says, in English. “Too, hmm.” 

“Perfect? Hot? Dangerously good at things? C’mon, Masha, don’t leave me hanging, here.” 

“American,” Masha says, and now it’s Makarov’s turn to laugh. 

His haircut doesn’t take long, and he’s not sure what to expect when he goes to get a fresh towel for Makarov and catches a glimpse in the mirror. He’s used to those places where they offer you a complimentary beer and put sports on the television, neither of which he cares about all that much, but his hair looks just like it always does, so that’s fine. 

“Thanks,” he says to her, when he hands over the towel. He runs his fingers through his freshly-cut hair. “Looks good. If you ever want to retire, you should open a salon. Market to the former-military crowd, you’d make some good money.” 

“I already make better money,” she says, but nods. “Spasibo, Prizrak.” 

Graves takes Makarov’s vacant seat at the breakfast table and scrolls through his phone, barely listening to the conversation since he can’t really follow along anyway. It’s strange to see Makarov with a towel over his shoulders, letting someone that close to him with sharp scissors, but clearly he trusts Masha or she wouldn’t be in his Inner Circle. 

“If she wasn’t good at this, would you just buy clippers and go for a two-guard all over?” he asks, thinking about that. “I don’t see you walking into a Supercuts.” 

Or a fancy salon, for that matter. Despite the nice suits and air of command, this is a man who Graves knows for a fact washes his hair with the same bar of soap he uses on the rest of him. 

“I did it myself in prison,” Makarov says. “When it grew back enough, after they shaved it. Some people didn’t, would get…the bugs, that lay eggs? Vshi.” 

Graves blinks, but then he gets that Makarov used the Russian word for the bugs. “Lice? Is that what you meant?” 

“Yes. They would give us all haircuts, when someone had those. Or they were supposed to.” Makarov’s smile is cold. “Not me.” 

“If you tell me you killed the prison barber,” Graves says, amused, but both Makarov and Masha give him blank looks. “Is that a yes, Graves, I shoved his clippers down his throat until he choked or of course not, hairstyling is sacred in Russian prisons ?” 

Masha says something – the only word Graves catches is gulag – and Makarov laughs softly and says, “Da, I know.” 

“What?” Graves narrows his eyes. “No fair talking shit about me if I can’t appreciate whatever you’re saying.” 

“She said it was funny you think there’s a barber in the gulag.” He pauses. “Well, there was, but that word wasn’t…it didn’t mean haircut.” He draws a finger over his throat.

“Right,” Graves says, momentarily glad that, even if he ended up apprehended, his eventual imprisonment would be somewhere not there. American prisons were indeed a nightmare of inequality and unjust incarcerations and all the rest of it, but hell, Zordaya sounded like the setting for a survival horror game. 

Honestly, though, he’s pretty sure if he’s caught he won’t end up in prison but somewhere a lot more six feet under. His namesake. He stifles a sudden wild laugh and goes back to the game of Sudoku on his phone until Makarov’s finished. His cut looks nice, too. 

For half a second, he thinks of a world where Makarov was a meteorologist and Masha the stylist at the news station where he worked, and feels like he might, possibly, be losing his mind. Also, he has no idea what he’d do in that particular strange reality – be the cameraman? Probably. Odd to think that he’s never considered any other life but that of a soldier or mercenary commander. 

Some of us were just destined to be killers, I guess. Given his childhood, it was either the service or stealing cars and destroying families running a red light while drunk in said stolen car. 

“What’s her story?” he asks Makarov, after Masha leaves. Somehow, despite having done both haircuts in heels , she left without a single strand of hair on her, impeccable as the moment she arrived. The hair is all over the kitchen, though, so Graves finds a broom and sweeps it up more for something to do than anything else. 

“Masha’s? Not mine to tell, soroka. She’ll tell you if she trusts you.” Makarov is, unsurprisingly, drinking water and smoking, which Graves doesn’t see how they don’t cancel each other out but doesn’t bring it up.  

“Sure.” That’s fine. He has a few Shadows who’ve never wanted to tell anyone, even their C.O., about their past experiences before joining up. “She wasn’t military, though, was she?” 

“She wasn’t, no,” is all Makarov says. “Do you have women in Shadow Company? Wraith asked me, but I said I wasn’t sure.” 

“She looking for a new job?” he jokes, but of course he knows that isn’t true. Makarov’s Inner Circle will die for him, and Wraith is certainly no exception. “Yeah, we do. All genders are welcome, I don’t discriminate. Someone has a talent I want around, they get a job. Most of my field operators are men – probably, say, eighty, eighty-five percent? – but that’s who applies for the positions, for the most part. Pass the field test and don’t piss me off, that’s the operator rule.” 

He misses his Shadows, who have always felt a bit like family – the ones he likes, anyway, and to be honest that’s most of them. He just has a healthy detachment to the fact many of them die on the job. It’s not like he doesn’t make that perfectly clear in the contract when they join up. That’s why he pays so well. If they’re willing to take the risk, that’s on them. 

“What are we doing the rest of the day?” Graves asks, after they’ve cleaned up the makeshift hair salon in the kitchen and dressed. He’s in jeans and a sweater, and Makarov’s in one of his endless dark suits, looking severe and serious and nothing like the man he’d woken up with, earlier. “It’s not raining, and if we’re gonna be traveling tomorrow, I wouldn’t mind walking around.” 

He’s used to a bit more physical activity, and while the sex is certainly great and he doesn’t mind the slight soreness in his calves or…elsewhere…he’s starting to feel a little cooped up. It’s been safehouses or vehicles since he left for Russia, and the idea of just walking is appealing, being out and about with fresh air and other people who don’t know who they are from Adam.

Hopefully.  

“Hey,” Graves says, snapping his fingers as an absurd idea hits him. “You ever been to the Tower of London?” 

“I don’t think they let you use the displays,” Makarov says, glancing at him. “Then again, you wouldn’t want that, would you?” 

“My instinct is to say fuck, no, but apparently you can make me into some weird shit, comrade. So never say never. But I’ve never been there, have you?” 

“The last time I was here, I was a little busy,” Makarov says dryly. “And, no. I haven’t. You don’t think that’s a little risky, playing tourist with a man wanted by Interpol?” 

“I think I’m doing a lot of things with you that are a lot riskier than going to a museum,” Graves points out. “And we don’t even have to go in, look, I just want to get out for a bit.” He supposes if Makarov says it’s a bad idea, he’ll have to reconsider. Maybe find a gym and buy a day pass or something. 

“If you want,” Makarov says, checking his watch. “I don’t see why we need to stay inside, given how much traveling we have to do tomorrow.” 

Graves grabs the sunglasses he bought yesterday and his new wool coat, and Makarov is stoically Russian about the chilly overcast weather and just wears his suit. 

“Are the sunglasses to hide your identity?” Makarov asks, as they take the lift down to the lobby. “Because I think that illusion will fade the second you open your mouth.” 

“What?” Graves gives him an affronted look. “No, excuse you, they’re for my eyes. They’re light, so the glare bothers me even when it’s cloudy, Mr. My Eyes Are Dark As My Soul.” 

This isn’t true, unless it’s dark or Makarov is turned on or angry. Most of the time they’re the color of coffee or that tea he likes, but the sentiment still counts. That does give him an idea, though, and the first place they stop is a coffee shop around the corner from the flats. They’re in the Financial District, and the place is busy, with all the tables occupied and a long line in front of the cashier. Graves catches a few snippets of conversations and hears more than one American accent, which makes him smile. 

Makarov looks like he’s contemplating something diabolical on account of his dislike of crowded spaces, so Graves stops a potential international incident by leaning close and murmuring, “Go smoke, I’ll bring you some tea.” 

Makarov nods and shoulders his way out of the shop without a word. Graves gets in line, messes around on his phone and ends up chatting with the woman in front of him. She’s an American, here on business, and when she asks him why he’s visiting London, Graves says he’s on a two-day layover with his boyfriend on their way to the Mediterranean. Lies are easiest when there’s some truth behind it, and technically that is why he’s here. 

She’s off to the side waiting for her order when it’s his turn, and when he joins her there to wait for his, she says, “Coffee and tea? Your boyfriend must be British.” 

“Russian,” he corrects. He’s relatively sure that if anyone is looking for him, they’re not going to think he’s with Makarov – not willingly, anyway. Definitely not walking around the Financial District in London and buying him tea. 

They walk out of the shop, and the woman gives a wave to Makarov and says, “Enjoy your tea!” as she heads off down the street. 

Makarov raises his eyebrows as he takes the cup in its cardboard sleeve from Graves. “Someone you know?” 

He shrugs. “Nah. I’m just a friendly guy. Long line, you know how it goes.” He thinks about that. “Well, maybe you don’t. You aren’t really an extrovert, huh.” 

“No.” Makarov sips his tea, nods to show it passes whatever his internal standards are for ‘acceptable’, and they start walking. 

Graves has been here before, several times, but rarely has he had any time to properly explore. He does actually want to visit the Tower of London, though the more he thinks about it, visiting with Makarov might just turn it into some kind of long, protracted foreplay. Not that it’s a problem, per se, but maybe right now isn’t the best time, all things considered. 

Honestly, he’s just as happy walking around and people watching. He picks up a few more necessities from a drug store, charmingly called a chemist’s, and makes a joke about not that kind of chemist, comrade . 

They pass one of those ubiquitous souvenir stands, and Graves flashes a grin at Makarov and says, batting his eyelashes obnoxiously, “What kinda sexual favor do I have to promise to get you to wear one of those novelty hats?” 

“One that hasn’t yet come into existence,” is Makarov’s answer to that. 

“Well, maybe I’ll get one. Could come in handy if we need a disguise.” He picks up the giant hat, turns it this way and that. 

“If we were in a cartoon, possibly,” Makarov says, around the cigarette he’s just put in his mouth. 

“Oi,” the attendant says, sharply, with a sudden burst of dominance. “You can’t smoke here, mate.” 

Makarov turns and fixes the attendant with that cold-eyed glare of his. “I wasn’t intending to, but thank you for your feedback.” 

Graves coughs into his fist, because it’s never not funny to him, watching doms have a pissing match over something trivial. People always asked him how he handled being a boss for so many dominants when he himself was a submissive – and it wasn’t that hard, he knew how to fucking listen and compromise, knew when it was wiser to bend without breaking, knew when you needed the fire at a simmer instead of a full-out blaze. 

Some doms could learn that, but they needed to make a conscious effort and many of them simply wouldn’t. The erroneous idea that dominance always meant confidence was probably part of it. Those assholes making podcasts about how to live your ultimate dominant life! and conquer the submissive within and embrace the dominant hustle or whatever surely didn’t help. 

Makarov steps away to smoke, and Graves buys a postcard and a shot glass with the symbol of the London Underground on it. He hands the shot glass to Makarov, who stares at it, then looks at Graves with a clear what the hell is this expression. 

“Thought you might want to drink your vodka in it,” Graves says, straight-faced. “You know. So you can take a shot in the metro that doesn’t miss.” 

There’s about a fifty-fifty chance he’ll end up shot dead in the street for that little joke, but luck is on his side and Makarov – he doesn’t laugh, but he snorts quietly, his expression easing into something moderately less stony. “You’re very proud of yourself for that, aren’t you.” 

“Yup-yup,” Graves says, grinning. “C’mon, comrade. I’m an American. I have to buy tacky souvenirs, it’s practically the law.” 

“The law you are so clearly committed to following,” Makarov says, and hands the shot glass back to Graves, who slips it in the black plastic bag. “You keep it, then, we wouldn’t want you to get in trouble. ” 

“Nope,” Graves says, bumping his shoulder with his own as they keep walking. “We wouldn’t. I’ll get you another one in America when we go…what’s this op called, anyways? Operation Bald Eagle? Get it? ‘Cause he’s bald?” It’s clear that Makarov both gets it, and is not overly impressed by his wordplay. Too bad. This is what he signed up for, being Graves’s dominant. “Operation KFC?” 

There’s about two seconds of pointed silence before Makarov swears under his breath, and says with a sigh, “Fine, tell me what that means.” 

