a/n: Okay, so this next chapter is a step back in time. It's not a part of what's going on now with Yael/Soap/Price, it's just a snippet to show you what life with Makarov and Nina was like before she was taken. There's going to be more of these as time progresses as this is mostly the point of the story. I wanted the challenge of trying to write a man like him falling in love. So this kind of just starts that out. Nothing too drastic going on, but it's got to start somewhere and there's some useful information in here.
Second thing, can I just say thank you for all the reviews I've been getting? Seriously, I'm so grateful you have no idea. I don't just mean for the compliments or anything, but for pointing out what my weaknesses are so I can pay more attention to them and improve myself as I go. And also, thank you for doing it so nicely. I know people can be a little harsh on here, I really appreciate you being so nice about it.
Lastly, I apologize for how long this update took. I've been writing it for a while but I couldn't get the ending right. I'm still not 100% happy with it so sorry about that. No matter how much I tried it was the best I could come up with, so. And also, about her knowing MacTavish already, that will be explained in future chapters. Not to worry. I'm not going to make some crazy love triangle or something, but there is a 'friendship' genre listed for a reason and I'm going to hopefully make an epic one for the two. Rest assured however, not everyone 'loves' her. Good old Cpt. Price always will hate her guts. ;)

So, I hope you enjoy this chapter! Thank you guys for reading!

It had been thirteen months to the day since she had been plucked from the village by Makarov and his men. As each passed, she lost a little part of herself.

Yael Tzofia Yitzchak. Pronounced: Ya-El, Meaning: Ibex. That was something her brother had always teased her about when they were growing up – that he got to be a lion while she was a lousy mountain goat. She would tell him it was just a name but wished she could be a strong, brave lion. When she was a little older, her mother had sat her down for a bed time story but instead told her of a heroic and courageous woman named Yael who cleverly turned the tide of an important Jewish battle, back in Biblical times. She had sat and listened intently, enthralled by her mother's words. Although she never told her older brother, the young one felt proud her name had such a meaning and aspired to one day be cunning and courageous like the woman in the story she had learned. That night, she was sure the proud smile had remained on her lips even as she slept.

They had spent summers as a family on the beaches of Haifa and those were the memories she clung on to with everything that she had, blindingly clear in her mind as if she'd managed to keep snapshots. Laughing with her mother and father, chasing her brother with fistfuls of sand as her grandparents watched on with pride in the fact that they had finally reached their idea of 'the perfect life'. Yael had a lot to thank her grandparents for, especially her ability to speak Russian as if she'd lived there all her life. The couple had scarpered to Israel as outcast Jews not long after its formation, grateful they had managed to escape the grips of WWII, if only with their lives. Instead of the more common second language of Arabic or even English, Russian had been spoken so commonly in her household that it took its place instead. Yael had had no idea all those years ago that as she harmlessly sat singing old Russian folksongs on her grandfather's knee, one day it would give her the ability to earn the trust of one of the most ruthless terrorists the world had ever seen.

It was as almost as if that little girl had never existed.

Instead, present was Nina Valikhanova, a woman who had experienced things that little girl couldn't ever have conjured up in her darkest nightmares. She had seen a disregard for human life that she didn't even realize was possible. But that wasn't even the most terrifying thing of all. How, giving all that she'd witnessed, could she still manage to sleep at night? How could she roll over in the Egyptian cotton, one-thousand five-hundred thread count bed sheets and close her eyes as if everything around her was as it should be? It was almost amusing that this was the thought that was keeping her up tonight.

A storm ravaged outside of the condensation-bleary windows, the likes of which she had never seen. The winds threatened to snap limbs from the trees oscillating outside and toss them aside as if they were mere twigs. The rain seemed to fall in a sheer blanket that engulfed everything in the town, spattering against the windows ruthlessly rather than droplets haphazardly falling to the ground. All the growls and howls of the gales were only punctuated by obnoxiously loud grumbles of thunder; lightning that instead of forking lit up entire clouds effortlessly. It somehow felt more threatening than it usually would as she curled up in her bed alone, trying to block out the sounds with her impromptu trip down memory lane. It could only work to an extent before seeing her brother's smile or hearing her boyfriend's laugh was torn in to by the abrupt crash of a dustbin colliding with a car some way down the street. Either that or the gut wrenching feeling of sorrow and guilt that her friends and family would no doubt assume that she was dead. She had subjected them to that pain. It was all her. Now that she was finally in Makarov's grip however, she couldn't help but feel that to some extent, it was worth it. Closing the divide between them was the only thing that she needed to focus on and for the first time in over four years it was beginning to feel like it wasn't so impossible.

