NB: This is a side-story set two years before the events of Separation Anxiety and references characters and events from the main story.

"Target eliminated, commander."

Viktor pressed the phone to his shoulder, holding it in place as he pulled out a new box of cartridges and began to reload the chamber of his gun.

"Good work," he said. "Make sure you clean up all the evidence before you return."

"Of course, sir. Roma and I will take care of it," Antosha replied, static warping the sound of her low voice.

"Report back when you're done," Viktor said into the receiver.

"Yes, Viktor Mikhailovich." The line clicked off and Vitya sighed, snapping the chamber back into place.

God, I need a nap, he thought tiredly as he slipped the cellphone into his pocket. The operation was going well, but none of the higher ups had slept in days. The boyeviks and shetsyorka had completely bungled the original assignment, and Viktor wasn't taking any chances of screwing up again. Yuuri would be very displeased if he returned home without having finished the job.

As much as Viktor liked punishment, this was serious, and he had pride as his lover's right hand man.

He stifled a yawn and checked his watch. It was fifteen minutes after two in the morning, which meant the target should be arriving shortly.

"And not a moment too soon," he grumbled to himself irritably. It had taken a great deal of planning to coordinate all the assassinations within ten minutes of each other, even with brigadiers as competent as Antosha and Roma. Alyosha was providing the real-time information, but Pyotr wasn't much of an assassin, so he'd been sent to supervise the last 'bullet'1 and make sure the job was carried out well.

Viktor had nearly nodded off when the sound of footsteps echoing on concrete alerted him to hide. He quietly slid backward into the shadows, his back pressed against a pillar. He could just make out the empty parking garage from the corner of his eye, though no one was in range yet. He waited, the safety released on his gun, his heart pounding in his ears.

Even now, so many kills after that first, terrible night, he still needed to prepare himself mentally before killing in cold blood. He wasn't like Yuuri, or like his mother, whose gun collection had far exceeded any sane person's interest; Viktor was, at heart, far too conscious of the pain he would feel if someone he loved was killed, and it was hard for him to overcome that feeling, even if it was an order.

Still, the fact was that Viktor Nikiforov was a professional, and professionals did not let personal feelings get in the way of a job.

The footsteps were close now. Two sets. He'd have to take them both out immediately or risk being shot.

"A kilo, like you asked," came a gruff voice.

"What's the grade?"

"C'mon, you already know that."

"I was ordered to check," said the other. Viktor could just make them out at the edge of his vision; a tall blonde man covered in tattoos and a stockier redhead. He recognized the first, but the second one wasn't familiar.

Sorry, but orders are orders, he thought grimly as he took his aim.

"You look exhausted, commander," Alyosha noted. Viktor grunted as he wiped the blood from his expensive leather shoes. The others had arrived before him, and Antosha was already done cleaning up, waiting outside the driver's door for everyone to finish. Petya was murmuring to himself about his ruined shirt while Roma was smoking nonchalantly, leaning against the trunk.

"So do you," Roma cut in. "We all fucking do; it's been like forty eight hours since any of us got a good bit of sleep."

"I hate it when raids go sour," Petya sighed, resigning himself to having to burn the shirt when he got home. "If Adrian's boyeviks hadn't completely screwed up last time, we wouldn't have had to do all this shit to fix it."

"Complaining won't make the last few nights disappear, Petya," Viktor said as he turned his foot to check if he'd gotten all the splatter off.

"True enough. Ugh, I need a vacation," Alexei yawned, his arms wrapped around the laptop he carried everywhere. "I haven't been this tired since university."

"'Oooh, look at me, I'm so useless I have to keep reminding everyone that I'm the only person in the Security Group who actually went to college!'" Roma mocked irritably, flicking his ashes to the ground. The sound of a foghorn echoed in the frigid night air.

"I thought it was a good thing to have someone on board who actually uses his brain," Alyosha replied, genuinely curious. He didn't seem to notice that he'd essentially insulted every single person now standing at the edge of the river.

Pyotr laughed, clapping a hand to Roma's shoulder.

"You got owned by a kid, Roma!" he guffawed, the scar on his nose crinkling with mirth. Roma pushed his hand off angrily.

"Fuck off, asshole," he growled. "He said you were stupid too."

