FIC: Silentium [2/2]
Jan. 8th, 2010 08:47 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: Silentium
Author: Alex
Fandom: Crossover: Eastern Promises/Goldeneye
Pairing: Nikolai Luzhin/Alec Trevelyan
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: characters property of their respective owners.
Warnings: Brief violence appropriate to the milieu of both films.
Summary: A love story.
Notes: Many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kimberlite for most excellent beta and friendship.
Part 1 here
*
His real name is Aleksandr, so say his employees. They say the English gave him the surname Trevelyan, but what his real surname might be is a mystery. They say his parents were Lienz Cossacks, supporters of Germany in the Second World War, and that when they appealed to Britain for shelter from Stalin’s forces, Britain refused, and they perished, leaving a young Alec in the hands of the British government. There are conflicting stories; some say that Alec defected only a few years ago, some say that he was always in contact with surviving Cossacks, still others maintain that he was brought back forcibly to the Soviet Union. There are rumors that the burns on his face are the result of an accident involving a British Secret Service agent, that Aleksandr was himself a double agent. Nikolai does not know whether this information can be believed. He submits photographs to the Directorate, quietly pleased to be the first to unmask Janus, but thus far he has heard no reply.
Nikolai effortlessly steps into his new role. He’s watched closely at first, but after a few weeks it becomes clear that his loyalty to Anatoly was purely economic. He is a spear-carrier, a supernumerary, but he is accustomed to that and expects no more. He is quiet and efficient and respectful of others in the organization which is, in its way, more efficiently run than the Directorate. Certainly there’s less jockeying for power and no interdepartmental pissing contests. They meet in a former tractor factory outside of Petersburg, where the day’s business is completed. Some of the men are wary of him, for his Siberian tattoos mark him as a man to be reckoned with, and Nikolai has never been a talkative man and is slow to make friends. He knows his demeanor is cold, but that is useful. Another employee, Mischa, an older man with Kazan tattoos of his own, befriends Nikolai after a month has passed and begins teaching him how to render bodies unidentifiable. It’s a gruesome skill, and the other men are happy to grant him the honor and privilege of hacking away at corpses.
Nikolai’s first solo project is a Bulgarian heroin dealer who siphoned five grams from each kilo package received to sell personally. Only half an hour before, the man had been on his knees, weeping and begging to be spared. Alec had walked away, leaving Nikolai to finish and process the man on his own. He does so with little regret, for the Bulgarian has a list of ruthless exploits as long as his arm, and begins the procedure with a cigarette dangling from his lower lip to mask the smells of hot blood and viscera.
When Nikolai is nearly finished, Alec comes into the cold room. He offers a slight smile but says nothing at first, gesturing for Nikolai to go on, and stands well back from the sloping table with its gutters that empty into the drain set in the concrete floor. He watches thoughtfully for a few moments. “You learn fast.”
Nikolai shrugs. “It’s not so hard.”
“You’ve had experience with this sort of thing before?”
“No.” Nikolai extracts the last tooth, a large steel molar, and briefly holds it up to the light. He sets it down and blots his forehead with the back of his forearm.
“I suppose it would be simpler to keep a crematory oven.”
A slight smile tugs at Nikolai’s mouth. “Maybe.”
“You’re not terribly interested in complex sentences, are you?”
This time Nikolai grins. “Depends on the subject.”
Alec regards him steadily. “Or perhaps you prefer other activities to talking.”
Nikolai plucks the nearly spent cigarette from his lip and drops it on the floor, crushing it beneath his shoe. He picks up his pliers and examines the tool minutely for blood. “Perhaps,” he says at last. He remembers a quaint English term they’d taught him early on in the Directorate: honey trap. He never expected to apply it to himself. But if it works, then so much the better.
Alec takes a gold cigarette lighter and a silver box emblazoned with old-fashioned Cyrillic lettering from his inside pocket and opens it, withdrawing two Sobranies. He hands one to Nikolai over the Bulgarian’s corpse and lights his own. Nikolai waits. Alec gestures with his lighter, and moves closer to the table. Nikolai leans forward and cups the flame with his hand, lightly skating over Alec’s long fingers with his own. He takes one step back, but Alec remains where he is, exhaling a neat ribbon of smoke and watching Nikolai intently through the concealing haze.
