It was a perfect break in, waiting to happen.

He'd pulled hundreds and hundreds of quick, perfect heists in his life, and this would be no different. His car was parked at the base of the castle, hidden in brush, and the hike up the steep hill it sat atop was refreshing.

He'd also gone to the trouble of profiling the owner, and the house's layout. It would be simple to break in, grab the painting, and then run...

Better, he was halfway done! A back window on the top story was pried open carefully, and then he slipped silently into the darkened room -- the same room that would hold the painting!

He knew it from reputation alone. Pieces in the collection it belonged to were never loaned, never catalogued or photographed. Those visitors who had been shown the painting recalled being impressed by the haughty smile of the long-dead noble whose portrait it was. They could never remember being given the artist's name, and he couldn't guess if the owner himself even knew it.

The artist was unimportant anyway. His want for the painting stemmed from a worth other than provenience. He did not intend to sell it...

Black-booted feet, heavily gripped in rubber so he wouldn't stumble on the run back down the hill, carried him soundlessly across the room towards this goal. It was lovely, the detail work so exquisite it might as well have been a photograph...

/Don't linger,/ he warned himself, pulling a piece of thick black material from the pack he had thrown over one shoulder. A quick toss, and the smirking face was covering, enshrouded in heavy black while the thief got his hands in grip at either side and began to oh so very carefully slid it up off the mounting.

His care was for naught. The precious painting had just cleared its mounting when he felt a cold, familiar circle press firmly into the back of his head. Gravity quickly took the artwork from stunned hands to the floor in a loud clatter, and it was only after the room had returned to silence that his captor spoke.

"And what do we have here...?" a light tenor inquired, its accent British and highly amused.

The thief's hands slid skywards for the moment as he looked over his options while there was a gun pressed firmly at the base of his skull. Hundreds flickered, but none that assured him survival.

"You're lucky," he commented, still not moving from his position of facing the wall. "Very lucky."

"And you're quite stupid."

There was a snap of more cold metal at one of his raised wrists, and a soft metallic jangle as it was forced down. Handcuffs. Who on earth kept handcuffs near when they slept? For certainly at this time of night the castle's inhabitants should have been slumbering in their beds!

"The other hand now, behind your back and slowly," the voice requested. It could be polite and still expect obedience, when backed up by the threat of the gun muzzle buried in the thief's hair.

"Had many break ins for this painting?" He obeyed even as he spoke, both hands coming down behind his back. The second cuff locked closed and he wanted -- very badly -- to laugh. Standard police cuffs. He could get them open in a second, while the owner of the house turned his back at some point. And the man hadn't even noticed the very discreet black shoulder holster he wore.

But once cuffed, the thief dared to turn around, pivoting slowly where he stood. The chill barrel of the gun brushed his lip, and the thief registered the sensation as he looked at his temporary captor. He could make out planes and lines in the near perfect darkness, enough to know it was a thin, tall man, long hair, probably a good face... "Might as well turn on a light."

"The painting...?" Maddeningly -- though as holder of the gun he was allowed it -- the captor laughed, a lighter, freer sound than ever had passed the thief's lips. "You expect me to believe you've come for that painting? I was baiting you before, but now I see that you truly *are* stupid."

A hand materialised from the darkness, settling on the intruder's shoulder in an effort to steer him to the wall and the light switch, unintentionally touching the strap of the holster and recognising it immediately for what it was. More laughter, quiet this time, almost sensual, as the hand slowly slipped down the thief's chest, relieving him of his firearm. "Yes... I think light is needed, to see what *other* surprises you have hidden on your person."

A dozen stumbled steps, then muted, museum quality light flooded the room, followed by a soft gasp from the captor.

"Oh... My goodness!"

Both men were surprised.

NATO. Fucking NATO. The British man who owned the collection, a renowned earl, fop and flounce was... fucking NATO. It explained the gun and the arrogance to the thief, as he took in markings on the man's uniform quickly, filing them away. There was also the errant thought that the man with the curly blonde hair and big blue eyes looked just like the man in the painting.

So this was Earl Dorian Red Gloria. Standing tall in a well fitted uniform, bearing the markings of a Major. /I should have realised. I should have done more research, not been so fucking confident.../ The thief was kicking himself now for not having done the proper research himself. It had been so long since the last time he'd been caught...

"Well, fuck." There was a particular edge to his thickly accented voice as his eyes alighted on his gun, held in the NATO man's hands.

Those large blue eyes recovered quickly from their shock, no less large for having done so, but now brimming with a curious intelligence. "No, thank you. We haven't even been properly introduced."

His captive was surprising on so many levels that Dorian was having a difficult time deciding which was the strongest. That he'd made it over the fence and to the castle's walls undetected was either luck or skill; neither had held against the intricate security system -- NATO's latest developments in that area -- that had been tripped as he'd come through the window.

Taken in pieces, the man's appearance was not unusual. Every day Dorian was in the field he faced eyes as flat and brittle, jaws set as stubbornly, shoulders as broad and loaded with the strength of muscle. Taken as a proper composition, the man was unnerving for his fierce beauty.

It wasn't often Dorian relished patting down enemy agents. The mere thought of putting his hands on Mischa usually set his stomach to roil. What he felt as he conducted his leisurely search of the unknown German was quite the opposite, though centred in his stomach just the same. "I don't suppose you'll make this easy on us both and just tell me who sent you?" he asked cheerfully, finishing with no more weapons discovered.

"Sent me...?" It took a moment to process, that question, and when the NATO man stood upright again, he met those blue eyes with a flat grey-green gaze. "I don't know what you mean. I came here to steal The Man in Red."

"Dear old Cousin Benny?" the blonde asked incredulously. His eyes flicked to the painting in question, a full-length portrait of his distant ancestor, Benedict the Red. "What on earth do your Soviet masters want with him? Going to try to blackmail me with proof that the men in my family used to wear tights?"

"Soviet?!" The thief almost strangled on that word, obviously outraged. Flat eyes seemed to have been struck with flint for a moment, flaring threateningly to life. "I'm not fucking Soviet! I'm loyal to Westdeutschland!" It was hard to stay still, to not lunge... no, not yet. Later he would, snap this man's neck, and be done with it.

But for the moment, the intruder stayed still, quietly snarling with his gaze at the man who'd caught him.

The man weighed briefly the little information he'd gleaned about the thief from appearance and speech, and finally gave a dismissive shrug. "We'll know the truth soon enough. Tomorrow I'm taking you in, to be fingerprinted and photographed and questioned. For tonight..."

Tonight he was weary after the surveillance job from hell. Twenty-two hours watching some damned *woman* in the company of Agent James' fawning and not enough coffee was enough to make even the most reasonable man a bit peckish. And Dorian -- or rather, Eroica, his NATO codename -- had a reputation far beyond reasonable. Downright impetuous was more like it.

Taken in...? Taken *in*? No, Klaus von dem Eberbach would NOT be taken in! Once his fingerprints were processed he'd be quickly identified as Panzer, and then, he'd be rotting in an ICPO prison cell until he could break free. /I'll escape before then,/ he told himself with assurance, levelling a flat gaze at the British man who'd thwarted what was supposed to have been a perfect job.

"For tonight...?" he pressed impatiently.

The blonde eyed him critically, a flicker of... something in bright sapphire. "For tonight, 's a pity you're the enemy, because I'm tense as hell and could've used a good fuck."

Shock registered in sharp green eyes that went wide. "You fucking pervert! Get the hell away from me!"

Pervert... perhaps. Fucking? Sadly, not this night. The blonde laughed again, and began to pat down his pockets. Finding what he was looking for, he fitted a cigarette to his lips. It stayed there, bobbing lightly with speech as hunted for his lighter. "Don't worry, Darling. It's against NATO policy to rape prisoners. Besides, you've eyes like slate and very likely a personality to match. You're not my type."

"Gut." *Wonderful* to know, in fact, but it still didn't ease Klaus' nerves any, shifting his stance to something that was damn near parade rest; perhaps it didn't help that his hands were stuck behind his back. "Can I have a smoke? I didn't know I was a NATO prisoner."

The request halted a lit, flickering lighter half way to the blonde's lips. "You want fag, eh?" he purred, delighting in the look of discomfort that flitted across the German's face. "Very well. Admit first that you knew you were a NATO prisoner. I saw you studying my uniform."

"I was trying to figure out why the security was better than I anticipated," Klaus told him with a frown. "But I haven't committed any crime against NATO, so I should not be a NATO prisoner." Interpol, now... oh, that idiot from Interpol would be delighted to get his hands on him, even if it was just for the few moments before Klaus found a way to escape. Preferably in a hail of bullets.

That thought more than made up for the humiliation he was suffering just then.

"You have committed a crime against my personal premises, at the very least," Dorian informed his sullen prisoner, finally finishing the motion of lighting his cigarette. The very one which had spent such time clasped between the blonde man's lips was offered to the brunette with a smile. "You can consider this a citizen's arrest, if it makes you feel better." Though not actually caught pilfering secrets, he was under *suspicion* of crimes against NATO as well.

"Fine." Oh, and now to get a nicotine fix to ride out the surge of wasted adrenaline he'd built up to get away cleanly, he had to put his lips on the smoke that had been dangling from that faggot's mouth... /Don't give him any more pleasure by flinching back. Perverts like this enjoy a good reaction. Sick fucker./ He had to lean forwards a little to catch it between his lips, but he did, then returned to his former position. Quite adept at smoking without his hands, that much was apparent to Dorian.

Enemy agents usually were. Came from so much time spent in handcuffs, he supposed... Putting a Soviet in a room to simmer for a few hours without his cigarettes was almost as good as hot lights and sleep depravation for wringing information from them.

Though Dorian had never found those tactics as effective as seduction, nor nearly as much fun.

"What should I do with you for the remainder of the night...?" the blonde agent mused, mostly to himself, as his lips procured another cigarette. What was the most uncomfortably room in the castle? That was where the German should have to wait out the time until morning, punishment for stealing any of Dorian's precious sleep-time, and for mistreating poor Benedict so.

"Do you think I care?"

Oooh, testy.

The thief let a breath of smoke out of the edge of his mouth. It was strange that he didn't even shift his feet. Either the man was a very patient thief of some skill -- though, not much intelligence to have been caught! -- or he was a mid-level Soviet officer under-cover and completely unwilling to blow his cover.

Klaus was lucky he couldn't see those thoughts turning through the Britain's mind; if he could, he would have snapped with rage. That rage was famous in Panzer, a man who got what he wanted, for the price he wanted, and if blood-shed happened, well, it happened. "'s been a while since I've been caught. You should be fucking proud of yourself."

"Not for catching a stupid criminal," was the blonde's haughty response, going a good way to inviting that lurking rage. The gun he'd held to the German's head -- just a little thing, all engraved chrome with a mother-of-pearl handle -- was now tucked back into its hip holster. The thief's weapon, a large calibre monster, he tapped against his hand as he circled thoughtfully. "I catch enough smart ones that my ego doesn't care for a victory I didn't have to expend any real effort to achieve."

What good was a give-away prize? Capture for Eroica had always been secondary to the hunt, both in seduction and in bringing criminals to justice.

"Don't break the gun -- 's fucking expensive," Klaus couldn't help but snarl as he levelled an angry gaze as the blonde each time he circled. "I fucked up this time -- but I'm not stupid. Just wait until you run checks on me. You'll fucking regret that you ever decided to give me your name."

"It's a very *big* gun," the blonde remarked, somehow turning a simple statement into something horribly indecent with the addition of a slow sweep of eyes raked up his captive's body. "Such a dangerous toy to be playing with... We need to make it a bit less so, eh?" He casually pulled the clip, flicking bullets out with his thumb to patter to the marble floor like hail, until it was empty. And then, on a hunch...

"And one already in the chamber. I'm impressed." Another mark against the German's story. No thief was so professional with a firearm. "I haven't told you my name, by the way," he added, that last bullet skittering across the floor. "Although you must already know it's Lord Gloria. Even if your research wasn't particularly thorough, anybody in town could have told you *that*."

Sharp ice glittered in green eyes, anger dancing behind them. If the man was an enemy agent, he'd just made a horribly dangerous enemy. "Lord Dorian Red Gloria, renowned art collector, pervert," he said sharply, as if it were being read from a dossier. "NATO was not mentioned." A thinning of his lips, and he looked over the man's uniform again. No, he wore it properly. It wasn't just a front. Another slow drag taken from his cigarette and the taste suddenly went wrong; with a cough, he spat out the filter that he'd smoked down to. Still coughing some, he glared up at the Britain as if that had been his fault. "Are we going to stand here all evening?"

"You have me at a disadvantage, *sir*," Dorian drawled, completing another circle around his captive. When he reappeared, the weapons had traded places, the thief's large gun tucked into his waistband as it wouldn't fit the holster, his own small, elegant weapon in his hand, motioning. "One which I assume you intend to keep me at. Now, the door, if you please. I've finally decided what to with you."

"Gut." He did move towards the door, turning his head to take in the intricate security system that surrounded the window. Next time... next time he would do it right, dammit! "You will remain at a disadvantage until I am taken into custody." Which would not happen. The moment the man left him alone, he'd slip the cuffs and escape.

But as Dorian reached past him to open the door into the hallway, Klaus was aware of something. Eyes -- the professional in him sensed it, that the NATO man behind him was watching him intensely. He half-turned, looking over his shoulder, and caught where the man's gaze was.

"Fucking pervert." One more notch against the agent!

"You sound like a broken record, Darling," the agent pointed out helpfully, in his maddeningly even and light tone. The precise quality which made it so maddening Klaus finally identified as a sort of odd familiarity, tangible like a caress, which made his skin crawl unpleasantly to hear. "Is that the extent of your vocabulary of vulgar English? Feel free to switch to German, or Soviet even. I'm fluent in both."

"[What else are you fluent in?]" Klaus asked, switching to Italian as he was paced down the repetitive halls of the castle. "[Very much?]" That was asked in French. Both Italian and French were surprisingly clear, his accent mostly repressed before he switched to German. "[I cannot speak Soviet. Nothing more than 'da' and 'nyet'. You are wasting your time suspecting me of being a Soviet.]"

His brief words in Italian earned Klaus a blank look from his captor, but French was met with a bemused smile. "[Darling, *everyone* can speak French. But I'd just about rather eat my boots than spend any length of time in Italy.]" If he hadn't understood, the lilt and cadence of the language had been easily recognisable. Back to English, as he finished, "As for you *being* Soviet, I know you are not. Doesn't mean you're not working for them."

At turns Dorian indicated directions with a wave of his gun. Thus directing his captive, he took him a short way down a small hallway and into an empty side room lined with shelves, which had probably at one time served as a linen closet. "Here's a good enough place for you, for the time being," the prickly German was told, as Dorian backed for the door. "But I doubt it would hold against an extended effort at escape. So as soon as I ready a more... suitable place, I'll come back for you."

Another step, and he turned again at the door, adding as an afterthought, "By the way... I hope you won't mind that the dungeon is a little drafty. I would have remodelled with all the modern comforts, but I never expected to have the need to put someone down there!"

Klaus was quiet and unmoving until the door was closed. Then he bent forwards, working the cuffs as far down against the meat of his palms as he could manage. Just the leeway he'd need to shift his cuffed hands past his ass to rest against the backs of his thighs, still bent that way. Then, just as smoothly as all of his other motions, he shifted, rolling from that strange crouch down onto his back, weight carrying through to his shoulders, where he held.

And then slipped his long lean legs down with a bit of bending that left his cuffed hands now at the front of his body.

Klaus stood again, reaching at the inside waist-band of his sleek black pants, pulling free a pick that he positioned in his teeth, bringing his cuffed hands up to his mouth to work quickly at them.

The stupid limey had underestimated him.

~~~~~~~

Dorian's thoughts were the mirror of those as he stood before the empty spot on his gallery wall, which had until recently housed The Man in Red. Returning from his foray into the dungeon, it should have been an easy thing to check the portrait over for damage and replace it on its hangers, straight and proper.

He could not do either, with the painting conspicuously absent from the room.

/It would seem that I underestimated that German fellow..../ Dorian mused tiredly, raking an unhappy hand through his heavy curls. No sleep for him yet, it would appear. A break-in and capture, and subsequent escape by a suspected enemy agent was a matter of immediate priority, one NATO needed to deal with while the trail was warm. The German could still be in the area, could possibly be taken back into custody.

He needn't investigate the little closet to know it would be empty, the lock on the door picked somehow, and its captive gone.

Back out into the hallway, and Dorian headed for the kitchen, where he might find a telephone and hopefully some coffee. In order of priority though, coffee turned out to be the more pressing, and he got a pot of it brewing before he even considered reaching for the phone.

Fingers made clumsy by tiredness slowly dialled a familiar number. When ringing on the other end was answered, Dorian muttered, "Hallo, Bonham. Yes -- I know I just got off duty. But I've got a bit of a... situation here..."

~~~~~~~

"[Worst fucking try in years,]" Klaus informed the young blonde man who opened the door after his perfect series of raps fell against the nondescript wood of the door. After snagging the painting properly, he'd made it down the hill to his car and driven off quickly. If anyone had followed him, they'd been completely lost. He'd dodged any car that had been in his rear-view for more than two blocks; it had taken and extra half an hour, but safety was all important after his close call. "[A, pull up everything you can about NATO in London. Everything. And investigate a 'Major Gloria'.]"

After handing the loot of the evening to B, he stormed down the short hallway to the main room and snatched his smokes off of the table.