"Compared to Alyosha, yeah, I'm pretty sure I am," Petya said good-naturedly. Antona made a movement as if to supply another observation about Pyotr's intelligence but in the end decided to stay quiet. "I like you, kid. I'm glad Yuri Mikhailovich found you," he said, smiling at Alyosha.

Alexei cocked his head slightly, confused.

"But I'm not a kid," he said, blinking innocently. "I'm twenty two."

"You're the youngest person here, so you're a kid," Pyotr shrugged.

"I hope for your sake you don't apply that logic to Yuuri," Viktor warned as he straightened up and tossed the bloodied rag into the river. It wouldn't be found, and neither would the bodies they'd sunk to the bottom just a few minutes earlier.

Everyone except Roma went pale.

"I'd never insult Papa like that," Petya said in a high-pitched voice. "I'm not afraid to die, but..."

"Hmph," Roma grunted, unimpressed. "I still don't see why we have to listen to some little yaposhka brat," he said carelessly. Viktor paused and blinked once before striding forward and gripping him forcefully up by the collar, strangling him. The height difference was so pronounced and Roma was so slight that he was actually lifted off the ground.

"Say one more thing about Yuuri and I'll fucking kill you right here," he said coldly. "I don't care if you forgot who you were talking to or if you think your position will protect you. You're not irreplaceable, Roman Plisetsky, and I'm sure your wife and son would be very upset to find that out."

Roma's bright green eyes widened with fear as he tried to shake his head, sputtering uselessly. Viktor dropped him without warning, and he hit his head against the car's bumper as he fell. Vitya aimed a single kick at Roma's face, not at all bothered at the pained cry his subordinate gave; he'd probably broken his nose. Fury boiling in the pit of his stomach, he shoved his hands in his pockets and motioned with his head at the others.

"Get in the fucking car," he said, his voice sharp as ice. "Roma will walk home tonight."

Everyone scrambled to obey.

By the time Antona dropped him off at his apartment complex, Vitya was ready to sleep for days. He took the elevator instead of the stairs, as was his custom, and alighted on the fourth floor with shaky steps. He fumbled with his keys for a good five minutes before he managed to find the right one.

Goddamn it, I just wanna get to bed, he thought, exasperated with his own lack of coordination. When he finally managed to push the door open he breathed a sigh of relief.

"Yuuri, I'm home," he called tiredly as he slipped his shoes off and hung his keys on the rack. It was past two in the morning, so he didn't expect a response. All the lights were off, the soft hum of the refrigerator the only audible sound in the darkness.

Probably asleep, he thought as he made his way to the bathroom. He meant to shower, but he was so tired he ended up just washing his face and brushing his teeth before he trudged to the bedroom, tossing his clothes to the floor as he went. He pulled his slacks off last before climbing into bed with his lover like a child, nosing at Yuuri's sleeping back for warmth.

"Mm, Vitya...?"

"I'm back," Viktor muttered, draping an arm over Yuuri's waist. It must have been colder outside than he thought, because Yuuri's bare skin was deliciously warm and comforting.

"Welcome home," Yuuri said softly, his voice thick with sleepiness. "Did it go well?"

"Yeah," Vitya said simply, pressing a kiss to Yuuri's shoulder. "The Korotkin clan won't be trying to take our territory again anytime soon. Adrian will be pleased."

"M'kay... Good work..." Viktor thought Yuuri's voice sounded a bit off, cracked somehow, but he was so tired that he was already falling asleep.

"Anything for... you, Yura...tchka," he managed to say before he knocked out, nose pressed to Yuuri's back.

He managed to sleep for perhaps a few hours before he was awakened around dawn by the sound of whimpering, his senses immediately on alert.

"Yuuri?" he asked, worried. A moment later he realized that Yuuri was trembling in his arms, and his heart leapt into his throat.

Another attack? he thought, sitting up and reaching over to check on him. It seemed he was still asleep, but he was moaning slightly, his black hair plastered to his face with sweat. A nightmare, he realized, placing a firm hand to Yuuri's shoulder and gently shaking him awake.

"Yuuri, wake up," he said, eyebrows knit with concern. "Yuratchka..."

Yuuri stirred, his eyes blinking slightly, but the trembling didn't stop.

"Vitya..." he said weakly, turning his gaze toward Viktor. His eyes were clouded somehow, glazed over, but it wasn't the same as when he had a panic attack.

"Are you alright?" Viktor asked, pressing his hand to Yuuri's cheek gently. His skin was flushed and far too hot to the touch.

