Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"You would’ve loved Star Wars, man." Sam was sitting on an overturned crate, leaning back against the Aurora’s hull like he was about to impart the wisdom of the ages. Across from him, Artyom sat with his journal balanced on his knee, scribbling away with that same intense, brooding expression he always wore.

The man looked like he was writing a manifesto, not jotting down little thoughts in his travel diary. Artyom didn’t look up.

"War in the stars?" he asked, the scratch of pencil on paper filling the brief silence. Sam blinked.

"Yeah?"

Artyom, still scribbling: ‘Sam keeps talking about some war in the stars. I do not understand. Was he there?’

Sam immediately leaned forward, peering over the journal’s edge. "HEY. HEY, NO. Don’t write that like I’m some crazy guy ranting about battles in space. It’s a movie, man. A very famous, very good movie."

Artyom gave him a slow, unreadable look, as if weighing the information. "…Like those propaganda films?" Sam groaned. "No, not like those propaganda films!" He ran a hand down his face, exasperated. "Okay, okay, back up. Have you ever seen a movie? Like, before the war?" Artyom shrugged. He didn’t really remember if he did—he was too young to remember.

"Well, Star Wars is legendary. It’s about—" Sam hesitated. How the hell was he supposed to explain Star Wars to a guy who had spent his life dodging mutants in a post-apocalyptic hellscape? After a moment, he just went for it.

"Okay. So there’s this farm kid, right? And he finds out he’s got magic powers, and there’s an evil space empire, and he joins a rebellion to fight against them, and there’s laser swords."

Artyom’s eyebrows lifted slightly. "Laser… swords?"

"Yes! Lightsabers, man! You swing them, they go whoosh, they cut through anything." Artyom paused, considering. "…Sounds impractical."

Sam made a strangled noise. "That’s NOT the point!" The younger Russian man looked deeply unconvinced, but motioned for him to continue.

"Okay, so, anyway, there’s this guy—Darth Vader. Big scary dude, black armor, breathes like a broken air filter. Super evil. Turns out, he’s actually the farm kid’s dad."

Artyom squinted. "So he kills him?"

"What? No!" Sam waved his arms. "Well, I mean, eventually he dies, but—ugh, okay, no, see, it’s a whole emotional thing. There’s character development. And the Force! That’s the magic power stuff I mentioned. It’s like—" He hesitated again. "It’s like a special energy that some people can control. They can lift things with their minds, do crazy flips, and—"

Artyom tilted his head. “Do they eat well in this space war?”

Sam frowned. "…I mean, I guess?"

"Then no," Artyom said, shutting his journal. "Sounds unrealistic."

Sam lost it.

Chapter Text

Sam had seen a lot of weird shit in his life. He’d fought mutants, dodged bandits, and spent far too long getting irradiated in places no man should be. But if there was one thing he truly could not wrap his head around, it was Artyom and that damn journal.

The guy was always writing in it. Morning? Journal. After a fight? Journal. Middle of a storm? He’d be hunched over, scribbling away, like this was some academic expedition and not a warzone. It was actually kind of unnerving. Sam had assumed for the longest time that Artyom was jotting down deep, poetic thoughts—maybe something philosophical about the state of the world, something that would one day be found by historians who would analyze his words for decades.

So one evening, as they sat around the campfire, Sam finally cracked. “What’s the deal with the journal, man?”

Artyom, predictably, said nothing.

Sam huffed, waving a hand at the notebook. “You write in that thing constantly. What are you even putting in there?” Artyom, still silent, calmly flipped through the pages before stopping on one entry. He tilted it toward Sam so he could see. In his neat, precise handwriting, it read:

‘Bandits attacked. Killed them. Got a nice watch. Sam keeps talking.'

Sam stared. Then blinked. Then stared again. “…That’s it?”

Artyom nodded.

“That’s all you wrote about yesterday’s shitshow? Man, we got ambushed, we lost a good three hours trying to find a way around that wreckage, and all you put is ‘killed bandits, got a watch’?”

Artyom flipped a page. ‘Saw a demon. Did not like it.’ Sam blinked harder. “I cannot believe you right now, man.“

The Russian gave a tiny shrug, flipping again.