“I knew you couldn’t resist. Operation Kill that Fuckin’ Chicken, duh. ‘Cause of the restaurant? And eagles are birds, but he ain’t no eagle, you feel me?” 

“Oh, I understand. I just didn’t laugh because it wasn’t funny.” His mouth quirks up. “Fine. That’s a little funny. Not quite as clever as your quip about the shot glass, perhaps. But clever.” 

Pleased, Graves slides his sunglasses down off his head. “Just for that, I’m gonna get you the best tacky American souvenir there is.” 

Makarov takes out another cigarette, handing one over to Graves. “That won’t be necessary,” he says, lighting Graves’s cigarette for him, the flame from the lighter glinting in his dark eyes like hellfire. "Apparently, I already have it."

Chapter Text

Despite Plutus being less than a six-hour trip from London, it takes them considerably longer to get there. 

Makarov’s reputation being what it is, they have to take a carefully circuitous route and that adds about ten hours to their ETA. Graves is used to the headache of arranging travel for a PMC, though, so he knows the actual distance between two places is never how long it takes to get from one to the other, even when you don’t have to factor in public travel concerns like airport security, parking, and commercial airlines and their increasingly unhinged ways of dividing one group of passengers into several for boarding, based entirely on an upcharge. 

What you do have to factor in, however, is finding an airspace corridor that will allow travel without asking too many questions, or who are amenable to keeping your flight details off official records… for a price. Graves knows how to get to about sixteen different countries without so much as registering a blip with any government oversight agencies, but he also has – or had – the luxury of being the preferred PMC of the American military. Which meant a lot more friendly airspace for unregistered travel than, say, a man who is wanted by Interpol. 

Makarov has his own network of bribable airline officials and people who find courting his favor more amenable than adhering to government procedures, and those are not the same as Graves would utilize in similar circumstances. Which he’s honestly surprised about, because if he’s learned anything operating in the international mercenary scene, it’s that loyalty is very easy to buy but expensive to keep. He has no idea what Makarov does to ensure safe passage without registration on flight logs, but as much as he’d like to know for professional curiosity reasons, now isn’t the time to ask. 

They do have a couple of refueling stops along the way. For the first, they land in a field somewhere with no discernable signage, a group of men in generic camo fatigues with no insignia standing around with rifles, refusing to make eye contact with anyone as two fuel trucks amble onto the field along a simple dirt road. The second time, Makarov tells Graves flatly to stay in the plane and not to open any of the window shades. He assumes this is some place hostile to Americans, and he’d end up dead – or worse – if they found him on the plane with a bunch of Russian ultranationalists, and doesn’t put up a fuss about it. 

They’ve been in the air for an hour or so after that last mysterious landing when Masha gestures for him to join her and Makarov at a table in the back. Graves makes his way over and sits down, noticing the airplane for this particular trip is a lot more regulation army surplus than a fancy 80’s private jet. No card games, not this time. 

“What’s up?” Graves asks, rubbing his eyes. They have that dry, sandpaper feeling that suggests he’s been up longer than he should without catching at least a nap. 

“I’m fairly certain whoever Milena is working with is a Konni operative,” Makarov says. He looks nothing at all like the man Graves spent the day with yesterday, but he supposes that’s to be expected – their momentary foray into tourist life was short and sweet and ultimately over. Which if he’s honest, that’s not really a problem. He’s not suited for it any more than Makarov is. “But I don’t think he’s a recruit.” 

Graves takes a bottle of water when it’s offered, wishing desperately it was coffee instead. “You mean he joined to fuck shit up for you, or what?” 

“Yes, actually,” Makarov says, drumming his fingers on the table. He and Masha exchange a look. “And that’s concerning for several reasons.” 

“Yeah. A leak in your operation always is, but one that got through the background process…who does those, by the way? No offense, comrade, but I don’t see you sifting through all that paperwork while trying to run the world or whatever.” 

Makarov shakes his head. “Not me, no. Milena. So she either unknowingly hired a mole, or she knew exactly who they were when they applied.” 

“How do you apply to join Konni?” Graves asks. “For Shadow Company, we typically recruit operatives from the armed forces branches, but there’s plenty of front-office type jobs people can find if they know where to look. My point being, it’s not impossible to find us but it’s not that easy, either. I’d think it was the same for y’all, too.” 

“Word-of-mouth, mostly,” Masha says. “You know someone who knows someone, like that. Most Konni operatives – from Russia, anyway – are disillusioned with the government and the army, but that’s not…very easy to be open about, yes?” 

Graves can see that, given what he knows of the geopolitical situation. “So what you’re saying is, whoever your mole is had to already know Milena or knew someone else in Konni and was able to get in the door that way. I’m guessing Milena at least does a cursory background check, but if you’re saying this is a professional, it might be whoever’s backing your mole is good enough to fudge the credentials.” 

He looks between them, a little disappointed no one is remarking on his brilliant deduction because come on, that was smart reasoning! “Or am I missing something?” 

“You’re not,” Makarov says. “My inclination is that she knows who it is, which means there is either someone from my country trying to infiltrate Konni….” 

“Or it’s someone from mine,” Graves finishes, grimly. “I suppose it could be someone from Price’s band of merry men, but I’m not sure what they think they could get out of her, not now.”

“No, Price has no reason to bother with Milena,” Makarov agrees. “She already gave him what he wanted, and he likely assumes our…association…is at an end. I’m not known for giving second chances.” 

“Except this one time where you did,” Graves says, and Masha stares at him with a look like I can’t believe you just said that. He shrugs. “What? Darlin’, if I didn’t have a death wish, you think I’d even be here right now?” 

Makarov snaps, “Refer to my soldiers respectfully or I’ll gag you,” and the dominance in his tone makes Graves’s skin tingle pleasantly. “And, yes. Except this one time, where I did not do what I should have, in response to her transgression.” 

“To be fair, she’s a rich lady who’s used to spreadsheets, not holding up under Special Forces interrogations,” Graves points out. “I get not being lenient to an operator who sold you out, but unless she’s had training…Price’s bloodhounds would’ve gotten it out of her eventually, yeah? They might pretty it up with all their talk about necessary force and execute authority, but we all know they would’ve pried her fingernails off and waterboarded her with Evian if they had to.” 

“Likely, yes. And that is the only reason I didn’t take care of her earlier. Which was clearly a mistake, because her lack of consequences gave her an elevated opinion of her skill at subterfuge.” Makarov’s eyes flash. “Why she thinks this is necessary, I’m not sure.” 

“Maybe she just wants out. Do you let people resign?” Graves knows just how possessive Makarov is. In fact, he reckons he knows that more than most people. “People think they can play in the big leagues and they’re wrong all the time, and it ain’t ever as easy to get out as it is to get in, you feel me?” 

Maybe that sounds vaguely like he’s an extra in a mob movie, but it’s still true. He’s had operators talk a mean game when they’re hired on, only to turn around and resign after one or two missions. Mercenary work isn’t the same as the military, and that’s a benefit for some and a detriment for others. You don’t always know which it is until you send someone into the field. 

Of course, he lets the operators resign and go on with their lives, which is not quite the same situation. But the comparison makes him ask, “You said that safehouse in Moscow was a mob property, is Milena working with someone in the Russian organized crime scene?” 

Masha snorts. “She’s an oligarch, she is part of the organized crime scene, Graves. Wraith sent back some preliminary intel on the operators who make up her private security force. She identified a few that struck her as more devoted to Milena than Commander Makarov.” 

She pushes some papers across the table, and Graves sees grainy printed photos of a few operators, with details added in Russian that he can’t read. But that doesn’t matter, because by the time he gets to the third picture, a chill goes up his spine. He studies it carefully, not wanting to be wrong about this, but he’s almost ninety-eight percent sure he’s not. Those are pretty good odds, so he says quietly, “It’s him,” and shows them the paper. 

Makarov’s eyes narrow. “Why do you think that?” 

“I don’t think, I know. Because I’ve seen that guy before, and I’ll give you two guesses where.” He looks at them both in turn, but they’re doing the stoic Russian thing and don’t so much as blink. “This is the part where you’re supposed to guess.” 

“Just tell me, I’m not in the mood for guessing games,” Makarov says, and his voice is sharp with dominance. 

Graves rolls his eyes. “Okay, okay. You are no fun, comrade. Shepherd’s got a few soldiers he likes to keep around for personal security. He’s partial to Army Rangers, and this guy is one of them.” 

Masha taps one blood-red, pointed nail on the photo. “This says his name is Alexei Borodin.” 

“Uh-huh, I know what it says, but look. I spent a lot of time in Gold Eagle Actual’s office, and this guy? He was there. I’d bet my fuckin’ life on it.” He stares up at the ceiling, running through the interactions he’s had with the various schmucks the good general assigned to door duty. “Submissive, because Shep doesn’t like other dominants even if he outranks them, and…from New York, I remember an accent. Good Irish-Catholic name…James? And his last name, it was one of those first-names-as-last-names type situations.” Graves frowns, combinations dancing tantalizingly through his brain as he tries his best to recall the name. “James Aaron? Jim Aric? Wait! Joseph Allen, that’s it.” 

“You are sure about this?” Masha doesn’t sound convinced. 

“If he says he is, I believe him.” Makarov lights a cigarette, giving Graves a considering glance. “He’s good with names, and with remembering people.” 

Warmth suffuses him, which is dumb, because he’s probably just signed this guy’s death warrant and if he’s not Shepherd’s man, well, that sucks for him. The approval feels nice, though. 

“Wraith says everyone there speaks Russian, including him.” Masha scans the paper. “I’d assume Shepherd wouldn’t send someone who couldn’t speak the language, though.” 

“Yeah, probably not, but there’s something I noticed being around all you Ruskies.” Graves leans back in his seat, drums his fingers on the table. It feels good to do this, be a part of mission debriefs. He’s always enjoyed overwatch simply for the details. “Masha, you don’t speak Russian like Piotr, and Makarov, you speak it like Wraith, so I’m guessing that’s, what, regional accents? Like, y’all think I’m from Texas because I fuck around with my accent, but if I said, oh, mo juste l’aime parle creole quand mo peur….” He laughs at the looks he’s getting. “I’m from Louisiana, remember? They speak French there.” 

“That doesn’t sound anything like French, though.” Masha tilts her head, playing with the long dark strands of her hair, pulled into a high ponytail. “It sounds like you’re a cowboy trying to speak French.” 

“That’s because it’s Creole French, totally different accent. But that’s my point,” Graves says. “I know that ‘cause I know regional dialects. You knew enough to know I was speaking French, but I’m gonna reckon I’m the first person you’ve ever heard speak Creole, yeah? That’s my point. I didn’t know about regional Russian dialects until I spent time around actual Russians. If Borodin learned Russian in the service, do you know what dialect he would have learned?” 

“Central, probably. Like Komandir Makarov, or Wraith.” Masha looks a little impressed, which is nice because he doesn’t think that’s very easy to do. 

Graves nods. “There you go. Have Wraith ask where he’s from, see if she notices. Or, better yet, see if he notices where she’s from – she’s from the same place you are, right?” he asks Makarov. “You and Wraith, your Russian sounds the same.” 

“Komandir Makarov and Katya – Wraith – are both from the suburbs of Moscow,” Masha says, looking impressed. “I’m from St. Petersburg, and Piotr is from a small town near Volgograd. That’s why our Russian sounds different.” 

“That something Allen – or, Borodin – would know?” Graves asks. “Like, if you asked him to guess where Wraith was from, or Milena?” 

“They’re from the same place, but there are other Konni there who aren’t, so it’s worth a try.” Masha pulls out her phone. “I’ll see if I can get Wraith to look into it.” 

“Yes. Good.” Makarov gives him a sideways glance. “I had no idea you knew another language besides English.” 

“Yeah, I get that a lot. To be fair, most Americans don’t, and I’m not fluent or anything. I just know a little from growing up there. I don’t even claim it as a second language if I’m asked, ‘cause I can’t read it for shit.” It’s never been all that necessary for his career advancement, and everyone thinks he’s from Texas anyway. 

It’s sort of wild to think he’s starting to be more comfortable with Russian than the Creole French of his childhood. 

