Makarov was gone abroad, and so for a few fleeting days, everyone could breathe.

The men still ran the drills, still barked orders, still enforced discipline, but it was different. They weren’t Makarov, couldn't hurt like him. Things changed, not much, just small things. The rations were a little bigger. The young trainees were allowed to sit after training instead of standing at attention for hours. The punishments were less cruel.

The nights weren’t filled with muffled screams.

You did what you always did when Makarov was gone; you took care of the kids.

It started with Dima. He was small, barely seven, and he always clung to you like a shadow. When you sat down after training, stretching out your sore limbs, he wordlessly crawled into your lap and pressed his face against your chest. His hands were shaking. They always did, even when there was no reason to be afraid.

You wrapped an arm around him, rubbing slow circles into his back. That was all it took - one by one, the others followed.

Sasha, eleven, silent but sharp-eyed, curled into your side. His head rested against your shoulder, and you could feel the way he exhaled, slow, deep, as if he hadn’t had the luxury of a full breath in days. Then Tanya and Misha, ten and nine, sitting on either side of your legs. Tanya leaned her forehead against your knee, Misha rested his head in your lap.

Even the older ones, the ones who usually kept their distance softened. Kirill sat nearby, his rifle resting against his knee, holding your hand. Nikita, the best shot in the camp, gave you a piece of bread from her rations.

It was quiet. Peaceful.

It was the first time in weeks, maybe months, that there had been no blood spilled, and they flocked to you. Not just because you were warm, or older, or stronger...

They knew. You were Makarov's favourite. You'd suffered the most.

But in this quiet repreive, where they laughed and sang and cuddled and played, there was peace.