Chapter 10: Mission Impossible

A/N: The plot is thickening...hope you guys love it!!

Joseph Stalin's heavy eyelids fluttered, then parted. The dim light of the Kremlin chambers glowed above him, casting a golden haze upon the deep lines of his handsome face. His breath came in rasps, his body slow to recover from whatever had befallen him.

Beside him, Molotov sat stiffly in a chair, his hands clasped together so tightly that his knuckles throbbed.

'Joseph...?'

Stalin let out a groan and turned his head slightly. His dark eyes, clouded with fatigue, found Molotov's face. He tried to speak, but his throat was dry. Molotov, ever his MOST devoted comrade, was already pressing a glass of vodka to his parched lips.

With effort, Stalin drank. 'I was knocked about,' he murmured, voice low and hoarse, 'British men... cowards in the dark. Attacked me. I took eight of them out but there were too many... Fools.'

Molotov's stomach twisted. A flicker of something - rage, worry, something else? - burned bright in his chest. 'What? When? Who?' he gasped.

'They took him...' Stalin's fingers curled into a weak fist. 'They took him away from me. They will regret it.'

Molotov swallowed hard. 'Who do you speak of?'

Silence...

'You are lucky to be alive. If they had killed you—' Molotov stopped himself. The thought was unbearable. Stalin sat up slowly, wincing but determined as he fixed Molotov with a strong, hard gaze.

'We must not waste time.'

Molotov's sweaty hands clenched in his lap. 'You need rest. Whatever vengeance you may seek, Joseph, it can wait.'

Stalin smirked grimly. 'There is no waiting, Vyacheslav. The world does not wait. My love does not wait.' He shifted his legs off the bed, planting his feet firmly on the ground. 'I am going to London.'

Molotov's heart lurched once more. Love?

Stalin gazed into the distance, rubbing his temple. 'My German...comrade...is waiting there. It is necessary.' His tone was final, immovable. 'Churchill thinks he can toy with me, that his tea-gurgling jocks can frighten me into inaction. I will show them what they have done. They will pay for this.'

Molotov's hands trembled slightly, but he forced them still, attempting to hide the second whirlwind of emotion beneath his shocked complexion. 'You are not yet well. And the country-'

'You will handle things here,' Stalin interrupted, standing now, ignoring the pain burning through his beautiful body. 'You, Vyacheslav. You will be in charge while I am away.'

Molotov stared with a complicated mix of fear and longing. It was not the first time he had been entrusted with power, but something in Stalin's tone gave this moment a weight of mystic significance. To be trusted by Stalin was everything. To be left behind was agony.

'I will do as you say,' Molotov murmured at last, 'I would follow you to hell and back my l-leader. But London is dangerous. You—' He stopped himself again. He would not beg Stalin to stay. Not in words, at least.

Stalin reached out, clasping Molotov's tightened shoulder. 'You are my most loyal comrade. I know you will not fail me.'

Molotov did not speak. He merely nodded, knowing that nothing he said could stop Stalin from leaving him. He felt so alone. And so angry. Who was this German man who Stalin had lustfully called his comrade? He, Molotov, was Joseph's comrade. This other man...Molotov would kill him...