The three thieves in the front hallway exchanged worried looks after watching their leader stalk down the hall, reaching by mutual consent the decision of which among them would go after him. The young blonde, Z, was an obvious favourite of Panzer's, and was less likely to be yelled at or hit -- or even shot -- than his fellows for asking indelicate questions.

"[Thanks a lot, guys,]" Z muttered, slinking down the hallway after Panzer and whatever punishment might come from disturbing him in so foul a mood.

At the door to the bedroom Panzer had claimed as his, Z knocked lightly. "[Panzer...? All the men are gathered for news of the heist, and for new orders. What shall I tell them?]"

"[Tell them nothing,]" Klaus uttered, smoking furious, with another cigarette at ready. He was sprawled a bit stiffly across the bed, laying on his back as he tried to relax for a moment. "[Who did research on this originally, Z? Was it you?]"

The door he'd cursed as an inhibitor to conversation Z now was intensely grateful for, as through it he couldn't see just *how* angry Panzer was. He sounded no angrier than usual when in the odd instance something went wrong in a heist, but that was plenty angry enough! Z had seen weapons drawn and shots fired when he was in a better mood.

"[Y-yes Panzer, it was.]" He and G, and G had done the bulk of it, but Z was safer from any truly vicious punishment for screwing up than the petite little thief. "[Something was wrong with the data? Had the layout of the house changed? Was the painting not where you'd expected it to be?]"

"[HE'S A FUCKING NATO OFFICER!!! WHY the FUCK wasn't I TOLD this?!!!]" Now, NOW he could be grateful for that door! "[Get in here now, Z. Get in here now, and I won't shoot you through the door.]"

"[I-impossible, Panzer,]" the youth stammered, slipping through the door with speed and a thief's typical grace. "[I was s-standing next to it, just in case...]" Always truthful to a fault to those he was loyal to, that quirk was one of many which endeared the sombre young man to his leader.

As for the matter of the Earl being NATO... "[I'm sorry you weren't informed. We ran the usual background checks, and turned up nothing unusual.]" Which left the question of how Panzer had discovered that fact.

"[The rank of 'Major', probably in intelligence, is nothing unusual?!]" His boss was standing now, in the middle of the room, still smoking furiously. "[The system was more high calibre than I suspected. Than you told me to expect -- and I was fucking caught. If I hadn't have escaped, I'd be rotting in an ICPO cell within twelve hours, and it would be *your* fault!!]"

"[You were caught?!?]" That fell from stunned lips before Z could register the thought, and he flushed violently after. "[I didn't- There was no mention of NATO in any of the files we pulled, and wouldn't be if he's intelligence. We had no way of knowing this was anything other than a normal job. The security system -- we stole the plans from the contractor who'd installed it! They must have been falsified.]" All good excuses against his fault in Klaus' capture, but excuses nonetheless.

Panzer was notoriously un-fond of excuses.

"[You fucking screwed up. Cost me my favourite gun,]" Klaus snapped, picking up the hand-gun that was resting atop the nearest dresser. Leaving Z praying it wasn't loaded yet, though Klaus kept all of his guns loaded. He didn't aim yet -- no, Klaus was studying the weapon, lips thinned in anger. "[But I got the god-damned painting, and I got out.]"

He shifted it tighter into the grip of his hand. "[And now I want my gun back from that smart-assed fucking NATO agent!]"

It was probably, in retrospect, a bad thing for Z to have allowed his eyes to flick to the empty holster tucked under Klaus' arm.

"[The m-magnum?]" If NATO had it, it was as good as lost, likely rotting in some evidence vault already. Panzer surely knew this as well, only Panzer wasn't the rational man his underling was. Panzer didn't know when to take his losses and quit the table gracefully. For a matter of pride, Panzer would throw a small fortune in manpower and hours of exhausting work at a problem. And the frightening thing was, more often than not he won out, through sheer tenacity alone.

The gun in Panzer's hand Z eyed warily, as if it were a poisonous snake he'd discovered coiled in the middle of his path.

"[Yes, the Magnum. That fucking perverted faggot took my god-damned Magnum!]"

And then, the coiled snake struck, Klaus lifting, sighting flawlessly, and then pulling the trigger. The shot that rang out on the small room certainly sounded like a small earthquake, and to those outside his bedroom door...

It was the outer wall that took the bullet, and not the body of his youngest underling. With a frustrated noise, Klaus flicked the safety back on the gun, and tossed it onto the dresser once more, picking up another cigarette to light. "[And I will get it back. Leave. I want, within the hour, data on London's NATO head-quarters. I'll be making another break-in tonight. Wake me up in thirty minutes.]"

~~~~~~~

The Major who greeted a contingent of his team at the front door -- the steadily dependable Bonham among them -- was a far cry different from the cocky, flirtatious man who had confronted a thief in his picture gallery a scant hour before. The Major -- or Eroica, as he was fondly called by his men -- could shed his foppish facade like the costume it was, the instant duty called. " 'bout time you lot showed up," he croaked, gesturing with a very large mug, half full of coffee. Fine sapphire eyes were veined with heavy red and blinked too often, signs of sleep depravation, but at the same time held an almost manic glint. A testament to the enormous amounts of caffeine and excitement no doubt surging through his veins.

"Upstairs, I think you'll want to begin." That was to Bonham, and he motioned for his men to follow after adding, "And take someone outside and scour the grounds for prints and signs of a vehicle, Peters." There must have been one -- The Man in Red was far too heavy and cumbersome to transport on foot for far -- and it would have left tracks unless it had been of the airborne sort. And Dorian would have heard a helicopter depart, even in the dungeon.

"What'd the man look like?" Bonham asked as they started up to the gallery. "I'll have a write-up ready to run on him the moment we go back tomorrow, sir. If he was a Soviet, it's probably the most ballsy thing they've tried yet." And they had tried some ballsy things, everything from tampering with the power to trying to blow up the Major's car!

"Not Soviet," Eroica corrected, glancing back fondly to the agent who was, for all intents and purposes, his second. "German, by his own admission, and I'm inclined to believe him." The all-important distinguisher of East or West would be determined later, when they ran the man through NATO's databases.

"I'd give him three inches on my height, two not including the soles of his shoes, which looked very thick. Probably a good twenty pounds heavier, too. His shoulders were broad." And had tapered to a trim waist and below that, long, long lean legs... But that was best not added to the description. "Early thirties, I'd put him. Shoulder-length hair, very dark, cut neatly. Strong features, green eyes. Arrogant. I suspect that and his temper regularly lead him into trouble."

"He didn't hit you, did he sir?" Bonham asked as he opened the door of the gallery room. A quick sweep showed an open window, a bare wall, and part of a cigarette butt on the floor, with a smatter of ash. "He smokes? And that heavy painting, out a window..."

"That heavy painting, out a window and somehow down to the ground, all assumably without damaging it. And he *does* smoke, like a cigarette was his mother's own nourishing teat. Right to the filter -- you should have seen the look on his face when he got a lung full of- Oh -- careful of the bullets there," he cautioned, as agents spread out to nose for clues. "He wouldn't have been expecting to leave them behind, unfired at any rate, and they may have prints."

Nothing else would; the thief had worn black leather gloves. Eroica sighed, rubbing unhappily at the bridge of his nose. "And no, he didn't hit me. If I'd put him somewhere more secure than the hall closet, he'd be in custody still." A raised honey-gold brow inquired silently why Bonham had thought hitting had been involved.

"How'd you know he's violent and has a temper, sir?" Bonham questioned as three men picked up the bullets carefully with gloved fingers and bagged each separately. The intruder had probably thought it best to ignore that evidence in favour of getting the painting. The older agent looked from the bare gallery wall, and then to the window. Not smashed in any way or form. Before Dorian could answer him, Bonham instructed two men to see how the window was opened in the first place. Especially since it locked from the inside.

The shorter agent earned himself a bark of laughter for his question. "Oh, Bonham! You know what a keen appraiser of personality I am, and this man simply exuded violence. Violent temper, violent words, all cocked and ready to explode at a moment's notice."

Now, with wide eyes, Bonham looked at the bare wall in confusion. "Why would a chap like that steal The Man in Red?"

Eroica smiled a mirthless smile, and touched a hand to his friend's shoulder. "That, my dear fellow, is precisely the question which has been troubling me all night."

~~~~~~~

Windows, he liked to think, were his speciality.

Doors were, of course, easier, and one could also rest their feet as they worked. But Klaus was a man who sought high adrenaline and high challenge in his break-ins. The harder it was, the better -- and loosening the casing of a window in the NATO intelligence building, while clinging to the wall with nothing more supporting him than an eye-hook he'd slipped in a crack, was nothing if not hard!

But the work paid off when the window slid up and he unhooked the harness from the eye-hook and slipped in through the window.

What his hirelings had gone though to attain both the information on Major Gloria and a rough floor plan of London's NATO office, within the hour he'd allotted them, Panzer didn't care. Palms had been greased and asses kissed, favours called in and the odd blackmail as well, and, failing all those other means, the threat of violence. By the time Z had woken Panzer at the appointed time he was frazzled and glassy-eyed, but had redeemed himself completely.

There was nothing in the tidy little office Klaus entered that immediately marked it as belonging to the Major. That changed as he neared the desk, and saw upon it a single large red rose in a bud vase. Its scent tickled unpleasant memory; the owner of the desk had had that same scent around him not three hours before.

"Fag."

A sighed word muttered under his breath as he plucked the rose out of the vase, and began to methodically strip the petals off the beautiful flower. It wasn't out of some wildly vicious whim -- no, it was out of a whim that was a controlled sort of viciousness. Each one plucked free carefully, laid in two neat stacks of the curling red petals, the barren stem shoved back into the vase.

It was then, and only then -- while looking at the two neat little stacks of petals and chuckling to himself at the look the Major would have when he saw that come morning -- that Klaus pulled out his calling card and set it down on the desk. Then began to rifle through the man's desk for a pen to write with.

The cigarettes he found were pocketed.

Nothing else he found in any of the drawers -- unlocked, locked or secret -- held any interest for the thief. Perhaps if he actually *had* been an agent working for the Soviets... But paper secrets had never been his wares, and he was more than a little loathe to take away with him anything too intimately linked to the blonde Major.

His search did net him several pens, all ridiculous, sleek fountain pens of the type favoured by fat bankers and, apparently, fag NATO agents. It made his fingers itch uncomfortably to write with it.

If he'd been just a few minutes earlier in coming, he could saved himself some trouble. Just as he was putting the finishing flourishes in his note, the sliver of light lapping beneath the office door became a wedge, and then a full arc as the door was pressed open. A slight figure more furtive than Panzer ever bothered to be slipped inside, closing the door again and turning on tiptoes before he realised that he was not alone in the room.

"AAAAHHH!!!"

"Good-fucking-bye!" Pen slid from his fingers, and he drew himself up to full height mere seconds before he clocked the tiny man with a half-strength punch that took consciousness from him. Only after he'd clipped the man's jaw did he drag him nearer the window to look at.

Pale, boyish face, brown hair curling around it, small, wearing a piecemeal suit that had small patches sewn into it. A little confusing for Panzer, as he dropped the presumed agent to the floor again. "More Fags." They just crawled out of the wood-work in this place! What the hell kind of place was NATO?! It was a terrible disrespect for such a powerful military agency...

The thin twine in Klaus' back pocket was put to use quickly, binding the young man's hands and ankles behind him. Then the man's own tie was used as a gag, before Klaus pulled the chair out from the desk, and carelessly tossed him into the space beneath the desk, before pushing the chair back into place.

Then, satisfied that there at last would be no more interruptions, Klaus picked up the finger-itching pen and finished the note to that damned major in sharp, precise script.

~~~~~~~

In the end, the investigation at Dorian's castle had taken several more hours and all of the Major's remaining energy. The normally even-tempered man grew snappish and increasingly incoherent, until finally Bonham had wrestled him into a side room and pushed him down on a divan and told him to stay put.

He had snagged an hour's rest there, and two more in bed after the investigation had concluded, and woke the next morning to the raucous cry of his alarm clock and the realisation that half of his discomfort came from the fact that he'd slept in his uniform, boots, holsters and all.

By varying his shower by turns blistering hot and prickly cold, he'd managed to drag himself into a semi-alert state. More coffee had helped the cause, although he'd opted to have his chauffeur drive him to the office as a precaution. At the door he was greeted by the usual rush of his team, bearing this morning rumours and questions instead of gossip. Was it true someone had broken into his house? Stolen a painting? Captured and escaped? Motive, identity, appearance?

It was an odd scene, to see the tall blonde agent awash in a sea of his fellows, trying to offer brisk answers and at the same time wade for the peace of his office, where he could hopefully hide for a few restful moments before being called in to report to the Chief. And he couldn't help but notice as he waded that in the excitement around him, the voice usually most shrill and fawning was not present. Blessedly, but worriedly also.

"Has anyone seen James...?"

"Uhm, no, sir!" Peters told him pleasantly enough as Dorian lingered just beside his office door, as of yet not opened. "He's probably playing at the bank -- I'm sure he'll report soon."

Well, that didn't strike him as *too* out of the ordinary, as he swung open his office door and then closed it behind him.

Office -- sweet, comfortable office. His filing cabinets, his window that was slightly ajar, his chair, his desk emitting a muffled thumping sound, the vase on his desk that bore only a stem, and the plies of rose-petals on his blotter, discreet piece of card-stock...

Something was clearly, *SHARPLY* amiss.

As neither the window nor the mutilated rose nor the card were quite so demanding in their attention as the complaining desk, the desk was attended to first. Dorian was a bit confused when a trip behind the desk did not yield the source of the noise, but soon discovered, when he pulled the chair out from its place, a very dishevelled and frantic-looking Agent James crammed in the tiny space which normally accommodated his knees.

If nothing else, the man would never live down the fact that he'd been gagged with his own tie. Eroica would see to that.

"Dear God!" As there was nothing else to do to extract the hog-tied agent, Dorian simply picked him up, setting him down in the chair and setting about immediately cutting his bonds. A small, utilitarian knife produced from somewhere on Eroica's person made neat work of the twine, and some fumbling behind James' head unknotted his tie. "Are you all right?"

"Ma~ajor Glo~oria!!!!!!!!! I was attacked by a monster!!!" James broke instantly into a hysteria, throwing himself at the Major, arms wrapped tightly around him. "A complete monster!!!"

"Let... me guess..." Breathing was a difficulty, not to mention talking, with James clinging so tightly to his neck. Eroica tried to dislodge his agent gently, while at the same time offering the awkward comfort of patting his back. "Large, dark shoulder-length hair, menacing green eyes?" There was no one else the blonde could recall thwarting recently who would be driven to such extreme lengths for revenge.

"Yes! He was a monster!!" James began to wail again.

It was then, moving back a little from his desk as best he could, that the two piles of rose-petals could be seen again, and the piece of card-stock that bore writing.

Almost, he reached for it. The urge was overpowering to examine the tight, precise script more closely, for all that he knew it would mean disturbing evidence.

"Shh, shh... Let's get you checked over, and then you can tell your story." Counting backwards, Dorian's mind discovered 5, perhaps 6 hours that James could have been tied beneath the desk. He was surely thirsty, and probably needed to use the restroom fiercely!

"I'm fine, I just don't want that monster ever coming near me aga~ain!!!" James wailed, right in Dorian's ear. "He was horrible!!!"

The Major winced, one eye blinking closed as he hunched that shoulder. He had to snap James out of his hysteria, before his wailing busted one of Dorian's eardrums. And it was perhaps cruel, but Dorian knew just the way to do it. "Oh, I don't know if I would go that far... He was intense, certainly, and arrogant, but also quite... intriguing."

It wasn't until after he'd spoken that he realised he'd meant the words.

"You're crushing on him?!!!! Sir!!!!!!"

James must have, too, because his wail only got worse!

Dorian finally had to let the poor agent go, for the sake of his own hearing. He couldn't tend to James all day, as much as the little man would have enjoyed it. No, his office had been broken into, and that needed to be taken care of quickly.

"I am not-"

But it was pointless arguing anything with the little agent, once he'd wrapped his mind around an idea. It came from a background in accounting, the Major supposed. All day long, fixating on tiny columns of numbers... It was a real shame that James was so adept at auditing and uncovering money laundering, because those skills made putting up with his quirks a necessity.

/I am not 'crushing' on him./ With James wailing incoherently, the only person Dorian could hope to have a legitimate discussion with was himself. /He is fascinating, but only because I haven't run into such a challenge in a very long time. I will enjoy greatly discovering his identity and tracking him down.../ Any more was unthinkable, because the German was every bit as horrible as James was painting him, and no sleek, gorgeous body was worth putting up with such a foul personality! /Even if we weren't on opposing sides of the law./

Satisfied in that line of reasoning, Dorian drug the still-hysterical James into the hall and down to the outer office, wincing when said hysterics immediately drew the attention of several of his men.

"Peter, please see to Agent James. There's been a break-in, and he's had a bit of a tangle with a mean-tempered, German brute. Jones, I'll need my office swept for evidence and bugs. And check the security tapes to see if there's a workable image to match against the database."

The men given orders broke into groups, quick and efficient -- and the first thing that Jones spotted inside the office was the card, which he grasped at the edges so as not to loose possible finger-prints.

"Sir!! Sir, this card..."

The card solved all questions of the man's identity.

"Sir, it's *Panzer*. The man is *Panzer*!!!" There was an edge to his voice as he shouted that to the Major still standing in the main office. Panzer was a thief and a killer with a hard reputation behind him.

No-one crossed him and lived for long. He wasn't above blackmail, but seemed to work mostly in the circles of precious pieces of art-work, and occasionally jewels. Famous for being strong enough to able to shoot a Magnum one-handed. Tall, strong, fanatically Western German, brilliant and hot-tempered.

The brilliant planning skills and hot temper probably cancelled each other out more often than they helped each other.

That was about all that came to Dorian's mind from a vague mention or two he'd heard about the thief over the years. No-one knew his real identity, and the ICPO had him on the top-ten list at nearly all times. They even had an officer who was supposed to work only to find Panzer -- although he was incompetent.

"He says, sir -- he says: 'I've got your painting, you've got my gun. Care to trade, Major Gloria? I'll show up for your answer in the next 24 hours.' "

Three things occurred to Dorian at once. First, that he would have to suspend his investigation into the terrorist activities of a suspected IRA member in favour of trying to land a more interesting fish. Second was that 'Panzer' was both worthy of his weighty reputation and far more complex than it had hinted. Pride had never been mentioned, though clearly it was greatly motivating to the man.

Third was that he hated these leaps in rational thought. He made them unconsciously, and at their end always found himself committed wholly to whatever conclusion they'd led him to.

Panzer was dangerous. Panzer was fascinating. Eroica would be the one to finally bring him in.

After having deposited James in the care of Peter, the Major returned to his office. A thorough investigation was already well underway, his men as always making him proud with their professionalism. Aside from the card and the mutilated rose, there was little evidence Panzer had left behind. No bugs, no fingerprints. Not even so much as a thread or a hair. What he'd taken had been even more curious. The mental run-own of everything he'd kept in his desk had turned up only two items missing, even though all his drawers had been ransacked.

Panzer had taken with him a black fountain pen and a pack of cigarettes. Not precisely a bountiful haul for such an infamous thief.

Then again, maybe the man had needed a pen to write with, and a smoke?

That was probably his biggest fault, pride aside. Was a gun worth *SO* much trouble? It was just a gun... trying to arrange an exchange could put the man's life on the line!

Or land his luscious ass in a prison cell -- and Dorian would be *more* than happy to assist him in getting there!