“I’m finished here,” Nikolai says in a soft voice. A sudden tremor races down his spine. The lower half of his body is obscured by the table and the dead Bulgarian atop it, but he senses, nevertheless, that Alec knows he has an erection. So much the better, Nikolai repeats to himself. Things will be easier, certain tasks pleasanter, if less subterfuge is employed. He is mildly amazed that he can get an erection in the presence of a fresh corpse, but such are the vagaries of life.
Alec draws on his cigarette. “I have a dacha near Petropavlovsk.”
“I’ve never been there.”
“Would you like to see it?”
“Yes, I would.” It would be preferable to stay in Petersburg, for certainly Alec’s most delicate and crucial information isn’t kept in a Siberian dacha, but any means of entry is not to be scorned.
A warmer light glows in Alec’s pale eyes. He glances down at the Bulgarian, then rounds the table, standing close to Nikolai. Nikolai can feel the warmth of Alec’s breath on his ear. “Good. Tomorrow, then.”
*
The snow that morning flies thick and fast, stinging Nikolai’s skin like sand, whirling against the surface of the missile train as it lumbers to a halt. It is almost unbearably cold; Nikolai huddles in his wool overcoat, wishing he’d worn a hat and gloves.
The armored train is huge, black, ugly, and intimidating, reminding Nikolai of Darth Vader from Star Wars. It no longer carries weapons, though; its cargo now is one powerful, mysterious man and the subordinates he requires to simplify his life. Nikolai watches in bemusement as the vast thing churns to a stop and a door opens, disgorging a half dozen burly men who begin to order crates and boxes loaded onto a rear car. Another door, three or four cars from the engine down, opens, and Alec appears, descending from the high metal step with the lithe grace of a dancer. He is dressed in a slim black suit and glossy black shoes, and lifts a hand to shade his eyes from the blowing snow.
“You travel light!” Alec must raise his voice to be heard above the howling wind.
Nikolai glances down at the toiletry kit in his hand. “I didn’t know how long I would be gone.”
“Never mind, I have everything you might need. Come along, it’s freezing out here.” Alec puts an arm around Nikolai’s shoulders and guides him toward the black monster. “Up, up.”
Nikolai boards the train, and sudden warmth surrounds him, embracing and welcome. He squints in the dimness, trying to adjust his eyes from dazzling whiteness to murky gloom. As his vision clears, he sees that the rail car has been converted into a sort of reception room, with deep paisley wallpaper above dark wooden wainscoting, and armchairs upholstered in plum-colored silk on either side of a little walnut table. Nikolai blinks at the incongruity but says nothing.
Alec takes his coat and hands it to a black-uniformed maid, another incongruity. “Tea, Olga.” He leads Nikolai through another car, then another, each more sumptuously decorated than the next, until they come to a car that seems like the inside of a jewel box. Green velvet, the deep, bosky hue of pine needles, covers the walls and ripples over lace curtains at the windows, bound by gold tassels. There is a cabinet against one wall, a deep, mellow wood inlaid with ivory, its gleaming surface casually littered with treasures – a silver samovar, a gold-filigreed telescope studded with topaz, porcelain figurines, a brightly lacquered and intricately detailed wooden box. Alec seats himself on a sofa with carved gilt legs. “Sit.”
Nikolai obeys gingerly. “This is...quite something.”
Alec laughs. “How kind of you to say so. An acquaintance once told me it looked like I’d robbed the Winter Palace and crammed everything onboard.”
“Did you?”
A smile plays across Alec’s mouth. “Not all of it.” He glances out the window. “We’re off.”
As Nikolai watches the buildings of industrial Petersburg pass by in a white rush, the maid comes in with a rolling cart. Nikolai and Alec sit in silence as she sets up a table with crackers, caviar and sour cream, tiny piroghi and sweet pastries. She draws water from the samovar for tea and pours it into tiny glasses with silver holders as delicately wrought as a spiderweb.
