Summary: Nolan is imprisoned, tortured and delirious, exhausted and all he wants is his komandir back.
Content warning: depiction of violence and death
That's how Nolan felt, bounded to that wooden chair, ropes and cables burning his skin, itching with the texture with the sweat and grime, blood too.
They took off his shirt but that didn't help with how hot the room felt, heavy blinding lights shining on him felt like they were melting him, suffocating him.
He had been beaten over and over and over again, his chest glowing red in the lights with his own blood, still dripping down from his face, sliding down his neck to keep on falling down to his abs and die on the waistband of his boxers.
He assumed they stripped him down to have a better access to his skin, easier to cut because they did cut him too, mostly superficial cuts, maybe two of them were on the deeper side, almost almost dermal cuts, he could tell the difference because he could feel the difference when he squirmed on the chair, vaguely feel the difference in the depth when his insides rubbed against each other.
That didn't matter, none of it mattered.
All he could think was about how filthy he must look, he can't see himself completely but he hates what he can see, it's not tantalizing, it's not the seductive brutality Makarov loves, it's weakness, it's filth.
His vision was beginning to fail him, edges becoming blurry and foggy, he had stopped being able to properly listen long time ago, he could hear sound, he could clearly hear what they were saying but his brain couldn't process it anymore, he knew the words but he couldn't understand, much less remember.
Makarov will be so upset, so disappointed he failed this way.
Andrei lost everything, his uniform, his weapons, his phone, everything was gone and therefore Makarov's operations were compromised and it was his fault.
He didn't let the guilt and sadness -grief almost- take him over, he couldn't show anything other than numbness, he had to remain empty in order to not mess things up more and speak.
He was terrified, terrified of being broken, of being drugged or brainwashed against Makarov.
Thankfully that would take too much time, time Captain Price and Sergeant Gaz didn't have so they left him alone in that room.
He was being guarded, he could feel it, he could hear the steps out of the room, sometimes they paused, paused on the door, looking at him from the outside like someone watches a dead dog on the street, roadkill left to rot under the sun while cars pass by.
He knows they took pictures of him, he could hear the flash and he assumes it was on purpose.
If those pictures reach Makarov…
He won't break, he won't break, he won't break.
He will go back to Makarov, he will pay with his blood eternally if he has to but he will crawl his way back to Makarov and stay with him or die at the other end of his gun, where he belongs, where he should rot, not in this room.
He wouldn't be roadkill then, he would be…a euthanized dog, already served his purpose and it was time to go to sleep forever.
He would die but he would die feeling loved even if Makarov hated his guts now.
He would have to…take a shower first, he had never been the type of man to care extremely about hygiene after missions, he could return soaked in blood, dirt, mud or any type of impurity and he wouldn't care but now he needed- he needed to look presentable, he needed to be beautiful and clean, take something useful, do something useful as well but also look nice, remind his beloved commander why is it that he chose him, why is it that he allowed his dog to sleep on his bed.
He will not sink in sadness. He will stay angry, he will stay enraged to keep his strength and return to Makarov.
He tried to focus in his devotion, re direct himself from his situation.
The sweat- from days of being tortured, kept under extremely hot and bright lights for hours- reminded him of the feeling of skin against skin, sweaty from the effort he put in pleasing his brown eyed beauty.
The pain- beaten and cut over and over again, tortured and put through sharp and agonizing pain for him to speak- reminded him of Makarov too, sometimes they liked to play rough, he gladly allowed Makarov to make cuts on his skin, usually very very superficial, just enough to draw blood. Being beaten reminded him of Makarov too, very rarely his face but sometimes he was slapped or kicked a few times, it was okay.
The fog- he was so tired, had been working and thinking so hard and under so much stress for days on end, he was unable to think properly or even process sentences- it was just like how he turned his brain off to fully do anything Makarov told him to, just one word sentences for his stupid and tired pet, barely processing the beautiful symphony they made together, moans, groans, whimpers, sticky skin, wet flesh, that's a he could hear but not quite understand because he didn't have to understand anything.
