I was sure I saw it yesterday, then I thought maybe it was my imagination, which, frankly, is dangerous enough that it deserves its own cage.
But no. Here it is again. Lingering.
I’ve lived on bases long enough. I’ve seen men stare at women like that, and sometimes at each other when they think no one’s watching. The difference is that most of them have the basic survival instinct to look away.
This one? He’s terrible at it.
They break, and Niko calls something out, then laughs when one of the Brits nearly falls on his ass in the snow. Then he drops down onto the concrete ledge at the edge of the field, unscrews his water bottle and takes a long drink.
Beside him, Varrik is already breathing hard. Niko offers him the bottle without thinking, and their fingers brush. I see Varrik’s whole body jolt at the touch, and his hand tightens around the bottle like it’s a live grenade.
Oh, no. No, no, no. Absolutely not.
This is the straightest environment imaginable, after Siberian lumberjack bars and Orthodox funerals. Men don’t get cute little crushes on their foreign liaison officers here. Not where anyone can see. If anyone even suspects he’s looking atmy brother like that, the brass won’t give him a disciplinary hearing. They’ll give him an ‘accident.’ So, when I see this earnest, green-eyed British idiot failing to conceal himself, it doesn’t register as cute to me. It registers as lethal.
I don’t hesitate. I shove away from the crate and start walking towards them. Niko’s voice carries on the cold air. It’s warm and animated with that stupid beaming smile he gets when he talks about something he loves. I slow down as I get closer, just enough to hear.
“...she’s strong,” he’s saying. “Stronger than me.” He taps his temple, grinning. “Keeps my head straight.”
I stop just out of their eyeline and lean against a pole, clipboard tucked lazily under my arm, and eyes on some random spot on the horizon. “She minds everything about it,” Niko goes on fondly. He looks down at the thin silver band looped on his chain, and his thumb is rubs over it slowly.
Varrik’s voice comes quieter. “You must be excited, sir. New chapter and all that.”
“Da,” Niko says softly. “New life.” I feel the love and certainty, even from here. He’s talking about Cassie and the baby. That whole messy, bright life he’s building with her, and the British idiot is sitting there, looking at him like someone shot him full of joy and grief at the same time.
Oh, I see. He’s not just crushing on him. Helikeshim. In the stupid, helpless, and heart-clenching way.
Thank God, Niko is straight, engaged, and stupidly in love with the woman carrying his child, which keeps at least one of them safe from this particular brand of catastrophe, in theory.
“Congratulations, sir,” he says. Good boy, that’s it. Push it down, hide it, end it there. Crush terminated, reality installed, move on.
As they stand, Niko offers his hand, and when Varrik takes it, stillness breaks through him like the ground just shifted on its axis.
That’s it. Enough.
“Zakirov!” someone calls my brother’s name behind me across the field, just as I stomp the last few metres toward them.
Niko turns. “Ari, you’re supposed to be counting grenades, not spying.” He says in Russian.
“Ididcount grenades,” I say. “You left your radio on the wrong channel again, you walking radio-trash. CO tried to call you twice, got the motor pool instead,” I lie through my teeth.
Niko groans and scrubs a gloved hand over his face. “I’ll fix it later.” He mutters.
“Now,” I say sweetly. “Before they patch you into a tractor and drive you into the sea.” He rolls his eyes, but he’s already checking his belt, adjusting the dial. We bicker in Russian for a few seconds — a familiar, sharp-edged dance. It’s not for show. This is really what we’re like. But I’m aware of an extra audience now.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can feel Varrik watching us the way people watch a family argument they know they shouldn’t be witnessing. After a moment, I turn my head.
He’s closer than I thought. Flushed from training, hair damp at the temples, and breath still coming fast. He’s standing very straight — as if that will protect him from anything. His eyes meet mine, and I give him the flattest, coldest look in my arsenal. I don’t say a word. I let everything I’m thinking live in that look.‘I see you. I know exactly what that is in your face. Don’t get my brother killed. If you do, I will bury you so deep in this permafrost that no one will find your pretty bones until the next ice age.’
His throat works as he swallows whatever he was about to say.
Good. Fear is a survival tool.
I pivot away, “Don’t forget we’re escorting the British dogs to the range this afternoon,” I say in Russian.
“‘Guests,’” Niko corrects. “Not ‘dogs.’”
“Same thing. One just sheds more.”