“Thank you, my dear.” Alec’s voice is gentle. Nikolai intercepts a glance between him and the girl. She is pretty, with thick blonde hair and a lush mouth. Nikolai feels an unpleasant clenching in his stomach and at first wonders if it’s because he’s failed to eat any breakfast. Then he realizes that he’s gritting his teeth and silently willing the girl to leave. Jealousy? Impossible. He can count on his fingers and toes the number of times he’s exchanged words with Alec, and there hasn’t been time for more than casual conversation and a great many intense looks. Besides, he’s on his way to Petropavlovsk for a decidedly clear purpose.
He would be lying, though, to deny that Alec fascinates him, that he’s sought glimpses of the personality behind those pale green eyes. Annoyed with himself, he stares out the window. He’s here for facts, not feelings.
“Tea?” Alec is holding out one of the little glasses.
They eat and drink; their conversation is desultory as the train speeds through the snowy landscape and flat marshlands give way to rolling hills and forests of white-frosted pine. The snow beats against the windows of the train, as fine and white as icing sugar. Alec excuses himself, and Nikolai photographs the interior of the car, though he doubts it’ll be helpful in any way. When Alec returns, Nikolai is standing at a window, his fingertips pressed lightly against the glass.
“Would you like to see the rest of the train?”
“Yes.”
Alec shows Nikolai through the cars. The front cars are for staff, he says; their quarters and the kitchen is there. The center of the train is the plush series of cars Nikolai has already seen. The last few cars are Alec’s private quarters: sitting room, office, bathroom, bedroom. They are lavishly equipped, decadent. Nikolai silently marvels at the Jacuzzi and marble shower stall in the bathroom. “You live like a tsar,” he remarks, following Alec into the bedroom.
“Hardly,” Alec says. “I’m an underworld figure, Nikolai, a fugitive. The tsars made their fortunes on the backs of honest, hardworking people, and I’ve made my fortune on the backs of dishonest thieves, gun-runners, drug dealers, and black marketeers. The only thing I have in common with a tsar is the means to live comfortably. I think you know that better than I do.” He sits on the corner of the bed. “You look tired.”
“I am.” He was up the night before rereading every scrap of information the Directorate could give him on Janus. He’s learned more in the past month on his own, but he scrutinized the reports nonetheless. Nikolai acknowledges, if only to himself, that there is a thread of obsession in his studies.
“Clearly I’m working you too hard. Why not sleep a little?” Alec pats the bed.
"I couldn’t.”
“Please. I’d rather you conserved your energy for the dacha.” Alec reaches out a hand, takes Nikolai’s, and gently pulls him forward. When Nikolai sits beside him, Alec leans forward and lightly kisses him on the mouth.
Nikolai yields. A little, only a little, he cautions himself, but when Alec’s tongue probes between his lips, he can scarcely contain a shiver. His hands move toward Alec, but Alec grasps his wrists and holds them together.
“Enough for now.” Alec rises and pushes Nikolai down so he’s supine on the bed. He takes off Nikolai’s shoes and drops them to the floor, then opens a carved chest and takes out a blanket. One side is embroidered satin, the other side soft fur. He covers Nikolai tenderly and smoothes his hair back from his forehead. “Sleep a while.”
Nikolai’s eyelids are heavy. He feels his belt unbuckled, the leather sliding through the loops. “Wait for me,” he tries to say, but instead closes his eyes and lets the rocking of the train lead him into slumber.
*
He awakens to silence and stillness. The shades have been drawn. The room is dark but for a candle burning in a tall chased silver and glass holder. Nikolai catches a drift of fragrance, something warm and comforting like mingled cloves and lemons. The pillow beneath his cheek is smooth and pliant, the fur-lined blanket wonderfully embracing. He rises with reluctance, though his body’s internal clock tells him that he’s slept a long time. When he tugs on the window shade, he is unsurprised to see that the pearl-colored light of day has faded to a deep blue.