Makarov’s mood goes back to dangerous once they’re off the plane. They’re in an armored van for the next part of the trip, so Graves takes the opportunity to catch a nap and sleeps all the way until the van doors open again. It’s only been about two hours, but the air smells salty and feels humid, a clear sign they’re near the water. 

It’s been almost twenty-four hours since they left London, and it’s a few hours before dawn when they climb on a small tender that’s going to take them to Milena’s island estate. Andrei is there, and he and Makarov exchange a bro-clap and a few quiet words. Andrei comes over and gives Masha a smile and Graves a fist-bump, and Graves looks around and notices for the first time how gorgeous the scenery is and how warm it is. He grins, takes off his coat and sprawls out across three seats on the boat with his feet kicked up on the side. 

Masha, however, sits ramrod straight in her seat with a death-grip on the side. She’s staring somewhere over Graves’s shoulder, unblinking. He’s never seen her look so tense. 

“Not a fan of small boats?” Graves asks, amused at Makarov’s determination to light a cigarette, as if he can dom the wind into cooperating while he flicks the lighter. 

“I am…not a fan of the ocean,” Masha says, tightly. “It’s very big. Deep. I prefer solid ground. Even in a plane, you can see it there, yes? Or you know what is below you. The ocean, it could be anything.” 

He definitely wouldn’t have called Masha being thalassophobic, that’s for sure. She doesn’t seem intimidated by anything. “A woman who isn’t afraid to play cards with Makarov surely isn’t afraid of a few fishies,” he teases. 

She says something in Russian that he’s almost positive is an insult about his family, which, fair enough. “I do not play cards with Komandir Makarov, I played cards with you so that you could learn. And the fish aren’t my problem, it’s the vast open space…let’s not talk about it.” 

“Back in Louisiana, we have creeks,” he says, and spends the rest of the ride boring her to death about very, very shallow creeks and the mudbugs – crawfish – boils they used to have in the summer. It’s nicer than he almost ever is when he talks about home, but that’s one of a few actual happy memories of his childhood, and it’s at least making her distracted. At some point, her white-knuckle grip on the side of the boat eases, and she only looks a little green around the gills when they hit a few bumps as they near the island. 

“That was kind of you,” Masha says, as Andrei idles the boat and makes a slow approach to the dock. “Distracting me. I know it’s ridiculous, Komandir Makarov even told me if I didn’t want to come, I didn’t have to.” Her mouth sets. “But I told him the last time that he should get rid of her. If I didn’t know better, I’d –” 

“You’d what, Mariya?” 

Makarov’s voice, cutting and a little angry, makes Graves go still and his heart race – even though his irritation is clearly with Masha, not him. He opens his mouth to say something and try and draw his ire – might as well put his fucked-up kinks to use, right? – but it turns out, he doesn’t need to. 

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were being too sentimental,” she says, chin lifted, not looking intimidated at all by Makarov’s dark scowl. “And if it weren’t for Graves, I’d think maybe you felt something else that was keeping you from neutralizing her. And if you don’t want me to speak the truth, sir, you can have Andrei take care of me the same way he did Ivan. The same way you should have let one of us take care of her, the last time.”  

“I was being sentimental,” Makarov snaps, then says something in Russian that Graves, despite his increasing familiarity with the language, can’t entirely translate. Then he fixes Graves with a sharp look and says, in English, “I won’t make that mistake again.”  

Graves shivers, the threat both understood and, because it’s him, arousing. Makarov throws his umpteenth cigarette into the water, and then turns to survey their small infiltration team. Despite their hours of travel and the fact Graves never saw him so much as close his eyes for fifteen or twenty seconds, his suit is immaculate and his eyes are flat, cold - he looks dangerous in the weak dawn sunlight, the way he looked in all the photographs Graves saw of him, the surveillance footage from the airport, even the grainy CCTV tape from the Chunnel in London. 

Graves almost feels bad for Milena, who has no idea – or if she does, nowhere to run. Pretty stupid, if you think about it, to betray a terrorist and then stay on an island you can’t leave without a boat or a helicopter. 

“Andrei will take the immediate perimeter, Masha and Graves, join Wraith in the surveillance building – it’s just up there, south of the main house. See if she’s gathered any further intel on Borodin, and find out where he is. We need him where we can see him. I’ll take care of Milena. Masha, Andrei, you have execute authority on anyone who tries to draw on you. Graves, some operatives might be aware of who you are, and if not, they’ll probably guess you’re an American – non-lethal is my preference, since that wouldn’t necessarily mean they’re hostile.” 

Graves nods. “Non-lethal it is, copy that.” He’s not offended, that’s smart planning and he was an enemy, until recently. “You going dark?” 

“No.” Makarov shakes his head. “Not necessary. I’ll be on comms if you have intel. I’d prefer not to be surprised by a gunfight.”

“You and me both, comrade. Don’t worry. I don’t have an AC130, but I’m goddamn good at overwatch. I’ll make sure you get in and get out without ruining that nice new suit.” Graves smiles, but Makarov doesn’t smile back. Graves gets it. He’s been there, himself. In Mexico, as much as he actually did like Soap, he had to shut it down and think of him as a hostile, not a person who was very recently an ally. “Good hunting, Volodya,” he says, throwing a two-finger salute. 

“Khoroshaya okhota, Graves.” With that, Makarov nods once and turns toward the house, all gleaming windows sparkling in the morning sun. He moves like a shadow over a summer picnic, a raincloud threatening a parade, a vulture patiently circling a dying deer on the highway. 

Here to ruin someone’s day, and for whatever reason, Graves finds it pretty hot. 

“Where’s Piotr?” Graves asks, as he and Masha head toward the small building that serves as the island’s security hub. “I assume he was flying the plane?” 

“Da, once he has it secure he’ll RTB with our belongings. I think Komandir Makarov will want to use this as his base of command, at least until your operation moves into the next phase.” 

Graves can’t find anything at all wrong with that plan, especially because it doesn’t snow here and it’s sunnier than London. He is a man of simple pleasures when it comes to fucking weather, that’s for sure. Also, this place is gorgeous and he loves swimming in the ocean, so. Win-win. 

The surveillance building is really just a room with a lot of camera feeds and fuse boxes, and a familiar blue-haired Konni operative sitting in a chair and fiddling with what looks like a remote control. 

“For the drones,” she says, to Graves, waving the controller. “I turn them to - stun, only? No shoot. But they can shoot, bullets. Real ones.” Her eyes are wide. “Lots of toys here, da?” She motions them over, immediately clicking through the cameras until she has a visual of Makarov – alone, now – heading into the house via the extensive deck on the main level. 

Andrei is nowhere to be seen, of course, because the man is good at his job. 

“Where’s this Konni guy I’m sure is our mole?” Graves asks, squinting at the various cameras. There are a lot of uniformed guards in the front of the property, so Graves can’t tell if any of them are Borodin or not. 

“Borodin? Here, see?” Wraith points. “There, he’s interior, by stairs.” 

Graves feels a bit of a chill go up his spine at the man’s location. That’s the only stairs to the third floor office, where Milena is. Not a problem if he’s a Konni op, but if he’s a mole….

Graves trusts his instincts, so he taps the comm link and says quickly, “Czar Actual, our guy Borodin’s by the stairs. You want we should pull him away from your location before he sees you?” 

“Copy that, Shadow Actual. If he can be redirected without raising the alarm, da. If not, I’ll take care of it.” 

Wraith gives a quick, “Da, Komandir,” and presses a few buttons on the panel, then leans forward to speak into a mic. She says something in rapid Russian, and the soldier by the stairs startles, glances up once, and then steps away. 

Graves leans in so he can hear the soldier when he speaks – and he doesn’t need them to double-check his work when he hears the man’s voice over the mic. Even tinny as it is, and speaking – very passable – Russian, he knows that’s Allen. “I’m sure that’s him,” he says quietly. “But let’s get him in here, see if we can’t get some proof. I have a few questions I’d love to know the answer to.” He’s thinking about that convoy, the men he lost. The shitshow in Las Almas, and how he’d been personally selected by General Herschel Shepherd to be his scapegoat all along . 

What was it Shepherd said, in that voicemail he left Graves after their kangaroo court congressional hearing?  

I’m the chain around your ankle and I will drag you down to hell for that little stunt.

“Too bad for you, I’m into restraints and I fuckin’ love the heat, you bastard,” Graves mutters, smiling at the thought of how pissed Shepherd’s going to be to lose . To him . A guy he clearly thought he could boss around by virtue of Graves’s patriotism and his own dominance, not realizing that Graves wasn’t nearly as dumb as Shepherd assumed he was, nor was he quite as patriotic, either. 

It turns out when a country keeps trying to throw you under the metaphorical bus, you sort of stop feeling the urge to get to your feet when they sing the anthem at a baseball game. 

“You solid, Prizrak?” Masha asks, which, fair, he’s basically muttering to himself and smiling like a weirdo. 

“Yeah, sure am. Solid as a fuckin’ goddamn piece of space rock, Masha. What’d you tell him, Wraith Looks like he’s on his way to our little hidey-hole.” He looks to Masha, who has to translate part of that – makes sense, he’s all het up and in his outrage feelings, and his English is probably really hard to follow at the moment. 

“Tell him, please,” Wraith says. “Too long to type in phone.” 

Masha says that Wraith asked Allen – Borodin – to come look at some security footage of a “suspicious boat” that one of the drones captured on a fly-over. “She told him there’s an English name on the hull, and the drone captured audio in English that she doesn’t understand, and that Milena told her he’s skilled with the language.” 

“Smart,” Graves says, grinning at her, solemnly holding out his fist. Wraith returns the gesture, and then speaks in rapid Russian over the comms to Makarov, which from Graves’s limited understanding seems to be her relaying Borodin’s impending arrival to the security building.

Good timing, too. Makarov appears seconds after Borodin vanishes off-screen, heading up the stairs to Milena’s office.  

“Any chance you can translate what he says for me?” Graves probably shouldn’t care about anything but the outcome, but he can’t help being curious about the conversation he’s positive he won’t be able to follow. 

“Oh, da,” Masha says, and it’s clear that she, too, is just as interested – which makes him grin and nudge her with his elbow.

“Looks like I ain’t the only nosy fucker around here, huh,” Graves says slyly. 

She smiles a bit at that/ “And here, I was convinced we should just shoot you in that ditch. I hope your head was all right, hmm, Prizrak? I never did apologize for knocking you out.” 

Wait, what? Graves blinks, momentarily distracted by this new piece of information. Masha was the one who hit him with the rifle butt? “That was you ?” 

She nods. “Komandir Makarov said we were to take you alive, but you were…so strange, Graves. Now that I know you better, da, I think I understand. But at the time?” She clicks her tongue, like a disappointed grade school teacher. “I thought maybe you had already hit your head too hard.” 

“Yeah, why’s that? What was I doing that was so weird?” 

“Smiling,” Masha says, then waves a hand. “Shh. I need to listen, so I can tell you what Makarov is saying. If he asks, maybe do not tell him we…dropped eaves? Listened in, whatever that expression is.”  

Graves is absolutely going to tell him, because what if it’s hot? He’s still thinking about the fact he was smiling in that ditch, waiting to be riddled with bullets from the rifle that, it turns out, belonged to Masha. The same woman who taught him to play Durak, who’s afraid of the ocean, who never shows up without her lipstick matching her nails.  wonders if that was the part where he was imagining all those bullets hitting him. “Eavesdropped. Don’t worry, I’ll tell him it was my idea. Hell, I’d be surprised if he doesn’t expect me to listen, if I’m being honest.” 

Masha says something in Russian to Wraith, and the two women share a grin. 

Graves is just about to ask what she said when he hears the tinny sound of Makarov’s voice fill the small space – and in his ear, which apparently is the same for Wraith and Masha, because they both startle and focus on the monitor, where Makarov is walking into the office.  

Milena’s surprised to see him, Graves knows that much from her body language even before Masha translates, “She says, Vladimir, you did not tell me to expect you. Is everything all right?”

“Nyet, u nas problema,” Makarov says, and the ice in his voice makes Graves’s entire body shiver deliciously, and once again, he’s a little jealous that it’s not being directed at him . And he doesn’t need Masha to translate, either. 

No. We have a problem. 

