john and nikolai have had more than their fair share of spats over the years. insults hurled, punches thrown, low-blows traded. twenty-two years is a long time to call someone a friend. there was bound to be a couple of bumps in the road, but never anything they couldn’t come back from. until now, that is.
john price would like to consider himself a benevolent man. he’s not beyond reason, he doesn’t hold unnecessary grudges, he’s happy to put the past behind him, in most cases. honestly, he never imagined that nikolai could do anything he’d think was unforgivable. it’s nikolai, for god’s sake. his best friend. his dearest comrade. his most trusted confidant. this is the man he calls when he needs to bury a body. the one he’d run to if the sky fell. he’s the one john would want at his side while he laid on his deathbed. they’ve killed for each other, countless times, taken bullets for each other, made promises that they’ll take to the fiery pits of hell.
nikolai’s his friend. his brother, in everything but blood. the other half of his soul, if you will.
that was before nikolai decided to fuck his kid. his only child. his pride and fucking joy. the same man who held him while he cried about the divorce. the same one he confided in when your mother took you and moved you far, far away, where he could only visit once, maybe twice a year. the one he bragged to when you graduated school, then when you got accepted to university, then when you got your first adult job.
john’s forgiven nikolai for plenty over the years, things that most men would draw blood over, but this — this is a line he never knew he had to draw.
it isn’t the first time he’s dropped by nikolai’s unannounced. it’s been an unspoken, iron-clad agreement for decades that, if and when one of them needed something, anything, they turned to the other. it isn’t the first time that he’s stumbled upon the russian in a compromising position, either. usually, they would laugh about it. john would say he was sorry, and nikolai would shrug it off, because their friendship was worth more than a good time with a stranger.
but this time, it isn’t a stranger — it’s you. his kid. and his best friend. you, in nothing sans your underwear and a sweatshirt too large to be your own, strewn across nikolai’s lap like it were made to cradle you. too comfortable. too familiar. too domestic.
that’s the worst part, somehow. he knows, immediately, that this was not some spur of the moment decision. it wasn’t like you ran into him at a pub and didn’t recognize each other, or that you were both drunk and not thinking straight.
it’s a tuesday night, and nikolai’s at home, watching cartoons, with a lapful of you, petting your hair and nosing at your cheek like he’s got the fucking right. that’s not something you do with a one night stand. it’s not something nikolai does with anyone, at all, because he always claimed that he would never let anyone, no matter how lovely, clip his wings. and yet.
you look horrified, your earlier bliss gone in the blink of an eye, trying desperately to grab for the blanket you’d thrown aside to protect your lower half. but nikolai — he doesn’t even flinch. he manages to sweep you off of his lap and get to his feet a split second before john’s heavy fist strikes him square in the face. he doesn’t retaliate, doesn’t react at all, really, just sighs deeply through his nose, and levels john with a look so cold it would’ve sent a shiver down his spine if his rage hadn’t already boiled his blood.
he should’ve known something was off. nikolai’s been distant lately, and, while that in itself isn’t unusual for the man, flighty as he is, it’s unlike him to have been so hard to reach. not literally, he showed up when he was needed, but mentally. john summed it up to the toll of war, which they all struggle with now and again. he should’ve known better. but in no world would he have suspected this.
“you bastard,” he doesn’t even look your way. he can’t stomach it. “i should shoot you dead, you slimy piece of shit!”
but nikolai — nikolai doesn ’t regret a goddamned thing. not even as john’s trigger finger twitches like he’s imagining what his brains may look like splattered across the persian rug you picked out last month.
john could kill him, right here and now, and he still wouldn’t regret it.
truth be told, he didn’t know who you were, not at first. he hadn’t the slightest clue. he’d never met you, hadn’t seen a picture of you since you were a babe. at first, you were merely a sweet soul in search of a safe place to land, and he was a only man with a soft spot for broken things.
you were young, and pretty, so easily flustered, clinging to each and every scrap of affection he dished out like you’d been starving for it. by the time he found out, he was too far gone — not that it mattered.
because john’s version of your story and yours are two very different accounts.