The train has stopped.
“Alec?”
There is no response. Nikolai puts on his shoes and jacket, blows out the candle and gropes his way out of the car. It is eerily quiet, as if the entire train has been deserted. He passes through one softly lit, opulent car after another, faint unease prickling at the back of his neck.
“Alec?”
He comes to a car fitted out with two utilitarian bunks, then a sort of lounge, not as elaborate as the other cars but comfortable, then another bunkroom. The next door reveals a kitchen, modern and sleek, immaculately clean and totally empty. Nikolai frowns and pushes open the next door, then stops.
This car is quite different from the others. Lined in pale green quilting, it is filled top to bottom with electronics, though everything is powered down and the light is dim, mostly originating from a glass wall map and a sleeping console almost two meters long. Nikolai steps into the room, shifts his jacket sleeve up, exposing his watch, and begins to photograph everything he can. He recognizes some of the equipment: a portal for a reconnaissance satellite, image processing hardware for radio antennae, plug taps. Nikolai studies the devices, but touches nothing. There is a biometric scanner on the console, so attempting to break in would be useless. He notes a file folder bulging with paper atop a huge computer monitor. Neatly written on the top tab is the word Barclays. Nikolai photographs the folder, then stands back and examines the blank wall map. What does a crime syndicate lord, however powerful, need with all this sophisticated equipment?
“Lost?”
Nikolai turns around, not so fast that he appears inordinately startled. “Yes. I was looking for you.”
Alec, bundled into a long black coat with an astrakhan collar, smiles, but even in the dimness it is apparent that he is displeased. “Did you find anything interesting?”
“All this is interesting.” Nikolai lets his gaze wander around the car. “What is it?”
“Nothing you need worry about.” Alec’s smile thins. “Curiosity killed the cat,” he adds in English.
Nikolai frowns. “What did you say?” He has not indicated that he understands English and briefly wonders if Alec is toying with him.
“Nothing. Come along.” Alec puts a proprietary hand on Nikolai’s upper arm and steers him out of the car. Tension thrums in the long fingers digging into Nikolai’s flesh.
“Surely we can’t be there already.” It is six or seven thousand kilometers from Petersburg to Petropavlovsk.
Alec laughs. “No, of course not. This train is fast, but not that fast. We have made good time, however.” He takes Nikolai’s coat from the pouting blonde maid, grins at her, prompting a simper in response, and holds the coat open. “We fly the rest of the way.”
Nikolai slides into the coat and buttons it. “Are you a pilot as well?”
“I am many things, my friend, but today I’m merely a passenger.” Alec pulls on a soft knitted watch cap, hands one to Nikolai, and drops him a wink. “It’s cold outside. Come on.”
*
The plane is no ordinary one. It is a Gulfstream IV, sleek and beautiful and absurdly luxurious inside, though without the Tsarist trappings of Alec’s train. Nikolai settles into the comfortable leather seat and accepts the chilled vodka a white-jacketed steward offers him. He glances about and feels a faint prickle of disapproval, then hides a smile in the vodka. It’s impossible to escape one’s upbringing. Even when Communism’s slow decay is complete, there will still be those, Nikolai included, who grew up beneath its shadow, who will never be comfortable with Western indulgence. And beneath that discomfort is a fierce and stubborn love of country, passed down in silent acknowledgment, an inherited tenacity that gave his forbears the strength to survive countless Siberian winters, that helped his grandmother cling to her faith though the state did its best to eradicate it, that enabled his father, a young private in the Second World War, to survive years of starvation and soul-killing hardship and the relentless assault of the German army. That tenacity will be Russia’s salvation, and Nikolai examines Alec beneath lowered lashes and wonders if this English-raised gangster has an ancestral memory, a Russian soul.
“Three hours at most,” Alec says, dropping into the seat opposite Nikolai. “It’s a pity we aren’t flying in daylight. The view of Koryakskaya from above is truly spectacular. If we have time, perhaps we can go on an excursion to see it. Have you ever seen an active volcano?”