Makarov says something else, and just as Masha takes a breath to translate it, there’s a knock on the door. All three of them jump as a man in a Konni uniform enters – and when Graves meets the man’s gaze, there’s an instant flash of recognition followed immediately by something that looks a lot like panic. 

“Well, well, if it isn’t Private Allen,” Graves drawls, smiling pleasantly, though he’s sure it doesn’t reach his eyes. “What a funny place to find you, hanging out with a Russian oligarch. Guess she pays better than Shepherd, huh?” 

Allen’s hand moves, just a twitch, but Graves is faster and has his gun sighted on Allen before he can draw his weapon. “Now, is that any way to greet your countryman? I’m just here to talk, let’s dial down the drama. No reason we can’t have a civilized chat, there are ladies present.” 

“Graves,” Masha says, warningly. 

Wraith appears in Graves’s peripheral vision, moving fast and quiet, light on her feet in a way probably only a professional dancer could pull off – she even does a little spin-type move, and before Allen can get a single word out, she’s got a needle in her hand that ends up jabbed right in his neck. 

He goes down in a slump without so much as a whimper, leaving him in a pile of black uniform on the floor. 

“I didn’t want missing of this,” Wraith says, going back to her chair like she didn’t just pirouette over and dart a guy in the neck with a tranquilizer in under ten seconds flat. 

“And you couldn’t have done that instead of hitting me with a rifle butt?” Graves asks Masha, with a pointed look. 

“I could have, da,” Masha says. “But I didn’t. Now shhh, he’s telling her to calm down, to sit, that he is here to…ask her questions,” Masha says, then makes the same tongue-click noise again when Milena actually does go and sit in the chair behind her desk. “Tupaya suka.” 

That one, he also knows. Dumb bitch. 

It’s not a very nice thing to say, but it’s also not a smart thing to do, putting so much space between your back and the wall. Which is obvious when Makarov walks over, stands behind her, and puts his hands on her shoulders. At first, Graves is incensed at the thought he’s going to give her a shoulder massage or something but no, he’s just…standing there, looking cold and deadly and really hot, his hands resting on Milena’s shoulders like he’s pinning her to the chair. 

Fine. That’s better, but he’s still a little annoyed. He probably needs to get over that, and soon. Makarov threatens a lot of other people, it’s just Graves who gets threatened for fun. “What was that you said to Wraith?” Graves asks, idly, eyes on the screen. “When I mentioned how he probably wanted me to hear their conversation?” 

“That it was foreplay,” Masha answers, and, well, hell – he can’t say she’s wrong, can he? “He’s telling her about…that he suspects someone here is working for the West. Sending intel back. He’s asking if she thinks anyone here is suspicious.” Her eyes narrow, and her gaze flickers over to Wraith. “She says you, Katyusha.” 

Wraith snaps something that he also doesn’t need translated, because he doesn’t know the words exactly, but he can definitely understand the sentiment. 

“He says no, that he recruited you personally and you are in the Inner Circle,” Masha continues, and Graves sees Wraith’s expression ease briefly into the smallest of smiles. “And he says it would be someone who is better with English.” 

Wraith shrugs, clearly not bothered, and then a bright red light begins to flash on one of the control panels. She swears and quickly speaks into her comm mic, and Masha has to translate for him, “Wraith says Milena must have tripped an alarm.” 

Right then, the sound of something beeping fills the room – from the body still lying unconscious on the floor. Even though Graves knew he was right about Allen, he’s still pleased as a fucking housecat who caught the bitch-ass canary to know he’s right. He fucking loves being right, goddamn. “Czar Actual, Shadow Actual here. She’s signaling the mole with some remote device, but we got him. Alive, incapacitated. Let her stew, no one’s coming to her rescue.” 

Makarov doesn’t answer, clearly not wanting to give away the fact he’s not here alone, but he glances up toward the camera in the room – somehow he knows where it is, there’s a question Graves will want an answer to, later – and he gives the smallest incline of his head in recognition. His hands have not moved from her shoulders. 

Graves’s own shoulders ache briefly, like they want the weight of Makarov’s grip there instead of her . This is ridiculous. Not surprising, but still a little absurd. 

“He asked why she is so nervous he’s there, and she says she is not, of course he is welcome, it’s his house.”

“Yeah, I never want to hear him bitch about capitalism again,” Graves mutters, but takes a moment to scan the screens to make sure that little signal wasn’t broadcast to more than one person – it’s not inconceivable she has an inner circle of her own, here. Makarov’s house, maybe, but clearly she’s made it her empire. 

One of Makarov’s hands drops off her shoulder, and something glints in his right hand. A knife. 

“Fly not, stand stiff, ambition’s debt is paid,” Graves murmurs, because despite the southern drawl and the deliberately incorrect grammar, his fondness for stupid comedies and dumb reality shows – he ain’t no dummy, and this was the only Shakespeare play he ever liked reading. Something about a group of people telling their tyrannical, smug leader to fuck off and knifing him in the middle of the day appealed to him. Go figure. 

On the screen, Makarov’s left hand is still on Milena’s shoulder. He leans down, saying something to her that makes her jerk in the chair like she’s trying to escape. 

Masha says in a reverent, quiet voice, “He said to tell him what he wants to know, because it’s the only time he’s going to ask her nicely.” 

He doesn’t need her to translate the next part. Milena looks up at Makarov, and in his ear, Graves hears her name the mole clear as day – “Alexei Borodin. Private Joseph Allen,” followed by the name, “General Herschel Shepherd.” 

She doesn’t finish her sentence. Makarov straightens, and as he does, his right hand moves in a blur and draws the knife across her throat. She falls forward on the desk, and a dark puddle begins to spread out beneath her head. Blood, of course, but the color doesn’t come through on the black-and-white footage. 

“Czar Actual to Shadow Actual, how copy?” 

Graves swallows once before he clicks on his comm-link, watching as Makarov idly cleans his knife and puts it back in his tac vest. “Solid, sir. No other Konni were alerted, just Allen. He’s here, still out.” 

“Good. Make sure he’s disarmed and bring him to the main house, there’s a panic room behind a false door in the pantry. Have Wraith show you on the feed. Make sure he’s restrained. Czar Actual out.” 

Makarov switches to giving Masha, Andrei and Wraith orders in Russian. Graves watches as he turns and walks out of the room without a backward glance. 

He wonders, idly, if Makarov would look back if it were him – then shakes off the thought and turns to Allen, who’s about three inches taller and probably outweighs him by forty pounds of what is very likely pure muscle. 

Son-of-a- bitch.

Chapter Text

Luckily Andrei appears just in time to help him drag Allen’s unconscious form up to the main house, which is a lot easier than either doing it himself, or somehow fashioning a harness to a couple of drones – which honestly was his first thought – and together, they get him into the panic room. It’s a standard model located off the butler’s pantry, full of random cans of food, cases of bottled water (Mr. Hydration’ll love that), a camera and video feed of the property, an intercom and a sat phone. 

There aren’t any weapons, which Graves personally thinks would be more useful than sixty-five cans of beans or whatever they are, the labels are all in Greek so he’s not exactly sure. But they’re not a gun or a knife or anything else, so, basically useless. 

Andrei finds a rough-hewn rope – not the bondage stuff, not for this guy – and Graves gets him tied up to a chair Andrei brings in from the kitchen. He has the cans and the water taken out – it’s not likely Allen will slip his restraints but if he does, those cans could be projectiles, and the water is definitely for Makarov – and has Wraith disable all the alarms. Makarov, he assumes, is speaking with the other Konni troops, likely trying to discern if any of them have a problem with what just happened to the former lady of the house. 

Allen still has a bit of a nap left, so there’s not a lot for Graves to do until he wakes up. He takes an opportunity to check out the property. Milena’s body is gone, and while Graves is the recipient of a few curious looks from the operatives moving through the house, it’s clear Makarov gave them some information about who he is and why he’s there. He’s curious to know what that explanation was, exactly, but he’ll ask later. Makarov is closed up with Andrei in Milena’s office, which apparently he’s fine with, and at least someone cleaned it up first. 

Wraith finds him in the kitchen brewing a pot of coffee – he makes himself at home because why not – and slides into the barstool, looking around. She pulls her phone out, and Graves says, “You can try to talk to me in Russian if you want. I’m trying to practice.” 

“I am practice the English,” she says, dominance heavy in her tone. “So. English.” 

Well, all right, then. English it is. 

“What will you do when soldier wakes up?” 

“Oh.” Graves shrugs. “See why he’s here, what he knows. Why Shepherd wanted him to be all buddy-buddy with an oligarch. I can’t work out what he was supposed to be doing. My guess would be that Shepherd sent Allen to kill Makarov whenever he showed up here, but that doesn’t really work with what’s happened, given Milena was also trying to get him killed.” He frowns. There’s something he’s missing, he just knows it, and hopefully talking to Allen when he wakes up will prove useful. 

Hopefully Allen will talk. It’s probably going to take some convincing. He has no idea who will do that, and isn’t sure if he wants to watch Makarov torture an American for information – he might get jealous or something – but he also doesn’t think he wants to watch anyone else do it, either. Not that he likes Allen, but it seems unfair, almost, to let anyone else interrogate him. 

“The lady, she was…his friend, da?” 

For a second, Graves thinks she means Allen - then realizes she’s talking about Makarov and Milena. He nods. “Yeah, she was.”

Wraith nods, studying him, clearly wanting to ask him a question and either unsure how to word it, or if she should. After a moment, she says, “You…would not do that. To the komandir, da?” 

He blinks, then realizes what she’s asking. He could pretend to misunderstand her, or make some sort of offhand comment, or hell, even lie. But he doesn’t need to lie, and he doesn’t blow her off, either. He likes Wraith, and he’s also aware that staying with Makarov means doing a lot of this – telling his Inner Circle that while he doesn’t give a single fuck about their world-domination goals or whatever, he’s still not going to betray him. “No. I wouldn’t do that to him. Don’t get me wrong, Wraith, I don’t give a single fuck about the ultranationalist agenda. I doubt Milena did, either, since it was one that said people like her were the problem, yeah? But I’m a damn good PMC commander, and if Makarov needs someone to look after Konni, I can do that.” 

Wraith is listening intently, and she has to pull out her phone and type for a bit until she speaks again. “If Konni takes money to do things the ultranationalists want, what will you do?” 

He wonders if someone put her up to the Q&A - the question seems very direct and pointed. It was probably Andrei. He answers her anyway. “What the contract says I should do. That’s why I like PMC work. It’s a job, there’s nothing to it but doing what you’re paid for, yeah?” 

It takes her a moment, but she clearly understands what he says. She nods, looking pleased. “Yes. I think sometimes everyone must…have the same feeling, yes? What is it…” She consults her phone again. “Passion? Yes, this. For the things they do.” 

“Sure. I do. I have a lot of energy for my soldiers, my company, doing the job we’re hired to do efficiently, cleanly, and under budget. I don’t take contracts to wipe out civilians, I won’t hit medical facilities and I’m not here to traumatize kids for the rest of their lives.” Well, not on purpose, anyway – Las Almas is a particular black mark on his career that he’s resolutely not going to think about. “But I care more about my company than whoever hires us, or their reasons for it. Keeps things cleaner that way.” 

“Ah.” She drums her fingernails on the counter. There is, next to her, a large silver bowl filled with more limes than a bartender at a tropical resort would ever need. She takes one and looks at it, turns it in her fingers. “Why so many? Is real, too. All real. Too many.” 

Graves smiles briefly at that, the scent of fresh coffee wafting through the large, expensive, very, very clean kitchen. She’s not wrong, there are way too many for a fruit you cut into wedges for a drink. “Rich people gotta spend their money on something, I guess.” 

She makes a dismissive sound, tosses the lime in the air and catches it. “You have money. You say you take contracts, you are in charge.” 

“I don’t have silver bowl full of a hundred limes money,” Graves assures her. He waves a hand, indicating the kitchen, the house, the entire resort-like property. “I got a townhouse. It’s nice, but there ain’t any cabanas and I just put lime juice in my gin and tonics. Want some coffee? Be a shame to waste a whole pot, I bet this shit is expensive and probably pretty good. Wait.” He runs through the words in head, then says in careful Russian, “Khotite dorogogo kofe mertvogo oligarkha?” 