~~~~~

Once this shitty fiasco was said and done with, Klaus told himself that he'd never set foot in London until... well, for as long as possible. And only then if the money was going to be good enough to make it worthwhile. Better to rob the heritage of Italy or some other useless country for a while until his immense, severe dislike of Britons faded some.

That was the down-side of loathing a population -- it was easier to rob them without caring, and harder to stay in their midst. And during his stay in London, he'd only had proved, again and again, why he felt homesick when gone from Germany for every long.

The thief called A *knew* he shouldn't have taken his eyes of the road, even for a second, to steal a glance at his passenger. When he looked back the first thing he noticed was that he'd drifted into the right lane -- the wrong one, in the backwards Brit way of reckoning -- and that the car he drove was sharing its breadth with another vehicle.

One headed straight for them.

A terse motion of the wheel brought the Benz back into line. Thankfully a Benz was a nice, safe vehicle on top of being a very patriotic thing to drive, the reasons Panzer always procured one no matter what the situation. This particular car was dark and nondescript, freshly stolen.

There was no comment from his leader about the evasive manoeuvre, proving to A that Panzer was indeed deep in thought. That stolen glance had told him that the man's hard green eyes were closed, and that he wore the distant expression he often did when he was missing home. All the worse that he should interrupt, but there was no getting around the need. "Uh... Panzer? How much farther should I drive? We're a good hundred and fifty kilometres away from London now."

His opened his eyes in a snap, and he glanced coolly at his surroundings. "I want to be deep in the middle of no-where, A, do you understand me?" A long time ago, when he'd first started, A had had a name, and so had Z, and B, and all the others... but out of convenience of addressing them, he'd given them code-names, albeit uncreative ones. "We're going to cut him off from his men. I want him to be lost the moment he gets near me."

A hundred and fifty hundred kilometres of farmland and villages and woods wasn't enough to do that? A didn't dare let is questioning show in posture or expression, just settled into his seat and rearranged his grip on the wheel. "Okay." He'd drive through another few villages, and then begin taking some side roads. Hopefully he could find a spot secluded enough for Panzer's intents regarding the British NATO Major, whatever they might be.

Anyone sane didn't piss off Panzer -- and the British man, whatever his faults that had caused him to err so, probably didn't deserve the fate Panzer was creating for him. Brewing up in his mind even as A drove the car, and green-grey eyes slid closed again.

Long ago A had got past the point that silence disturbed him. In Panzer's presence, even the oppressive weight of his brooding was preferable to an outburst of fury, and it took only a misspoken word, a wrong look to send him from that one extreme to the other. So A drove in silence, carefully picking the smaller tributaries as they made their way farther upstream of the highways that poured traffic into London. Each turn, each name he committed meticulously to memory as he had no map, and Panzer would expect him to be able to get them both out again in the end.

Finally they ended up on a nameless road that was little more than a cart path through thick woods. When the trees' branches formed a canopy above, A decided that they'd gone far enough, and eased the car to a stop. "Will this do?"

He didn't get an answer until Panzer had risen from the vehicle, and glanced around into the thick brush. "Yes. I'll head about a hundred feet deeper in and wait. Have the NATO man contacted and tell him to arrive ASAP. Leave me the equipment."

The 'equipment' was a large, sleek stainless steel suitcase. A hurried round to get it out of the trunk, and then left it at Panzer's side before heading back to the vehicle. He watched just long enough to see the thief reach down without looking, his hand closing exactly on the handle of the suitcase as he picked the thing up and disappeared into the woods. Then he drove back to the nearest village and a telephone to recite exact directions for the rest of the gang.