‘Miller yelled again. Anna is pretty.’

“That’s how you summarize your commanding officer losing his entire mind for half an hour? And Anna saved your ass today, and you just write 'Anna is pretty' like you’re a twelve-year-old with a crush?”

Artyom tilted his head slightly. “She is pretty.”

“That’s—not the point! ” Sam threw his hands in the air. “Come on, man, what else do you have in there?” Artyom flipped to another random page.

‘Duke tried to fight a bear. He lost.’

Sam sucked in a sharp breath. “Okay, you’re underselling so much here. Duke didn’t just ‘lose.’ That bear launched him into a tree, man. I had to dig him out of the dirt!” Artyom flipped again.

‘Alyosha fell in water. Again.’

Sam covered his mouth, trying to stifle a chuckle. Frankly, he didn't want to deal with a pissed off Alyosha right now. “Do you—do you just record every time Alyosha eats shit?”

Artyom nodded solemnly. “It is frequent.”

“What else? Give me more.” Artyom turned the page. It read, ‘Sam got mad about rationing. Said it was 'un-American.'’

Sam sat up. “Hey, listen, I was making a valid point. You guys don’t understand portion sizes.”

Artyom continued. ‘Train was attacked. Big fight. Lots of gunfire. Duke told a joke. It was bad.’ Sam sighed. “You just call him out like that? Just—‘Duke made a bad joke’? That’s all you took from that fight?”

He nodded. “It was not a good joke.” Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, feigning an exasperated look. “God. Alright, alright, what’s the funniest thing in there?”

Artyom thought for a second, then flipped near the back, before pointing at a line of text.

‘Bear chased us. Sam screamed. I did not scream.’ Sam’s smile dwindled.

“…Alright, first of all, fuck you.”

Artyom’s shoulders shook slightly—the closest thing to a laugh Sam had ever seen from him, unbelievable.

“You’re exaggerating, ” Sam grumbled, arms crossed.

Artyom flipped to the next entry. ‘Sam screamed again. The bear did not.’

“Okay, you know what—”

Artyom simply smiled, closed the journal, and went back to the fire, leaving Sam muttering angrily under his breath.

Next time, Sam was gonna write his own damn journal.

Chapter Text

When you were out ‘guarding post’ in the middle of nowhere, you tended to find a lot of free time. And that was how Sam decided how to spend the next hour or two—whether it be productive or not. Because really—the Colonel wasn’t going to find out anyways.

Sam had made it his personal mission to teach Artyom proper, casual english. Not because Artyom was bad at it—no, the guy could hold out a conversation just fine—probably having learned the basics from all those books he read back in the Metro.

It was just that.. His delivery was so painfully stiff, sometimes it made Sam physically cringe. Not a good look for any of them.

Case in point—right now.

“Okay, so if I say, ‘Yo, what’s up?’ you say..?” Sam prompted, raising a brow as he gave the younger man an encouraging look. Artyom, deadpan, voice thick with his Russian accent: “What is up.”

Sam put his face in his hands and let out an exasperated sigh. “You cannot be shitting me right now. We’re gonna die out here, man,”

Artyom raised an eyebrow. “That’s.. unlikely. We’re safe in the Aurora.” He said, his voice gravelly, but still, oddly innocent in its tone.

“That’s not—I meant—I meant that you’re killing me with this, man.” Sam groaned, running a gloved hand through his hair. “Okay, let’s.. Let’s try again. Alright?” The American cleared his throat dramatically.

“Yo, what’s up?”

Artyom stared at him for a long moment, then, with clear effort, went, “..Yo. What is up?”

Sam pointed at him. “Close! That was close!” But Artyom frowned.

“It was incorrect?”

Sam shrugged, dusting off dirt from his uniform. “I mean, it’s technically right, but nobody talks like that man. It’s.. too proper.”

Artyom blinked. “I should be improper?” The American snorted. “No, not like—not like rude, man, just.. Casual. Try again."

‘Yo, what’s up?’

Sam groaned dramatically, flopping backwards. “Oh my God. No contractions? Nothing?” Artyom’s frown deepened. “Contractions?” Sam sighed and sat back up. “Like—like shortening words. Like, instead of ‘What is up,’ you say ‘What’s up.’”