Would you like some of the dead oligarch’s expensive coffee? 

She laughs at that, nodding, and responds with, “Kto yeshche vyp'yet yego, yesli ne my, prizrak?” 

He squints, but a few of those words go over his head – most of them that aren’t the one he knows means Shadow. “Uh. Who…to drink the – ah!” He snaps his fingers. “Who else will drink it, is that what you said?” At her nod, he grins and grabs a couple of mugs, putting them on the counter. “Who indeed, soldier.” 

Graves wonders if she’s going to last in Konni. If she’ll eventually stop seeing the face of her abuser in every man she kills, or if one day she’ll wake up and have a conscience again and go teach dance to small children in some Russian town far from Moscow, or Paris, or hell, even the States. He doesn’t think so. She’s too loyal to Makarov for that. 

Is he? Because that’s the real question, isn’t it? Nothing here is crossing any of his lines, even if he doesn’t love the idea of taking out civilians. But was Milena a civilian? To his country she’s financing a terrorist organization, but he can’t think of it that way if he’s pouring coffee for a Konni operative and letting one give him a fucking haircut. Or, y’know, in love with the commander of said terrorist organization . 

Wraith takes a sip of her coffee, and it’s clear from the first sip she is either not a fan or has actually never had it before. He silently pushes the sugar bowl over, then goes to the fridge to see if there’s any milk or cream, something to sweeten it and cut down on the bitterness. 

“Why you drink this, Prizrak,” she asks, when all he manages to find in the fridge is a bottle of half-full white wine and a plate of sliced cucumbers under plastic wrap. “It tastes like, hmm. Bad tea left in samovar.” 

“He won’t know what that is,” Makarov says, striding into the kitchen. “And it isn’t even as good as that.” He says something to her in Russian and she slides off the barstool, snaps a salute, and heads out of the kitchen without a word. Probably to find a toothbrush, given how much she clearly did not like the coffee. 

“You know, you say that, and I bet you’d be all about, like, some kind of peppermint mocha.” Graves sips his coffee, studying him. He looks like the Vladimir Makarov Graves was used to seeing before they met in person; cold, remote, eyes empty and merciless. 

Well, he did just execute a friend of his who betrayed him twice. Rough day. Graves goes to the fridge, again, and pulls out the wine and the cucumbers. “Hungry? Here’s what the lady of the house ate for…every meal, apparently.” 

He gets a blank look in response, so he sighs and starts looking through the cupboards for a glass he can fill with water from the dispenser on the fancy fridge – it’s huge, it even has a tablet on it, which is ridiculous considering the contents or lack thereof – and then hands that to Makarov without a word. 

Makarov stares at him. Graves stares back. 

He breaks first, and he’d love to meet the person who wouldn’t, if they were on the other end of that cold, dead-eyed stare. “You like being hydrated. I don’t know. There’s nothing else here, unless you’re really into limes.” 

Makarov blinks, and some of the chill fades from his eyes. He inclines his head and takes the glass. “Spasibo.” He drinks the water, throat working as he swallows, and Graves notices he’s no longer wearing gloves, inked fingers curled around the glass. 

“Sure.” Graves leans back against the counter, sips his coffee – it’s very good quality coffee, or at least it is if you’re a normal person who drinks it instead of tea with jam – and says, “What’s the plan with Allen? For all we know, he might be just as fed up with Gold Eagle Actual as we are and it won’t take much to get him to spill.” 

Any warmth that filtered into Makarov’s eyes is gone. “Trying to save the American, are you?” 

Graves laughs out loud. “You gotta know me better than that by now. I keep useful things around. If he’s just as pissy about Shepherd, then he’s useful. If he’s loyal to the good general, then he isn’t. It ain’t any more complicated than that.” 

“It will be,” Makarov says, turning the empty glass in his hand. He isn’t looking at Graves. “One day, Phillip, even you won’t be able to rationalize what you’re doing quite so neatly.” 

Before Graves can even respond to that, Makarov turns – and in a sudden display of violence that Graves simply doesn’t expect, throws the empty water glass towards a window. The window stays intact and clearly having money means you can buy glasses that could withstand a nuclear explosion and Vladimir Makarov’s temper, because it doesn’t break, either. It rolls across the floor, landing helpfully at Makarov’s feet, like a skeeball game inviting him to try again after landing the ball in the 0 circle. 

Graves is not an idiot, and he knows this is not the time for a quippy one-liner. Not to mention, he has no idea if Skee-Ball is even a thing in Russia. Makarov, in a fit of pique that Graves wouldn’t believe if he wasn’t there to see it, pulls out his sidearm and fires first at the window, and then takes a step back and shoots the glass. 

He’s a good shot, steady, his aim true and unwavering. The shattered pieces of glass lay there on the tile floor, sparkling in the light like tiny jewels. 

Makarov doesn’t move, just stands there, still and as impassive as the gun he just fired. Eventually, he gets himself together and turns, says, “Get someone to clean this up,” and just…walks out of the kitchen without saying anything else. 

Graves sighs. He goes to find a broom, because he could use something to do with his hands, and he’s also not sure Makarov will want anyone knowing he was angry enough about Milena to throw a firearm-fueled temper tantrum at some innocent glass. 

He tries to drink Wraith’s coffee, but she put so much sugar in it, he can’t choke down more than a swallow. That goes down the sink, the broken glass goes in the trash, and he’s just about to, hell, take a dip in the fucking ocean when Andrei finds him and says Allen’s awake, and Makarov wants him to handle it. 

Looks like the coffee break’s over, then. 

“He’s in a bad mood, by the way,” Graves says, to Andrei. “Just giving you a head’s up.” 

Andrei’s gaze flickers briefly to the now pane-less window, then back to Graves. “Da. It would seem so.” 

“You should take that gun from him before he shoots out the sliders to the deck,” Graves says. “Those look like they’re custom. Might take a while to get replaced.” 

Andrei’s look is pure confusion. “I don’t know if you’re joking or not.” 

“That’s the fun thing about me, Andrei. Surprised you haven’t figured that out by now.” 

“You’re not anything like I thought you were,” Andrei says, still giving him that same considering look. “I am glad. But it is strange that you are more loyal than she was.” 

If he really were the man he likes to trick people into thinking he is, he’d say something like well, he wasn’t dicking her down nearly as good as he is me. But Andrei is right, he’s not really that man, and apparently he’s let Andrei into his own inner circle. “I don’t give a fuck about Russia, or ultranationalist policies, fuck, I don’t even know how they’re different from like, the ones you do have and I do not want you to tell me about them, either. I’m loyal to him, though.” Maybe it should be harder to say that, but it isn’t. And he isn’t even lying. 

One day, Phillip, even you won’t be able to rationalize what you’re doing so easily. 

That day is not today. And Makarov has no idea, not really, just how good Graves is at rationalizing things. He’ll figure it out in time. 

Andrei holds out his hand. “Keep it that way, yes?” 

Graves shakes his hand. It’s always nice to be accepted. That isn’t why he said it, though. He sort of needed to, so that he could hear his own voice speaking the truth of it, before he went in to deal with Allen. 

“Let’s hope this guy talks,” he says, jerking his head toward the butler’s pantry and the panic room where Allen is being kept. He cracks his knuckles, rolls his neck – he’s not fancy with interrogation techniques, either Allen talks or Graves will punch him in the face until he does. That usually does the trick. 

“Da,” Andrei says. “Komandir Makarov is watching, prizrak. Do your best.” 

“Everything I do is my best,” Graves drawls, winking at him. “Don’t worry. If he knows something, I’ll find out what it is.” Hopefully before he needs to ice down his knuckles or get some pliers to pull out teeth – it’s so unpleasant but it really is effective, if the face punching doesn’t work. 

How’s that for rationalization? 

***

Allen talks, but most of it is just calling Graves every version of cocksucking traitor he can think of. 

Graves leans against the closed pantry door and crosses his arms over his chest, and lets Allen get it out of his system. While he does, he neatly puts his conscience and whatever dregs of empathy for his fellow man he has left into the same boxes he’s locked his past up in, neatly compartmentalizing so he can do what he has to do. 

A few of Allen’s insults are moderately inventive, but most of them, he’s heard before. At least MacTavish made it interesting, or maybe Graves thinks that because MacTavish was prettier and the accent was hot. Either way, he lets Allen rant because – for Americans, at least – righteous indignation goes a lot farther than boredom when it comes to holding out in an interrogation. 

“I thought you were a fucking patriot,” Allen sneers, pulling at the restraints. “I guess Shepherd was right about you.” 

“I was a patriot until the highest-ranking general in the fuckin’ country threw me to the wolves and got a bunch of my operators killed,” Graves says, shrugging. “He decided I was a traitor, Allen, not me. I still love America just fine.” 

“Sure you do,” Allen sneers, eyes narrowed. “That’s why you’re throwing in with a terrorist.” 

Graves raises his eyebrows at that. “Easy to throw words like that around when you don’t think for your fucking self, soldier. He sent you here knowing I wasn’t a traitor and that I wasn’t dead, and did he say I came after Makarov to kill him? I did, it wasn’t to defect, I ain’t plannin’ on moving to Russia. Too fuckin’ cold for me. Shepherd set me up and got all the men who came with me killed –” 

“Didn’t Makarov kill your Shadows?” Allen interrupts, voice tight with suppressed anger. Goddamn, Shepherd really has done a number on him, hasn’t he? 

“Nah. Konni did. But they wouldn’t have killed anyone if no one told me where to show up, you following?” 

“No,” Allen snaps, kicking at his restraints – has no one ever taught him how to name, rank, serial number an interrogation or what? – and says, “Just because telling yourself that makes you sleep better at night, doesn’t mean it’s true.” Clearly he’s not in the mood to be disagreed with, which Graves realizes is probably what happens when you have a cushy job being Shepherd’s glorified door guard. 

He wonders, idly, if he sounded like that in Las Almas. Cocksure and invincible, as if nothing could touch him because he was there under the orders of someone important. Granted, Graves mostly thought of himself as cocksure and invincible just on his own, but there’s no denying that Shepherd’s gold stars provided another level of protection. Or at least Graves convinced himself that they did. 

In reality, the only person those stars protected were Shepherd. 

Not for long . 

 “Oh, Allen. Do you prefer Borodin? Hmm. You know, I know what it’s like, thinkin’ you’re part of somethin’ secret. That’s what he told you, I bet,” Graves continues. He doesn’t like interrogations that involve pain, it’s messy and more meticulous than people might think, and half the time it doesn’t do anything anyway. Even his I’ll just punch him a lot strategy means thoughtful application of his fist, or else he’ll end up with a bloodstained shirt and bruised knuckles and nothing much in the way of intel. “But here’s the thing, big guy. Shepherd don’t send the men he wants to keep around and move on up, you feel me? He sends the ones he’s done with.” Anger flares, but Graves keeps a benign look on his face, all his emotions shoved to the back of his mental closet like a wool sweater in the height of summer. 

Allen’s chin goes up a bit. “I’m not some kind of patsy, Graves. I’m a Ranger and I earned the general’s respect. He sent you to a shitshow in Las Almas. He sent me here because I’m not just some meathead with a gun.” 

Graves shakes his head, chuckling, not a single hint of warmth or amusement either in the sound or his expression. “You really think you’re doing something here, huh. Well, let me tell you the truth you’re avoiding thinking about by calling me names and insulting my service, how’s that – he’s in cahoots with a Russian oligarch and while he might be telling you how much he hates Vladimir Makarov, I bet he never gave you any orders to kill him on sight, did he?” 

Allen looks away and says nothing, his silence damning. Graves isn’t surprised. “Well, he sure has gone out of his way to stop someone from killing the terrorist he claims to want to stop, hasn’t he? A few years ago, when Price and the 141 brought him in, Shepherd stopped an SAS sergeant from putting him down. Didn’t authorize a search of the helo crash site, either, when my AC130 took one down he was supposed to be in. And, hell, Shepherd knew all along that stunt I pulled with a tank in Las Almas, so it sure seems kinda fishy he didn’t want anyone to at least get a PID on that kill, huh?” 