After that, there was nothing to do but wait for the second phase of the operation to gather momentum. And there wasn't a reason in the world he couldn't do his waiting in the local pub over a pint...

~~~~~

A was off the hook for a few blessed minutes, while Z was put onto the hook, firmly. As the head of the second team of the operation, calling in to NATO Headquarters, directly to the Desk of Major Gloria, was his task.

Making a telephone call would seem simple enough -- unless you were a thief and trying valiantly not to get caught, and the people you were telephoning had at their disposal the latest phone tapping and tracking equipment... In the end he decided on a method Panzer probably wouldn't have approved of, but it was simple (if ingenious) and made *sense*, and it would ensure that a recorded sample of his voice didn't go into the official NATO records.

The telephone he chose to use was a public one -- thank the patron saint of criminals for that convenience! -- in a rather seedy section of town. A wad of cash bought him the services of a half-drunk bum, who was obliging enough to put his own fingerprints all over the telephone, and his own voice in record with NATO.

Not that Z told the man that in *quite* that way.

Still, it had to have been odd for the Major to answer the phone and get a chuckle to open he conversation with. "Yer... supposed to meet in the forest with a tank..."

One golden brow spoke expressive volumes as it set itself at a severe angle, Eroica's eyes raising sharply to Bonham even as he cupped a palm over the receiver. The damned thing had been thrust at him with only the briefest of explanations, that a man had demanded to speak to 'that queer Major' about trading a gun for a painting.

'Sir?' Bonham mouthed, hand lingering over the complicated device that would record the phone call at a moment's notice.

"Got that...?" the half-drunk voice slurred.

A sharp stabbing motion set Bonham to scurrying over the controls, and soon the machine was off and running silently.

"No -- wait..." Brows were synched again, both furrowed delicately over perplexed sapphire eyes. "I didn't get any of that. Listen -- is there any way you can stop mumbling?"

"Mumbling...? 'm not mumbling... 's not my thing. 'nyway... 's some pretty boy got me here..."

It took only seconds for Eroica to listen to sounds of a scuffle, and then the voice of a young man pitched gruffly. His German accent marked him as very likely one of Panzer's men. "You want your painting?"

"Oh!" Eroica's voice on the other end of the slightly bad connection was delighted. "So much better! Do you know, you don't have to bother trying to disguise your voice for my benefit, but the effect is utterly charming. I do find your accent adorable."

Z no longer wondered why Panzer had painted the major in so many glowing colours and variations of the word 'fag'. "Look, do you want to get you painting back or not?"

"You're new at this, aren't you?" Eroica asked gently. "We could be at this forever, you know, with silly questions we both already know the answer to. Follow my lead, Darling, and I'll cut us right to the quick." A nod from Bonham as he caught the agent's eye told him that the trace was progressing well, a fact which surely the young thief knew also. Not that Eroica had any hope of it turning up anything more interesting than a pay phone somewhere. "You just tell me where and when, and I'll show up with my men, and your Panzer will have you lot, and we'll try to outmanoeuvre each other while pretending we're both alone and not playing the same role in a game of cat and mouse."

/*Fuck*./

"Within the next two hours, and..." And then Z started the complicated directions A had given him. "Need it repeated...?" He'd been on the phone *far* too long and when he was done, would have to hang-up and run.

A beamed smile and a thumbs up from Bonham allowed the Major to wrap up the call. "No, thank you. Once is enough for my excellent memory." And to prove it he recited back the directions. "I'll let you go now, Darling. You don't have to run too quickly -- it will take us at least five minutes to get a car out there..." Three was more like it, but Eroica didn't want to brag too much.

Before hanging up he did have one last bit of advice. "But next time, Darling, try not to leave a witness behind. You'd better hope that your drunk has bad eyesight and a poor memory, and that Panzer never finds out..."

Z hung up first, though, shaking furiously as he bolted from the phone-booth, and gathered the thieves from his part of the plan.

God, Panzer *would* kill him if he ever found it. And it had *seemed* such a good idea at first!

Eroica was in motion before the receiver even touched its cradle. "I want Baker and Crowe to go round up that drunk," he informed Bonham as he headed for a wall map while at the same time pulling on his suit coat. "He won't be difficult to find -- the liquor store nearest that phone, I'd imagine. The rest of you I want down in..." Leaning, his finger traced remembered roads, finally stopping on a tiny village. "Latham. You've got an hour and a half to get there, so you'd best get your collective arse in gear."

"And you, Major?" Bonham asked in an anxious tone of voice. God, but how Eroica worried him some days!

Eroica was checking his weapons now, taking as much care with the various knives and a silk corded garrotte he habitually kept on his person as his little silver pistol. Panzer's monstrous Magnum was tucked unloaded into his waistband at the small of his back, a heavy, intimate reminder of the danger he was charging off to face. Not that he needed one. Already the thrill of the hunt was pulling his lips into a manic grin, and he'd felt the kick of adrenaline even before he'd hung up the phone.

"Don't worry, Bonham," Eroica assured, even as, excluding those words, everything about the Major was screaming that it was *precisely* the time to worry. "If I could fit you lot into the Lotus, I would." The sports car, paired with Eroica's lead foot, could make the drive in an hour. "I'm only going down early to look about -- I promise not to do anything until my faithful men are there to back me up."

"B-but, sir, if he's down there waiting for you... Panzer has a reputation for murder, Major!" Bonham warned. If James had've known, even the slightest bit, the room would have been filled with howls and screams of protest for the Major's safety. Only, now it was Bonham's sensible rationalisation.

"Of course he's waiting for me," Eroica reasoned, lingering to pat Bonham's shoulder encouragingly. Probably already in place, and likely pacing. Somehow Eroica couldn't imagine a man like Panzer resting in one place for very long. His brain supplied an image of the thief in question, the man's ferocious beauty and searing eyes indelible. Such a nasty personality, but SO nice to look at... "He'll be expecting me early, which is why I've got to get there earlier than early if I want to set up a trap of my own."

Maybe, when he caught the man he could take a few liberties -- like tying him up, gagging him and just *looking* at his beautiful, powerful body. Then he could have those sharp, brilliant eyes searing into his soul without the man's foul mouth to interfere with his personal fantasy.

"What trap are you setting, sir?"

"I'll tell you when you get there." It would have pricked his pride a little to admit that he didn't have one yet. Not that he was worried, with a whole hour's drive to concoct one... "You have one hour and twenty eight minutes, Mr. Bonham," he called over his shoulder on the way out the door.

And that sent the poor little man into a flurry of action.

Just the way Eroica liked to leave.

Panzer, on the other hand, was finishing with the last of equipment that he was setting up. When he'd told A he was going to catch the NATO man, he'd meant it very literally. A little payback for the humiliation of being handcuffed and locked in a small closet for a few minutes.

The gleaming steel suitcase had held ten large, heavy beartraps, and the stakes for them. And now Klaus stood in the clearing he'd half created himself, the position of each trap memorised. A feinted manoeuvre in any direction, and the other man was caught.

Leaves kicked over them hid the dull, malicious glint of metal, and Klaus decided that he was satisfied with his preparations. He had an hour until the proposed meeting time, but that damned faggot could be expected early... The thought of the Major rushing willingly to meet his trap was inordinately pleasing to Panzer. He would take back his Magnum and keep the painting too -- if nothing else, it would be a nice target to shoot at -- and leave the fucking Brit stranded, humiliated and in a great deal of pain.

By design, beartraps did unkind things to flesh, and if the blonde man had his ankle broken or lost a foot, well... That was luck.

It'd be his own damn fault if he struggled too much.

It was personal the moment Panzer had been caught, for the first time in long years. Only the poor NATO man hadn't seen it coming. A 'personal' grudge to Panzer meant imminent (sometimes 'accidental') death. Once the Earl had been caught, he'd remove the other traps and take off with his gun, with the painting already safely back in transit to Germany.

Anticipative grey-green eyes stole a glance to his watch. In another hour, he would be following. And none too soon! He couldn't wait to show his backside to this fucking country!

Back home for a while, and mainland Europe, where the steals were no less risky and all the more familiar to him. and the only idiots he'd have to deal with would be his own men and the occasional daring ICPO agent.

Watching that fag caught in a bear-trap for a few minutes, though, would be worth any delay.

Although... Was that -- yes! Straining ears caught a sound, identifying it as it grew quickly nearer as a motor can engine. No Benz ever made such an unrefined growl, like some beast trolling the narrow forest path. The fag was accommodating, beating out even Panzer's estimate of his premature arrival by a good ten minutes.

That didn't make Panzer any less ready, though -- he'd been ready for the better part of an hour already, and his pacing stopped immediately upon placing the Major as the owner of that growling engine. Frozen still, he pulled a simple pistol from a holster separate from the one that usually held his Magnum, safety off.

This was going to be satisfying.

This was going to be pleasurable. Eroica was sure of that much, as he pulled the Lotus to a tidy stop at the point in the road where fresh tire marks ended. There was the possibility, however unlikely, that he would retrieve Benedict's portrait. He would tangle with the intriguing Panzer again, and though he still hadn't a cohesive plan for capturing the man, he remained confident.

In the village it had been easy to flash his charm and winsome smile, and earn himself the whereabouts of a bunch of 'funny foreign blokes' he was supposed to meet up with. He'd watched Panzer's badly conspicuous gang from a distance, waving when spotted, and wondering which among them was the nice-sounding youth he'd spoken to on the phone. The fact that they'd huddled up for a nervous discussion rather than attempt contact told him that either fear of going against orders had killed any incentive among them, and that their orders hadn't included delaying him in any way.

Good. His men would be arriving soon and could deal with them, leaving Eroica and Panzer to face each other alone, wits against wits, just as it should be. Who knew? If this hunt ended too quickly and the Major was feeling magnanimous, he might even allow Panzer to escape, to be chased another day. That was unlikely though. Eroica expected a real challenge from a man of Panzer's reputation, and the game was just begun.

Would Panzer await him, even after having heard the car roll up? Would he be ambushed...? Or would, on some rare chance, the exchange be honourably executed on the thief's behalf?

An ambush was by far the most likely, which was why Dorian remained in the car for a long time after having parked it. After five minutes of no contact he laid on the horn a little, waited, and then cracked his window and tried shouting instead. "Panzer! I say, are you about? Where's my painting?"

Nothing. Did the man expect him to get out of his car?

Apparently, because he heard a sharp bellow from a few hundred feet back. "Get out of your car, you stupid fag -- I have your painting!"

"Oh, Darling..." The voice from the car sounded disappointed. "If you're going to lie, at least do it convincingly." While he wasn't certain that Panzer didn't have the painting, it was the most likely scenario, given what he knew of the man's reputation and personality. As a further barb he added, "And how do you know I've brought what you want?"

"Double-crossing Panzer isn't a wise decision," He heard that voice, warning, somewhat closer. Oh, dammit, where *was* the man hiding in the underbrush and trees all around Dorian's car?

The NATO Major pretended to consider, and then unexpectedly slid from his car. The motion was a practised one, smooth with grace despite the car's low race-style suspension and the blonde's length of leg. After the door was gently shut he stood for a moment, one hand absently fluffing out his riotous curls. "I don't think it counts as a double cross if we're both guilty," he called cheerily to the woods at large, still not having pinpointed Panzer's location. "But I've put forward my show of faith."

"Your show of faith is getting out of your car?" came the rough growl from his left... no, his right and above him, no... "Walk forward."

At the request Eroica's eyes fell to the ground at his feet, sodden from a recent rainfall. "Must I? I just had these boots cleaned! There's mud everywhere."

"Do you say the same things on a mission? Walk forward!!" A rough German bark, and he heard movement, quick and hard to place, from *above* and to one side.

Partially complying, Dorian took a step, then paused again, his eyes surreptitiously scanning the underbrush. "What do I have to do to get you to yell at me like that again? Because your voice, Darling... Oh, it sends absolute shivers down my spine!"

Not a glint of anything in the underbrush -- more confirmation that Panzer was probably up in the trees, or wearing heavy camouflage.

"You really are a military disgrace -- keep walking."

"When do I get to see cousin Benny?" Dorian asked again. At this point, considering that an ambush hadn't already been sprung on him, he felt safer in following the thief's orders, lulling him into thinking the NATO man was easily manoeuvred. He took one step, and more, the trees above and to the right the target now of his scanning eyes.

"Soon enough," was the gruff response -- and another movement, which brought Panzer into view, jumping down perhaps ten feet in front of him, in a clearing past the underbrush. "He's folded up in my suitcase here -- the gilt on the frame was worth more than the fucking painting." The steel suitcase looked like it very well could have held a carefully rolled painting, without damage to the paint.

And Panzer was no less alluring than he'd been the last time Dorian had seen him -- clean-cut, crisp brown slacks, an equally crisp olive shirt, and that dark, dark long hair.

Disregarding the suitcase entirely, Eroica's eyes were all over the man, lingering in an assessment that was almost fond. "Oh yes... I *do* prefer you looking smug to looking sullen. And your idea of meeting alone in the woods is such a wonderful one! Almost feels like a guilty tryst instead of an exchange." After that last remark, accompanied by a slow, sensual wetting of his lips, Eroica decided to back off a little. He wanted the German off-balance, not disgusted enough to bolt!

He DID look nearly disgusted enough to bolt, easily lifting the suitcase. "Just get the fuck over here, and give me my god-damned gun back." /This is too easy, and he has it coming now,/ the German man thought, still looking at Dorian with an almost flat glare.

"Very well. I'll want to have a look at Benny before I fetch your gun, of course -- just to make sure you haven't done anything to him like draw one of those silly handle-bar moustaches-"

Whatever he'd been about to say was bitten off in a scream, as a piece of the forest floor sprang up and snapped its steel jaws around his ankle.

Panzer calmly set down the suitcase -- dropped it really, and then picked up a stick -- setting off the rest of the traps carefully and meticulously, not caring that Eroica was all but screaming his head off as all the traps were disabled so that Panzer could properly approach him.

"For a fucking NATO officer, you aren't bright."

While Panzer had attended the other traps, Eroica had crumpled to the muddy ground, clutching at his leg in agony. Thank God for the vanity of his boots! The stiff leather footwear had prevented the trap's teeth from puncturing too deeply into his flesh, and, he was fairly certain, from breaking any bones. But there was blood everywhere; he could feel it soaking in between his toes with the little feeling remaining in the limb.

With the German approaching him now, Eroica cast a sparking glare his way, sapphire eyes made even more brilliant for the pain they held. "Y-you... 're m-marvellous..." he gritted out slowly, hampered by clenched teeth and ashen, clumsy lips. "K-knew you... wouldn't disappoint..."

"Disappoint? You mean, let myself be caught by you? No chance, limey," Panzer drawled, moving behind him to retrieve his gun from where it was nestled against the small of Dorian's back -- the only place where he guessed it could have been hidden. /I'll clean it once we're on the plane back home,/ he thought to himself as he slid it into his painfully empty shoulder holster. "Good thing you didn't double cross me, Major Gloria -- I'm in such a mood that I might tell your men that you're out here when I go to retrieve my crew."

"Wouldn't do that... Too... much hon'r." The only thing that was keeping Eroica's words coherent was his fierce focus on the man he was addressing. "You k-know... 'll nev'r give up now. You'd better s-start running..."

"Running? Panzer never runs from a foe," He all but purred, feeling comfortably smug as he started to unstake the other traps that were now harmless. No sense in wasting good equipment. "Let this be a lesson to you, 'Eroica'."

Low laughter escaped the Major, blending almost perfectly with the rasp of dry leaves as he shifted his position a little. "Run," he emphasised again. "Handsome when y're gloating... Want you ev'n more... now."

"You're a sick fuck," he reiterated -- him, the man who'd laid out six bear-traps for a man who'd taken a gun from him!! Each trap, heavy and cumbersome, was put back in the completely empty steel suitcase. "Don't gnaw your ankle off before your men find you," was the almost cheerful 'good-bye' as Panzer moved to walk past him.

With plans to drive off in Eroica's car, even as terribly foppish as it was.

It wasn't surprising in the least, considering how Panzer's plan had come together so neatly, that something should blunder in like the proverbial bull in a china shop and smash the German's soaring mood.

That something came in the form of a band of armed men, materialising from the brush like ghosts from a shroud of fog. He was completely surrounded in seconds, the gleam of rifle muzzles trained on him discouraging movement.

"You fucking *ass*," he snarled at the hobbled Eroica. "What a move -- your men?"

Likely... not, as Eroica was staring round at the group of interlopers with something very like horror, too stunned to answer. What came out of his lips was even more telling, a terse, "Oh, *fuck*."

The identity of the men was revealed when the leader stepped forward, neatly removing the freshly returned Magnum from Klaus' holster and clasping him heartily on the shoulder at the same time. "Fortunate day!" he roared, his English heavily flavoured with a Soviet accent. "Comrade, I congratulate you on your capture of Eroica."

'Oh, fuck,' was right.

"Who the hell are you?" he growled, even as the removal of safeties -- five, no, six of them -- made themselves present in his ears. He put his hands up a little to show them as empty.

That taken as an invitation, he earned himself a disgustingly thorough pat-down. It told him that he was dealing with professionals. Even worse was that his question was ignored, the men around him laughing and murmuring among themselves in Soviet, while the leader approached Eroica and launched into a greeting in the same.

"[Major Gloria! I cannot tell you how pleased I am to witness this embarrassment! Tell me -- how does it feel to be caught in a trap like an animal? It is a tale you can look forward to repeating often, after I've taken you back to Moscow.]"

The tone that came from Eroica startled Panzer, even if he didn't understand the words themselves. Cool and aloof, and surprisingly steady, it held none of the intimacy he'd lavished on the German. Instead it dripped scorn. "[Piss off, Mischa. Smugness doesn't suit you, especially when you're taking credit for the effort of others.]"

Panzer at least recognised the tongue as Soviet, though -- counter spies, perhaps? But they were Soviets, which was bad enough, and they'd only left him with the tiny knife he kept tucked against the inside of his ankle, within the knee-high boots he wore. A weapon he couldn't get access to without a deal of trouble.

"[You friend here, is he an enemy of yours? He's done the KGB a great service in catching you!]"

"[Of course he's an enemy!]" the blonde snapped, his patience already eroded by pain. The next bit he snarled out in English, for the benefit of watching the thief squirm. "He is Panzer, an art thief with a dangerous reputation. Perhaps the KGB should court him for his services, as he's managed to do what you've never been able to accomplish."

KGB?!!!

/Oh, fuck./ Panzer stiffened steelily; he'd robbed the Soviet consulate in east Berlin once, and put himself eternally in their 'want' files.

"Der Panzer?" Mischa laughed, loudly as he sized up the thief. "[A double catch then -- we have the symphony and the tank in our hands now!] Panzer, free your captive and help him stand."

"If I don't?" he asked, managing easily to keep his deadly calm.

Eroica somehow managed to look pathetically hopeful at the prospect of not being captured alone. Or perhaps it was for the prospect of Panzer's having been ordered to help him, which would necessitate at least a little close physical contact... "Oh, don't be such a ninny," Eroica drawled, attempting to mask the fact that he was growing slowly dizzy, probably from loss of blood. "If you don't, Comrade Mischa will simply knock you around a bit before forcing you to at gunpoint."

"Mischa, huh?" Klaus asked, looking at the thick-looking, tall Soviet -- perhaps, half an inch sorter than Dorian, who was only perhaps an inch shorter than himself... He moved smoothly, barely kneeling at all as he pulled the trap open with an easy movement that proved impressive strength that was exercised carelessly. It freed the vise-grip around Dorian's leg.

It also caused the Englishman to hiss sharply, consciousness nearly evading his grasp as he clamped a hand tightly to Panzer's forearm. Those teeth releasing his leg caused a fresh wave of pain, and blood wept freely now to mix with the mud on the forest floor.