“No. I hope your dacha isn’t in danger from it.” Nikolai smiles at his own feeble joke.
“A smile! I must say that’s a comparative rarity from you, Nikolai.”
Nikolai acknowledges this. “If you saw me hacking up corpses and giggling on a regular basis, that might be cause for worry, don’t you think?”
“True,” Alec laughs. “Mischa tells me you’re Siberian.”
“From near Ekaterinburg.”
“Hard country.”
“Sometimes.”
“Tell me about it, won’t you?”
Nikolai slowly launches into the essential details of his legend. It’s one he’s repeated many times before, including an unpleasant two-week training period in Lubyanka, naked, handcuffed, blindfolded, starved, beaten, and electroshocked. Near the end, when they’d left him alone and turned off the harsh single bulb in his cell, he had wept silently, his tears absorbed by the blindfold, but he had never once diverged from his story. When it was over, he had received a medal for irreproachable service. To be rewarded for steadfast maintenance of a tissue of lies is a distinct irony that never fails to escape him each time he thinks of it, but it’s preferable to washing out. The Komitet is not overly forgiving.
Alec listens with interest and asks intelligent questions. “Did Mischa tell you anything about me?” he asks after a while, pouring them both another vodka.
Nikolai swallows his vodka before replying. “I hear you’re a Lienz Cossack.”
Alec turns his head and gazes out the window. His scarred face gleams oddly in the low light. “Stalin slaughtered millions more than Hitler. The soil of Russia was soaked with the innocent blood he spilled. But the British couldn’t understand why repatriation –" he endows the last word with infinite scorn, “—was less than acceptable. But then, the British never gave them the truth. My father was told he was headed to a conference. When the people of Lienz realized that they had been deceived, that they were being forced back into the Soviet Union, they rebelled. The British bludgeoned my mother into unconsciousness. They broke my father’s arm and both his legs with their rifles and truncheons, and then hauled them to a Soviet prison. The Soviets took them to a labor camp. In the end, my parents preferred death to the gulag.”
Silence falls in the cabin, broken only by the deep hum of the jet engines. Alec stares out into the darkness, leaving Nikolai to draw his own conclusions and wonder what has prompted this torrent of bitterness and honesty. Nikolai longs for another vodka. He forces himself to stillness and watches Alec, seeing for the first time beneath the elegant criminal shell the isolation of a man accused of second-hand treason to his country and his people, retribution descending upon a child from a vast, impersonal height, from a force of nature, or a blind, deaf, and indifferent god. Troublesome as the world’s greyness often is, surely it is better than the black and white of what that child’s life must have become. His parents, once loyal fascists, are martyrs; Britain and the Soviet state are slaughterers, barbarians. The truth is a snarl of silken threads too delicate and complicated to unravel without breaking.
“And now?” Nikolai asks softly.
“Now?” Alec seems surprised. “Now I find it difficult to forgive betrayal.” He pours them both another vodka and lifts his glass. “To your health, my friend.”
Nikolai touches his glass to Alec’s. He knows what he does is borne of courage or folly. And infiltrating his own façade is a potentially lethal melding of compassion and fascination.
It’s too late to stop now.
*
Nikolai and Alec disembark the plane onto a snowy red-lit runway. The night is still and dark, and so cold it steals Nikolai's breath. He remembers nights like this long ago in his grandmother's ibza, huddled in the trundle bed under musty woolen blankets and layers of ancient fur rugs, needing the toilet, his bladder aching and distended, and dreading the moment when necessity dictated that it was outside or a wet bed. Gratefully, he climbs into a waiting Tigr equipped with snow tracks and breathes a sigh of relief that the heat is on at full strength. "I was half-expecting snowmobiles. Or perhaps a troika," he jokes as Alec swings into the driver's seat.
"I can arrange that." Alec replies with a chuckle, and revs the engine. "For tonight, though, let's get to our destination quickly and comfortably."