This time, Graves gets the name, rank, serial number as a response – oh, now he remembers his training, huh – but Allen still won’t meet Graves’s eyes. Of course he won’t. Some people take longer to convince than others, but if Allen doesn’t get with the program, and soon? There’s not much Graves is going to be able to do about it. 

“So, let’s try this again, huh? Now that you know your boss doesn’t really care about taking out Public Enemy Number One, maybe you got some idea why he’s so determined to keep tabs on him and keep him alive? Wanna share with the class, or should I keep givin’ it the ol’ college try and guess some more?” 

He gets the name, rank, serial number treatment again, which, whatever, that’s to be expected. Whatever Allen thinks about Makarov and Shepherd’s bizarre refusal to simply have him killed, he clearly isn’t interested in sharing with Graves. At least, without some kind of…incentive. 

Graves sighs, flexes his hand, and pushes out of his lean against the door. “I thought we could do this the easy way, but if you don’t want to? No skin off my nose, boy-o, but it might mean a few more bruises for you .” And a gunshot to the head, but no point in saying that just yet. He doesn’t doubt Makarov’s orders will be to get rid of him after this, but dead men can’t talk, so Graves needs to find out what he can before Allen is one more KIA to add to Shepherd’s list. 

“I’m not afraid of you,” Allen says, chin tilted, but there’s something in his eyes that says maybe that’s a lie. Or that he’s not afraid of Graves personally, but he is afraid of what’s about to happen, and what might be waiting at the end of it. 

Good. This won’t work if he’s a masochist with a death wish. Which, honestly, if Shepherd were smarter, that’s who he’d send. There has to be a few Rangers who fit that bill, Graves certainly ran into a few during his time in the Marines and MARSOC. 

“This can stop anytime you wanna tell me something useful,” Graves says, stepping closer. “Hell, son, tell me now and it doesn’t even have to start .” 

“Information you’re going to give to a terrorist,” Allen says, and this time, he does meet Graves’s eyes, and the little sneer on his face, the clear disgust there, makes Graves’s carefully constructed facade of disinterest crack just a bit. 

He shoves the brief ire down with effort, momentarily wishing he, too, could shoot out a window or some expensive glassware. But he smooths his expression into a polite, bored smile and shrugs. “I don’t know what you think the word for Shepherd is, but it sure as fuck ain’t hero .” 

Before Allen can sneer anything else at him, Graves punches him hard enough to break his nose. It hurts and there’s now blood on his shirt, but it’s satisfying in a way that shooting out a window wouldn’t be, which he would feel badly about if he were a different person. He’s not, so he keeps on with it until the air in the room is thick with the scent of sweat and blood. 

“Why the fuck doesn’t he want him dead?” Graves demands, when Allen is near unconscious, shaking him hard. Allen spits on him, or tries, but it’s a weak gesture and it’s clear he’s fighting passing out. “Tell me that, at least.” 

“He does,” Allen slurs, words hard to make out given Graves is pretty sure his last punch broke the man’s jaw. “Just. Not until…you. Price. Laswell. No one left to. Stop.” 

Graves suspected as much, but it’s good to have it confirmed. “Send me false intel and get me killed, blame Makarov. Don’t tell me, next will be some insane plot he’ll tip off the 141 about anonymously, and they’ll end up dead, too. Last nail in the coffin is Laswell, who cares about John Price on a frankly bizarre personal level, so once she’s gone, it’s checkmate. His enemies who know all his bad behavior are six feet under, and he’s got a convenient terrorist to blame it on. Then, once that’s done and we’re out of the way, he takes out Makarov and gets all the glory for catching him. That sound about right?” 

Allen looks dazed, but he doesn’t affirm or deny it, so Graves hits him again, then again, and again until Allen gasps out something that he’s pretty sure is a yes. Not that he really needed the verbal confirmation, it’s what he suspected all along but it’s nice to know for sure. 

Price must be next on Shepherd’s list, but all he can get out of Allen is something about Verdansk before he loses his battle with consciousness and passes out. 

Graves swears lightly and wipes the sweat off his brow with his forearm, but he knows he’s a mess and it probably doesn’t keep him from smearing Allen’s blood all over him. 

“Graves, report,” a voice snaps, from the intercom. Makarov. 

Graves wonders if he watched all that. Probably. He wondered what he thought, if he enjoyed seeing Graves beating the shit out of an Army Ranger. He wonders if Makarov was proud of him, and wonders if he’s finally lost his goddamn mind. He wants him to be proud of him. He’s probably no worse than Allen, really. He just knew when to get out and trade up. 

The thought isn’t a pleasant one, so it goes into his mental closet with all the others he isn’t in the mood to examine. “Fine,” Graves says, wincing as he shakes out his hand. It doesn’t help. “Shepherd didn’t tell him much, but I know why he’s keeping you alive. You’re the scapegoat he needs if he’s gonna do away with his other enemies. Namely, the 141 and Kate Laswell. Price and Co. will get fake intel just like I did, show up to save the day and end up dead, which he’ll blame on you . Milena would have made sure there was a financial connection to whatever’s supposed to go down – in Verdansk, wow, how original, Herschel – so there was no one else to blame but you and Konni. Laswell’s smarter than your average meathead, so she’d know to check and if it were ironclad proof you – and me, I bet – were involved….” 

Makarov doesn’t say anything, but Graves doubts he needs to finish that sentence. He nudges at Allen with the toe of his boot, but he’s still out, so he opens the door to the panic room and gives a relieved sigh at the cool, fresh air that wafts into the room. 

“So he’s using me – and by extension, now, you – to do his dirty work?” 

“Seems like he took a page from your playbook,” Graves says, going to the butler’s pantry and using the small sink there to wet one of the fancy towels and wipe off his face. There’s an honest-to-god ice machine in there, too, so he grabs another towel, wraps some ice in it, and sighs in relief as he puts it on his knuckles and goes back into the panic room. “But his false flag isn’t a war, it’s just someone to blame when the other so-called good guys he wants to get rid of turn up dead. Once Price and his Pound Puppies are taken out, he’ll get Laswell and then he can probably sit on some committee to appoint a replacement who doesn’t think he’s a lying piece of shit. Which, yeah, good luck with that, Laswell, ain’t sure that person even exists –” 

“Kill him,” Makarov says, words falling like a hammer and stopping Graves short. 

He expected it, but there’s still a cold trickle of shock at the order coming down like that. Graves knows this is a test, though – they don’t have to kill him, and he could even argue that it might be beneficial to see if he could be swayed into working as a double-agent. But Graves doesn’t think so, Allen has that perpetual hero aura, the kind that means he was never going to have a long career or rise that high in the ranks. You have to lie and cheat and do terrible things to get to Shepherd’s level, much less stay there or rise higher . 

And he’s sure that while this isn’t a test, exactly – Makarov wouldn’t waste his time with that – it’s an order that if he doesn’t carry out, it’s not going to look very convincing that he wants to stay here. Graves finds a bag in the corner, a burlap sack full of potatoes, and dumps them on the floor before putting it over Allen’s head. 

Allen stirs and mumbles something, but his eyes are so swollen from Graves’s fist that Graves has no idea if he’s even able to see anything. There’s a soft gurgle and something that sounds like a gritted out, please, no, but Graves pulls the burlap over his head and takes out his sidearm. Allen struggles, weakly, but whatever he’s trying to say is muffled by the fabric and Graves neatly avoids his attempts to kick him by walking around behind the chair. 

He doesn’t draw it out, he just puts the gun next to the side of Allen’s head and pulls the trigger. Allen goes still and that’s that, interrogation over, threat neutralized. 

“Done and done, commander. What should I do with the body?” 

A pause, and then Makarov’s voice says, “I’ll have someone take care of it.” The intercom switches off, and Graves takes that as a sign his part in all of this is done for the moment. 

He returns his sidearm, picks up the towel with the ice, and spares one glance for the body in the chair. The burlap sack is stained red, the smell in the small room sickening – movies and games never do add the details of the gross shit that happens when someone expires – and he’s not sad to leave the clean-up to some poor low-ranking Konni soldier, or maybe one who looked the wrong way at the Komandir while he was in a bad mood. 

“Have someone search his things,” Graves says to Andrei, who is waiting for him with two masked Konni guards when he makes his way into the kitchen. “See if they can find anything useful, maybe let me know before you get rid of any of it just in case, yeah? And if he’s got anything on him, jewelry or whatever, don’t get rid of it.” 

“Are you hurting for cash, prizrak?” Andrei asks, and for the life of him, Graves can’t tell if that’s a joke or not. 

“No, but I think if there’s something Shepherd knows is Allen’s, it might be nice to send it back to him,” Graves says, smiling tightly. “Let him know we found his mole. Shepherd can send it to his next of kin with his condolences , and when the truth comes out, they’ll know exactly who to blame.” 

Because sure, Graves might have been the one to kill him – but all he did was fire the bullet that Shepherd put in the chamber the second he sent Allen here. 

“Gonna go change and take a shower,” he says, to Andrei. “Unless you need anything else from me?” 

Andrei studies him silently, his look inscrutable. If he’s surprised at Graves’s nonchalance, he doesn’t show it, but he can’t imagine that’s it. Graves has killed people around him before, hasn’t he? He probably will again. Because when it comes right down to it, the patches and the flags and the ideologies don’t matter much. They’re all just killers in the end. 

Chapter Text

The only things of value found among Allen’s belongings is a St. Christopher’s medal he was wearing around his neck, and a patch hidden in an inner pouch of his duffel that Graves doesn’t recognize. It’s a black patch with a gold hawk, and the word Raptor stitched beneath it. Graves has never heard of that organization but suspects it has to be military. It’s just not the sort of thing you can Google, so he’s not sure. 

He sends a photo of the patch to Oz, then gives him a quick recap of what he learned from Allen – while pointedly ignoring Oz’s what’d you have to do to him to get that intel, Commander? His silence is likely all the answer Oz will need, anyway. 

Makarov doesn’t say anything about how Graves handled the interrogation and the elimination of their mole, so Graves figures that means he did fine and doesn’t worry about it. But Makarov is still in a mood, though he doesn’t have any more displays of temper and the glassware and windows remain intact. Graves doesn’t see him except at a distance for the rest of the day, and when he finally decides to head to bed, Makarov just waves a hand dismissively from the office and says he’s busy. He appears to be going through Milena’s laptop. 

Graves almost offers to go through some of it himself so that Makarov can get some sleep or take a shower or eat something, but it’s not like he really knows what to look for and his Russian isn’t good enough to know what he’s even reading, so he doesn’t. He isn’t even sure where to sleep, but the only bedroom that seems to be available is the primary suite so that’s where he goes. Maybe it should feel weird, sleeping in a dead oligarch’s bed, but he didn’t know her and she wasn’t his friend.  Besides, the bed is comfortable, with sinfully soft sheets, plenty of pillows, and a duvet that feels like it’s made out of a cloud. 

When he wakes up, the other side of the enormous king-sized bed clearly hasn't been slept in, which means Makarov either didn’t come to bed, slept somewhere else, or power-napped on top of the covers. When Graves finds him – still in the office, still with the laptop – it’s pretty clear that it’s the first one, because he’s still in a rumpled suit and his jaw is shadowed with more stubble than Graves has ever seen on him before. 

Graves assumes he’s not in the mood for company, so he goes downstairs and makes himself some coffee and looks for something non-cucumber to eat. He scrounges up something passable and then he goes for a run on the beach. He considers going for a swim in the ocean but decides not to, because the clouds have started to gather and it looks like it’s going to storm. Just his luck he’d get struck by lightning or something and wouldn’t that make too many people way too happy? 

With Oz still looking into the patch, Graves doesn’t have much to do. He could demand all kinds of reports about all of Shadow Company’s recent jobs, but he’d rather Oz get him the intel he needs so they can wrap this up and he can get back to running Shadow Company himself. He misses his operatives, and besides that, he does love a good spreadsheet. Maybe he and Milena had that in common. 

Wraith corners him after his shower to help her practice her English, so he spends about two hours trading language lessons with her. They exchange sentences that the Duolingo owl would likely squawk over, but they’re probably a lot more relevant to his life than tell me, does the dog sell paper flower hats on Sundays? 