It was hard to snap at a wounded man to let go of him, although that clamped grasp was used against Dorian when Panzer hauled him upright, an arm shoving under his shoulders. "Ja?"

"Da," Mischa grinned back at the pair, broad white teeth flashing. "Not far to go, and we'll move slowly for the Major's benefit. It will be like a pleasant excursion!"

The fucking Soviet was too cheery for Klaus' tastes -- first chance he got, he was going to punch that smug expression right off of the man's face. "[I can't see how that would be,]" he growled in German was he was goaded forwards.

"[I'm crushed... that you're not enjoying having me in your arms,]" he was answered in soft German, and found Eroica's eyes on him from frighteningly short distance away. What saved his stomach from roiling unpleasantly was that they were glassy, and almost apologetic. The blonde was leaning on him a great deal, more and more weight with each excruciating step.

"[Just give up and pass out,]" Klaus snapped back. At least then he could drag the blonde's weight forwards without being *hit* on.

"[Don't... do anything stupid when I do. Want you in... one piece, so I c'n look forward to... capturing...]" The blonde man wend slowly limp, his knees crumpling.

Which left Panzer to just scoop him up, distasteful as it was; but somehow, the man truly was easier to carry when he was unconscious, and the German easily held the NATO officer's weight in stiff arms. "[Where.... do we... go?]" Klaus asked in halting, German-thick Soviet.

"Ugh -- you hurt my ears," Mischa complained, pausing briefly to assess his position and minutely adjust his course. "Butcher English if you must speak to me at all." He then struck off at a quick half-march, expecting the burdened Panzer to follow. "We are going to camp. A truly remarkable coincidence it was to meet anyone here, let alone two fishes we have been eager to catch. The honking we thought was one of our delivery trucks lost in the woods."

Well, that made the fag military man doubly dead, once they got free! He just had to honk his horn, didn't he? "Camping in the middle of England...? Nervy," Klaus commented darkly, following with his own march-step behind Mischa.

The jarring of his footsteps must have woken Eroica, as at least one point in their journey hazed blue eyes slitted open to regard Panzer curiously. The Major didn't attempt to speak, seemingly too thick-headed to do more than clutch at the front of the German's neat olive shirt. At least, that's what Klaus thought, until he felt a wedge of something thin and hard pressed discreetly to his abdomen, as Eroica slipped him a small knife.

It took a hand that had to shift over Eroica's side in an almost sensual manner that made Mischa sneer, to pocket that blade and secret it away within the empty sheath that was still against the inside of his wrist. The KGB idiots had taken his weapons, but not his holsters and sheaths, and they'd regret it shortly.

"He's getting heavy," Klaus complained, hoping it would gain them a rest in which they could get a chance to escape. "Can we stop so I can tourniquet his leg?"

Or rather, he could get a chance to escape. Eroica was in no shape to go anywhere under his own power. Panzer didn't let that bother him, though. If the KGB took the fag Brit back to Moscow with them, it would only serve him right for attracting their attention in the first place! What *did* gall -- terribly -- was the knowledge that he'd lost his beloved Magnum again, this time to a smug Soviet bastard!

At Panzer's request Mischa considered, deciding quickly that his six riflemen were more than a fair match for a wounded NATO Major and a German thief. "Very well," he sighed, giving a few curt motions which sent his men scurrying to secure a perimeter around the pair. "You know something about first aid, Mr. Tank?"

"More than enough." He laid Eroica out, and removed the torn boot, and the sock beneath it, ripped and soaked through in blood. /The trap did the trick./ Perhaps he'd rescue Eroica just to piss off the Soviet, he told himself as he spat on the wound for lack of a better way to clean it; then used the upper part of the sock to blot at badly clumped blood that would have to be removed anyway -- so why not when it was still mostly fresh?

"You wouldn't have cloth I can use as a tourniquet, do you?"

"You are wearing a shirt," Mischa pointed out helpfully. He retrieved from some inner pocket a cigar, snipping off the end and thrusting it between his lips to chew on as he watched the proceedings with obvious amusement.

A shirt that the man had already partly bled on. That got Mischa a glare, but Klaus carefully ripped up the length of his left sleeve -- not the right that hid the slender blade Eroica had snuck him -- and ripped it off at the shoulder. It made a neat bandage around the wound, perhaps a little tight but not so tight as to cut off circulation. Then Klaus sat back on his heels and pulled a slender black cigarette case out of his back pocket, pulling out a familiar German-brand cigarette.

"Have a light?" /Just get close to me. With their leader's throat about to be slit they'll have to back off./

Maddeningly, Mischa only laughed at him again. "Don't you know it's not wise to smoke in the woods? Why do you think I've not lit up yet? Can't be careless and start any fires that might give our position away."

"Do you really think a small cigarette will start a fire?" Klaus asked in an incredulous growl.

"I think a man smoking a small cigarette could easily start a fire," Mischa told him, at the same time he got a little warning pinch from the still muzzy Eroica. Hadn't he listened to Dorian's warning not to try anything stupid? Didn't he know Mischa would shoot him without compunction? That would be an awful waste of a truly fascinating adversary!

"Hmn." Panzer kept the cigarette in his mouth, obviously unhappy with that he'd been refused; he scooped Eroica back up into his arms after putting the man's boot back on. "Well, let's keep going, then."

Mischa smiled knowingly but didn't remark on Panzer's unflagging strength, which allowed him to carry the semi-conscious -- feigned or no he couldn't tell -- Eroica the rest of the way to a bustling though clearly temporary camp.

Soviets, everywhere -- it made his skin crawl, to be surrounded by the imbeciles that had split his homeland and subverted half of it to their own sick views.

But he kept silent, looking, ever vigilant for an out.

None were immediately forthcoming. Barked orders made two men come forward and wrestle Eroica from his grasp, leaving Klaus' shirt wrinkled badly from where the Brit had fisted a double handful. He was then marched by his contingent of guards to the empty trailer of a medium sized truck and pressed inside, the door closed and locked behind him.

Klaus was, to put it shortly, pissed. Locked in a dark trailer, probably to suffocate to death before the idiot KGB decided to take them to Moscow. Lovely -- just fucking lovely.

At least he didn't have to suffer for long alone. No -- it looked like he would be spending the indeterminate period of time until he could escape in the maddening company of Eroica. The door was lifted, letting in a flood of bright light that glinted warningly off several gun barrels trained on the truck's cargo, and the blonde agent was tossed carelessly inside.

In the brief light Klaus saw that his boot was missing, and that his foot had been freshly (and professionally) bandaged. His left cheek was stained a cheery red, from the slapping that had no doubt wrenched him firmly back to consciousness, and his clothes were slightly askew, probably from a thorough search. If there was anything else of interest to note it was lost to darkness, as, with a particularly rough comment from one of the KGB men about intimacies that took place in the privacy of dark places, the door was closed and locked once more.

A comment which put his mind into a place he didn't want it to go -- NOT when locked in a trailer with an unrepentant pervert!!

"You coherent?" he asked carefully, starting to take off his own boot to remove the small blade he had hidden still.

"No thanks to you." The sneer rose out of the darkness, along with a sharp hiss as Eroica pulled himself into a sitting position against the trailer's wall.

"Don't whine; I didn't count on the KGB finding us," Klaus growled. as he thumped his boot down on the floor of the trailer, and then removed the short knife from the inside of it. "Want your knife back?"

"Not if you're planning to stick it in me," Eroica continued grousing, despite Panzer's growl. "I mean -- really! HOW could you have picked the one spot in all of England swarming with them?! We've known Mischa was in the country for six days, and we've been *looking* for the ass and haven't turned up so much as a hair! Either your luck is blindingly bad, or fate has it in for you."

"Since I've met you, I'd guess fate has it in for me," he growled low in his throat. "I don't know how I had such shitty luck -- but I'm wanted by the Soviets, too, so I'm fucked."

"Don't think like that, Darling." Dorian's natural inclination to lead was taking over; without realising he was doing it he was comforting Panzer as if the German were one of his own men entangled with him in a mission gone horribly awry. From snarled accusations to soothed reassurances in under a minute. The man was as changeable as the weather!

"Don't think like that?" Klaus looked up at him incredulously as he pulled his boot back on and closed the cinch at the top. "We have two knives now."

"Don't think that you're fucked. It's not the bad thing you make it out to be." Dorian's eyes were slowly adjusting to the gloom, and he could make out the German's form a few feet away. "Thanks for keeping mine for me. With the knives... I'll find a way for us to escape, somehow." He said that when what he really meant was find a way for Panzer to escape. With his foot in the shape it was in, he could barely hobble, much less run.

Klaus' eyes had obviously adjusted faster -- though shocked for a few moments by gleaming bright light when Dorian had been tossed in with him. He moved towards the thief, and pressed the man's blade back into his hand. "I'm not going to leave you here for the fucking Soviets, even if I don't like you."

The knife was warmed -- Panzer must have been holding it for a long time -- and when it was pressed to his palm the Brit's fingers closed reflexively around it, brushing Panzer's. "Nice sentiment," Dorian drawled, "but considering your track record, I'll be sure not to get my hopes up."

"What track record?"

"Don't you wonder why I brought your Magnum, when I knew you wouldn't have the painting?"

"Not really," Klaus murmured, sitting down just across from Dorian -- which left him fairly close. "Why?"

"I'm an honourable man," the Major informed him stiffly, unable to prevent a thread of self superiority from slipping into his still cynical tone. "Your case file has proven you again and again to not be, but even so long as there was the *possibility* that you would uphold your end of the bargain..." He trailed off softly, the space between words used to scrub a hand at his face. "Forget it. You probably can't distinguish honour from stupidity."

"I can," he drawled, /though the two go hand in hand./ "Honour among thieves doesn't hold much water. I have morals, and they suffice."

"Is that so?" Of course Eroica would sound angry -- Panzer had dealt him a double blow that afternoon, hurting his pride every bit as severely as the damage that trap had done his ankle. "Funny sort of morals, that allow you to take what pleases you and hurt and kill indiscriminately."

"I suppose it is," Panzer agreed, stretching his legs out a bit. "But I also have a temper."

"And how is that an excuse?"

"It's no excuse -- 's a counter to my sense of morals. I spend a lot of time in confessional when I go back home." Not that he cared often what the priest thought, but God help him, he had an image to maintain as the Eberbach Heir, criminal or not!

Now there was a strange idea! A murderer and a thief, who religiously attended his Catholic duty of confession! Dorian startled himself by laughing, a quick, quiet bark of the stuff that told him just how far from being clear headed he was. "My foot -- will you confess that the next time you go home? I hope the penance is atrocious and takes an entire week to say it, because I know you'll be thinking about me the whole time, and that pleases me."

"I'll confess it," he said reasonably enough, before shifting a little and letting out a tense noise. "I hate staying still for so long." /With nothing to do but talk to a stupid 'honourable' fag./

"Pace, if it would make you feel better," Eroica prodded tiredly. For himself, pacing wasn't an option, regardless that he had an excess of nervous energy.

"You haven't tried to... oh, that's right. Well, I did try. Hit my head on the ceiling -- it was almost a good idea, though," came the vague compliment. "Nothing to do but wait until they open this trailer."

"Then be a good fellow and be quiet about it," came the request, an odd mixture of complaint and plea. Eroica shifted again, trying to curl himself into a comfortable shape on the ground that didn't involve aggravating his ankle. "Both times now I've been around you I've been tense as hell, and that's compounded by a healthy dose of pain this time, thanks to your 'temper'. Your talking at me isn't helping by a long shot."

"We wouldn't be here if you hadn't stolen my gun from me." A low-toned growl, and Klaus moved closer just, it seemed, to prod him in the ribs! "Or honked your horn like that... and don't whine so -- you ankle will heal up quickly enough."

"You left it behind," Eroica countered sharply, wishing he had something other than the little knife to throw at the man. A good boot to the head might have done the trick. Had he any idea what effect his voice was working on Dorian? Low and rough, the growl raked down his spine like a match being struck, flaring an unhealthy sort of lust to life.

No, he couldn't possibly have known, or he would have fallen into a sullen silence long before now.

A hard shake of his head cleared a little space within the muzziness for Dorian to think. Had the Soviets given him something when they'd bandaged his leg? Water; he didn't recall anything else... " 's your fault for breaking into my house in the first place. None of this would have happened if you hadn't been a greedy sot." There -- no way for the thief to argue *that*!

"No, none of this would have happened if my *fucking* stupid men had've told me about your security system," he decided, that rough growl falling into an almost thoughtful drawl. "Everyone has a job -- something they're good at. Stealing falls second to my real duties, but it's a natural skill."

"I'm good at what I do," the Major offered forcefully. "The best, in fact. I do my job faster, cleaner, and with less loss of life than anyone else." And so what if he got an added kick of enjoyment from his job? He was still helping people, unlike that damned predator of a thief!

/Can't be so good to have walked right into a line of bear-traps,/ Klaus thought with a small snort of noise leaving him. "Spy-work is probably dirtier than what I do."

"Depends on your definition of dirty," the Major's voice was suddenly soft, surprisingly rich. "I'm better at seduction than at sticking knives in people, if that's what you mean."

"That's definitely dirtier than what I do," came the flat, almost grimaced reply.

"Of course you wouldn't understand." Airily said, but there was a bite of unhappiness to the words. "You're a shallow person."

That stung *badly*, but of course, it had been *meant* to sting! "You don't know me," he shrugged, though that gesture was lost to the NATO man's eyes. "And you never will."

What was there to know? Rough voice, flat, hard eyes, a mouth that Dorian only suspected could curve into a sensuous smile, because he'd never seen it make anything but a grim line... "It doesn't matter, Darling," Eroica answered with a sigh, trying to be flippant to mask an odd sort of disappointment. "Your body's the lovely part of you. Your personality is ugly. Besides, I'd just be happy bringing you to justice at this point..."

Even *NOW*, when locked in such a tense and dangerous situation, the man hit on him! "It wouldn't matter if you did -- I've escaped Interpol before." He rose now, carefully, to feel along the lines of he trailer's door.

It wouldn't do the thief a lick of good, but Dorian let him play at probing in the dark for a few minutes before offering, "It's padlocked on the outside. I saw, when they tossed me in. Would take a pair of heavy cutters to get through, so unless you've got some in your pocket, you might want to try something else.

"Padlocked, hmn?" Klaus stepped back, and after a moment, settled down on the ground again. "If they don't come back in an hour to two, I'll see what I can do with knocking the door out."

Eroica didn't really see the point, as he doubted they'd be held in the truck for much longer. If he was indeed being taken back to Moscow as Mischa had promised, they would have to at some point pass through more populated areas where there would be a better chance of escape. Eroica could be patient, provided he didn't go insane and throttle the high-strung Panzer first.

And god help them both, the man was high-strung; in capture situations, speed was necessary to him, and in this one... he *knew*, consciously, that he should be patient, but it wasn't happening very well. He considered it an accomplishment that was *still*, sitting that way on purpose and with some effort.

"Think or men have stopped chasing each other around yet and realised we're missing?"

"Depends. What were the orders you gave yours?" Dorian now felt a little guilty for running off and letting his rashness land him in trouble, just as Bonham had worried, after promising not to even!

"To delay your men for an hour."

It had been almost double that amount of time, the blonde guessed. "Probably have, then. Mine were instructed to keep an eye on yours, though Bonham's got a good head on his shoulders and an uncanny sense about missions. He was jittery about the hand-off even before I'd left; he'll know something's amiss."

"Good. Z Probably won't have the common sense to realise that. I'd rather be captured by the West than the East."

"Is he the sweet boy I talked to on the phone?" Eroica asked, his mood seeming to lift a little.

/Sweet boy.../ Eroica could almost feel his adversary shudder, before he was answered, "I suppose he was."

"Don't be too hard on him," Eroica advised gently; that lips were smiling was obvious in his tone. "He was so eager and earnest, even if he hasn't got much sense. I should think that would come with seasoning, though."

"For his sake, he should learn soon," Klaus groused, folding his arms over his chest as he put away his blade, for the moment.

Eroica sniffed. "If you don't want him, I'd imagine I could turn him into a fine agent."

"You'd pervert the boy -- he's of fine German stock and no fag limey needs to pollute his brain!" Klaus snapped sharply.

"Oh. I see -- want him for yourself."

/Calm... stay calm.../ "Not for the reasons you would," he finally hissed.

"Of course not." Smug didn't begin to cover the Brit's tone, heavy with a mock knowing. "You know, there *is* a branch of NATO in Bonn. I'm wondering if it wouldn't be worth getting myself transferred there, seeing as my world is suddenly awash in pretty Germans."

The thief seemed to react to that, though the reasons were unintelligible. "You in Germany would be a travesty."

"[Has anyone ever told you that your sense of patriotism is... um..." Much as he'd have liked, Dorian's eroded temper wouldn't let him be kind. "Excessive...?"

"My father was a tank commander in the NDA. I've been raised to know there is no such thing as excessive patriotism," Panzer snorted at him. As long as they talked in vagueties, who cared?

The counter was ignored, Eroica instead pouncing on the spare bit of background information. It wasn't much -- not by a long-shot! But if he collected enough, he might be able to assemble the clues into a working picture of the man. He might even be able to ferret out an identity! "[Oh...? That would explain the nickname,]" the Major mused softly, as if to himself. The German was for Panzer's benefit, hopefully relaxing the man a hair. "[You must be as fond of tanks as your father.]"

"[Almost. They're wonderful machines.]" Rather, the nickname had come from so many people commenting that his father had raised a tank, and not a boy. Just to spite them all, he'd taken it on as his cover-name.

"[I don't see what's so wonderful about them. Bloody noisy things, and dreadfully slow."]

"[I wouldn't expect you to understand the beauty of steel and perfect precision.]" Roughly growled words directed at the perverted Major. "[It isn't shallow enough for you.]"

"[Shallow...]" Eroica rolled the thought on his tongue for a moment, the taste unfamiliar but not in any way unappetising. "[I... have highly refined aesthetics, and can find beauty in both of those things. It just surprises me that you can.]" /Surprises me that you are a very surprising man./

"[What do you think I am? Some low-born sod that just likes to steal shiny objects?]" Panzer scoffed.

"[I don't know what you are, Darling,]" Dorian spoke gently. "[Remember? 'You don't know me, and you never will,']" he quoted back. "[So don't be angry at me for being wrong.]"

"[Lucky for both of us, then,]" Klaus almost sneered. "[I hope we never meet again after this.]"

"[Oh no! We must meet again!]" Dorian shifted a little, coming off his rest against the trailer wall to lean in Klaus' direction. "[Can't you feel it? Whatever comes of this... We will meet again, Panzer.]" It felt funny to call the man that, in German, but as he hadn't another name it would simply have to do.

"I'll fucking kill you if you lay a hand on me, you sick fag," came the man's immediate reaction, in sharp, distinct English.

Despite the warning Eroica approached closer still, near enough that his features could be made out in the gloom, the strange confidence and enthusiasm showing in his eyes. "Kill me, and your own life is as good as worthless," Panzer was reminded reasonably. Then, perhaps to spite the man, or simply to prove himself fearless, Dorian did stretch out a hand towards the thief.

And the thief narrowed his eyes viciously for a moment, but stayed as still and un-moving as an animal of prey caught by a predator dead on. "Your... leg has gotten better," came the almost dry-tongued remark, fishing to sound sharp. "Perhaps I could break it for you."

"Not better -- just numb." Dorian's hand hovered, but for the time contact was restrained to an intense clash of gazes, arcing electrically between the two men.

The first of many, Klaus feared, and probably with good grounds. Eroica was known for stalking people down, just as Panzer was known for killing them. Essentially a Mountie against the reverse of one. "Don't touch me."

"Why should I want to touch a man who's like the steel of his namesake...? So cold and hard, and brutal..." The question was for himself, Eroica possibly not realising that he was speaking aloud as his hand descended on Panzer's.

No movement, not even away from him. And no answer, as, for a moment, Panzer was shoved into a stun of silence.

