Summary: The past is exactly that: the past. Too bad Dragunov can't let it go.

Okay, so I finally got Tekken Tag Tournament 2, and guess what, my Dragunov obsession has started again. God, he is sexy. After noticing how annoyingly unpopular he is, how little we know of his background, and how few stories there are of him on here, I decided to write this. My take on how exactly he became the silent Russian we know today.

Title, Kalinka, means 'snowberry/snowball tree', and is taken from the Russian song, part of which is featured in this fic. Translations of that and a few other Russian words used are at the bottom.

Enjoy!

They were arguing.

Again.

Sergei stood outside the kitchen door, listening to his parents screaming at each other in rapid-fire Russian. Most of the dialogue consisted of his father's loud voice. He always managed to shout his mother down in the end.

But this time it was different. Alcohol was involved – a lot more than usual. Sergei's heart started racing and his fists balled. What if he hurt her...?

It wouldn't be the first time. Mother had always tried to hide the bruises, but he knew, always, what Father had done to her. He frequently heard them both late at night, and no matter how much be buried himself under his covers he could never fully block out the sound.

Sergei was broken out of his thoughts when he heard something smash – and a tortured scream issued from inside the room moments later.

Terrified for his mother, he flung open the door.

His crystal eyes widened when he saw her backed up against the wall, his father holding a broken bottle of vodka towards her. At Sergei's entrance they both swiftly turned their heads in his direction.

'Papa!' he began, a little nervously, 'pozhaluysta – stop – what are you –'

'Shut up,' came the fierce reply, and Sergei ducked as the bottle came flying towards him.

'Have you lost your mind?' his mother screamed, eyeing the bottle fearfully, the remains of which had shattered less than a metre away from Sergei's head.

'If I wanted the opinion of a child I would have asked for it. He should know his place,' his father snarled.

'He is ten; you could have –'

That was when he hit her.

'Mama!' Sergei cried.

'Sergei – dorogoy – go upstairs – you mustn't see this –' his mother was saying hurriedly, tears pooling in her eyes, 'please –'

Sergei stood there, a look of horror on his face. Her eye was black and swollen and her hair was a mess from where she had collapsed against the wall from the impact of the blow.

'N-no, I won't leave you with –'

But his father glared at him, a murderous look in his cold eyes, and Sergei ran from the room.

oOo

'Please don't cry, Mama. I hate it so.'

Sergei wiped her tears away gently. 'When I grow up and I'm big and strong I'll protect you. No one will ever hurt you. I promise. Not even Papa.'

Sergei's mother smiled at him. It was a small, sad smile, and she pulled him into her arms. 'If only, Sergei,' she replied wearily.

His face fell and he looked up at her. 'You… you don't believe me…?'

She was silent.

Sergei looked at her. Her face was pale with defeat and worry. Father would be back any minute now.

'You've given up.'

'Hush, Sergei…'

oOo

'Papa…?'

Sergei knocked tentatively on the door to his father's study. He had not come home in a bad mood for once, and for this Sergei was relieved.

'Come in,' came the short reply.

He breathed a small sigh of relief. It had been six months since the incident in the kitchen, and the household atmosphere had never been quite the same. Nevertheless, he had finally plucked up the courage to speak to his father on his own. Mother was upstairs if anything got heated –

No. He could do this on his own, couldn't he?

His heart racing, Sergei stepped through the door.

His father looked up from his work. 'I am surprised to see you here.'

'I…'

They stared at each other, and Sergei took a deep breath.

'Do you love Mama…?'

Sergei's father raised an eyebrow. 'Why do you ask?'

'Just – just wondering…'

'Really?'

His voice was sceptical, patronising, but Sergei forced himself to ignore it.

'Well, do you love her?'

'Yes.'

There was no mistaking the hesitance in his voice.

oOo

'Mama…?'

'Da?'

'Would you sing me something before I sleep? I like it when you sing.'

Sergei's mother smiled, pulling the covers up over his slim frame.

'Please?'

'Kharasho. But what do you want me to sing…?'

Sergei thought for a moment.

'Kalinka.'

She chuckled. 'You really like that one, don't you?'

He nodded enthusiastically.

His mother smiled. 'Close your eyes.'

He did so, laying back against the pillow, and she sang softly.

'Kalinka, kalinka, kalinka moya.
V sadu yagoda malinka, malinka moya.

'Akh, pod sosnoyu, pod zelenoyu,
Spat' polozhite vy menya.
Ay-lyuli, lyuli, ay-lyuli, lyuli,
Spat' polozhite vy menya.

'Kalinka, kalinka, kalinka moya.
V sadu yagoda malinka, malinka moya.'

Sleep swiftly took over him.

And that would be the last time he heard her sing.

oOo

'Sergei, this is foolish. Come home.'

The cold voice rang through the equally cold air.

Sergei turned around, resentment and anger building up inside him like lava. His body burned with hatred and he took a step forwards, kicking the snow in annoyance.

