Chapter 6: A Call to Home
The saline drip worked its slow, silent magic. Mila floated in a half-world, tethered to consciousness only by the dull, throbbing mosaic of her bruises and the unfamiliar, too-soft embrace of the hotel bed. She dozed, startled awake by the phantoms of grasping hands, then sank back under, soothed by the solid, quiet presence of Andrey in the armchair and the low hum of Alexsi’s voice from the living room.
It was the pressing, physical need that finally pulled her fully awake. The IV bag was nearly empty, a translucent pouch hanging like a phantom fruit from the bedpost. A deep, insistent thirst clawed at her throat, and a more urgent demand made her shift uncomfortably.
Andrey was asleep. His head had tipped back against the chair, his jaw slack, emitting a soft, rhythmic rumble. In sleep, the sheer mass of him was even more apparent, a mountain range at rest. She didn’t want to wake him. He looked carved from stone, peaceful.
She tried to sit up. The movement sent a sharp protest through her ribs and a hot spike of pain through her bandaged feet. A small, involuntary gasp escaped her.
Andrey’s eyes snapped open. There was no groggy interval. One second he was asleep, the next he was fully alert, focused entirely on her. “Hey. You’re awake. What do you need?”
His voice was gravelly with sleep but instantly gentle. It was so incongruous, that gentle rumble from that massive frame.
“I…” Her voice was a dry crackle. “The… the bathroom. And water.”
“Right. Of course.” He was on his feet in a smooth, surprisingly graceful motion. He checked the IV line, then carefully peeled back the tape securing the catheter to her hand. “This is done anyway. Little pinch coming out.” He withdrew the needle and pressed a cotton ball to the spot, holding it with a touch so light she barely felt it. “Hold that for a minute.”
He then simply scooped her up, blanket and all, and carried her the short distance to the ensuite bathroom. He set her on her feet just inside the door, one huge hand stabilizing her elbow. “You steady? I’ll be right here. Take your time.”
He stepped back, pulling the door until it was almost shut, leaving the same two-inch gap as before. The normality of the courtesy, the assumption of her basic autonomy, struck her afresh. She used the toilet, washed her hands, and stared at her reflection in the harsh, polished light. The bruises were ripening into darker hues, a violent watercolor across her cheekbone and jaw. But her eyes were clearer. The drug haze from the ceremony was gone, burned away by terror and now this strange, vigilant care.
When she opened the door, he was leaning against the wall opposite, arms crossed, waiting. Without a word, he lifted her again and placed her back in the center of the bed.
“Water,” he announced, and fetched a bottle from a cooler by the window, cracking the seal before handing it to her. She drank greedily, the cool liquid an exquisite relief.
Alexsi appeared in the doorway, silhouetted by the low light from the living room. He’d changed into a simple grey t-shirt and sweatpants. Without the uniform, he looked younger, but no less intense. “Everything okay?”
“Bathroom and hydration,” Andrey reported. “IV’s out.”
Alexsi nodded, his eyes scanning Mila. Assessing. “Are you in pain? The injectable has worn off.”
She was. A deep, pervasive ache had settled into her bones. “A little,” she admitted.
“We have pills. Easier on the stomach.” Andrey was already rummaging in the medical kit. He shook out a single tablet into his palm—a tiny white disc in the center of that massive, scarred hand. He gave her the water bottle again. She swallowed it.
A wave of vulnerability washed over her, colder than the water. She was in a strange room, in borrowed clothes that swam on her, every inch of her body hurt, and she felt grimy in a way the bath hadn’t touched. The memory of the dress, the smell of the ministry, the feel of Lermontov’s hand—it all seemed to cling to her skin like a film. She looked from one man to the other, the words sticking in her throat.
“I… I still feel dirty,” she whispered, ashamed.
Alexsi’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes softened. Andrey just nodded, as if she’d commented on the weather.
“Okay,” Andrey said. “We can fix that. You’re too weak to stand in a shower by yourself. You’ll fall. You want help?”
She bit her lip, then gave a tight nod.
“Me? Or Lex?” Andrey asked, utterly practical.
The question itself was a kind of grace. A choice. However small. She looked at Alexsi, his stoic calm, then at Andrey, who had just proven his gentleness was not an act. “Andrey too?” she asked, her voice barely audible.
Andrey offered a small, reassuring smile. “Whatever you want, little lady. Team effort. We’ll be quick and professional. Like field medics.”
Alexsi moved to the duffel bag and pulled out another one of his plain, well-worn t-shirts, this one dark green. “We’ll put this over you first. For modesty. Then cut off the… the old clothes underneath.” He didn’t call it a dress. It was an artifact of her violation, now just ‘old clothes.’
The process was methodical, deliberate. Andrey helped her sit up and pulled the large green t-shirt over her head. It fell to her mid-thighs. Once she was covered, Alexsi produced the trauma shears again. With Andrey supporting her, Alexsi carefully cut away the borrowed sweatpants and underwear, letting the ruined fabric fall away beneath the shield of the t-shirt. She flinched at the sound of the shears, at the cool air, but their hands were quick, impersonal, focused solely on the task.
“Alright,” Andrey said. “Shower floor. It’ll be easiest.” He carried her into the bathroom again. Alexsi had already spread several thick, clean bath towels on the tile floor of the large, glass-walled shower. Andrey set her down on them, a folded towel behind her back for support. She sat there, knees drawn up, the giant t-shirt a dampening tent around her.