"It's cold," Yuuri mumbled, reaching for Viktor shakily. He looked so weak and defenseless that Viktor slid his arms under Yuuri's torso, pulling him up into a tight embrace, like he had when they were children.

"I think you have a fever, Yuratchka," he said softly, stroking his hair reassuringly. "I'll get the thermometer, but I'll be right back, alright?"

"No, don't leave me, Vitya..." Yuuri cried in a small voice, burying his face in Viktor's neck. He didn't seem to be entirely lucid, so the fever was probably quite high.

"Shh, we have to see if you need to go to the doctor, but I promise I'll be back in a second."

Yuuri made a small, pathetic noise, but he let Viktor put him down and cover him with a blanket tenderly. He pressed a kiss to Yuuri's forehead before he got out of bed, trying to keep calm and failing terribly.

He practically ran to the bathroom.

Shit, shit, where the fuck did I leave the thermometer?! he asked himself frantically, tearing through the cabinet. Makkachin heard the noise and came padding down the hallway excitedly, panting as he watched Viktor search from the doorway.

"God I'm an idiot, Makkachin," Viktor moaned aloud as he tossed the first aid kit aside. "He was already burning up when I got home, for fuck's sake...! What kind of a boyfriend am I, not even noticing that he had a fever?!"

Makkachin gave a small, joyful bark.

"I know I was tired, but still! What if he dies because I didn't get him to the hospital in time?! And where the fuck is the thermometer?!"

He was almost crying with worry and frustration. Makkachin trotted up to him and put his paws up against his leg, clearly sensing that Viktor was upset.

Viktor took a deep breath.

"You're right," he said, reaching down to pat the dog's head softly. "There's no use in panicking... thank you, Makkachin." He found the thermometer a minute later, tossed behind a box of expired migraine medication. He quickly cleaned the tip with alcohol and almost tripped over his own feet as he hurried back to Yuuri.

"Here," he said breathlessly as he stumbled onto the mattress. Yuuri seemed more awake now, but he had dark circles under his eyes and he was oddly pale.

"I feel terrible," he groaned.

"I know, zolotse, I know," Viktor said, brushing his hair back. "Open up for me, please?"

Yuuri gave him a slightly irritated look but did as he asked, the thermometer sliding under his tongue. They waited about a minute in silence, Yuuri grimacing until the thermometer beeped and Vitya pulled it out.

"...102 degrees," he read.

"What the hell does that mean?" Yuuri asked weakly. Viktor was about to say that he expected the Nikiforov pakhan to at least know what constituted a fever when he remembered that only Americans used Fahrenheit; he must have brought this particular thermometer with him from New York.

"Er, I don't know what it is in Celsius exactly but, basically, you have a fever. A high one."

"Great," Yuuri groaned, pulling a pillow over his face. "Just... fucking great."

"Should I take you to the doctor?" Viktor asked, unable to stop fretting.

"No," came the firm reply, muffled under the pillow. Viktor tugged it away.

"If it gets worse, I'll take you whether you like it or not," he said, frowning. Yuuri glared at him and coughed.

"I'd like to see you try."

"Kill me or maim me if you like, but it won't stop me from getting you to a hospital if your life is in danger," Viktor said stubbornly.

Yuuri scoffed slightly, but he winced at the movement.

"I'll get you some water," Viktor immediately offered. "And I think we're out of cold medicine, but I can run out and grab some from the corner store, they're open all night-"

"Vitya..."

"And you could probably use a wet towel-"

"Vitya..."

"Oh, and I'll check if we have the ingredients so I can make you some sou-"

"Viktor Mikhailovich," Yuuri said hoarsely, clearly annoyed. "Calm the hell down, you're making me anxious."

"Sorry," Viktor murmured abashedly.

"You will use the kitchen only when I want the apartment burned down," Yuuri warned, coughing. "Call Mila."

"Mila?! What for?!"

"Because she can actually prepare food without destroying the place," he said, voice cracking. His expression softened slightly, raising a hand to touch Viktor's chin. "And also because I don't want you leaving my side right now."

All the blood seemed to rush to Viktor's face; Yuuri was rarely this affectionate. His expression must have given away his thoughts because Yuuri laughed, falling into a fit of nasty coughing a second later.