"Then you fucking shouldn't!" And the hand was knocked away.

The Major's chill fingers had been like ice on Panzer's warmed ones, a lingering, indelible contrast.

It was enough, Eroica clearly discerning *something* from that barest of fluttered contacts. He retreated to his side of the makeshift cell, though not so far away as he had been before, and not nearly far enough for Panzer' s comfort! "I..."

"You're cold," the thief observed, cutting him off.

"Blood loss," Eroica dismissed, unable to rest his eyes anywhere but on Panzer, at least until he'd been able to organise the scattered thoughts produced by that bare touch. They were fragmented, and resisted order.

"You need sugar and food," came the wise words, though it did no-one any good at all. /And what the fuck do I care if this stupid, annoying NATO man is cold?/

"I... am aware that I'm not in the best of shape." It hadn't been anything like the intent behind his first two attempts, but it was good to get *something* to pass his lips. "You should be delighted, Mr. Tank, to see me so."

"Not if you're going to end up in Soviet hands," came the grudging grunt of noise.

"We're in their hands now," Klaus was uselessly reminded. "Though it's not where I intend to stay. I'll think of a way-" The rest was left unfinished, as muffled voices could be heard approaching the truck.

Panzer stayed silent, made sure his blade was well hidden and that he didn't look like he'd searched himself for weapons that might have been missed, which he had done. /We might be able to escape now.../

Eroica could be seen pulling his focus together as best he could, gathering himself for nearly anything, though he knew he was far from prepared. If Panzer did anything rash... Aside from the possibility of getting himself shot outright, he would severely damage any chance of later escape. But as the door was unlatched and raised, letting in thin, waning sunlight, there wasn't time for a hissed warning before orders were being barked at them.

Panzer did lunge forwards, and took out the jaw of the first man to get near them, and then lashed out at the next one. Rash, perhaps, didn't quite explain it, though Dorian was glad he was still sitting in the trailer proper when Panzer was overpowered.

Mischa had approached just in time to see the flurry of motion that was Panzer fall beneath his agent's restraining arms and active fists. "[Your friend is an idiot,]" he observed as he handed Eroica down from the truck, an odd politeness that hinted at professional respect for the NATO man. "[And I see that you are both still clothed. You must be losing your touch, Eroica.]"

Dorian stiffened, snatching his hand from Mischa's as soon as he was steady on his good foot, his other leg resting bent-kneed to avoid putting weight on it. "[Better that than my standards,]" the blonde man uttered snidely. It took work to prevent his eyes from falling on Panzer as he was hauled upright, to assess the damage wrought by Soviet fists. "[You're right though. The thief is an idiot.]"

"[Fuck... you both,]" he growled at them in the same Soviet they were speaking. He looked roughed up, his bottom lip was split badly, and he was reeling a little from the throbbing of his skull. "[Jus' wait...]" He was not a man to laugh at, not at all.

And two of the agents who had fallen on him with their fists didn't even notice their missing guns.

Mischa laughed heartily when Eroica, keeping his expression dead even, countered, "[Panzer Darling... You keep offering, when I know you don't really mean it. Perhaps you ought to employ some other curse next time?]"

"[Go to hell, you perverted whore-son.]" Perhaps his Soviet wasn't so good -- but his curse words were fluent no matter the tongue!

"[I didn't know you were acquainted with Mum. 's funny she never mentioned you, because she never passes on the chance to flaunt her latest-]"

Mischa cut him off, "[You have not lost your perverted tastes, I see,]" The KGB man inflicted a hearty slap to Eroica's shoulder before heading off, a motion of his chin drawing his agents and prisoners alike in tow. "[How did you enjoy that woman I sent? She was quite a looker, eh?]"

"[She was yours?]" Dorian recalled with distaste the miserable stake-out job of a few nights past. "[She was very... ripe.]" His lips twisted into a scowl.

"Don't bother sending women after this fag," Klaus snorted in English as he jerked free of the men supporting him to move on his own. "It's a waste of time."

Eroica didn't have that luxury, leaning heavily on one of the KGB agents -- who must have understood Klaus' words, to judge by the half loathsome, half fearful expression he wore. The NATO man was quick to agree, "Yes -- mine. Don't be stupid, Panzer. Mischa sent her for no more purpose than to waste my time, and get a laugh at the idea of me chasing after some damned hussy."

"Good for you," Klaus sneered hazily, as they trudged on. Sometimes, like this one, playing at whining was a gift to use; it would no doubt put the Soviet's view of him lower, which meant they'd see him as less of a threat. Already, he'd been pegged by them as amateur for attacking them right off.

He'd show them when the time was right.

"Where are we going?"

"You want to eat, don't you?" Mischa called back over his shoulder. "The KGB treats its important 'guests' with care. And though I admit he back of a truck isn't the most appropriate of cells, it will have to suffice until we can secure something more... elegant." He got a good laugh at that, and judging by the way Eroica's shoulders stiffened, his barb had struck not far from its target.

Elegant enough for the fag of an officer would probably be a simple steel cell that they'd spray-painted gold for the laughs of it, Klaus noted to himself. "Are we getting gruel, or poison?"

Another hearty laugh, this time for Panzer's very amateur -- intended or not -- assessment of his situation. "I agree with the Major," Mischa grinned, striking across the camp proper in the direction of a large tent. "For so infamous a thief, you are quite stupid. I am surprised you were not caught a long time ago."

"What he's trying to say, Darling, is that with all the trouble you've caused -- damaging my foot, and that absolutely wretched escape attempt -- if you didn't have more worth alive than dead you'd already be in an unmarked grave," Eroica explained with a forced show of blitheness.

"I always get myself out of trouble," Klaus said in a low, nonplussed tone. /Stupid for one person is sly for another. You'll see that when I shoot you in the head./

Mischa's sage advice was, "A wise man would not get himself into it in the first place."

At the tent, a guard stepped forward to pull back the door, and the captives were directed to one end of a long, folding table. From the state of the other end of the table -- cluttered with receipts and shipping manifests and all manner of paperwork, probably half of it false -- the tent served as command centre and mess hall both of a very temporary operation.

So he and Dorian were seated directly across from each other, and Klaus was more than aware of the guns still pointed at him as he settled into the chair. And he was equally aware of the other man's leg brushing his.

In Dorian's defense, the table *was* incredibly cramped, with simply not enough room for two long-legged men to be seated across from each other with any measure of comfort. Better the one leg brush than to knock knees, and at least the way he'd arranged himself kept his injury out of the mix.

Of course, he didn't look at all apologetic either.

He probably wasn't, Klaus assumed, as he drew himself up straighter in the chair, posture sharp as if he were at attention and awaiting an order....

Yet, oddly, he was tapping the toe of his boot against the side of Dorian's leg as if to signal something.

Already having experienced firsthand Panzer's frightening lack of patience, Eroica was having none of it. Not looking at the German, his brows turned down slightly, and he scooted his leg briefly away. When moments later two trays of something that looked vaguely like beef stroganoff and only marginally edible were set before the captives, the blonde Major picked up his fork immediately and primly began to eat.

Klaus' manners were a thing to behold. Not the rough-edged messiness that Dorian had expected of Panzer, nor those of a fastidious lower-class. His crisp movements, the neatness, the grace with which he managed food that was all but shit, *screamed* to Eroica that the man had manners trained into him that were better than his own lower-noble's. So, obviously from some sort of noble lineage, a father who was in WWII...

Major Gloria was going to be damned if he didn't put together the puzzle.

But not too quickly. If Panzer didn't stop giving him hints, the conclusion would be achieved before Eroica had put forth any effort. He did so hate a victory that felt meaningless...

Then again, these weren't hints -- it was bits of things dropped simply by virtue of Panzer's personality. Though, it could have been argued if he had one at all.

The meal was quickly finished, and Panzer sat still again, trying to take in everything he could see in the tent.

Four dark, vague walls. The mess of paperwork (who'd have thought the KGB would be so disorganised?). The few armed, stoic agents set to guard them, and Eroica -- languidly finishing off his meal with the same care he would have taken in some posh London restaurant.

The leg was back, doing nothing more than pressing into Panzer's, but that was more than enough to drive him right up a wall. If he jerked his leg back away, he'd end up stunning his knee on the underside of the table. No need to look like any more an idiot.

The Soviets also missed a carefully movement that gained him a sharp dinner knife in his possession.

Eroica hadn't. For a moment the leg pressed harder, the Brit's knee nudging Panzer high on the inside of his thigh. A warning it may have been, but quite likely the pervert got some sort of sick pleasure from touching him there!

It was taking everything in his power to not lash out and strike the man.

No, instead, though, he shifted his opposite leg, the toe of his boot brushing against the bandages around Eroica's ankle with a jarring little tap.

He was gratified when the blonde winced, drawing a soft hiss between his lips. Those large sapphire eyes flashed to the German's face, crackling with an anger that was even more quickly repressed.

Klaus, however, was playing the calm, uncaring innocent -- with a 'hmn?' sort of expression lingering around lips. "What? Stop staring at me. 's bad enough that I have to spend a wretched night with you, breathing the air you've polluted.."

Devoid of the usual sneer, those lips looked... tantalising. Humour, even a malicious sort at Dorian's expense, had softened them out of their hard line. Eroica amused himself in turn by wondering what they would feel like under his. Stubborn and resisting? Stiff with fear? Perhaps firm, but pliant. They would have to be warm...

It would almost be worth courting Panzer's fury to find out. When he'd captured the man, and had him in handcuffs, he knew full well the temptation would be irresistible. "What's wrong with sharing air with me, Darling?" Dorian purred, the opportunity for a little payback also irresistible. "It's romantic, to think that we shared so many breaths..."

"I've been in rooms with dogs before, too, and these Soviets, and I would not think it's romantic; you rate about even with those," Panzer drawled, amused a little by his own words.

"[Either he is very fond of dogs, or he has a low opinion of us, eh?]" Mischa seemed greatly amused by this fact, taking the opportunity to clap the Major on the shoulder again.

"[He doesn't know either of us.]" Eroica's eyes fell first on the hand resting on his shoulder -- perturbed when it was not lifted -- and then, with a turn in his chair, to Mischa. "[If he did, he would be complaining a great deal more about having to suffer our company.]"

Klaus was quiet as he processed their conversation, slowly, and uttered with equal care, "[You two are very friendly. Do Soviets breed you to be pervert, Mischa?]

The Soviet considered, then cheerfully explained. "[No. Observation, and the Major himself taught me that I am disliked by Eroica as much as you dislike him.] What was the word you used, Major Gloria? Repugnant, was it?" The hand on Dorian's shoulder patted once fondly before slipping away.

And Klaus watched in obvious amusement as Dorian all but shuddered. "[So men exist that 'turn you off', huh?]" he asked in German, laughing.

"[Jealous that you're not one of them?]" Eroica snapped, somehow keeping a wary eye on Mischa while at the same time glaring at Panzer.

"[Yes.]" It was *good* to see the NATO man riled -- knocked off his little perch of calm and fluffy Britishness.

Dorian was certain Panzer wouldn't be half so amused if he was the one suffering the large Soviet's pawing. Mischa had meaty boxer's hands, and the mere thought of them touching him, even atop layers of clothing, was enough to turn Eroica's stomach. It was small consolation that Mischa did it only for the discomfort it caused his enemy; he didn't seem inclined to do anything more than touch, and laugh.

Now, if Panzer had touched him, with fine-muscled, long-fingered hands used for thieving... oh, a different matter entirely! The less layers of clothing, the better...

"[Harder for you when the shoe is on the other foot?]"

He wouldn't give the smug thief the satisfaction of an answer to that. "[What next?]" he asked bluntly of Mischa, rising stiffly from the table. With food, however bad, in his belly, Eroica felt much improved. The light-headed sensation he'd been experiencing most of the afternoon was lifting, and with clarity returned he decided it was time to reassess his situation.

Klaus, too, stood up, and he was blotting the edge of his split lip with a rough napkin that'd been provided. "[A shooting in the woods?]" he asked in German, "[Or will we be cutting firewood?]"

"[We're too valuable to shoot, and putting us to work provides too many opportunities for escape,]" Eroica supplied, tone flat as if reading from a text book. Perhaps he was paraphrasing Intelligence regulation -- it was for Panzer's benefit, and Mischa's a little, to keep him in a good mood. Answering an amateur's inane questions was tiring on patience.

He switched back to Soviet, pressing, "[Will we be smuggled out of the country by plane? Boat? Submarine? By now you realise that we're both being hunted for.]" The pity was that his and Panzer's men would both be blaming the other for their leaders' disappearance. Not even Bonham would imagine Soviet involvement.

"Why are you Soviets hiding here in the woods when you have a residency set up in London?" Klaus asked curiously as he stretched long legs idly. The false naive tone of his voice was mocking -- obviously he was implying that Mischa wasn't important enough to be there.

But he was implying it with information he, a civilian thief, wasn't supposed to know!

Mischa kept his smug expression as he gestured for Panzer to stand and follow, or, if need be, be prodded at gunpoint. "[You,]" he addressed Eroica, "[know better than to expect an answer to such a question. And as for you...]" His attention swung in the thief's direction. "[I find your prattle un-amusing. If you care to know KGB business, you and the Major may compare theories to your hearts' content. You'll have all night, although I highly recommend you spend some of that time sleeping. We've all a long trip in front of us.]"

"[Off to the Communist's paradise?]" he sneered in German as he moved forwards as gestured. "[Can I take a moment to relieve myself, before I'm sealed away with that pervert for the night?]"

The Soviet nodded graciously, and answered in Soviet. "[Of course.]"

"[Wait a minute...]" Eroica's brows were snapped tightly together in suspicion, and he moved stiffly to stand before Panzer. "Sorry, Darling." Though he didn't look it as he picked up the man's arm, turning it over to better get at the cuff button.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Panzer snapped, jerking backwards from the Major.

A gesture from a curious Mischa brought two guards up to hover at Panzer's shoulders. "[You make him uncomfortable,]" the KGB man observed, his amusement obvious. "[Proceed Major, by all means.]"

Dorian tried again for Panzer's arm, with another soft murmur of, "Sorry."

"Don't touch me!!!" he snarled, though his arm was snagged and Dorian could feet the length of the dinner knife pressed against the inside of his fore-arm.

"It's for your own good," Dorian soothed, his fingers swift and knowing as they peeled back the sleeve -- the opportunity for a light caress to the smooth skin at the man's wrist too good to pass up -- to expose that concealed knife. He held the German's eyes as he removed it, his expression caught between genuinely apologetic and angry. "Soviet flatware is cheap stuff, not up to the strain of a good fight. You'd have only got yourself into trouble if you'd tried to use it."

Klaus' eyes burned with anger as he watched Dorian's actions under the watchful Soviets -- if it brought on another search, his plan would be ruined, and they'd perhaps lose their only chance for escape... /And if that happens, I'll fucking kill him.../

The knife was tossed aside, to skitter across the tabletop, and Eroica turned as primly as he could on the one good leg and headed after a laughing Mischa. The hot-headed idiot! The bit about the flatware was true; it would have been disaster to them both if he'd drawn the ridiculously cheap knife and threatened anyone with it. More likely the Soviets would have discovered it missing as soon as the trays had been taken back to the kitchen. And if he thought Dorian was going to be left behind while he ran for freedom, the damned thief needed his head examined!

What the Damned thief needed just then, though, was a good, hard, drink. Apparently disarmed and discredited as a bumbling idiot, Klaus was left to follow Mischa and Dorian to the edge of the tree-line, where the Soviet gestured to him to do his business. With Dorian nearby and watching.

Watching with interest, though that interest was thwarted when Panzer noticed and angled his body away. Damn it! A little fun at the end of a miserable day would have been a god-send for his nerves, but Panzer had to ruin even that!

He finished his piss slowly -- *fuck* he hated having people watch him use the toilet -- and zipped his slacks closed, pivoting sharply back to Dorian and Mischa, and awaiting anything else that would be done before they were sealed away.

Apparently nothing, as the prisoners were marched immediately to the truck and tossed in again. "[Pleasant dreams,]" Mischa could be heard to say above the sound of the door rattling down. And then the lock was thrown and bolted, and the pair were plunged into a silent darkness.

"I hope your fucking leg hurts like hell," Klaus bit out.

"You ass!" Eroica returned, the words sounding like they'd come from between clenched teeth. "I'm sick of your indelicate blundering! You've NO idea the calibre of agent you're dealing with! From now on, leave the planning to the professional, and don't fucking get in my way!"

"Don't fucking get in *your* way?! You almost spoiled everything!" the German hissed, as he took great pleasure in pulling one of the stolen Soviet guns, cocking it obviously in the silence, and pressing it up underneath the blonde's ribs. "What would have happened if I'd been searched again?"

Fingers, still chill despite that Eroica had gotten some sustenance into him, latched onto Panzer's wrist. For a long moment there was silence, then a very soft, unsteady sound that finally resolved itself into laughter. "You... I truly cannot believe this..."

Another gun was pressed into Dorian's fingers, the one nestled against his side still in place. *TWO* guns!!

"[You and Mischa fell like bricks for my ploy at idiocy when I attacked those agents. Neither of you thought I was stealing guns,]" he chuckled, a soft, vicious sound.

"[Idiot.]" The gun he'd been handed was immediately pressed to Panzer's temple, hard enough to tilt the thief's head slightly, and Eroica was more than half tempted to also cock the thing. "[And when the men turn in for the night and discover their weapons missing? What then?]"

Panzer didn't flinch, though -- he was calm, confident and well at ease with guns. "Hopefully I won't be suspected of taking them. Tell me, did you have a better plan?"

"I've been too busy baby-sitting your temper and rash impatience all afternoon to think of one!" Not to mention fighting down dizziness and pain and the occasionally throbbing headache besides, but it would do him no good to tell Panzer the extent of his troubles, save to amuse him.

"I don't need anyone to fucking watch me, you fag," he sneered. "I can take care of myself."

With a sound of disgust, the gun was yanked away from Panzer's temple, though his wrist wasn't freed quite yet. "Funny... I don't recall ever meeting you on a day that you didn't get yourself captured in one way or another."

"It's a curse I have that only comes into play when I'm around you," he snapped, jerking his wrist free. "Shit-luck."

"I don't need to blame my problems on luck. I know damned well who's responsible for them." Everything from a stolen painting and a ransacked office, to an injured leg and the KGB!

"You can't blame the fucking KGB on me -- I keep an eye on all the intelligence agencies' movements, and there's nothing supposed to be happening at the London residency. So this caught me off guard."

"Goes to show what a fucking amateur you are, to let *anything* catch you off guard. Your research isn't too thorough, is it? First you miss that I'm NATO, and now this." Although to be fair, NATO only knew the KGB was in England because they'd watched them enter.

"Well, you didn't seem to be on your guard about them! Not a qualm about coming out here!!" Klaus' voice fell into a lower growl still, and he wanted to reach out and start to strangle the blonde.

"I was only trying to give you the benefit of the doubt," the Major sniffed, shifting in preparation to sit. Standing on his leg was killing him! "Should have known you can't deal honourably in any situation. I suppose any plan for escape I concoct shouldn't include you, as you'll turn on me the instant you get the chance!"

"I'm dealing honourably enough now -- I haven't fucking shot you yet!!!" Why couldn't the idiot NATO man understand that it was in BOTH their interests to work together until they were both to safety?

The cold of the truck floor was preferable to standing, and Dorian even managed to prop his leg up against the side, easing a little of the hurt. He still felt like throttling Panzer for that. Regrettably, he also wouldn't mind fucking him, and killing the man would be *such* a pity, if only for the waste of that beautiful body... "[Can it, Darling. You know damned well Mischa would probably have you shot in retaliation. I'm more valuable than you to the KGB.]"

"And that's why I can't let you remain in their custody," Panzer agreed, sinking down to sit cross-legged. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

"Not if you share." So, Panzer was the one doing the rescuing, was he? That notion would have been enough to make Eroica laugh aloud, were he not in such a dismal mood.