"Agreed." Nikolai surreptitously photographs the interior of the Tigr. Discomfort and a curious sense of disloyalty begin to gnaw his insides.
It is only ten or so kilometers to Alec's dacha. They drive on a trail cut through a pine forest and emerge upon a clearing with a two-story house bordered on three sides by the tall pines. "Home," Alec says, his voice low, resonant, and contented. "Come, let's hurry inside."
Nikolai is surprised by the interior of the dacha. The walls are larch stained a honey color; the floor, scattered with kilim carpets, are polished parquet. The sofas and chairs are old-fashioned, with curving, carved wooden legs, and look worn and comfortable. One long wall is floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with books. A tiled stove in a corner throws off glorious heat. There are lamps with cream-colored shades, little wooden tables. Unlike the train and the jet, the dacha is ordinary, even rustic by comparison, and it seems unlikely that a man like Alec occupies such an unassuming abode.
Alec sets down his bag and Nikolai's and stretches like a great cat. "At last. Please, make yourself comfortable." He takes Nikolai's coat and disappears into the next room.
Nikolai drifts to the wall of books and idly examines the titles. The lettering on the spines is Russian, English, French, Spanish, and the books seem to be organized by topic, not language. Oversized art books crowd the bottom shelves. There is an entire shelf filled with books on finance and British economics. At eye level is a row of Russian classics that look positively ancient; timidly Nikolai slides out a volume of Anna Karenina, opens it to the flyleaf, and sees the unmistakable signature of Lev Tolstoy. With a caution approaching reverence, he replaces the book on the shelf.
"Are you a reader?" Alec strides into the room carrying two glasses and a liter of heather-honey vodka.
"I was, once." Nikolai takes the glass Alec proffers. "It seems difficult to find time now."
"That's a pity. There's really nothing to equal the pleasure of a good book." Alec pours vodka into the glasses and meets Nikolai's eyes with his own, so shining and intense it's as if he's swallowed lit candles. "Almost nothing, that is. To your health."
"To your health." Nikolai raises his glass; his heart pounds in a quickening, erratic rhythm.
They drink, still holding each other's gaze. Then Alec takes a step forward, closing the short distance between them, and plucks the delicate crystal glass from Nikolai's hand. He sets both glasses on a shelf, then brushes his lips and the tip of his tongue lightly, teasingly, across Nikolai's mouth.
It's not remotely enough. Nikolai reaches out and grasps the back of Alec's head by the hair and pulls him forward, kissing him ferociously, plunging his tongue deep into Alec's willing mouth. He locks his other arm around Alec's waist so that his erection can be felt, trapped beneath expensive wool. He feels Alec's hands slide down his hips to cup his arse and grind their bodies together, and now Alec is the aggressor, ravishing Nikolai's mouth, pushing him against the wooden shelves.
Alec sucks and nibbles at Nikolai's neck, then captures his earlobe in sharp teeth. "The bed's more comfortable." His hand explores between Nikolai's legs.
Nikolai grasps futilely at the shelves, hoping they're built in, otherwise he might wind up burying them both. "The bed, then." For a few lingering moments, though, Alec keeps him pinned against the bookcase, kissing and suckling with a violent need that is surprising to Nikolai, when he pauses for breath and a fleeting moment of cognizance drifts through his haze of yearning. In the weeks he's observed Alec, there has been nothing to suggest this ferocity, nor any emotion beyond an occasional significant look and a few well-chosen innuendos. Nikolai wonders briefly if he is as much a puzzlement to Alec as Alec is to him.
Alec pulls away, panting, and wraps one long hand around Nikolai's wrist, grasping it hard enough to bruise. He propels Nikolai to an iron spiral staircase in the far corner and all but drags him upstairs. There is a stove in the bedroom, its panels open; it provides just enough light to illuminate the outlines of the object of their quest. Kissing Nikolai once more, Alec pushes him toward the bed until they bump against it.