Then they started. Alexsi adjusted the showerhead to a warm, gentle spray, testing the temperature on his own wrist before aiming it away from her face. Andrey knelt on the towels, already getting sprayed, and took a bar of plain soap.
“Arms first,” he said, and when she hesitantly extended one, he soaped it with efficient, careful strokes, rinsed it, and moved to the next. There was nothing sensual in it. It was cleansing. Eradication. He worked down her legs, careful of the bandages on her feet, which they’d covered with plastic bags sealed with tape.
Alexsi handled her back, his touch firm and sure through the fabric of the shirt, pouring cups of warm water to rinse the soap away. They were both getting soaked, their own t-shirts and sweatpants darkening with water, but they didn’t seem to notice. Their world had narrowed to this one objective: get her clean.
She watched their faces in the steam. Alexsi’s was set in lines of concentration, his jaw tight. Andrey’s brow was furrowed, his movements deliberate. They spoke in low, technical murmurs to each other. “Need to get her hair again, the sweat…” “I’ll get the shampoo. Support her neck.”
Andrey washed her hair a second time, his big fingers working the shampoo into her scalp with a thorough, rhythmic pressure that made her eyelids flutter. The hot water, the methodical attention, the sheer normality of being cleaned because she was hurt and couldn’t do it herself—it dismantled another brick in the wall of her fear. These were not men who took. They were men who… tended.
Tears welled up again, hot and silent, mixing with the shower spray. She couldn’t stop them. They were tears of overwhelming, unbearable relief.
Andrey saw them immediately. He stopped, his hands stilling in her hair. “Hurting you? Did I pull something?”
She shook her head, unable to speak, the sobs locked in her chest.
Alexsi crouched in front of her, his soaked shirt clinging to his shoulders. “Mila? Look at me.” She did. His gaze was steady, clear. “Is this too much? We stop right now. We can stop at any second.”
“N-no,” she managed, choking on the word. “It’s not… it’s not that. You’re… you’re being so…” The concept was too big. Good. Proper. It was alien. “I just… can’t believe it.”
Alexsi exchanged a look with Andrey over her head. Something unspoken passed between them. Andrey gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, and his hands resumed their work, even gentler than before. “Alright,” Alexsi said softly. “Let’s just finish up.”
They did. They rinsed her hair, used a fresh, soft washcloth on her face, and then turned off the water. The sudden silence was filled only with the drip from the showerhead and her hitching breaths.
Wrapping her in a dry, oversized bathrobe, they lifted her from the shower floor. Andrey produced a fresh pair of soft, fleece-lined pajama bottoms and a long-sleeved thermal shirt—new, with tags, clearly bought by Andrey on one of his mysterious errands. They helped her into them, their hands brisk and careful, ensuring the bandages on her feet were dry and secure. The clothes were warm and smelled of nothing, of clean cotton.
Andrey sat her on the closed toilet lid and produced a hair dryer. He dried her hair with a surprising expertise, using a brush to gently work out the tangles. The warm air, the rhythmic pulling, the domestic hum of the dryer—it was all so profoundly, disarmingly kind.
When he was done, her hair fell soft and dark around her shoulders. She felt scraped out, hollow, but clean. Purged.
“You should sleep more,” Alexsi said. “The pain pill will help.”
They guided her back to bed, to fresh, dry sheets they’d put on while she was in the bathroom. The bed felt different now. Less like a strange plateau, more like a place to rest.
“We’ll be in the other room,” Alexsi said. “The door stays open. If you need anything—water, more pain relief, a different pillow, anything at all—you wake one of us up. It doesn’t matter what time. You call out, or you come get us. Understood?”
She nodded, her eyelids already heavy. The combination of physical exhaustion, emotional unraveling, and the new pain medication was pulling her under a warm, dark wave. She watched as Andrey dragged the armchair just outside the bedroom door, positioning it so he could see both her and the living room. Alexsi settled on the large sofa, pulling a blanket over his legs. They didn’t speak. They just assumed their posts.
And she slept. Not the frantic, gasping dozes of before, but a deep, dense, dreamless sleep.
A faint clink, the scent of brewing coffee, and the low murmur of voices pulled her to the surface hours later. The room was dark, the city lights outside the window fewer now. A green digital clock on the nightstand glowed: 2:17 AM.
She lay still, listening. The voices were from the suite’s small kitchenette, just around the corner from the open bedroom door.
“…should have gotten the kind with the cinnamon. She might like that,” Andrey was saying, his voice a relaxed rumble.
“She’s not a child, Andryusha. She’s a woman who’s been fed garbage and threats. She might just want black coffee.” Alexsi’s voice was different. Lighter. There was a tired amusement in it.
“Everyone likes a little cinnamon. It’s a fact. You’re just a purist. A boring, black-coffee purist.”
“Says the man who puts four sugars in his motor oil and calls it tea.”
A soft chuckle. The sound was so normal, so easy. They were talking to each other in a way they hadn’t dared in the car, in the ministry, in the tense silence of the early evening. The performance was over. The masks were off. This was them, privately.Funny. Loving. Less stoic.
Mila found herself straining to hear, not out of fear, but out of a yearning curiosity. This was the texture of their real lives.
“Do you think she’ll want to eat when she wakes up?” Andrey asked.
“W