"Ugh," he groaned once it passed, Viktor clasping his hand anxiously. "I was going to say I need you to stay and keep me warm because it's fucking cold, but now I'm sweltering..."

"At least let me get you water. I'll ask Mila to bring medicine," Vitya said, biting the inside of his cheek as he reached for his phone on the bedside table.

"Mm," Yuuri said, closing his eyes tiredly. Whatever strength he'd managed to gather seemed to be slipping away.

Viktor lifted his hand to his lips and kissed his open palm. "I'll be right back, zolotse moyo."

"Mom, I need to ask you something," Viktor said in rapid Russian as he leaned against the kitchen counter.

"So you thought you'd wake your poor mother at five in the morning?" Katerina complained groggily over the receiver. "Really, Vitya..."

"Your son is sick," he scolded indignantly. That seemed to sober her up.

"Yuratchka?" she asked, concerned. "What is it?! Did he get hurt? Is he wounded?! Tuberculosis?! Infection?!" She gave a terrified gasp. "Oh my God, Vitya! Did he catch that awful thing that eats your flesh?!"

"What?! No!" he said, already tired out. He should have known Katerina would jump to ridiculous conclusions, as usual. "He has a fever and a cough."

Silence.

"Oh, that's all?"

"What do you mean that's all?! It's a hundred and two degrees!"

"What the hell does that mean?" she asked sleepily.

Viktor clicked his tongue. "It's Fahrenheit, okay?! Just... it's high, alright, mom?!"

"Take him to the hospital then, you idiot son," she snapped. Katerina had never been a morning person.

I would, but Yuuri... he can't see doctors, he thought to himself desperately. Yuuri couldn't handle anyone touching him for longer than a moment unless it was Vitya or his mother, but he didn't want Katerina to know that. I can't force him to go unless we have no other choice.

"It's not that high yet," he conceded, tapping his fingernails against the counter.

"Should I come over?" she asked seriously. "It's only an hour drive..."

"No, it's fine," he said, shaking his head. "I've called Mila, she'll be here with medicine soon."

"Then why are you calling me again?"

Viktor groaned. "Because I want to know if there's something I can do to help in the meantime."

Katerina paused.

"Make sure he's not covered, and that he drinks plenty of water. Yuuri doesn't usually catch ill, and the few times he has, he's had very bad fever dreams. He usually needs to be reassured, so comfort him if he does."

"...Got it."

"Just be his older brother, and everything will be fine," Katerina yawned. Viktor felt a twinge of guilt; his mother wasn't aware of their relationship, or of the fact that the real reason they'd moved out of the Nikiforov house was so that they could continue it without needing to hide. "Call me if he gets worse, alright?"

"Okay mom. Thanks."

"Tell my pryanichek2that I love him and I hope he feels better soon."

"Alright, I will."

"Love you, Vitenka."3

"Love you too, Mama."

He hung up and gave a long, tired sigh, slumping back onto the counter. We'll have to tell her eventually, he thought, biting his lip.

A knock on the door reminded him that coming out to their mother was the least of their problems right now.

"Noisy," Yuuri complained weakly when Viktor came in to check on him a few minutes later with medicine and a glass of water in hand, Makkachin on his heels. The dog immediately climbed up onto the bed and settled at Yuuri's feet.

"Sorry," Viktor said sincerely as he sat at the edge of the bed. "Mila brought Georgi and Rodion."

Georgi Popovich, twenty-three, was Mila's favorite avtoriyet, possibly because he was so quick to obey, despite his tendency toward drama. He was also the only avtoriyet who wasn't involved in anything overtly illegal; his job was to mind the legal side of the bratva's businesses and assign kryshas, or enforcers, to oversee them. Of everyone in the inner circle, he was most like a glorified office manager, though he was still occasionally called in for other assignments from time to time. Rodion Stegnov, on the other hand, had a nasty personality that almost no one could stand. Black eyed and brown haired, he was twenty-two years old and in charge of the gambling and extortion brigade. Yuuri had placed him under Mila himself after observing his methods for a while. He liked to mentally and physically torment people, which made him very good at blackmail, even if he wasn't particularly great at fighting.

"What the fuck for?!"

"To help her cook, apparently," Vitya shrugged. There was a loud noise from the kitchen, like pots clattering to the ground, and Viktor winced. The sound of Mila shouting easily went through the walls.