He needs that back, he needs it all back.
He was disgusting, thinking of Makarov in such ways after a great failure. Andrei Nolan was rotten inside and now he looked like he was rotting from the outside too.
If Ivan died for questioning Makarov, only God knows what awaits him.
He deserves it. He deserves him and everything that comes with his wrath.
He was standing in a hallway, dark, felt too small for him. Warden didn't even step into the hallway with him, they looked at each other and she closed the door behind him without saying a word but he could tell she was expecting something horrifying to happen to him, not death but sometimes death is better.
He stood there for a minute, a solid minute of understanding what was happening before his body started moving on its own and then, he reached the door.
He was back to his beautiful black uniform, black Kevlar no longer as smooth and even as it was the day he first put on this same uniform, boots humid and heavy against the floor.
He opened the door to see him
Standing straight with his hands intertwined behind his back, pristine black suit perfectly smooth over his body, hands covered by black leather.
The anger sewn to his face faltered for a moment, sharp-toothed, biting rage turning into a pathetic sad pout for a second before the anger came back, he wasn't angry but that was the expression he had, his “neutral” expression.
Makarov gestured him to close the door with a movement of his finger and Andrei obeyed immediately, a soft click ensuring the door was closed.
Makarov immediately approached, he could hear him, see him from the corner of his eye and he turned to face him, taking a deep breath as if to brace himself for impact.
Then he saw them, he saw Makarov's gloves hit the floor carelessly and felt Makarov's warm naked hands on his face, immediately pulling the muzzle off to see his face and throwing it against the floor, not violently -yet- but carelessly too, he didn't care about damages or losses at this moment, not material stuff.
He could feel the lovely and conflicting texture of his hands, marred skin of his fingertips and the warm smoothness of the rest of his hands.
Makarov was examining his face while Andrei was trying so hard not to pout and whine.
“You're dehydrated, your lips are cracked and dry”
-was the first thing Makarov commented, followed by-
-his expression filled with disgust, Andrei's beautiful warm and soft brown tanned skin was now dimmed with a filthy greyish undertone.
Nolan flinched, eyes widening, eyebrows raising and pupils shrinking, worried about Makarov's ďdisgust, about the impurities that reached his eyes, Vladimir was very observant, he couldn't hide anything from him, he would know anyways.
Vladimir's touch became softer, gentler.
Greyish-blue eyes slowly went back to normal, his agitated breath slowly becoming even, he was no longer fearing Makarov's disgust, it wasn't disgust for Nolan, it was disgust for what had been done to Nolan.
Makarov's hands slid down to his chest, just resting above each side.
Makarov needed to feel and listen to his heart.
“Take off the uniform, everything off…”
-he ordered, his expression stern as his hands intertwined again, taking a step back from Andrei to give him space to undress.
“I'm…I'm glad you're alive”
-he stated, it was uncomfortable to see the great and smooth Vladimir Makarov visibly struggle to find the correct words to express exactly what he wanted. Vladimir didn't feel that way though, Andrei was busy undressing to fully look at him and make him feel he wasn't speaking like he normally did-
“We achieved a particularly great victory in your absence…and we'll do more now that you're back”
Nolan didn't finish, his boots and pants still on but he shattered, hyperventilating and tearing up, keeping any noise but the ones of his breathing down, he was shaking when he lunged to hug Makarov and he was still shaking when he was in Makarov's arms.
He didn't cry, not outright but it was- just all the pressure he had been under, he didn't feel deserving of forgiveness but knowing and hearing that Makarov didn't want him tortured to death was such a relief, not because he feared pain or death but because he feared Makarov's rage, Makarov's possible apathy and disgust towards him.
Instead of pushing him away, Makarov hugged him back.
“welcome home, my dear…I missed you here with me”
He didn't deserve it but he was so glad, so happy.
He was loved, even with his mistakes he was loved.