Nikolai feels Alec's body trembling. He calculates for an instant, then allows himself to become slightly more pliant in Alec's arms. He will let Alec take him; the next time will be his. With languid deliberation, he reaches up to unfasten Alec's tie. He unbuttons the soft cotton shirt and opens it, exposing a leanly muscled chest that glows deep gold in the light of the stove. Nikolai wets one finger and circles an already hard nipple, feeling his cock leap in excitement as Alec shudders.
Alec shrugs out of his jacket, letting it fall to the floor, works his feet out of his shoes, and then reaches for the button on Nikolai's trousers. The belt is long gone, presumably still on the Petersburg train. He tugs too hard; the button pops off and sails to the floor, landing with a faint click, scarcely audible above their ragged breaths and the snapping logs in the stove. And now it seems there is no more time for deliberation. As if in mutual and unspoken agreement, they rip the covers from the bed and fall upon it, Alec struggling with his belt and trousers, pushing them only partway down in his impatience, Nikolai yanking down his undershorts, tearing off his own jacket and tie but not bothering to remove his shirt. There is a moment's fumbling in a drawer of the bedside table, and then Alec is straddling Nikolai's prone body, his knees locked around Nikolai's thighs.
Nikolai is hard, aching, his body fine points of pure sensation. The sheets beneath him are smooth, not enough to stimulate his stiff cock. The wool of Alec's trousers scratches against his trapped legs. He smells bleached cotton, fresh sweat, fragrant wood. And then he feels a hard, slick finger pushing inside him, stretching him. He shivers at the chill of the lubricant, the sudden intrusion. "I appreciate the consideration," he rasps, "but I need you to fuck me now."
Alec laughs softly and urges Nikolai's hips up. He enters Nikolai without hesitating, silent, and pushes in ruthlessly until he's unable to go further. Nikolai pushes back, clutching at the sheets, unable to stifle a groan of longing as Alec grasps his hips, digging his fingers in, and remains utterly still for an agonizing moment. He won't plead more, but tightens himself around Alec's cock and urges himself forward until his own prick, nearly ready to spill, rubs against the sheets. He holds himself without moving, without thrashing or touching himself, trembling, waiting.
Alec pulls back and plows in, hard, wrenching a muffled cry from Nikolai's lips. He does it again, and again, setting a brutal pace, until Nikolai begins to buck and thrust beneath him, matching his rhythm, the mutual tension of their bodies building and tightening. Nikolai moans quietly as his cock is tormented by the too-pliant mattress, the too-soft sheets. Alec is concerned only with fucking him, diving as deep and hard and fast as he can, and as his cock suddenly rubs against Nikolai's prostate in exactly the right way, Nikolai comes, shuddering in blind ecstasy and tightening once more around Alec's prick. Alec climaxes with a deep, hoarse groan and collapses atop Nikolai's still shivering body.
*
Nikolai blinks awake, aware that he is warm and comfortable. The duvet has been pulled up to his chin, but he's alone in the bed. He sits up and sees Alec standing at the window, naked, smoking a cigarette. Nikolai throws aside the duvet, strips off his socks and shirt – he isn't cold, but it seems right that he, too, should be naked – and moves to the window to stand beside Alec. His watch is still strapped to his wrist; for a moment he considers photographing Alec's naked body for ease of identification, but holds back, not because he is embarrassed, but because it seems a betrayal of intimacy. And this intimacy is none of the Directorate's affair, no matter what they might say.
Wordlessly, Alec offers the cigarette. Nikolai takes it, draws the smoke in deeply, and hands it back. "Snowing again," Alec murmurs.
Nikolai rests the back of his hand on Alec's upper arm for a few seconds. "You're cold." Alec shrugs a little. His scarred face is a twisted roadmap in the dim light. Nikolai brushes his cheek with the tips of his fingers. "Does this ever pain you?"
"No. Not often." Alec exhales a stream of smoke. "It's Christmas, you know."