Andrei pulls him aside after that, speaking in a quiet voice like he’s about to divulge some sort of intel that he doesn’t want anyone to overhear. “Prizrak. Komandir Makarov is in a very bad mood. Maybe you will go and make him less…” He says a word in Russian that Graves doesn’t know, then says carefully, “Cranky? Yes. I think he should relax. You should help him.” 

Graves stares at him. He isn’t sure if he should laugh or punch Andrei in the stomach for basically asking him to fuck Makarov out of his temper. “Captain Nolan, I am a lot of things and yeah, they’re all pretty awesome, but I ain’t a dummy and I didn’t fall off the turnip truck this morning, yeah?” 

“There have been no deliveries of root vegetables that I know of,” Andrei says, with nary a change in expression. 

Graves is momentarily at a loss for words, which is rare. He snorts, then laughs outright, genuinely amused. “Wow. It’s an expression that means I wasn’t born yesterday, and I’m pretty sure you know that. My point is, I don’t touch him if he’s not in the mood to be touched, and the man who shot a window and a harmless empty water glass is, call me crazy, not giving off the come on in and blow me under the desk where I killed someone I actually liked vibes.” 

Andrei blinks, but recovers quickly and gives him a shrewd look. “How do you know, though? Did you try?” 

“Did you miss the thing I just said about how he shot a water glass ?” Graves shakes his head. “Here, I thought you liked me. Do you want me to end up with my kneecaps shot out? You’d be the one helping me up and down all these fucking stairs, Andrei.” 

“I’m not trying to do that, no,” Andrei says, so seriously that Graves feels a little bad about suggesting Andrei is trying to get him shot. “But maybe it would do him good, yes, seeing someone who is loyal and who will, ah, kneel for him?” 

“You’re loyal as fuck,” Graves points out. “And a submissive.” Nevermind that he’d be pissed as all hell if he walked into that office and saw Andrei on his fucking knees for Makarov. 

“I am both of those things, yes. But I am not Komandir Makarov’s submissive, da? You are.” 

Well, he can’t argue with that, can he? Graves sighs. “It’s not that I don’t want to, I’m just not eager to end up like Allen because I tried to give my boyfriend a hug.” 

Andrei winces, though it’s unclear if it’s Graves using the word boyfriend or the implication that his attempts at affection will be rebuffed so badly, he’ll end up dead. “I think he will not shoot you for that, Graves. Glare, maybe, Volodya is…well, I don’t know if you should hug him, yes? But something else, maybe.” 

“Wow, Andrei,” Graves says, staring at him. “That’s incredibly reassuring, that you think a hug would be too much but I should definitely blow him. Thank you so much for that suggestion, surely nothing will go wrong with that plan.” 

“Pozhaluysta,” Andrei responds, with a magnanimous wave of his hand and the world’s slightest smirk. 

Graves goes back into the kitchen, deciding if he’s going to go upstairs, he might as well bring Makarov something to eat. He fills an insulated cup with ice and cold water, grabs some fruit (the kind you’re actually supposed to eat, not slice up for a cocktail) and a package of pistachios that either haven’t expired or expired two months ago, depending on how you read the date. They’re nuts. How bad can it be if they’re a little stale? 

He’s aware this is a bit more service-oriented than is usual for his particular brand of submission, but even if he’s in a bad mood, Makarov is his dominant. He doesn’t get to tie Graves up in elaborate rope bondage, make him cry, and then ignore him. 

Also, they need to decide how to best proceed with the information that they learned from Allen. To do that, he needs Makarov back in top form, and that means he needs to shower, sleep, change clothes, eat, and remember that human beings blink sometimes. He’s sure part of this is legitimately that he wants to get any time-sensitive information as quickly as he can from Milena’s files, but it does seem a bit like he’s sulking. 

When he gets to the second floor landing, he finds Masha and Piotr talking quietly and stops to say hello, as well as to ask about getting some actual food that isn’t part of the Rich Lady Diet, because he can’t see Makarov’s mood improving if he’s hangry due to lack of protein. Also, Graves will start shooting up the decor if he has nothing to eat but limes and whatever mysterious Greek foodstuff is in those cans.  

Piotr promises to take Wraith to the mainland and get provisions, and Masha follows him briefly to the staircase up to the third floor (why are there so many staircases, honestly), stopping him with a hand on Graves’s arm. “Spasibo, prizrak.” 

“Pozhaluysta,” he says, echoing Andrei’s you’re welcome from earlier, except his sounds way more Louisiana and a lot more confused. “But, uh. For what?” 

“I don’t think anyone else would go in there,” Masha says, casting her eyes up at the third floor, where the office – and Makarov – awaits. 

Clearly, no one likes it when Makarov sulks, good to know. “So, you’re thanking me for  my lack of self-preservation?” 

Masha’s smile is small and sly. “If that is what you want to call it.” 

It’s odd, he thinks, as he jogs lightly up the last few stairs. His impression of Makarov’s Inner Circle – the ultranationalist faction, those who ostensibly buy into his world domination goals or whatever – was originally that it was fear keeping them loyal, rather than any genuine sense of camaraderie or friendship. Hell, Graves heard about the jailbreak from the gulag in Zordaya long before he ever met Makarov in person, and he’d also heard how a slight misstep in the escape plan had resulted in him shooting a man dead for his perceived incompetence. He, and likely everyone else, assumed Makarov’s people were loyal for fear of what would happen if they weren’t. 

But that’s all wrong, isn’t it? Masha, Piotr, Andrei and Wraith are all loyal, but there are clearly deeper bonds than just sharing a common goal of…whatever their goals actually are, Graves would have a hard time giving someone the ultranationalist elevator pitch if asked because he still has no idea . But what he is sure of, is that it goes far beyond politics and a mutual commitment to chaos that keeps Makarov’s people loyal to him. And it isn’t fear, either; he remembers Masha and Makarov’s tense conversation about Milena, earlier, and the way Andrei had teased him about losing at cards on the plane. 

Odd how that sense of camaraderie seems to be ignored when it isn’t the 141 or Shadow Company, isn’t it? All the dossiers on Makarov and his people make it seem as if they’re just soulless automatons following the directions of a sadistic killer, but while they do follow Makarov’s orders, he’s no sadist and they’re not soulless. There are legitimate tactical advantages to dehumanizing the enemy, but Graves is starting to see the disadvantages to this approach, too. 

Not that Graves has any idea what to fucking do about it, because his whole problem with Makarov’s the world needs to burn to ash to be rebuilt is that when you burn a forest, what grows back is still a bunch of trees. It’s not like you get something new and better, you just get a different version of the thing that was there before. 

People are always going to be people, and they’re always going to find some reason or another to hate each other, want what some other group has, and be willing to do despicable things to get it. 

Maybe he’s just too cynical to believe in changing the world, or maybe he’s just too selfish to want to change it at all. Seems like a lot of fuckin’ work. Could be he’s just lazy. 

Graves doesn’t bother knocking, just opens the door and says, before Makarov can snap at him, “Don’t shoot me, I’m bringing you lunch under duress.” He lifts the plate and the large, insulated bottle, swinging it on his finger by the handle. “This is like three water bottles worth of water, look how I spoil you.” 

Makarov’s eyes are shadowed, cold, and the look on his face is so remote, it’s like he doesn’t even know who Graves is . Luckily for him, Graves thinks it’s kinda hot, a little shiver of fear dancing down his spine. He might know the man behind the mugshot on Interpol’s Most Wanted list, but that doesn’t make Makarov any less scary when he wants to be. 

Graves pushes past the immediate desire to lower his gaze and instead puts some of his submissive’s tone in his voice, just to see if that does anything. “You want me to put this down? Bring you something else, some tea? Go fuck myself? You are not giving me much to work with here, comrade.” 

Makarov blinks, and it’s like watching someone wake up. His eyes warm a fraction of a percent and he exhales, leaning back in the chair. He squints at Graves. “Andrei?” 

For a second, he’s worried Makarov really doesn’t know who he is and is suffering amnesia from whatever he’s been looking at for almost two days. Then he realizes it’s short-form for did Andrei tell you to come in here , and he smiles a bit. “Yeah. Guess he thought he’d take advantage of my kink for danger and send me up here with a snack.” 

Makarov glances briefly at the ceiling, his sedate version of a dramatic eye roll, and huffs quietly. “I’m perfectly capable of feeding myself, I know where the kitchen is.” 

“Well, yeah, but who knows what – or who – you’d shoot if you saw the only edible food in this house were a baffling amount of lemons, limes and six-hundred cans of Greek beans.” Graves puts the plate down next to a notepad that has several pages of ink on it, and he realizes it’s the first time he’s ever seen Makarov’s handwriting. It’s very neat, almost to a fault, and it looks more like one of those fonts that were created to look like someone’s handwriting but is too perfect to really mimic with any authenticity. 

Graves taps the page, amused. “Everyone in Shadow Company would weep for joy if I could write shit this neat. Oz says my handwriting looks like someone gave a chicken on meth a pencil. I’ve also heard it looks like the handwriting of a serial killer.” 

“There was something I learned from a prison guard in Zordaya,” Makarov says. “The worse and more violent a prisoner’s crime, the better their handwriting.” 

“Huh.” Graves shrugs. “I’ll report that back to Oz, next time he clucks at me when I hand him an expense report I filled out by hand.” He smiles at Makarov, who doesn’t smile back, but he’s not telling Graves to get the fuck out so there’s that. “You sure I can’t help you with this? I do a ton of office shit for Shadow Company, I’m pretty good with computers.” 

Makarov drinks the water in lieu of answering him, so Graves goes ahead and peruses the laptop screen. Graves can tell the program he’s using is Microsoft Excel, but everything is in Russian so he has no idea what kind of spreadsheet it is, or what it’s tracking. “I’m also pretty good with spreadsheets, if you wanna take a nap or something. How about a shower? Not trying to piss you off, comrade, but you kinda smell like an ashtray and it’s giving me childhood trauma flashbacks.” 

That does at least get a small, amused huff from Makarov, who fixes Graves with his usual sharp stare. It’s effective, but it’s clear that exhaustion and sitting in one place for so long has dulled its usual potency. “ You use spreadsheets?” 

“Yeah, of course I do. I started Shadow Company at a table in my dining room, comrade. You think I had any money to pay an accountant or, like, an office manager? For the office I didn’t have? I didn’t, so I had to learn to do all that shit myself. I took an online class and handled it – barely – until we were in the black. Then I hired someone so I never had to curse Visual Basic at two in the morning trying to get the payroll done.” He laughs at the look Makarov is giving him, which is a little confused and a lot bored. “Don’t worry about it. Seriously, though, tell me what you’re doing, maybe I can help.” 

Makarov drums his fingers on the desk. “I don’t know. I have to click each….” He pauses, then says something in Russian before switching to English, tapping the screen with his fingertip. “Box, here on the sheet. Then click another four things to make it…arrange itself.”  

Well, if he needed any proof that Makarov was probably exhausted, here it is. He rarely loses his English, and now he sounds like a Boomer trying to use Facebook Marketplace for the first time. Graves keeps that to himself, because he supposes it won’t kill him to be helpful for once in his life without a snarky comment beforehand. And Makarov might kill him for insinuating he uses Facebook, even as a joke. “Are you doing the same actions each time, on each cell? Each box,” he clarifies. 

He can tell it takes Makarov a second to parse that, but then he nods. “That’s why it takes so long. This is very tedious. Prison was more entertaining.” 

“Yeah, well, at least Excel has an escape key.” That doesn’t get him so much as a chuckle, which, fine. “Think you could switch this to English, just for a second?” He points to the toolbar. “I can pretty much do this in my sleep, but just so I don’t fuck anything up.” 

Makarov does something in Excel’s settings, and the language changes to English. He doesn’t tell Graves not to read anything on the screen, but Graves doesn’t even look at it – if it’s relevant to the mission with Shepherd, he assumes Makarov will tell him what he needs to know. If it isn’t and it’s Ultranationalist nonsense, he doesn’t care. 

“Okay, so, I’m going to hit this button to record, then do the actions you do on each cell and you can just highlight the whole thing, apply it, and viola. Instant results.” 