He thought about it for a second. Then, with the same exact blank tone, said, “What is up’s.” Sam nearly choked. “No, no, no! That’s—that’s worse! Where’d you get the extra ‘is’ from!?”

Artyom just shrugged. “English is strange.”

“You’re not wrong,” Sam admitted. “But come on, man. You gotta at least try to sound natural. You know, normal.” The Russian man tilted his head slightly. “I am normal.” Sam stared at him. Then snorted so hard he almost pulled a muscle. “Buddy, I got news for you.” Artyom just gave a small, knowing smile, then flipped open his journal. Sam leaned over. “Don’t you dare write this down.”

Artyom, already scribbling: ‘Sam says I am not normal. He is wrong.’

Sam sighed. “I give up, man.”

Chapter Text

The Aurora was falling apart. Again.

Yermak—poor, poor Yermak—stood in front of the latest mechanical catastrophe, rubbing his temples like a man teetering on the edge of a breakdown. Beside him, Krest was crouched down, sifting through a mess of gears, wires, and an entire detached section of piping that absolutely should not have been detached.

Krest let out a suffering sigh. “I just don’t get it, bratishka,” he muttered, voice dripping with confusion, despair, and mostly despair. “Everything was fine last night! Why—why in the actual hell is the engine like this?!”

Yermak exhaled, a sound equal parts exhaustion and horror. “Say... you think it could be sabotage?”

Krest frowned. “Sabotage? Suka—who the hell would sabotage their own damn ride?”

What they didn’t know was that the culprits were very much doing their culprit things just over there somewhere.

That was when Duke strolled in, hands in his pockets, chewing on something (something questionable . Neither man could tell what it was, but it sure as hell wasn’t gum). “Whoa, haha! You guys finally found out?” he said, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face.

Yermak narrowed his eyes. “Found out what, exactly?”

Duke took his time answering, clearly for the drama of it. Then, in a tone far too smug for the situation, he simply said, “Oh, you’ll see,” and gestured for them to follow. Yermak and Krest exchanged a look of pure suffering before begrudgingly trailing after him—Krest dropping his wrench with a clang .

And what they saw nearly sent them into cardiac arrest.

Sam was casually bench-pressing a massive chunk of scrap metal. Artyom was mid pull-up on a very much not structurally sound pipe, muscles straining. And of course, Damir—like some deranged personal trainer—was off to the side, counting reps as if this were just another Tuesday.

Yermak’s gaze drifted to the corner, where a pile of very broken mechanical parts had been haphazardly shoved, like a toddler trying to hide their crimes.

He took a deep, shuddering breath. Then, pointing at Sam, then at Artyom, he hissed,
“You—”

“You are the reason I’ve been losing my goddamn mind?”

Sam, still benching the metal, glanced up. “Define ‘reason.’”

“DESTRUCTION. SABOTAGE. MECHANICAL TERRORISM.”

As if on cue, the very not structurally sound pipe Artyom was clinging to gave up on life, snapped in half, and sent him crashing to the floor with a solid thud . He let out a soft grunt, sat there for a second like he was contemplating his choices, then got up, wiped his brow, and—tilting his head—had the absolute audacity to look confused by Yermak’s rage.

“We need to stay in shape,” he said simply. Like that explained anything.

Krest blinked. Slowly.

Meanwhile, in the background, Damir was already backing toward the exit, moving like a man who knew consequences were coming and wanted no part in them. You never, ever mess with an engineer’s train.

Yermak, shaking with barely restrained fury, finally snapped.

“Do you even understand what you've done? DO YOU?!” He gestured wildly at the devastation. “You broke the entire cooling system! The engine is overheating because you refused to to push-ups like a normal person!”

There was a pause.

Then, Artyom, dead serious, asked,
“…So we should do push-ups instead?”

Krest and Yermak physically had to be held back.

Miller walked in moments later, took one single look at the absolute disaster before him, and immediately turned on his heel to walk right back out.

Chapter Text

Sam had been ranting about American food for days.

