Joy ride (part1): Stealing

nap

(James is under and has some good memories.)

(Added warnings: manipulation, dubious consent to mildly sexual situations. Bad vibes.)

The American puts down the heavy receiver, registering the odd weight of it. Artificial; some kind of bakaliet. It's smooth and warm now, in his hand. Amazing, really, what they can do with technology. Speaking to someone on the other side of the ocean, on the other side of the planet. And only a few seconds of lag between them. He's thankful for the chance to get to use such a new, amazing device.

Too bad it is also completely useless.

As useless as a one-armed soldier. There's a joke in there he can't put together. Something about all the troubles these Ruskis have gone through, to get half an American without a name back to a mother whose face he can't even remember. To a sister, or two. To a brother? And when they finally manage to narrow it down —despite his home country's unwillingness to provide information; when he finally gets to speak to the woman most likely to be his mother; when he's introduced as possibly her missing son.. The woman that most likely put him on this world; the one person that should have been ecstatic to get her boy back from the dead...

There's a knock on the door. Maybe it's not the first one. The American doesn't know for sure, and he calls out an embarrassed 'yeah, come on in,' and starts dragging himself back to his feet.

Yakov's face drops the moment his droopy eyes spy him from the doorway. "Неудача." The heavy-set Lieutenant follows up with some Russian cuss words, closing the door behind himself carefully. Gesticulates wildly as he does; something that still looks odd to the American when executed by such a serious looking Russian soldier. "Nono, none of that. You are still recovering. The good nurse at hospital still draws cross when I speak of you."

The American sits back down hard, scoffs at Russian. "Isn't that illegal where you come from?"

Sargeant Yakov shrugs, smiles lightly as he lumbers over in his heavy boots. "She is old and the border is still far off. I will not tell on her. Will you?"

The man with no name tries to return the expression, but it's nearly too much. Who would he tell? He speaks a total of five words of Russian. Three of those are cusswords, one a word for a pretty girl. The last word is what the soldiers whisper when they see him pass. нежитью.

Yakov, ever observant, notices his struggle. "I am so sorry my friend. I thought we'd found your family this time."

"It was a good try. Two brothers." the American pauses to rub his hand over the bridge of his nose, looks away from the Lieutenant's kind eyes. "Several sisters. But, no; that woman was definitely not my mother." He finds himself rubbing at his eyes; at the bridge of his nose.

Yakov stares down at him in contemplation, then sits down in the chair next to him. "No worries. We will keep looking." A heavy hand hits the table. Then, with a slight frown, the Lieutenant prods a finger at his chest. "We still have a list. Many names. Many soldiers missing. Your family is out there. I know."

But that's not it. Not it at all. The man with no name stares at the table stubbornly trying to stay strong. But dear god, the woman on the line, who could have been his mother? She had cried with relief when it became obvious he was not her John. "Yeah," he tries, because he understands why she would.

Two of her boys had come back from war. One in a wheelchair, the other missing an eye and half his mind. A third missing in action, no husband in the picture. The poor woman was at wit's end on how to feed the pair as it was. And she had nearly got the whole set, with him.