Makarov clicks around and does the sequence of commands, and then Graves stops recording and highlights the rest of the spreadsheet and clicks the newly-recorded macro. Then he switches the screen back to Russian and waves a hand, like some kind of Excel wizard. “There. All done! Look at that, comrade. Your first macro.” He laughs. “You could name it Macro-rov.” 

Makarov leans back in the chair again. He closes his eyes. “The help, it is appreciated. That joke makes me want to kick you somewhere unpleasant.” 

“Why, because you thought that was funny?” 

“Yes,” Makarov says, still with his eyes closed. “And the fact that I thought that means I probably do need to sleep and have a shower.” 

“See? I’m fucking useful to have around. I can punch people in the face, and save you time on office tasks.” Graves reaches out to pat him on the shoulder, but he stops before his hand makes contact and pulls his hand back quickly. 

Makarov’s eyes open. “It’s fine.” 

“Is it?” Graves tilts his head, arms crossed, leaning back against the desk. “Look. Don’t tell me it’s fine if it isn’t, that’ll piss me off. As much as I like torturing you with terrible puns about Microsoft Office products, I ain’t tryin’ to put you in a worse mood.” 

“You aren’t. But I have told you repeatedly that if I don’t want you to touch me, I’ll tell you.” 

Graves raises his eyebrows. “You shot a water glass when it didn’t break. If that’s where your head’s at, comrade, I’m gonna double-check.” 

“I would prefer you listen to me when I –” 

Graves leans down and kisses him. This is something of a mistake, because Makarov hates repeating himself but he also hates being interrupted. Most dominants do, that’s not just him. 

He gets a bite on his lower lip for his trouble, but that’s fine. It’s not enough to draw blood and it doesn’t hurt that much, just gives him a quick hit of adrenaline and a low burn of heat in his stomach. When he pulls back, Makarov looks about the same but his eyes have a little more light in them, so that’s good. 

Graves pushes his luck and runs his fingers lightly over the stubble on Makarov’s face. “Why is it funny to imagine you with a set of mutton chops like Price?” 

Makarov stares at him, but there’s a slight hint of amusement in his quiet voice when he says, “If you want me to kill you, cowboy, you can just ask. I wasn’t going to shoot you, but I can certainly make room in my schedule if necessary.” 

“Oh, come on, I’m only teasing. Look, comrade, the only thing I’m here to make easier is your spreadsheet, yeah?” Graves points at the snacks. “You have no idea how hard I had to work to find something that wasn’t a citrus fruit meant for a drink, so if you don’t eat it, it’s going to hurt my feelings.” 

“Truly, the worst of all my crimes.” Makarov sighs. “I know what you’re doing, Graves. You don’t need to fuss over me, I’m working. I’ve spent longer than this being uncomfortable, tired, and hungry, you realize.” 

“Yup. Sure do. But you also don’t have to, and I don’t know if you’ve realized that .” 

“Believe me, I am not mistaking this island for Zordaya.” His eyes go cold again, and that brief glimpse of the man Graves is starting to think of as Volodya more than Makarov is gone, the cool, competent Konni commander firmly back in place. 

It’s an odd distinction, and maybe it’s not even one that really exists, but it helps Graves feel better about being in love with him, so. He’ll consider it his own version of a macro, it’s fine. Maybe his fondness for spreadsheets exists simply because he’s always been good at separating things into boxes and keeping certain unpleasant truths out of equations if he doesn’t want them there. 

It seems as if Makarov’s distracted by the spreadsheet again, which is fine, Graves wants him to be finished with this so they can refocus. So he leaves him to it and heads to the bedroom. There’s a gorgeous deck that spans the width of the entire room, and he takes his phone out and sits at the table, enjoying that it’s warm even though the clouds are thickening and that means it’s not particularly sunny. 

About an hour later, he sees Makarov walk into the bedroom and head into the en-suite bathroom. Graves goes back inside, closes the sliding doors and pulls the blackout curtains, and leaves him be. Hopefully, he’ll sleep for a few hours and then tell him what was so interesting in all those lines of information on Milena’s spreadsheet. 

He’s considering opening one of the panic-room bean cans to see what it might be and if it’s more edible than sixteen limes when a soldier comes up and tells him Piotr is asking for Graves to meet him down at the dock. Apparently, in the time he spent trying to improve Makarov’s computer software skills, Piotr and Wraith went to get food that a human being could eat and find some sense of enjoyment along with their calories. 

He remembers way back when they were in the mountains, all those disgusting protein bars with the bunny on the wrappers. How things have changed. From eating those and drinking lukewarm tap water, being handcuffed and tranqued for a trip….to helping the man who once guarded his room with a gun carry bags of groceries up the excessive amount of stairs, while worrying about the terrorist taking a nap in the bedroom of the woman whose throat he slit for betraying him. You couldn’t make this shit up, you really couldn’t. 

On their last trip up the stairs, he glances up and sees the third-floor bedroom windows are still darkened by the curtains, which hopefully means Makarov is still sleeping. Also, he’s going to have to see about outfitting some of those drones with nets, so they can get supplies up to the house without requiring an intensive cardio workout to do so. 

Makarov is still asleep when he goes to bed, and he’s asleep . The kind of dead-to-the-world, dreamless tumble into the dark that you don’t ever get unless you’re on the perfect edge of utter exhaustion – too far over the edge, and you can’t sleep at all. Graves knows this from years of experience, and he would imagine Makarov does, too. But as light a sleeper as he usually is, he doesn’t move so much as a muscle as Graves gets ready for bed.

The last thing he does is pull the curtains and open the sliding glass doors, because he likes the sound of the ocean and the cool breeze is nice given the duvet is, while very soft and fluffy, a bit too warm for his tastes. It’s like being suffocated by pillows, which is unsettling, though it is sort of funny seeing Makarov sleeping under it, tattoos peeking out of the mounds of white down. 

Graves remembers that when they first started sharing a bed, Makarov always slept on his back and did his best impression of a vampire waiting in his coffin for the sun to set. Now, he just looks like a normal man having a nap, albeit in a very fancy bed. Graves reaches out and gently touches one of the star tattoos on his shoulder. Makarov doesn’t stir, which is good, because Graves isn’t sure what he’d say if Makarov woke up. 

Sorry, it’s just funny to me that you’re the most dangerous man in the world and you’re sleeping under sixteen pounds of goose down and on sheets that cost more than my mortgage, probably. 

Makarov’s skin is warm to the touch as he traces the lines of the tattoo. He doesn’t do it for very long, not wanting to press his luck – and he feels…too warm all over, if he thinks about what he’s doing. Watching someone sleep and stroking their shoulder like a weirdo. But he can’t help the simple pleasure of touching him in such a vulnerable state, knowing that he’s allowed . That he’s trusted. 

He thinks about Shepherd, all the promises he made when he first brought Graves in as a PMC commander. The pride he’d felt leaving Shepherd’s office, knowing his company had been chosen above all others – and they were a young company, comparatively, without the decades in operation that some others who clearly were vying for the job would have had. He’d been proud then, too. And look how that turned out. 

Graves turns on his side, facing the open doors. It’s too dark to get any visuals on the ocean, but he can hear it, and maybe a soft rumble of thunder in the distance…yeah, that’s definitely thunder. He doesn’t think about what that means, too caught up in the discomforting realization that he might, possibly, be a little easy for powerful, dominant men – he’d never been interested in Shepherd outside of a professional context, but hell, that was bad enough. 

It’s not his favorite thing to think about, though, so Graves runs a mental macro of his own and goes back to thinking about how maybe Makarov could fuck him over the railing or something and that might be a little scary and a lot hot. He’s somewhere in the middle of this fantasy when he falls asleep, just as the rain begins to fall and the wind picks up. It sort of reminds him of London, though without the miserable fog and with decent coffee waiting for him when he wakes up. 

Which he does several hours later, when the room abruptly floods with light. The next few seconds are a study in surrealism as he sits bolt upright in bed, heart racing, sleep clinging to the edges of his mind like cobwebs. “Wha–?” 

Andrei is standing in the middle of the room. He’s in sleep pants and a t-shirt, his hair a little mussed, and behind him in the doorway is Wraith, in the smallest pair of sleep shorts Graves has ever seen and a sports bra, her hair – for once – not braided but loose around her shoulders. . 

“Uh,” Graves stammers, too out of it to wonder why they’re both together and why Andrei’s shirt looks like it might be on inside-out. “Hi? Did we make plans for a sleepover and I forgot about them?”

“How can he talk so quickly when he was just sleeping?” Wraith asks Andrei, dark eyes wide. 

“He rarely stops talking, even when he’s asleep,” Makarov says, throwing off the covers and getting out of bed. His hair is a bit mussed – he must have gone to bed with it wet – and his sleep pants are slung low on his hips, but he looks completely in charge of his mental faculties. Even though the bedside digital clock says it’s three-fifteen in the morning. 

Also, since the fuck when has Graves ever talked in his sleep? And what the hell did he say ? 

“Sit rep,” Makarov snaps, and just then, a clap of thunder shakes over the house, and Graves feels his teeth rattle in his skull, it’s so intense. 

A few second later there’s a flash of lightning, and then the lights go out. 

Wraith swears and says, “I’ll go to the security building and flip the generator,” turning like she’s going to run out in the rain like a gothic novel heroine. 

“Katyusha,” Andrei says, and Graves is maybe confused and sleepy and still really concerned about his sleep-talking habit, so it is entirely possible he is imagining that Andrei’s using his submissive’s voice when speaking to Wraith. “There’s a soldier on duty. Radio the building and tell him to do it, don’t go running outside in this.” 

“Use the comm in the office,” Makarov says to her. “If it’s a choice between power to the house or security, you know which is the priority.” 

“Da, komandir,” she says, and heads out of the room just as another clap of thunder sounds. 

Makarov runs a hand through his hair and looks at Andrei. “Is there a reason you woke me up for a storm, bratok?” 

“There’s a glass table that fell over and shattered on your deck,” Andrei says. “It was very loud. You will forgive my intrusion, but the sound of so much glass breaking – I checked the security camera, and your doors were open.” 

He must have thought the glass were from something (or someone) breaking the doors Graves had opened before bed. “Ah, yeah, sorry, tovarisch. I opened the doors to let in the breeze, not invite in a hurricane.” He goes over to close them, but that’s easier said than done. There’s broken glass from the table that the wind’s blown in, for one, and speaking of wind – there should really be another word for the force that is making it nigh impossible for him to close the fucking sliding doors. 

It takes the three of them to get the doors closed, and right when they do, the lights come back on. Wraith re-appears, wearing a sweatshirt that is entirely too big for her, long hair pulled into a ponytail. “The boat escaped,” she says, making a face. “Piotr says he will have to take someone on a…smaller boat. To get it.” 

“I can do that,” Graves says. “Hell, I’m already soaked, might as well go for a little midnight swim. I’m a strong swimmer, don’t worry. And I’m no stranger to storms.” He remembers that boat ride to the tanker in Mexico, before that whole mission went right to hell. “If he can get me near it, I can board it and bring it back.” 

“Are you sure?” Andrei asks, as another clap of thunder shudders above them. “We can look for it in the morning.” 

“I’m sure,” Graves promises, which is sort of insane considering they probably can retrieve it in the morning, but what the hell. He’s awake, and Makarov’s been too distracted to scare the shit out of him recently. Maybe Mother Nature can take her shot at it, why not. 

Graves dresses and speaks to Piotr over comms, agreeing to meet him down at the docks, where he’s told he can borrow a wetsuit (but not why they have them in the first place ), but before he leaves the house, Makarov – dressed in dry clothes – grabs his arm to stop him. 

“Be careful, cowboy,” he says, eyes dark, dominance as heavy as the storm. “It’s just a boat. I can get another one.” 

“Unlike me, the most perfect submissive in the world, the only American you like?” 

“Mm. Don’t push your luck or I’ll tell Piotr to let you drown.” Makarov pulls him in and kisses him, but it’s the kind of kiss that feels more like a command than a gesture of affection. On par for Makarov, so that’s fine. 

Graves snaps a salute, then goes out to do something awesome for, like, what? The eighteenth time that day? 

Damn, he’s good at what he does.