At first, it was cute. Artyom was patient. Sam would go on about the "best" burgers, fries, and barbequed hotdogs, and Artyom would nod, feigning interest, trying not to fall asleep while silently praying for something better than roasted rabbit and rice. But after an entire hour straight of Sam talking about buns, condiments, and some mystical thing called "mustard," Artyom’s tolerance was starting to hit its limit.

"You know, back in the States, I used to eat the best burgers, man," Sam hummed, his eyes glazed with that far-off, nostalgic look he got whenever he talked about pre-apocalypse junk food. "None of that fancy stuff—just simple meat, cheese, and a bun. It’s art, Artyom... True American art."

Artyom glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. He wasn’t sure if Sam was describing food or some kind of cult ritual. All he knew was that he had no idea what half the things Sam was talking about even were, aside from the basics he'd seen on old postcards and in books. But Sam was his friend, and Artyom was always willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Besides, it’d been days since they'd had anything more exciting than roasted rabbit and rice. So what could go wrong?

Sam muttered to himself, like he was planning some kind of heist before suddenly looking up at Artyom. "I can make it happen," he declared with the confidence of a man who had no idea what he was getting himself into. He pulled out what could only be described as a disaster waiting to happen: a tin of something that vaguely resembled meat, a suspicious block of cheese (that had somehow melted into a goopy mess), and a bag of flour that was probably older than both of them combined.

Artyom, ever the optimist, grabbed a pot. How hard could it be? He’d read plenty of cooking manuals back in Exhibition. Surely, this would be fine.

Sam’s grin grew wider. "Trust me, Artyom. You’re about to taste the true taste of freedom."

Artyom was less convinced.

An hour later, they stood before what could only be described as a crime against food—no, a crime against humanity. Sam had somehow managed to turn the ‘patty’ into what looked like an ancient tire tread, charred and misshapen, slapped on the fire with the grace of a half-baked idea.

"Don’t worry, Artyom," Sam reassured, clapping him on the shoulder. "It’s gonna be fine."

The smell? Burnt rubber with a hint of fishy undertone. Truly, the pinnacle of culinary excellence.

Artyom took a step back, his nose wrinkling. "I trust you..." he muttered, though even he wasn’t sure he believed it at this point.

The moment of truth arrived. Sam presented his creation with the pride of a man who'd just invented fire: a lump of meat, a slice of cheese that had melted into an unrecognizable puddle, and a bun that suspiciously resembled cardboard.

Artyom stared at the monstrosity. Sam looked at him with hopeful eyes, while Anna, who had wandered over to see what all the ruckus was about, was trying—trying—to keep a straight face. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry for the atrocity her husband and Sam had just created.

"Uh... it’s—it’s something," Artyom said, rubbing his stubbled cheek, unsure whether to cry or laugh.

Alyosha wandered over, curious about the noise. "Hey, Artyom! Sam! What the hell's going on in here?" He didn’t know he was about to make the worst decision of his life.

Sam eyed the burger, then Alyosha. "Hey, Alyosha!" Sam said brightly, before pushing the burger into his hands with too much enthusiasm. "Try this!"

Alyosha, ever the brave fool, shrugged and took a huge bite, ready for what he thought would be an exotic culinary experience. His face immediately contorted. The crunch wasn’t from the bun, but from something far more sinister.

"What the hell was that?!" Alyosha gasped, choking out the words between coughs. "That’s not food, that’s a biological weapon!"

Anna, standing off to the side (truly, the last stand of sanity in this crew of stupid men), let out a long sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose. She had seriously had enough of this circus. "You’re all idiots," she muttered, rubbing Alyosha’s back as he wheezed like a fish caught in a net.

"I think it needs... more practice," Artyom offered, trying not to smile at Alyosha's suffering.

Sam sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "Look—shut up, alright? It’s the thought that counts!"

Artyom crossed his arms, eyeing the charred lump of despair. "We still have food to eat, da?"

Sam muttered something unintelligible under his breath. "Yeah, yeah... I guess we’re sticking to canned beans..."

And with that, Sam swore off his dream of replicating American food forever, while Artyom, ever the supportive friend, considered just taking one more bite. Just to be nice.