"'s not a wimpy British cigarette," Klaus commented blandly as he handed Eroica one from his pack, and the lighter after he'd lit his own. It necessitated fingers to brush, and Klaus kept that to a minimum.

Eroica didn't seem inclined to press the issue, and his own were still very chill. Perhaps that was why he cradled the lighter's flame for a long, contemplative moment before dipping his face to light the cigarette. Strong, hot smoke filled his lungs, immediately soothing. "Thanks."

The temporary light of the lighter, and the dim glow from their cigarettes were a comfort. "Consider this a truce until we're both out of here."

"I'm thinking on that," the NATO man told him. "Unless you're good at navigating through the woods in the dark, I would suggest any escape attempt be postponed until morning at the earliest."

"The Soviets won't be back to check on us again until then at the earliest -- we've been 'put to bed' for the evening." /With a pervert, which is not my idea of a good time./

That earned Panzer a throaty chuckle. "You know... I think Mischa is disappointed that I haven't seduced you already. It would be fitting with his image of me, and I'm not about to give him that pleasure. So you can damned well relax."

"Good -- I won't want you dead so badly if you keep your fucking pervert hands off me." He did relax, but only by slow degrees and the help of his cigarette.

"I already told you -- you're not my type." Good enough perhaps for a quick, meaningless fling, but whatever pleasure could come from such a tryst would be un-worth the monumental effort it would take to win over such a man.

"Then what -- you've been hitting on me to piss me off?!!!"

If Eroica hadn't been lying on his back, he would have attempted a shrug. "It's something to do. I like seeing you unsettled. Besides, I didn't say the idea held no appeal. You're just not worthy of any long-term attentions."

"Morally loose and a pervert -- twice as bad." The tip of his cigarette glowed brightly for a moment as he inhaled, and then faded when he exhaled that smoky breath. "'m fucking amazed the military lets you stay."

"You're no prize yourself," the Major shot back, his cigarette bobbing unhappily with the words. "I generally don't waste my nights arguing with crude, self-serving, murderous thieves when I can help it."

"Must be a nice change," came the arrogant return.

"It ranks right up there with having an eyeball gouged out with a hot poker," Eroica agreed.

"Which is still better than sleeping with another man," Klaus said agreeably.

"Don't knock it until you've tried it," Eroica advised, flicking ash from his cigarette with care not to get it in his hair. "Men are uncomplicated. Better that than sleep with some damned woman, and all the emotional baggage and responsibility that goes with it. Not that you'd know. With your personality, you've probably never gotten sex that you didn't have to pay cash up front for."

Eroica couldn't see the faint hint of an angry flush rising on Panzer's high cheeks, but the distinctly voiced, "Fuck off, you pervert," gave him all the answer he'd wanted.

That struck a little close to home, had it? Eroica's voice oozed amusement as he continued blithely, "You're a prude, aren't you? Please don't tell me you're a virgin, Darling. I would laugh so hard that it would probably kill me."

"Maybe we can use that to get us out of here -- if you and the Soviets died laughing, I wouldn't have any trouble at all walking out of this fucking camp." The dark, wry tone was answer, too, to Dorian's *other* questions.

Eroica flopped over, crawling to his knees to regard the thief as best he could in the fading glow of their cigarettes. "Oh my God... You're serious!" With that tone, Panzer couldn't possibly be anything but.

"It's none of your fucking business, NATO," Panzer bit out. What a miserable day -- humiliation after humiliation... Major Gloria would be in for a *surprise* when the tables turned.

"Want me to fix that little deficiency of yours?" Eroica offered, crawling closer. "I've been told I give marvellous head, not that you'd have anything to compare the experience to..." Perhaps this day wasn't going to end on such a foul note after all. It was always a rare delight to get his hands on a virgin, and in his imagination Panzer's features adopted an enticing blush to match the outraged words. It was such a pity he couldn't actually see the man!

"You're not going to lay a god-damned hand on me!" Klaus barked out roughly, backing up from Dorian. He knew full well that his cigarette was giving away his position, but he couldn't lift a hand to remove it, not without loosing a moment of motion, in which he could be caught...

"Oh, honestly!" Eroica sounded disgusted as he slowed his pursuit, allowing Panzer to back himself into a corner. "I can't believe this... Have you no spine? What could you possibly find so frightening about an offer of sex?" He paused, his tone softening as a thought occurred. "Afraid you might like it?"

"Yes! No, I... Dammit, stay away!!!" Why the *fuck* wasn't his mind working clearly? It was something he didn't *want* to think of, didn't have to think of, so why was it so hard to answer a fucking question?

"Easy..." Just short of the cowering thief Eroica stopped, settling back with a little hiss of discomfort. Perhaps he'd gone too far, judging by Panzer's reaction. It had taken surprisingly little to put him completely on the defensive. "I already said I wasn't going to do anything. See?" His hand felt for Panzer's, grasping the rough, strong fingers in chill ones that trembled very slightly. "To force the issue is distasteful, and I doubt I'm capable of forcing you, even in top form."

That chilled, shaking sign of Eroica's weakness calmed Panzer, gave him the strength to move again and slip his hand free of the Major's grasp. "Then leave me alone on that."

Eroica nodded, no more than a glint of golden hair in the near total darkness. "Fine. I was only trying for interesting conversation. I detest boredom. If you find my topic so distasteful, you choose one instead."

"I can't tell if your topic was more distasteful, or you, getting near me like that!" the German snapped at him. "I'd talk about art, but it wouldn't interest you."

"Only because I would prefer to discuss aesthetics, and you market value." In truth Eroica's knowledge of art went not far beyond liking what he did and not what he did not, and not being able to say definitely what made one piece over another catch his interest. "Pick something else, something neutral."

He was, though, sorely underestimating Panzer's knowledge of art; technique drew him more than anything, then the mechanics of line, and the history to each piece, the inspiration... It was more than just a pretty picture, it was a gestalt theory to be taken in entirely or not at all.

"I don't think we have a neutral ground."

The Major sighed, huddling himself smaller though not moving away from Panzer. It was getting cold now that the sun had fallen, and being even close to another body lent the illusion of warmth. "Tell me your name," he prompted. "Any one will do, if you don't care to give your real one. I just feel strange calling you 'Panzer'."

"Heinz," he uttered after a moment, "you can call me that, if my cover-name won't do."

As if the Major expected him to give him his first or last name! Never -- even though Klaus knew it wouldn't take a spy long, if he had any wits, to find out anything he wanted to know.

Especially after he'd given away so many unwitting hints about himself! And Eroica, it was widely known, was the most persistent of spies...

"Heinz..." It didn't fit at all for Panzer, but then, aliases never did, in Dorian's experience. "Well then, Heinz. You've vetoed my choice of topic, and refused to give one of your own. Have you any other ideas for passing the time?"

"Sleep, so the Soviets won't find us dead tired come morning."

"Can't. I'm too wound, too uncomfortable." Eroica could, when necessity dictated, work for days straight on little or no sleep, and suffer only minor wear for it.

"You're wounded -- trust me that sleep will help you heal quicker," the thief warned him. "Any opportunity for rest should be taken -- there's no sure knowing that our first chance at escape will work."

"I'm not buying the concern," Eroica sniffed, shifting for comfort that continued to elude him. The ribbed sheet-metal truck floor was rude and hard, not at all to his tastes. Whatever sleep he eventually managed would not be restful.

"If I wanted you dead, Major Gloria, I would have fucking shot you in the head when you stepped into the woods."

"If I wanted to fuck you, Heinz, I would have done it when you were in my custody and handcuffed; yes, I believe we've already laid down these facts and even trodden them thoroughly into the ground.. Does every third thing out of your mouth have to be a vague threat?"

"Does everything out of *yours* have to be sexual innuendo?" Panzer shifted again, tossing his dead cigarette into the opposite corner, before he shifted to lay down.

"I'm only returning tit for tat," the Major pointed out. "If you can drop the threats and speak to me like a civil human being, I'll drop the innuendo. Do we have a deal?"

"Deal." His lighter clicked on again, and it gave him a chance to pinpoint Eroica -- too damn close to him for his liking -- before he turned it off.

Eroica had savoured his cigarette, nursing it slowly because he was unlikely to get another. Unfiltered meant that he could smoke it right down to a little nub, but when the line of red became dangerously close to his lips, he had to stub it out. "Are you... settling in for sleep?"

"Not quite." No, he was settling in to do his nightly routine of sit-ups after stretching a little. Too long in an space too short to stand properly was cramping his muscles.

"What are you doing, then?" The sound of exercise was not expected, and hence not immediately placed. Eroica scooted a little closer in his curiosity, and was surprised when the thief sat up swiftly from the darkness, nearly knocking their heads together.

And then, while Dorian was still recoiling, laid back down -- only to do it over again. "[Twenty seven... twenty eight...]" Odd circumstances were not something to make Panzer break from his routine.

"You're crazy," the blonde decided at last, what may have been a hint of admiration creeping into his voice. Because it gave him something to do, and because he felt odd listening to Panzer do sit-ups in the darkness, he edged gingerly forward to hold down the man's toes for him.

Few men would *ever* do sit-ups in trousers, boots and a work-shirt -- but Panzer was, and he didn't protest Eroica's slight aid. There was less rocking with someone to hold his feet, and each sit-up was faster than the last. Up to one hundred, all without breaking a sweat, before he scooted back from Dorian. "Thanks. [I'm crazy, but healthy.]"

/And warm I'd imagine, after that.../ Ah, but he couldn't let his mind wander in that direction. He'd promised, and once formed it was only a matter of time before the thoughts found his lips. "So you are, and a creature of habit, too. This is all quite frustrating, Heinz. Every few minutes I'm having to alter my opinion of you, and none of the bits I have fit together nicely."

"Well, I can't tell if you're a professional or a fop, so we're even," the thief drawled, shifting to lean in the corner. There, he had a chance that his own body heat would warm the chill metal a little more. Then, he'd be able to stay warm through the night.

"It's possible to be both, you know." Though Eroica didn't like that Panzer had caught him at bad times on booth meetings, and had been privileged to see more fop and less professional than the Major cared to show anyone.

"I can't quite see how," Klaus shrugged, shifting a little more until he was comfortable -- he just wished that his shirt still had both sleeves.

Dorian was intensely jealous, as it sounded like the man actually was settling in for sleep! "You'll understand eventually," he said with quiet conviction. "It's all a matter of being able to separate my professional life from my private one." Being able to, but doing so only when the need arose.

"I'm not going to be around you for an eventually," Klaus uttered, closing his eyes to the dark of the trailer. "Though I'm aware of how to keep separate lives."

"I'm sure you do. Is your tank commander father still alive?"

"No. He's been dead for some years," was the vague answer given. Best to keep it vague, so there was no clear information to pinpoint.

"Probably for the best. I'm sure he wouldn't approve of your choice of career," the agent guessed.

"To a degree, I suppose," Klaus snorted. "If there was a good war, I'd be a tank officer, but there isn't, so. One makes due with their natural talents." With his eyes closed, he could only *hear* Dorian approaching him, but it was enough to keep him wary.

"We're not so very different after all," Eroica mused softly, his voice terribly close now. "Say, Heinz... You cold?"

Eroica could almost hear Panzer swallow. "[Yes, some.]"

"I'm freezing. Do you think you can stand touching a pervert fag if it means sharing warmth?" That was wryly said, with a good dose of self-mocking humour as Eroica kept his tone carefully neutral.

"[It'll give the Soviets a laugh,]" he decided with a soft, almost nervous chuckle. "Get over here, then, and don't touch more than needed."

"I wouldn't dream of it." The almost-fond 'darling' wanted to slip out, but Eroica had promised to behave himself...

The other man, despite his agreement with the plan, leapt as if stung when the Major settled a hand on his shoulder, and Eroica paused to let the man's taught nerves settle.

They settled slowly -- a day of innuendo had not left Panzer's sharp mind at ease with the situation at all. "Just settle in quickly."

Eroica fumbled a bit, curling against Panzer's side only after struggling with the man's arm, which seemed to want nothing to do with holding him. "You -- oof -- can tell you're not used to letting anyone into your personal space...."

"How's that?" the other man's voice asked him stiffly from the darkness.

"You're perfectly rigid, Darling," Dorian pointed out gently, as he snaked an arm around the German's waist. "Relax and pretend I'm a pretty girl, if that helps."

In fact, it was probably a horrible thing for him to have suggested. Panzer only grew stiffer still. "[It doesn't]"

"Then... pretend whatever you want -- I don't care. It was only a suggestion." Eroica didn't have to pretend at all. It was decidedly *nice* to curl himself against the German's body, lean and well-muscled, still warm from exercising as he'd suspected. Dorian was beginning to believe sleep a possibility after all.

A possibility for *him*, but not one for the stiff-armed man who held him, and only barely. "[Not going to move again...?]"

"I'm settled," the blonde man confirmed. "Though it would be really nice if you would try to sleep too. I'll feel strange sleeping if you're up all night watching me." Panzer's words had been more rumble than speech, coming from a chest that Eroica's ear was very close to.

"My eyes are closed," Panzer rumbled darkly. "I'm just not... used to... I'd rather not be doing this, if we weren't going to fucking freeze to death."

"Consider it early penance for the leg," Eroica drawled, allowing weariness to show in his voice for the first time that day. Perhaps a show of vulnerability would further help Panzer to relax?

But somehow the syrupy drawl crawled it's way up Klaus' spine and made him shiver at the sound of it. Yes, NATO kept the fag because he could seduce -- was built to do it, in fact, with a beautiful lean body, pretty face, and that voice... /He's too much like a fucking woman, without being weak. Don't even think of him in any way at all!/ "That'll scar."

"I'll wear it proudly as a remembrance of you." Not like there was anything else he could do -- he might as well look on the bright side of a bad situation.

"Maybe you won't fuck with dangerous thieves anymore," Panzer told him, tone half warning. /Because I don't ever want to see you again -- you're a disaster waiting to happen, fucking NATO boy./

"On the contrary." Perhaps unconsciously though that was unlikely, Eroica made a small, contented sound as he snuggled closer still. "I find danger to be very... stimulating. The scar will remind me every time I see it of my desire to hunt you down and bring you to justice."

Panzer stiffened more; it was odd for Eroica to have that happen when he snuggled down that way -- but the man's arms were like wood, barely bent at all at the elbows. "Then I'll kill you when we meet again."

"You won't." The Major was sounding drowsy, and the thumb of the hand wrapped around Panzer picked up a soft rubbing motion, an absent caress. "I don't think you're heartless, or you really would have shot me when I entered the woods."

"I wanted my fucking gun back -- what if you hadn't had it?"

The NATO man wasn't buying it. "You could have shot me after you'd taken the gun. You didn't though, and you won't the next time we meet." He was terribly certain that there would be a next time.

"There will be no such thing as a next time for us," the thief growled. "Stop talking of such stupid things."

It earned him a sigh from the man tucked tightly, *almost* contentedly, against his side. "Then you talk, if you don't like my words. Silence is uncomfortable."

"I don't have anything to talk about." Blunt words, meant to cow Dorian, though Panzer sensed that they probably wouldn't work.

He pretended not to notice, and took the words instead as a request for Dorian to provide a topic. "You can talk about... my painting -- the Man in Red. What is so special about Cousin Benny that you went to all the trouble to steal him?"

"It caught my eye. I'd planned on keeping it for a few weeks, then ransoming it to you when I was bored of it." Now, though... now the thing would be *kept*, after all the fucking trouble he'd gone to over it, and Eroica knew it.

"Why did he catch your eye?" the Briton pressed. "I can't understand why you'd appreciate him and not me, when there's such a strong resemblance."

"It's all stroke of line and technique, not the actual face -- the work on it is almost photographic." Stunning, for such an underrated painter -- the man's one masterpiece, and Panzer had to hold it in his possession for at least a few weeks. Or until he could no longer stand being reminded of the Major every time he looked at it!

"Hmph." Dorian realised that his eyes were closed -- it was difficult to notice in the darkness of the truck -- and he decided to let them stay that way as the lids felt tremendously heavy, and meager sight was not worth the effort of lifting them. "You're the first man I know to prefer a centuries-dead pirate to his very alive descendant."

"You piss me off, and your painting doesn't!"

"You intrigued me first. It's your own fault."

"It's yours for being a god-damned fucking pervert! Stick with harassing men who want your attentions!" /I'd throw you over to the other fucking side of the truck if it weren't so cold.../ The cold, in fact, was eating away at him, slowly. It was now just a chill at the edges of his limbs, but it was deepening.

"Don't yell at me, Darling." More than a request, it felt something like an order, if a somewhat chiding one. "I've been extremely patient with you, with Mischa and the situation in general, when I could be selfishly throwing a tantrum as you are. I don't need any *more* shit from you than I've already gotten."

"[Then shut up and go to sleep,]" Klaus snapped sharply. "I can't rest with you... like this."

"And I can't sleep when it feels like I'm holding an iron girder! Isn't there some way you can relax a little? It wouldn't kill you to put an arm around me -- might even keep your hands warm."

Grudgingly, Klaus moved a little -- his arm, the one that was missing a sleeve, coming around Dorian's upper back. That helped a little, and cold skin got to press against the other man's warm shirt. /Warmth... think warmth, think strong.../ He had to, or else he faced one stiff, uncomfortable night. If he could just flood his mind with comforting thoughts...

He began, very softly, to sing to himself.

The very soft notes startled Dorian, who lifted his chin in marginal interest from where it had been pressed to Panzer's shoulder. /Remarkable.../ For a man with a gruff manner and thunderous, treads-on-asphalt voice, the tune was sweet, almost... nostalgic. A hint of familiarity teased at Eroica's mind, and he let Panzer sing it once through before inquiring quietly, "What was that? It was... very lovely."

"'s the Panzerlied. My father taught it to me, but I only know the first three verses," he shrugged, voice not lifted up to the treads-on-asphalt level yet -- Panzer had amazing range when he used it, voice able to drop, as it did just then, into a low breath of words. A tone that had all the effect on Eroica as Eroica's sensual drawl was keyed to have on Panzer.

/I have promised to behave. I have given my word, and I will not break it. I have promised to-/

In the end, it wasn't that promise that held Eroica back from loosing another round of heavy innuendo, perhaps pressing the issue of his attraction to the thief. It was the fact that he was tired and desperately comfortable; a pair of warm, softening arms appealed more to him just then more than sex, despite the shiver Panzer's glorious voice had sent coursing through him. "You have a nice voice," Eroica complimented simply. "If you sing it again, I might be asleep before you finish."

"Then I'll do it again." And the tune was the same the second time, softly voiced, a little drowsy. Something told Dorian that, for whatever reason, Panzer was deeply enamoured to... tanks, in general.

The second time was just as nice, words less important than the respectful way Panzer sang them. It was by far the nicest lullaby Dorian had gotten in years. True to his word, he shifted the smallest bit closer, happy to nuzzle his cold nose into the heat of the German man's neck, and before the final verse died away was fast asleep.

Which left Klaus unwilling to move, or to sleep.

In fact, he was still sitting as he had been, when the Major awoke in the morning; a night without sleep wasn't so bad -- he could still function at top form for at least another day before it caught up with and rolled over him.

Eroica woke early -- sleep had been more of a nap than a true, deep rest -- immediately aware of where he was and whose arms he was within, and also aware that he'd spent many nights in worse comfort and company. Admitting consciousness wasn't an option so long as he wanted to savour that comfort, so he stayed a while longer, eyes closed and breathing even, pretending.

The darkness in the trailer helped his case -- Klaus could only estimate the hour of morning as still early, from the faint glow from the bottom crack of the door. Panzer stayed statue still, unmoving beyond his breaths, unthinking. Not thinking, he'd learned, had served him better on many occasions than trying to rationalise something to himself.

Finally Eroica did stir, after his thoughts had wandered beyond the immediate needs of warmth and hunger. No motion, but he spoke into the darkness, his rich voice thick with sleep. "Been up all night?"

"No." A slightly hard-edged, tense lie, but better to give it than get some innuendo back about watching the fucking NATO man sleep. Klaus just hadn't been able to manage it from his nerves.

