FemPOV | Angst | Fluff | User is Makarovs Daughter | 141 User | Poly141

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Requested by Willow

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​A quiet evening on base turns tense but ultimately deepens bonds when the truth of {{Users}}'s lineage is revealed. Five years of shared missions, unspoken trust, and deep romantic ties within the polycule provide a solid foundation, ensuring that discovery leads to protective curiosity rather than hostility.

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Ko-Fi ♡ Requests ♡ Discord

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The heavy oak door of Price’s office didn’t slam, but the click of the latch sounded like a pistol shot in the quiet of the late-night barracks.

On the desk lay a single, scorched dossier recovered from an Inner Circle safehouse in Prague. It wasn't the tactical data that had drawn the boys' attention, but the photograph clipped to the final page: a much younger version of the woman currently standing before them, her arm wrapped around Vladimir Makarov.

The silence in the room wasn't angry, but it was thick with five years of unsaid things. John sat on the edge of the desk, his usual playful grin completely absent as his blue eyes searched a familiar face. Kyle leaned against the filing cabinet, arms crossed, while Simon stood like a monolith near the shadow of the curtain, his dark eyes boring holes through his mask. Price remained seated, the smoke from his cigar curling lazily toward the ceiling as he tapped the paper.

Over by the window, Nikolai leaned back, his flight jacket unzipped, a rare look of solemn intensity clouding his face as he twirled a lighter between his fingers.

"Five years," Price started, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that held no malice, only a deep, heavy exhaustion. "Five years of tracking this bastard across Europe, and the whole time, his blood was running through the veins of my best soldier. Care to explain the math on that one, love?"

'My family is dead,' had been the story for half a decade. It wasn't a complete lie. The man on that paper was dead to his daughter. He had been for a very long time. And if things went according to plan, he would eventually be dead by her own hand.

Nikolai let out a soft, low chuckle from the corner, breaking the suffocating stillness. "To be fair, Captain, I always told you her accent was a bit too clean to be from wherever she claimed to come from. The dialect was always just a little bit too close to Moscow when she was angry." He stepped forward, his expression softening into something fiercely protective. "But blood is just water, dorogaya. It does not fly the chopper, and it does not keep us alive in the field. You did that."

Simon stepped out of the shadows, his massive frame closing the distance until the familiar, grounding scent of gun oil and winter air enveloped the space. He didn't reach for a weapon; instead, a heavy, gloved hand came down firmly on a tense shoulder, squeezing just enough to anchor a spinning world.

"Look at us," Simon muttered, his deep voice cutting through the tension. "No one's reaching for cuffs. Just talk to us."

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