"You're fucking useless, Rodya!" she yelled. "Pick it up with your bloody teeth if you have to! Don't make me cut your balls off and serve them to Papa on a plate!"

"No thanks," Yuuri muttered, disgruntled. Even Yuuri didn't care much for Rodya, outside of his usefulness. Viktor chuckled.

"You'd hardly think she's only sixteen. She has her men on a tight leash."

"Yakov taught her well before he passed away," Yuuri said, coughing as he sat up and accepted the water.

"And she's talented," Viktor added as he ripped open the medicine and handed the pills over. "She was raised for it, and she has a great head for numbers."

Someone knocked on the door and Viktor looked at Yuuri for permission. He pulled the cover over his shoulders to hide his scars and nodded, throwing the pills into his mouth as he took a drink.

"Come in," Viktor said, and a man with black hair and blue eyes pushed the door open.

"Yuri Mikhailovich, Mila Yakovlevna would like to know if you prefer chicken or beef soup," Georgi said in a deep, measured voice.

"Chicken is fine," Yuuri said hoarsely, clearing his throat. Georgi nodded and closed the door gently behind him. There was the noise of more pots banging, and Yuuri pulled the covers over his head.

"No, Yuratchka, that's not good for you right now," Viktor said, prying the blanket away. "You can't overheat your body."

"It's goddamn cold...!"

"You only feel like that because of the fever," Vitya insisted, pressing his palm to Yuuri's forehead. He was still burning up, but his complexion was ruddy now instead of pale. "Don't cover up for a bit."

"Then you warm me," he coughed, and Viktor thought there was a strange, almost pleading look in his brown eyes. He suddenly remembered what Katerina had said over the phone.

"Yuuri doesn't usually catch ill, and the few times he has, he's had very bad fever dreams. He usually needs to be reassured, so comfort him if he does."

Oh... Viktor realized. He wants to be coddled... but he doesn't know how to ask for it.

He couldn't help smiling a little as he lay beside Yuuri, pulling him into his arms.

"Is that better, zolotse?" he asked as Yuuri pressed his cheek to Viktor's chest.

"Mm," he said, closing his eyes, his breathing a bit labored.

So cute, Viktor thought, his heart unable to take it. It was like seeing the Yuuri he'd known as a small child, safe in his arms and far away from all the terrible things in the past.

He kissed the top of his head, inhaling the familiar smell of Yuuri's hair, and Yuuri made a contented noise.

"That feels nice," he murmured with a small cough. Viktor nuzzled against his ear, trying to convey how much he loved him with each gentle gesture.

I know you're broken, Yuuri... But you're still so, so precious to me, and I hope you can feel that, even just a little.

"You're... warm," Yuuri noted, his tone strange. Viktor could tell the fever was overwhelming him again.

"Do you want me to let go?"

"Mm, no... it's... good... Zolotse... moyo..." He fell asleep suddenly, his breath evening out as his hand clung to Viktor's shirt.

Vitya's mouth had run dry. Yuuri had never called him by an endearment before, much less one this sweet.

My gold, my treasure.

Not once had Viktor ever heard Yuuri tell him that he loved him. Sometimes it was hard to know what he was thinking, and if perhaps Viktor was the only one who really cared about Yuuri. This was the closest thing he'd ever gotten to a confirmation that he was more than just a toy, more than just a lifeline.

"Yuuri," he breathed, tears stinging the corner of his eyes. He kissed Yuuri's hair again and again, telling himself he would stop in a moment, that there would be just one more before he was done, but he was still crying when Mila knocked on the door half an hour later to announce that the food was ready.

Notes:

From my notes on nicknames in the SepAnx canon: "Yuuri has only called Viktor 'zolotse moyo' twice in his life, once at the age of 21, and once in Hasetsu at 23."

This one-shot was written as a request for sorei-yu. For information on how to commission/request me, please visit my tumblr (limitofquestions).

Thanks for reading, I hope you'll enjoy this side story!

Translation Notes:

1) "Bullets" are dispensable hitmen. They're people who are sent to the front lines to do dangerous jobs knowing full well they'll probably die doing it. They're different from the skilled assassins, like Antosha, and are useful for doing dirty work that the bratva doesn't want traced back to them.

2) An endearment that likens Yuuri to a Russian sweet/pastry.

3) A more intimate nickname for "Viktor" than "Vitya," usually reserved for very close relationships.