Nina slipped out from underneath the white covers that adorned her spacious, double bed and sat up. The softly textured carpet was warm beneath her feet and she glanced around the relatively dark room, waiting for her eyes to adjust enough to find her way towards the door.

This was the room where she spent the majority of her time, shut inside to the point where she may as well have called it her prison. The days and weeks when Makarov stayed away from the house entirely, conducting trips to foreign countries or carrying out one of his intricate and flawless attacks, were the longest. She spent the time perfecting herself in anticipation for his return, knowing that the more she adhered to his ideas of perfection, the more tolerable her life would become. There were strict rules she was to follow in all aspects of her appearance. The clothes she was to wear were picked out for her by someone she didn't know and she had no say in what was delivered to her teak armoire. The attire she wore mainly consisted of silk blouses and tight-fitting tweed skirts – not particularly to her taste but she would never speak a word of complaint. She was restricted from wearing any kind of heels because being only slightly shorter than Makarov, anything over an inch put her above his height and it was something he quite obviously detested. As for makeup, she was allowed to wear lipstick but nothing else, nothing on her skin or her eyes. Her nails had to be filed square and couldn't be longer than the ends of her fingers – they were never allowed to be painted. He'd insisted her hair was to be grown upon arrival, to reach down just below her breasts. Never shorter, never longer, always well maintained and cut regularly to avoid damage and most importantly, never tied up. It was a lot of work but it wasn't like she had much else to occupy her days wasting away in the antique bedroom.

When he returned to the old house, things became much different. Rarely was he around during the day time, but he would always make it home in time to eat dinner with her. A knock on the door to signal the food was ready and Nina was to her feet, heading towards the dining room quickly so as not to aggravate the impatient man who would be awaiting her before he started. That was when she had to make sure she looked at her best. They would sit at the table together and eat, usually she would stay silent and he would play music to fill the void in the air. Classical mostly, by composers she wasn't familiar with. He would tell her about the pieces, what they would mean, how genius the composition was to draw out certain emotions from the listener. It was quite intriguing to hear him so engrossed in something other than his work and he could talk extensively and passionately about them as if every time he heard it, the music was new to his ears. It took a long time before she would dare speak up in a conversation with him. It felt like her voice hadn't been used in months because he was usually the only human interaction she had and she was always too scared that she would say the wrong thing or he would get aggressive that she was voicing an opinion. One night they had been listening to a piece by Tchaikovsky, something that was vaguely familiar to her, like she had heard it somewhere before but hadn't been paying very much attention. He must have caught the flicker of a smile on her lips as she listened intently and questioned her directly on her thoughts. Her response was timid but the way he spoke to her wasn't disrespectful or patronizing, it was an honest kind of interested, like he wanted to engage in conversation with her. They talked for a short time before the conversation ran dry and he headed to make a routine after-dinner Espresso – the one part of the evening he took entirely in to his own hands.

As the evening would draw to a close and once the Espressos were finished, they would have sex. What she considered was her only true purpose in the house and the only real reason he kept her around instead of tossing her out on the street. He would walk her to her room and the act was so meaningless it was almost mundane. The first few times it happened, she felt so repulsed by every touch that she had been on the verge of tears throughout most of the ordeal – something she was careful to hide, in case it angered him somewhat. Every breath against her skin seemed to linger there and she understood why women would spend hours in the shower after such an occurrence, scrubbing their skin raw. It never quite worked and she carried a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach for days on end afterwards. They would never kiss and they hadn't to this day. She had also learned that even though not being able to reach her climax was almost always the case, he didn't appreciate the feeling that he couldn't satisfy. The first time it had happened he was so angry he threw the bedside lamp at the wall in a fit of rage, sending her in to scared tears which only worsened his mood. He had screamed curse words that echoed in her mind all night long before storming out and not seeing her again for what would be three, nerve-wracking days. He apologized by leaving her a copy of Tolstoy's 'War and Peace' on her dresser and she always made sure to fake it from that day on.

