Disavowed: A Call of Duty Fanfiction

Chapter 17: No Rest for the Wicked

He hadn't slept since the meeting. Vladimir stood at the window of the safehouse in Samara, looking down at the city lights. The headlights of moving cars twinkled against the wet roads and streetlights flickered on and off. Despite its simple beauty, he felt a deep emptiness.

"Makarov?"

He started but didn't turn around to face Kiev. "What do you need?"

The medic cleared his throat and stood adjacent to him. "The others are telling me you aren't sleeping at night," he said.

Vladimir continued to stare unblinkingly at the city. "I am sleeping."

"Not well," he replied. "You're down for an hour or two, and then back up pacing the house or staring off into the distance..." Kiev cast his gaze to the floor. "... They also told me about Sa-"

"Don't," he growled. "She's a traitor and a liar; her name doesn't deserve to be said out loud."

Kiev nodded. "I understand... But it's still an issue that you don't sleep. I know it's because you miss having someone to share a bed with." Vladimir didn't respond, but he continued. "Please, if you'll allow me, I have some diazepam; it might-"

Vladimir glanced over his shoulder, voice rattling even more than before. "You know I don't use drugs of any kind."

"But, sir..."

"Give it to the other men who want it, fine, but I won't take any of that. I can't afford to not be alert at all times." He froze and uttered a sigh under his breath. "I'll fall asleep eventually, just give me time."

Kiev bowed his head. "As you wish, Makarov," he murmured.

As he turned away, Vladimir could have sworn he saw her reflection in the glass, that same charming, playful smile she'd had the first night he'd brought her to the house. Alarmed, he turned around to look at her, only to find the room was empty once more. The chill of it crept in under his skin and he folded his arms, shivering against it. Now that Kiev was gone, he wanted that diazepam, but the piteousness  he felt at the thought of chasing him down deterred him. Instead, he took to the kitchen where he found a bottle of vodka in one of the cupboards. He carefully uncapped it and set the bottle and its top on the counter, turning back around to find a shot glass. Vladimir poured a shot, tentatively raised it to his lips, and after a moment of contemplation, downed it.

It felt warm in his chest, but his mind was still flooded with complex, conflicting emotions. Was this the sting of betrayal or loss? Did he feel wronged, or as though he had done wrong?

He filled the shot glass again and tipped it into his mouth.

Her soft hands grasping his, their fingers intertwined. Her lips on his cheek.

Still not enough. He poured another shot.

Clack.

Vladimir set the glass down again and stared, dizzy, into the living room. He could still see her lying on the couch beside him as he read poetry, her eyelids getting heavy, and his hand on her swollen belly.

Pour.

Shot.

Clack.

She pointed at the television, tears in her eyes as the newsreel played. He could still see the anger and hurt in her beautiful, hazel eyes. Oh, how he'd tried to reason with her... If only he had told her from the beginning... Or if only she'd never known...

No, she had known all along...

Pour.

Shot.

Clack.

The alcohol was hitting him now, but still, he was on his feet. Back and forth, he rocked on his feet, looking down at the shot glass through blurry eyes. He poured another shot, the bottle nearly empty now, and raised the glass, but hesitated this time.

She was standing before him, two gunshot wounds in her torso. She held herself as though trying to stop the bleeding, but her legs were growing weak and at her feet, there was a wide pool of blood, spattered and streaked along the floor. Her knees gave out under her and she collapsed heavily.

"Vladimir..."

He flinched hearing her voice.

"You swore on your life that you'd never hurt me..."

SMASH!

Vladimir hurled the shot glass across the room and dashed it against the wall. His heart was thundering in his chest and his temples were pounding. Blind rage overtook him and he threw the bottle next, then crossed the room to pull the TV off the wall and throw it back toward the kitchen, followed by the remote on the coffee table, and finally, he tore all the cushions off the sofa, casting them in various directions around the room. He fell weak to the floor, covering his face with his hands, and deep sobs squeezed the air from his lungs.

God, what had he done?

He could feel the veins around his heart burning and he inhaled a choked breath, letting it out in another sob. Outside, he was sure his guards could probably hear him, and he hoped none of them would come to check on him; he would be humiliated if they saw him crying over that whore.

Whore.

No, even in hatred, he couldn't call her that. Was hatred even what he felt? It certainly would have been fitting, but would it still be hatred when all he wanted at that moment was to feel her kneeling in front of him, her hands on his face, and her lips kissing his forehead?

His head laid back against the empty frame of the sofa and he released a heartbroken wail. It hurt so bad... Why did it hurt so bad? It was like someone had carved him open and left him to bleed.

Before long, he was no longer aware of how long he'd been sitting there on the floor, and he opened his green and blue eyes, finding that he had fallen asleep. Vision still blurry, he saw someone sitting at the coffee table beside him, draining the last of the bottle into the broken shot glass. Vladimir blinked, trying to clear his eyes, but still, he couldn't make out who was in the room with him.

"Got a load on your mind, Vladimir?"