'Come home? To what? To witness you getting drunk and flying into a rage every other day, just as I have been for the past eighteen years?' He shook his head. 'That is not a home, Father. Not to me.'

'Sergei.'

His father's voice was beginning to shake with fury. Sergei raised an eyebrow. It did not take much to set him off.

'You know I am right. Mother is dead because of your temper. Do you remember that? I was eleven. You came home in the middle of the night, drunk, again. You lashed out at her, again. And she isn't coming back, you tyrant!'

'You dare speak to me like that…?' His voice was dangerously quiet.

Sergei stared defiantly at the man in front of him. 'Yes, I do!'

His eyes widened. 'I am your father!'

'NYET, YOU ARE NOT!'

Instantly the older Russian raised a hand, but Sergei had learned to expect this and caught his wrist swiftly.

His father's eyes narrowed.

'What are you going to do, hit me?' the teenager asked, mockingly, 'lash out, just like usual, when you can't take something?'

He was rewarded with silence, and he carried on.

'You cannot stand it when you are proven wrong, can you? As soon as you hear something you don't like, you dismiss everyone else! There is no, 'I am sorry' – not once have I ever heard you back down. You are selfish, violent, brutish. And if that is what fathers are like then I would rather be without one.'

Sergei viciously let go of his father's wrist. 'I am not scared of you anymore,' he snarled, 'I've been dying to tell you what I think of you for years and years, and now – now I have! And I do not regret a single thing.'

Quietness fell over them both, but it was shattered as soon as it was formed and Sergei was met with a voice as icy as the air around them.

'You have learned nothing. Know when to hold your tongue.'

Sergei glared at his father.

As you wish. I have nothing more to say to you.

And he turned on his heel and walked away.

oOo

Sergei stood by his mother's grave, staring at the snow that covered it. It was a blanket of emptiness invaded every surface, and he liked it.

Snow was white. Devoid of emotion. A blank canvas. Perhaps he should learn something from it.

After all, emotion never got anyone anywhere, did it? It only made things worse, telling people how one felt. Father had never had any patience for it. Mother would always get a beating when she tried to speak to him. When he was a child, Sergei, too, would often be on the receiving end of his anger.

And if your parents didn't understand, who would?

Maybe it was better to not tell anyone how you felt.

Or, at least, not verbally.

He closed his eyes.

When I grow up and I'm big and strong I'll protect you. No one will ever hurt you. I promise.

And yet he had broken that promise. Mother was dead. The one person he had, taken from him so soon, by the person he despised the most.

Sergei opened his eyes and knelt down, gently brushing away the snow that covered the gravestone. Carefully laying down the roses he was holding, he began to sing quietly:

'Kalinka, kalinka, kalinka moya.
V sadu yagoda malinka, malinka moya.

'Akh, pod sosnoyu, pod zelenoyu,
Spat' polozhite vy menya.
Ay-lyuli, lyuli, ay-lyuli, lyuli,
Spat' polozhite vy menya.

'Kalinka, kalinka, kalinka moya.
V sadu yagoda malinka, malinka moya.'

The tears he did not realise had gathered fell slowly, disappearing among the snow. He blinked slowly before wiping them away fiercely, the last of his feeling now buried under the impassive sheet of white.

Just like her.

Sergei stood up.

Yes, he had failed her. He could see that. He had never been able to protect her from father – no, not father – just a bully with whom he had not spoken in over a year, a cunning criminal who had somehow managed to make his wife's death look like a tragic accident.

And Sergei had no intention of reconciling with him. There were no good memories. None at all.

But he could make up for it, couldn't he…? Protect others from outside threats. Protect the people. Protect Mother Russia.

His eyes glazed over the stone.

'Dasvidaniya, Mama,' he murmured.

oOo

'Dragunov, isn't it?'

He nodded.

'You ever had any experience with Sambo before?'

He shook his head. The instructor eyed him. 'Not much of a talker, are you?'

Dragunov simply glared at him, and the latter shrugged. 'Well, let's get started then.'

oOo

'You're a natural. I thought you said you had never done this before?'

'…'

'You haven't? You're sure…?'

Dragunov nodded.

'Well, you must have seen quite a bit of fighting somewhere. Action movies when you were a kid, perhaps…?'

Dragunov's eyes narrowed.

oOo

'Hey, Dragunov!'

Dragunov glanced in the direction of the voice, catching sight of a scruffy-haired comrade walking up the same path Dragunov had taken time and time again all these years.

Why did Ivan have to run into him here, of all places? He did not want to be seen anywhere other than on the battlefield, especially by the most irritating man he knew. This place was private. A private outlet for what little feeling he had left. He moved away from the grave swiftly, lighting a cigarette and leaning against the wall of the cemetery.

'You've lost relatives too, I see.'

Dragunov rolled his eyes at the stupidity of the statement, staring at the ground. He had never taken much to this man.

'Who is it?'

Dragunov found his eyes drifting slowly to the gravestone ahead, and Ivan followed his gaze.

