Call of Desire

33. Commiseration

com·mis·er·a·tion
/kəˌmizəˈrāSH(ə)n/
noun
sympathy and sorrow for the misfortunes of others; compassion.

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Content Warning: Gore, Blood, Injury Detail

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Sergei couldn't have been much younger than Gaz. Twenty-two? Twenty-three, maybe?

"Do- do you speak English, Sergei?" John asked, breathing heavily as he looked up at the young man.

"A little," The man hesitantly replied, tending to MacTavish's wounds.

"Thank you for patching up my friend," Giving him a pained smile, John tried to remain still as the younger man stitched his wounds closed.

"I think he will live."

"Oh, good." The Scotsman sighed, feeling a weight come off his shoulders.

"I'm sorry," Sergei muttered.

"What for?"

"My father. He has a very short temper."

Soap blinked. "V-Vladimir is your father?"

"Yes. He killed my mother, I don't like him much." He smiled softly, holding out his hand. "Sergei Makarov, at your service."

"Sergei Makarov...?" Horror spread over John's face. This poor kid was Makarov's son. The kid's father, who had been torturing John, was Vladimir Makarov. The Vladimir Makarov.

The man he had come to kill.

"Yes?" Sergei said, confused.

"I..."

"I know my father is a terrible man." The younger man sighed, placing a bandage over one of the many fresh cuts on John's chest. "I'm trying to... what's the word? Escape him?"

Can I trust this kid? I could tell him that Price and Gaz are coming for us... but he might tell Makarov. I don't want this kid caught in the crossfire.

"You are thinking," Sergei noted.

John met the man's eyes, his face serious. "Can I trust you, Sergei?"

He pursed his lips. "I don't know." Lifting his shirt slightly, he revealed several relatively fresh cuts. "You are not the only one he will torture for information."

"Fuckin' hell..."

"And I can't tolerate it as well as you."

"Sergei..." John began, hesitating. "If me and Simon break out of here... do you want to come with?"

The young Russian's eyes lit up, a smile crossing his face. "Yes! Please, I would love to."

"But, Sergei, if I find out you are relaying information to Vladimir," John leaned forward. "I'll gut you like a fish. Understand?"

"Yes, sir." Sergei smiled widely, bandaging the last of the Scotsman's chest wounds.

"Don't tell your father. Matter of fact, don't tell anyone."

"Of course, sir."

"We could be leaving at a moment's notice, Sergei, so keep everything you absolutely cannot live without on you at all times."

"I already do. I do not trust the men my father employs." The Russian stated. "Do you want something to bite down on?" he asked, gesturing to the knife still protruding from John's thigh.