1000 Themes - #67 - Serve No God [original] - Dimitri & Cristoph
Title: Battle Scars
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Nazi references
Words: 480
Series: Serve No God [original]
Pairings/Characters: Dimitri Rejkavich & Cristoph Leberecht
“-and so the surgery was botched, thus resulting in your present condition. Any questions?”
The sickeningly cheerful note the news ended on bothered Cristoph. He remained silent, slumped over, his left arm resting on his leg. Cold shivers rumbled his skin; the tile floor was freezing, and his feet were currently bare. It was a fact: he was uncomfortable. That was real. What he was being told didn’t feel anywhere close to as real as the discomfort that spread from the pads of his feet to the thin hairs on his neck, but the effect was all the same.
“Captain? Captain Leberecht…”
Cristoph tried to ignore the purr in that voice, low and hot with patronizing pitches. He shut his eyes, furrowed his brows. This wasn’t real, he kept telling himself. He wasn’t normally one for denial, hated such rejection of reality, and now hated how he couldn’t accept what had happened. With everything they had, nothing could be fixed.
“Hm, are you alright, Cristoph? This certainly isn’t like you.”
His eyes snapped open and he glared up at Dimitri.
“Ah ha! There we go, there’s that loathing I’m so familiar with. Tell me, how’s it feel? I’ve never lost a limb before.”
Cristoph flinched when Dimitri reached down to cup the stub that represented the remainders of his right arm. It was covered in bandages, the best the small clinic could offer until the supply ship made its next visit. More thick shivers wrought his flesh as long fingers began to stroke the stub, and he wanted nothing more than to break Dimitri’s wrist right then and there.
“Call it a battle scar and the ladies will be all over you.”
Dimitri’s eyes flashed a haunting shade of gray, and Cristoph tried to meet it with his own chilled blue stare. How much longer would it be until he could talk again? By this point he suspected this was Dimtiri’s doing, as most of the mishaps tended to be.
“…You have a lot, though, don’t you? Battle scars, I mean. I’m a scientist, so the closest I can get to that brand of glory are the cuts from broken test tubes and acid burns. Maybe a papercut once in a while.”
The long fingers pulled away, replaced by the gray-eyed gaze.
“But it’s not as if you’re any sort of hero. Just because you have the scars to prove you went to war…it means nothing.”
He pulled a glimmering Iron Cross from his pocket, catching the blue eyes of the wounded soldier sitting on the bed.
“Especially for Nazi scum like yourself.”
Cristoph watched with a pained stare as Dimitri dropped the decoration from his hand, letting it fall to the dusty floor with the loudest cling! Cristoph had ever heard.
But he hated that grin more than anything.
“The losers of war must reap what they’ve sown, da?”
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Nazi references
Words: 480
Series: Serve No God [original]
Pairings/Characters: Dimitri Rejkavich & Cristoph Leberecht
“-and so the surgery was botched, thus resulting in your present condition. Any questions?”
The sickeningly cheerful note the news ended on bothered Cristoph. He remained silent, slumped over, his left arm resting on his leg. Cold shivers rumbled his skin; the tile floor was freezing, and his feet were currently bare. It was a fact: he was uncomfortable. That was real. What he was being told didn’t feel anywhere close to as real as the discomfort that spread from the pads of his feet to the thin hairs on his neck, but the effect was all the same.
“Captain? Captain Leberecht…”
Cristoph tried to ignore the purr in that voice, low and hot with patronizing pitches. He shut his eyes, furrowed his brows. This wasn’t real, he kept telling himself. He wasn’t normally one for denial, hated such rejection of reality, and now hated how he couldn’t accept what had happened. With everything they had, nothing could be fixed.
“Hm, are you alright, Cristoph? This certainly isn’t like you.”
His eyes snapped open and he glared up at Dimitri.
“Ah ha! There we go, there’s that loathing I’m so familiar with. Tell me, how’s it feel? I’ve never lost a limb before.”
Cristoph flinched when Dimitri reached down to cup the stub that represented the remainders of his right arm. It was covered in bandages, the best the small clinic could offer until the supply ship made its next visit. More thick shivers wrought his flesh as long fingers began to stroke the stub, and he wanted nothing more than to break Dimitri’s wrist right then and there.
“Call it a battle scar and the ladies will be all over you.”
Dimitri’s eyes flashed a haunting shade of gray, and Cristoph tried to meet it with his own chilled blue stare. How much longer would it be until he could talk again? By this point he suspected this was Dimtiri’s doing, as most of the mishaps tended to be.
“…You have a lot, though, don’t you? Battle scars, I mean. I’m a scientist, so the closest I can get to that brand of glory are the cuts from broken test tubes and acid burns. Maybe a papercut once in a while.”
The long fingers pulled away, replaced by the gray-eyed gaze.
“But it’s not as if you’re any sort of hero. Just because you have the scars to prove you went to war…it means nothing.”
He pulled a glimmering Iron Cross from his pocket, catching the blue eyes of the wounded soldier sitting on the bed.
“Especially for Nazi scum like yourself.”
Cristoph watched with a pained stare as Dimitri dropped the decoration from his hand, letting it fall to the dusty floor with the loudest cling! Cristoph had ever heard.
But he hated that grin more than anything.
“The losers of war must reap what they’ve sown, da?”