'"Larisa Alexandrovna Dragunova,"' he read, 'your mother?'

Dragunov nodded slowly, staring straight ahead. Ivan read the date on the tombstone.

'She died young… I'm sorry.'

You should be. I should be. I let her die. I was not enough. I could not protect her from my father, and she died at his hand. Brutal, he was. Is. I don't know if he is still alive. Haven't spoken to him in years, he has probably drunk himself to death, with any luck. Good riddance if that is the case.

Gods, this man was annoying, and his fists began to ball. Yet Ivan still went on.

'You're quiet. Heh, you're only human, right?'

At this Dragunov began to walk away, his teeth gritted.

'Hey, was it something I said?'

He carried on. He was outside the gate now.

'Oh… I see.' Ivan's voice was dangerous. Dragunov kept walking, and heard the other's footsteps quickly catch him up. 'You don't want anyone to know you actually do have these things called… oh, what are they again? Ah, yes. Feelings.'

Dragunov stopped.

'Ooh, did I touch a raw nerve? I'm so sorry.' His voice was dripping with sarcasm, and Dragunov turned around slowly, his nails digging into his palms. What was his problem?!

'You want to keep up the "tough guy" appearance, don't you, Sergei? Afraid of people thinking otherwise. Who knew, huh? "Breaking news: The White Angel of Death actually has emotions!" And people are scared of you!' he added incredulously, 'I wonder what –'

Dragunov launched himself at the man, striking him in the face in anger. Ivan snarled back and pushed him roughly to the cold ground, landing on top of him shortly afterwards. The men battled in the snow, and Dragunov dodged countless blows while aiming an equal amount at his opponent. Seconds later he felt pressure on his windpipe from where Ivan had his hands around his throat, and he struggled to prise his fingers away.

That was when Ivan brought out the knife.

Of course.

'You know you can do it, Sergei,' he growled mockingly, one hand still closed around Dragunov's neck, 'give us a smile!'

Dragunov gritted his teeth and grabbed Ivan's wrist, trying to direct it away from him. Though he managed to avoid being stabbed completely, the lack of oxygen made him lose his focus a little and the blade carved his lips. The jolt of pain made Dragunov snap back into reality, and he could feel the blood dripping down from his mouth onto the white, now crimson, snow below.

He forced the knife backwards and sat up swiftly, slicing his nose in the process. He pushed Ivan down violently so that he was now on top of him, twisting the knife painfully out of his hand.

Ivan's dark eyes widened.

His face impassive, his eyes like ice, Dragunov's hand plummeted down towards Ivan's chest.

He was dead within seconds.

oOo

It was late. Past midnight.

You've become like him.

No, I haven't.

You are. You swore you would never use your fists without a good reason. Yet look at you now. You're exactly like the man you promised you would never be.

I'm not.

Oh? What is different?

Father's intentions were bad. Mine are the opposite. I want to protect, not punish.

You are feared by all.

That is correct.

'White Angel of Death'. What does that tell you?! You do not have a positive aura about you.

Why should I?! Positivity does not get you anywhere.

Is that so?

Da. What is the point of showing your emotions only to have others crush them? Hide your feelings and you cannot be brought down.

Coward.

Shut up.

Dragunov closed his eyes tightly, burying his head in his pillow in an effort to block out the annoying voice in his head.

You are a coward. A coward, afraid of showing human emotions. You cannot hide from it. Sergei.

'Zatknis!'

oOo

And still he would visit her. To keep her company. To apologise. To tell her, 'ya tebya lyublyu.'

'Kalinka, kalinka, kalinka moya.
V sadu yagoda malinka, malinka moya.

'Akh, pod sosnoyu, pod zelenoyu,
Spat' polozhite vy menya.
Ay-lyuli, lyuli, ay-lyuli, lyuli,
Spat' polozhite vy menya.

'Kalinka, kalinka, kalinka moya.
V sadu yagoda malinka, malinka moya.'

Word/phrase translations in order (I don't speak Russian so please correct me if I'm wrong):

pozhaluysta - please

dorogoy - darling

da - yes

kharasho - alright, okay

nyet - no

dasvidaniya - goodbye

zatknis - shut up

ya tebya lyublyu - I love you

Kalinka translation (only part of the song is used):

Little snowberry, snowberry, snowberry of mine.
Little raspberry in the garden, my little raspberry.

Ah, under the pine, the green one,
Lay me down to sleep,
Rock-a-bye, baby, rock-a-bye, baby,
Lay me down to sleep.

Little snowberry, snowberry, snowberry of mine.
Little raspberry in the garden, my little raspberry.

I know Kalinka is not a slow song, it's actually rather speedy. But I liked the lyrics and felt it would make a nice lullaby if slowed down a little. XD Actual song here, sung by the Red Army Choir (boy am I obsessed with them atm):

: / / www. youtube watch?v=VJ9q7N5e25c

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Art of this here: : / / zozo1770. deviantart # /d5sosud