"You don't sound very rested." The blonde man was careful to stay very still, knowing he was soon to be dumped unceremoniously from Panzer's arms. "I slept... surprisingly well. Thank you."

"You're welcome," he was told gruffly, and then the arms that had been barely holding him, for warmth alone, withdrew. "Now, move.

"Your morning-after manners need some work," the thief was informed, as Eroica slowly unwrapped his own arms. The motion transformed into a luxurious stretch, more suited to a lush feather mattress and silk sheets than a cold, grimy truck trailer.

"I don't need your fucking morning after manners because there hasn't been one," the thief bit out at him, standing abruptly to his feet.

The blonde bit down with some difficulty the reply that he'd had the occasional night encounter that hadn't progressed far beyond holding, and that he didn't count them all failures. Instead he offered the only marginally better, "It's still an uncomfortable situation Darling, just the sort manners are supposed to make easier."

"I don't think manners could make easier waking up with another man beside you," Klaus scoffed, "[You pervert.]"

"[Broken record, Darling,]" the Briton scowled, giving his leg a tentative stretch. He was pleased to find that the pain had dulled a little over the night, probably from cold, but that his toes still responded when he asked them to wiggle. "[I'm getting sick of hearing that from you.]"

"Good. I'm sick of being near you." Klaus stretched a little, standing, and then moved to the other side of the trailer with touch alone, and began to do push-ups.

"And he thinks I'm the sick one," Eroica could be heard to grumble softly, as he set about adapting his morning ritual to the circumstances. There was nothing to be done for having slept in his clothes except smooth them with his hand; fingers pulled gently through snarled curls weren't as good as a comb, but would have to suffice.

It was at forty that Klaus stopped, and then stretched out on his back for a moment, before he sat up in the now too familiar darkness. "Don't forget to slit your eyes when they open the door. It's still before full sunrise, but a light difference is a light difference."

"[You're funny when you give orders.]" Weight experimentally applied to his injured leg found it for the most part sound, though needles of pain made themselves immediately known. Standing would be manageable, running not without aid.

"[How so?]"

"[You seem to be labouring under the delusion that I'm the idiot.]"

"I assume everyone is an idiot until I've had proven otherwise," the German told him in flat, cold English, heavily accented. "Same as you do."

"Then, we're both about to have the chance to prove to each other otherwise. Are you ready?" the Major asked. In the dim light, it was possible to see him reach for the handgun Panzer had given him, counting the available rounds.

"I've been ready for hours," the thief snarled at him as he shifted the weight of the gun into his right hand.

"Good." Eroica had apparently woken reenergized, and was now seeking a plan of action to funnel that energy into. "Hand me your lighter."

I brought about an unfortunate brush of fingers, but now that his wits were gathered Panzer's hand didn't jerk back; instead, he simply withdrew.

There was a grin on Eroica's lips for that, unseen in the low light. He flicked the metal top up, producing a brief lick of flame in what Panzer recognised was standard equipment-checking procedure. "Very good..."

"I filled it up before I came out here." Because he smoked so much, and because it was a very handy tool.

Eroica hadn't got a proper look at it the night before, nor could he now, because they would need the light it made for a more pressing purpose. It was heavy though, with a raised pattern that felt well-worn in his hands. "You very attached to it?"

Panzer tensed for a moment -- the man was holding his personal lighter, not his work lighter, and his *personal* lighter bore his family's crest... "It's been with me for a while. You'd better not fuck it up."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Eroica answered, the cockiness Klaus remembered from their first encounter making itself known in his voice. "It's my assurance that you won't leave me behind when we make a run for it. I'm going to need help, Darling." He only hoped Panzer was half so attached to the lighter as he was to his damned Magnum.

The Magnum that Mischa now had.

"Need help how?"

"The leg." Dorian snorted. "I doubt I'm up to the mad-cap dash we'll have to make to get away from our hosts."

"I was already planning on dragging you with me," Panzer informed him.

Dragging -- lovely. Dorian supposed that if he came out of the adventure with the same number of holes in his body as it had had going in -- not counting his ankle, of course -- it could be considered a break-even success.

Scant moments later, Mischa's voice reached them.

"Wake up, pretties," it laughed thickly. "I'll give you one minute to both get decent, then it's breakfast and moving out!" A heavy hand hit against the door, vibrations jarring through them both.

Dorian could hear the safety being taken off of the gun the German thief had stolen, so loud that he felt certain that Mischa must have heard it as well. /No time!/ He thrust out a demanding hand, with the other nervously flicking the lighter cap back again. A hissed whisper, "Your shirt, quickly!"

Shirt? But he was wearing it!! Still, given the matter, there was no chance of arguing, no time, and the god-damned fucking Soviet too close-by to put up much of a fight about it. Gun still grasped in his fingers, he started to unbutton what was left of his muchly abused shirt, pulling it out from his pants where it'd been tucked in. "Why?" was the equally tense whisper, until he eyed the lighter again, stripped the thing off, and shoved it at Dorian.

For a fag, the NATO man was a good thinker. He'd just never say that sentiment, fleeting, aloud.

He probably wouldn't have to, as the speed in which he fulfilled the request spoke of approval and fleeting trust at the very least. The Major's eyes echoed that same trust as he flicked them briefly from Klaus' face to the gun tucked cocked and ready at his side. "When they scatter, start firing," he whispered. Useless instructions, as Panzer had already guessed his intent, and before setting the wadded up shirt ablaze he stole a moment in which to be pleasantly amazement at the well co-ordinated team desperation had made of them.

/Just... PLEASE live up to your reputation as a marksman!/

His timing was, as always, impeccable. More Soviet voices -- five in all counted -- could be heard grumbling orders and responses in the dank pre-dawn air. Then the sound of hardware clanking, the lock and bolting mechanism on the door being thrown. It rumbled open just as the shirt had become a small, startling ball of fire, which Dorian hurled straight into the knot of unsuspecting Soviets.

After that, Klaus was a blur -- out into the semi-darkness, firing off two quick shots that caught the nearest two Soviets cleanly in the head. Mischa tried to grab him, but it was hard -- since Klaus darted back in to grab Dorian by the waist, picking off one more Soviet.

The agent was more than grateful for that support, as without it his ankle would have crumpled beneath him as he leaped to the ground. As it was, pain blazed up his leg, an unpleasant reminder that he wasn't so numb from cold as he might have been had he not spent the night tucked against Panzer.

The pair hobbled a few steps, taking shelter around the back side of the truck. In the time they were moving Klaus managed to hit yet another Soviet; Dorian, while professional about pulling free his purloined gun and readying it to fire, hesitated to actually pull the trigger. /Don't need to -- not yet. Not yet.../

"We'll take the truck," Klaus hissed, taking aim and taking out one more Soviet. Five shots fired, three left. He moved from the side of the truck up towards the driver's side on the right. "Give me cover fire while I wire it!"

A grim nod from the blonde. "Yes. Quickly!" Reinforcements would arrive any moment. Dorian had propped his back against the unfortunately familiar metal side of the truck, and quickly edged his way near to the bumper. Then, gun at the ready before him, he darted from cover to carefully squeeze off a few shots.

None of which managed to hit anything.

No dying noises, not even of bullets hitting flesh -- Klaus kept that noted peripherally in his mind, as he jerked open the door of the truck, and then stooped under the dash, quickly jerking out and twisting wires together. It would work, it would work....

A last twisted wire, touched to its other side, and the engine burbled to life. "NATO!"

"Coming!" Another rapid hail of bullets, wasted carelessly now that he wasn't having to conserve them. Still Dorian managed to hit very little -- chunks of bark flew off trees as the bullets splattered against them, but when firing through scattered, sheltering soldiers into a forest it was impossible to miss soldiers *and* trees. He was away instantly, scrambling for the door, propelled by a half-fear that the German brute would leave him behind after all. "Help me in!"

A rough hand grabbed his wrist, and with a jerk, he was pulled into the vehicle -- just as Klaus started to back it up at a ramming speed out of the clearing. "We're heading for *my* men!"

The NATO agent demanded, "Oh, and being behind the wheel suddenly puts you in charge?!" Though, slung across the thief's lap with his legs still flailing for the purchase that would propel him across the bench seat, Dorian was certainly no figure of authority.

"Yes." Flat, not even mocking or laughing in any manner as he backed the truck up *over* a fleeing agent, then finally shifted it forwards -- probably just to feel the bump the body made when the wheels ran over it a second time.

"Fine," snarled the blonde, as he finally managed to leverage himself up, partly blocking Panzer's visibility in the process -- as well as carelessly shoving his hands in some rather indelicate places. "Good luck finding them." /MY men have probably already rounded them up and taken them into custody!/

For his rudeness, he got a sharp snarl. "I'll find them -- truce is off once we reach the city, you damned fop. And give me my lighter back!" He would be showing up, bad enough, without a shirt and *still* without his gun!

"Better a fop than a cold-blooded, sadistic bastard!" The jar of the wheels moving over that fallen Soviet -- twice -- was a sickening motion that promised to remain with the Briton for some time. He finally managed to get himself upright on the bench next to Panzer, and though he scanned the mirrors for signs of early pursuit, no motion was made to honour the thief's demand.

Yet after a few long moments of Panzer's deranged driving through the woods, which finally got them onto a narrow side-road, Dorian noticed the out-held hand presented before him -- silently demanding his lighter back. Panzer *did* have a known reputation for his temper and blood-thirst...

But still the lighter was not given. Eroica had a reputation at least equal to the thief's for stubbornness and appalling temerity. Indeed he even seemed to perk up a bit under the glare and unsaid threats, as a woman might benefit from an admirer's flattery. "Our truce is over at the village, remember *Darling*? Get me delivered into the loving hands of my men, and you'll get your blasted lighter."

"I want it back *now*," Klaus rumbled, eyes still on the road, while his hand continued to demand. "I don't have my fucking gun back, which is why I went to so much trouble for..."

"And I don't have Cousin Benny," the NATO man drawled, easing back on his seat while a grin spread slowly on his lips. "Which leaves us for the moment even, aside from the little matter of my leg."

"You had it coming," Klaus growled. "And I made up for it by getting you out of there. So stop whining -- and keep your eyes ahead."

"I could have got out scot free on my own if you hadn't played the inexperienced oaf and pissed off dear Mischa." Which was truth, even if Panzer didn't believe him capable. In direct disregard of the order to remain fixed ahead, subtly caressing sapphire eyes slid over the German. "And besides, you *were* the one to get us caught in the first place. It's amazing that in the course of a week the infamous Panzer has been captured twice. Interpol must be a den of fucking lunatics to have not pinned you by the tail long before this."

"I'm going to push you out the door, fag, and roll over you with the truck, then take my lighter off of your dead body if you don't stop yapping. Understood? How did I get us caught in the first place? Hmn? Your problem to deal with those people, not mine."

Unconcerned in the face of threatened violence, Dorian continued to less-than cautiously run his eyes over the shirtless thief. "Yes, my problem. And I suppose it will also be my problem to retrieve your precious gun from Mischa? Won't that be fun. A pity you won't be able to watch my grand performance as I waltz in and take it, succeeding with ease where you've only managed to get yourself furious, cold, hungry, and half-naked."

"[That's it. That's fucking it,]" Klaus snarled, bringing his gun up to the side of Dorian's face without even having to look. "[You fucking arrogant Brit, acting like you weren't in that situation too -- your shit doesn't stink, huh? I should hang your body from your precious fucking NATO office building, and then we'll see a grand performance!!]"

Somehow, the threat of a weapon pressed to his head wasn't nearly so bad as holding one in his hand, cocked and ready for use -- especially when the threatening weapon wasn't loaded. "Seven rounds, Darling," the agent uttered softly, nevertheless staying perfectly still. "I *can* count well enough to know that you've used all you had."

"Eight," Klaus drawled more than calmly. He was *smiling*. "Eight."

A bluff? Dorian was certain of the number they'd counted over the previous night, gleaming cartridge shells faintly clinking in the German's hand, more precious than gold. Had he been holding one back? Eroica's tongue wet his lips, a sensual rather than nervous gesture. "So..."

"So give me my lighter back and I won't make the inside of this van messier than it already is." That same flat demand again, as Panzer stroked his finger lightly over the trigger.

Silence held sway for long moments, before Dorian slowly purred, "I don't know if it's your intention to make me desperately hot with the hard-ass routine, but it's working." But even he wasn't suicidal, and the remark was paired with his fishing around in his pocket to retrieve the little slip of metal.

Klaus steered with his *knee* for a moment, rather than lower the gun from Dorian's skull. He snapped up the lighter, felt over it with his thumb to feel the familiar crest, then shoved it back into his pocket. When it was secure, he slid the gun down between his skin and his slacks' waist-band at the small of his back, then sat back. "It's no routine."

"Oh." The Briton was subdued after that, still glancing for signs of pursuit, though less frequently as it seemed a greater likelihood that they had made a clean escape. But it didn't take a great judge of men to know that his silence hid a furiously working mind. /My men, or his? Who knows what we'll find in the village... It *would* be like him to lie about a last bullet And I've none left -- not that I could bring myself to damage a beauty like him. No routine...? Oh my./

It was almost enough to convince Eroica that he was in love. In lust and fascinated at the very least! That couldn't be denied at all by the NATO Major. The thief, murderous and cold or *not*, was sexy and feral in ways that just hit all of Dorian's buttons. No shirt and a gun tucked into his pants...

Klaus was blessedly oblivious of Dorian's exact thoughts, though he had enough of an inkling to still be on edge. A sharp turn was taken, sending Dorian *away* from him, and then they were on the main road.

"Hope there isn't too much blood on the bumper."

A disapproving sniff met that remark, the blonde wrinkling his nose as much for its callous tone as its coldness. "It was a waste. The Soviets were not shooting to kill either of us, else we would not have got out alive. And you go and kill several of Mischa's men. He'll want revenge for that, and I hope that he gets it! You could use a hard lesson on the rules of engagement between honourable opponents."

"He's killed a few of my men before. It's already a matter of revenge," Klaus drawled coldly. "NATO too I'm sure, and his countrymen..."

"Very well -- you've proven that both of you are adept at slaughter." The man's blonde head shook disgustedly, his posture tinged with true sadness. "It is still a waste..."

"Yes it is. It's also reality. Everyone, after all, is out in the world to better themselves," Klaus murmured, taking the slow turn into the town. "Mischa works for his 'cause', but he loves what he does. You work for yours -- but it must satisfy you to seduce men to get them to do what you want. I at least don't hide behind the veil of some organisation to rationalise why I steal."

"You hide instead behind the facade of a brute killer," Eroica pointed out, in an odd way wishing to prolong the trip back to the village. Every moment spent in the thief's presence was an opportunity to soak up minutiae of personality, pouncing especially on the hints of depth that Panzer wasn't aware of giving.

Perhaps the depth was natural, and the blunt brutishness the game? So many sides, it seemed... "Killer yes -- brute, though... [No brute could steal the things I've stolen. It's not my fault you'd rather fuck an enemy than kill them. You're a military prostitute.]"

A fact of which the Major seemed inordinately proud. "[You're wrong, Darling. A clever brute could have stolen the things you have. But no brute could have warmed an enemy in his arms and sang to him a soothing lullaby. If you would only try it, I am certain you too would find fucking a man much preferable to blowing his brains out.]"

"[I am certain that I would die if I ever did such a thing -- I'd have to kill whoever, then kill myself to keep my honour,]" Klaus growled at him, pulling to a stop in front of a pub. "This is as far as we go."

It would have been stupidity to ask how Panzer knew this was their destination. What looked like the only pub in the dinky town was where Bonham could be counted on to be found, provided that nothing had gone dreadfully wrong between Dorian's team and Klaus' gang.

Of course, after witnessing the scene *inside* the pub, the Major had had to subtly shift his understanding of the word 'dreadful'.

Climbing down from the truck was no fun task, especially when there was no strong pair of German arms to catch him as his ankle nearly collapsed from even the small portion of his weight he chanced putting on it. Mutual silence had reigned as the pair headed for the pub's door, truce holding still though it ran like the last grains of sand through an hourglass. "After you," Dorian offered stiffly, reasoning that it was wiser to have the armed thief before him than behind.

"I'm not going first so you can stare at my ass," Klaus growled at him, pulling the gun free from the waistband on his trousers to slid it into his pocket where it would be harder to steal from. "Get in there!"

"And wait for you to stick that wretched gun to my back?" The NATO man snorted. "I think not."

"Then we'll walk in abreast," he growled sharply, grabbing Dorian's arm to give him a jerk to his side, and then he dragged them both through the door.

In order to keep himself on his feet, Dorian had to grab tightly to one of Klaus' arms with both of his. "Oh, damn. And here I was hoping to convince you to carry me across... the... threshold..."

He found himself not the only one staring in obvious perplexion at the scene before him. Bonham, just settling back a nearly full glass of ale and wiping froth from his moustache, was quite obviously torn between worry and laughter to see his superior draped off the arm of a *shirtless* man who could only be Panzer!

Worse, the same sight seemed to have given the trim blonde man he was sharing a table with a heart attack. At least, why else would he be making panicked strangling noises and clutching at his chest?

There was, all in all, most of the 'watch' group within the pub from *both* sides, sitting and *socialising*!!!

"Major!!" A small man's voice rose in greeting as they approached, and then when he locked eyes on Klaus, he gave a *scream* and fainted dead off.

"Why the *FUCK* are you here?" Panzer growled, almost tossing Dorian off of his arm and towards a table, stalking towards the thief who seemed to be dying.

A was up from his seat before Panzer had taken two steps, actually kicking the thing over in his hurry to disassociate himself from the sociable setting. Several empty glasses in addition to the fresh round littered the area around where he and the agent had been sitting, and from the fact that they had been sitting fairly close together it seemed likely that sitting and drinking was not all that had been done.

"I-I... Nothing! I told him nothing, I swear!" he protested, flushing furiously.

"Jamesie...?" Abandoned against the table, Dorian listened for more of his agent's shrill voice.

"[You fucking, backstabbing, little!!!]" Fury cut Klaus' voice short, and he backhanded the small blond before he could say anything else. Then a hard bellow followed, called out to the rest of his men there. "[MOVE OUT!!]"

Poor little James, alas, was still passed out at the Major's feet.

Sensing that it was in his new acquaintances' best interests to not offer a parting word, Bonham watched A and the rest of the band of thieves scuttle for the door as if they were shadows chased by the noonday sun. That left either the furious Panzer or Eroica to settle his attention on, and of course his superior won out. "Sir, you're injured!" he observed, coming round to help Dorian.

"Don't worry -- it's nothing compared to the damage these past two days have done my pride." The Major was more than happy to lean on his stocky agent with a familiarity that was a bit uncomfortable to watch. "And someone help Jamesie up. I don't want that horrid man to step on him."

"Good-fucking-bye, Eroica," Panzer told him, surveying the room and all the beer that had been drunk. "I'll be kind and left NATO pick up the bill. Until we meet again." Because he was sure now... painfully so, that they would... A slight tilt of his head, and then he snapped off a sharp salute before slipping out to join his men. a truck could be heard sputtering to life, then a second, and they were gone.

"What happened to you, sir...?" Bonham asked, half-staring after the man who'd left.

/Not good-bye, Darling. Good luck./ Dorian spared a last glance over his shoulder to watch Panzer's marvellously muscular bare back exit the pub, and then dropped quickly his cheerful fop routine, letting his most trusted man know with a deep sigh the extent of his tiredness. "A lot. Mmn... I say -- if that cute German fellow no longer wants his beer, I'd be glad to finish it for him. I could use a couple in me before I begin to tell my tale, much less *think* about getting back to London."