Their relationship – if it could be referred to as that at all – was definitely complex, but it had improved since those recollections. They talked regularly at dinner, never about anything particularly meaningful and more importantly, never about his work. It was more an awkward kind of small talk, but it was like he was trying to break her out of her shell. It was like he knew she was a person and not just an object for his amusement and was searching to learn more about her. It made her slightly nervous but they'd slipped into a comfortable routine that left her feeling a strange sense of comfort, considering the circumstances this was all under.

Makarov had never laid a hand on her or hurt her. In fact, he defied everything she'd expected of him.

Nina walked over to her bedroom door and opened it, slipping out in to the t-shaped hallway as silently as she could manage. The house was quite large and the upstairs accommodated several bedrooms besides her own that she was unfamiliar with. Often Makarov's men would stay for a few days before disappearing off to the unknown but none of them were allowed to talk to her. She eyed up the halls, contemplating whether this was such a good idea, in the back of her mind it was obvious it wasn't. She knew he was in his bedroom, she could see the light creeping out through the crack underneath his door. It was a bold move, to disturb him without any kind of warning in a room she had never dared to step foot in before now, but she needed to start taking risks. Things weren't moving quickly enough for them and she knew that she needed to get closer to him before he got bored of her presence and she lost the best chance she had at bringing him down.

The sounds of the thunder and rain crashing down upon the roof masked the sound of her first knock at his door. Maybe it was a sign she should turn around and head back now before he knew she had ever been stood there and could scold her for it. Well, it wasn't like she was ever one for believing in signs. Once again, the brunette knocked against the cold wood and this time her action was met with a response.

"What?"

It was just one word and a simple one at that, but it told her the interruption was far from appreciated. Nina finally pushed open the door and slipped inside of the room, honestly prepared for being yelled at. But instead she was greeted by a silence and an even colder glare.

There laid Vladimir Makarov, propped up against his intricately carved headboard, a prime position for reading the thick book cradled in his lap. It was striking to see him like this. For him to look so... normal. He wasn't wearing a black suit and armed to the teeth; he was in his expensive-looking pyjamas, looking rather comfortable. He wasn't planning some God-awful scheme to kill people without a single hesitation; he was just reading a book, like she'd used to do before she fell asleep. For the first time to date, she didn't see him as some cold hearted and blood thirsty murderer. All she saw was an average man doing average things.

"I can't sleep." She choked out quickly, folding her arms around herself to try and protect her bare arms from the chill in the air.

"And you think interrupting me is going to help?" He sighed out through his nose and turned his book over so the pages were face down against the covers. He didn't look at all impressed by her explanation.

"No. I just..." she raised her shoulders in something of a helpless shrug. What was she supposed to say to him? Her mind was too alive with thoughts of her old life to let her drift off in to blissful oblivion? No. "I just felt alone."

"Would you like a hug?"

Nina stood rooted to the spot, a strange kind of embarrassment washing over her. It was obvious that it wasn't a legitimate question and now he was smirking at her. He was mocking her, wasn't he, with that cold smirk? Maybe that's how he wanted her to feel, alone and cut off from the world. Maybe he wanted her to feel hopeless.

There was nothing she could say but part of her was too concerned with what his response would be to turn and leave now. Thunder split through the silence and caused the girl to visibly jump – catching her off guard more than anything but he paid no mind. If anything, his expression had softened slightly and the smirk was quickly fading away in to something unnameable.

"You are scared of the storm?" He pried, his eyebrows rising slightly.

It took some time for her to respond. Nina wasn't scared of the storm; in fact it was quite the opposite. The way the lightning lit up the sky was beautiful and she never had a complaint for being caught in the rain. Something told her it might have been a response he was searching for though so, without verbally acknowledging him, she simply nodded her head a few times.

Makarov sat there in silence for a moment, eyeing her up as if questioning her motives. Then he did something that took her by surprise, completely and utterly. More so than any rumble of thunder or angry shout he could have mustered up would have. He leaned forward in his seated position and tugged two of the pillows out from behind him that were helping him sit comfortably. He laid them on the other side of the bed, where they had no doubt come from, before he drew back the covers. He didn't look at her and he didn't say anything but it was a clear cue that she was allowed to go over. Deciding it was more sensible not to question his gesture, she padded over the hard-wood floor and sat down on the edge of his bed hesitantly. She watched him, trying to figure out whether he was paying attention to the book or secretly observing her out of the corner of his eye to test her next move. It seemed uncharacteristically friendly of him but its genuineness seemed blatant as he spoke once more.

"My little sister, she was scared of storms, like you. Once it has died down, you will leave."