the way john told it, he did the best he could. he called as often as he was able, visited whenever his job allowed, kept tabs on you and all of your accomplishments, loved you as wholly and as truly as any father should. and, maybe, to him, it really was that simple.
but that’s not the version of the story you knew. to you, it was missed birthdays and christmases, it was waiting by the phone until bedtime came and your mom dragged you away, it was countless unanswered letters, it was being bullied in school because, while your peers got to go home to two parents, you barely had one, what with your mother’s two jobs and endless string of boyfriends. it was being made to grow up too fast because no one in your life was willing to nurture the child within. it was searching for a father’s love in every corner of the world because yours wasn’t around to give it.
but nikolai did. he gave it gladly, and in abundance, and never asked for anything in return. he was willing to be anything you needed him to be. sometimes, a lover, and sometimes, something else altogether.
he could he turn his back on you, knowing what he knows? knowing that he enabled it? he couldn’t. he didn’t. he won’t.
“you do not want to do this, john.” he warns, trying his damndest to position himself between you and your father. he knows john would never hurt you, at least not physically, but you shouldn’t have to see this, either. just a moment ago, you were so happy. warm, safe, and at peace in his arms. and now … well, this certainly isn’t how he had intended for your night to go.
he was destined to find out eventually, nikolai knows that. he would have told him himself, he was only waiting for you to be ready. he’d hoped, though, that this part might happen when you didn’t have to bear witness to it.
“the hell i don’t!” the captain spits, nostrils flaring, teeth bared. he’s beyond angry, beyond reasonable. nikolai can’t blame him, truly, but he also knows that his fury isn’t nearly as justified as he believes it to be. he was hardly much of a father to you to begin with. “they’re my kid, nik! mine! what the fuck is wrong with you?”
“lower your voice,” he won’t shout in front of you. god knows you’re scared enough as is. he won’t say any of the things he wishes to say, won’t point out john’s absence, his fabrications, or the damage he’s done to you, because you don’t need to hear it, even if he does. and that’s the difference between john and nikolai. even now, your father isn ’t thinking about you. he’s thinking about how he’s been betrayed, about his friend going behind his back.
“oh, you fuckin’—” john goes for his gun, as nikolai figured he would, his hand halfway to his holster when your bare feet hit the floor, your eyes wide and glossy.
something strangled, confused between a sob and a shout, catches in your throat, and john, for the first time, looks at you. nikolai’s arm extended, protecting you from him, your cheeks damp, hands shaky where they grip your blanket for dear fucking life. the captain pauses, tongue running over his teeth, and nikolai sees the war waging in his mind.
his hand drops, and nikolai can breathe again. at least john loves you enough not to kill him right in front of you. it doesn’t count for much, but’s it’s something.
“fuck you, nik.” the man, quivering like a bow string pulled taut, has one foot out the door already, his back turned like he can’t stand to look at either of you any longer. it’s for the best. there’s no bloodless resolution to this. nikolai sorely doubts it’s over.
the front door slams hard enough that a painting’s knocked off of the front room’s wall. it was one of your favorites, too. a shame. he’ll find a suitable replacement. but only after he’s soothed you.
“your face,” you fret, lower lip wobbling, arms wrapped around your middle like you’re resisting the urge, the need, to reach for him. it’s a sorry sight. a regression. you were getting so comfortable, you finally stopped doubting your place here, and this — it’ll have set you back.
“i’m fine, lapushka, come here, come here,” he coaxes you into his arms without hesitation, a big hand cradling the back of your head, cheek pressed to your hair. “shh, now. i’ll handle it, hm? everything will be okay, i promise you.”
and it will be. with or without john’s surrender. if keeping you happy, safe, means cutting him out of your life — both of your lives — so be it. he’ll have a choice to make. nikolai made his long ago, and he has no intentions on changing his mind.
you sniffle against his chest, hiccuping as you try, valiantly, to catch your breath, too stubborn, too scared, to cry openly. he holds you a bit tighter.
“shh, i’m here. papochka’s here. everything will be okay, malysh.”