There was distance in his voice, which told her he was more occupied with his thoughts than he was concentrating on their conversation. It didn't take her long for her to bring her legs up on to the bed and lie down stiffly. She was almost nervous and he could sense it. The pillows were soft but the bed was ridiculously hard, how it could be seen as remotely comfortable was beyond her. What was comfortable though was the closeness. Physical closeness that was entirely different from when they had sex.

"What is your sister's name?" Nina finally asked as she pulled the covers up around her, trying to recreate some kind of warmth.

"Why?" He snapped, sounding far too suspicious considering the innocence of the question.

"I was just curious..." She trailed off, sounding scorned. That was what happened when she tried to make a connection with a man who didn't want to make connections with anyone.

"I would rather you weren't."

A long silence fell between them once more, but she couldn't close her eyes. Every time the thunder sounded, she felt obliged to wince or at least act like it was frightening her to some extent.

"I would read to her until it was finished, to distract her."

Nina pressed her lips together and drew a long breath in through her nose, curling her fingers in the sheets as his voice rose above the sound of the rain. Unlike how it usually sounded, stern and monotonous, his voice had transformed into something else. There was an emotion there, but something so vague she couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was. Maybe it was sadness or possibly regret. Or maybe she was trying to see something that wasn't there at all. It wouldn't have been the first time she'd confused sheer nonchalance for something else that didn't exist. Maybe she just wanted to feel he could harbour something more than hate in his heart and she found herself wondering why it mattered to her.

Makarov's fingers flipped through the pages until he was once more at the start of his book. He started to read aloud to her, his voice just clear enough to be heard over the noise of the weather.

The act drew a smile from the woman beside him, who proceeded to close her eyes and seemingly relax more into her position. It was almost as if the gesture had put her at ease. So much so that despite the fact he had told her as soon as the storm died down she was to leave, she found herself drifting off to sleep – something that earlier had seemed so out of reach. How could be lying next to the man who was putting her through all of this be the solution?

Feeling his eyes growing heavy after a while of reading, Makarov closed the book and stopped echoing the words from the pages. He hadn't realized she'd fallen asleep, for he had been far too involved with the material before him. The man's eyebrows pulled together in a frown as he contemplated shaking her awake and making her leave – he didn't like to share his bed with anyone. It took him some time to come to the conclusion he would leave her. There was something so innocent and calm about the way she looked as she slept that he almost didn't want to ruin it. The slow moving of her chest as she took each slow, relaxed breath held his attention for longer than would be considered normal. The truth was, he couldn't remember the last time he had been so close to a person who looked so completely at rest, regardless of whether she was sleeping or not.

The bedside lamp flicked off and left the room in darkness. He slipped beneath the covers and into a position suitable for sleeping, careful not to move so much as to disturb Nina and most of all making sure his back was to her. It already felt too intimate that she was in his bed, his very private and personal space, facing her would be entirely inappropriate. This way, he could pretend she wasn't there at all.

After a while, the storm fizzled away in to nothing more than a breeze playing with the damp leaves on the cold pavement outside but the sleeping pair were too out of it to notice. They were lost in a dreamless slumber, the only time in which their dangerous lives were irrelevant.

The next morning, she stirred awake in his arms, curled in to his body as if she were seeking protection from something. She briefly realized it felt nice to have a strong pair of arms around her, making her feel safe. Then reality hit her like a shovel and she remembered who it was holding her. She felt guilty the thought had even crossed her mind but didn't want to move away and disturb him prematurely. Makarov woke up not long after and released her so quickly from his grip anyone would think she was toxic to the touch. He was ashamed, embarrassed even. It might have meant nothing to her but he had let his guard down, if only for a night. He shouted, screamed at the top of his lungs that she was supposed to have left – even though he knew it wasn't a viable complaint considering he'd knowingly fallen asleep with her there. He looked so angry with her. Nina clambered to her feet and almost fell out of the bed, scared and confused, desperate to hide herself away in her room. For the first time in recent memory, Makarov felt guilty for treating someone the way he had. It shook him to the core and he left her, not to return for a whole day.

Upon his arrival back, he left a book on her desk. A copy of the one he'd been reading her that night they'd spent together. He didn't apologize. In fact, he didn't speak a single word to her that evening over dinner. He didn't even play music.

After all those awkward silences and shifty looks, he took her to her room and they had sex. They had sex and for the first time ever, entirely caught up in the act at hand, they shared a kiss.