"So it is," Nikolai replies, startled. Christmas, January 7. He'd forgotten. Such a thing is not so surprising, though. His grandmother was the only person in his life who'd celebrated the birth of the Christ Child, and she has been dead for many years now. His last Christmas at Baba Irina's took place when he was twelve. Her eyesight and hearing had begun to fail; her bladder had tricked her at odd times. A few months later she had died. There had been a funeral at the church, but Nikolai had not been allowed to go. Enough of that, his father had said, grim and red-eyed. Enough, Kolyushenka. Her icon, her lace, her samovar, and her matroyshkas were gone forever. He does not know what's happened to them. "Are you a believer?"
"My parents were." Alec finishes the cigarette and pitches it into the stove. "Are you hungry?"
"Yes. Have you any kutya?"
Alec smiles. "You want nursery food, Nikolai?" He turns to Nikolai and looks him up and down. "I watched you sleep for a while. You look very...peaceful when you sleep, did you know that?"
"How do I look when I'm awake?"
A moment passes before Alec responds. "Careful." He touches the crucifix tattooed on Nikolai's chest, then the Virgin and Death on his abdomen. "Are these the reason? And the reason you hoard words the way a miser hoards gold?"
Nikolai stares at Alec in the dim light of the stove, then looks outside. Thin, powdery snow, as fine-grained as sand, beats against the window. He would like to tell Alec that when one has a life such as his, every word is a possible hidden trap, waiting to betray at the first sign of stumbling. That a man cannot live two lives without losing part of both. That he's afraid once he begins to talk, he will reveal far, far more than he chooses until he's spent and helpless as a beached fish, his plight of his own making. He yearns to tell Alec these things because he senses that Alec will understand, that Alec is a creature of self-imposed will even fiercer than Nikolai, that his life, like Nikolai's, is a fiction mounted for the benefit of shadows, and that his soul, like Nikolai's, is rarely at peace. Instead, he traces a spiral in the moisture on the lower windowpane. "It's easier that way."
Alec takes Nikolai's hand and raises it to examine the ink etched on his skin. His manner is gentle, even affectionate in contrast to the violent ferocity of their coupling. "Come back to bed, my friend. Warm me."
In bed, beneath the duvet, it is Nikolai who leads Alec in a leisurely, sensual fashion. And Alec seems eager to comply. His long, lean body yields beneath Nikolai's. His throat is arched, bared to Nikolai's mouth. Their limbs twine together, their lower bodies rubbing in a slow, delectable friction, and when Nikolai hooks Alec's legs over his shoulders and enters him, Alec gasps and calls Nikolai's name.
Afterward, Nikolai kisses Alec and listens to a rising wind scatter snow against the glass. His outer shell feels very thin.
*
Three weeks pass, and the snow falls steadily from the leaden sky. Nikolai is back in Petersburg, acting as Alec's driver. There have been no corpses to dissect. Perhaps Alec has assigned the job to someone else. At night, they go to the train.
As soon as they board, Alec pulls Nikolai into a kiss and pins his wrists behind his back. Every night they become more open, more adventurous. The blonde maid scowls openly at Nikolai, bangs down the tray of zakuski and vodka, and stomps out.
"You're beginning to distract me, Kolya."
"I'd hoped so."
"Wretch." Alec pulls Nikolai toward the bedroom, but Nikolai plants his feet once inside.
"Wait. I have to speak with you."
"I have a better use for your mouth." Alec unbuttons his jacket and grins.
"No – listen. Please." He tells Alec that he must leave, that he owes debts to some vor who helped him out of a terrible problem in Ekaterinburg, and they need him now. In London, in a mere two days. That they have heard of Janus and understand his power, but with respect, the need is greater in London. He is in no position to refuse. He watches Alec's face as he speaks; for a moment, it sags in shock and bewilderment before the impenetrable mask rises again. The only sign that betrays Alec's feelings is that the ruin of his face becomes a bright pink, and the scars stand out in sharper relief.
Alec picks up his radio. "Stop the train," he barks, and puts the handset down with deliberate care, as if he's afraid he'll break it. He smiles at Nikolai. "So – they're taking you away, Kolya. And to London."
Nikolai feels an instant of dull shock, then realizes Alec is talking about the vor. But it's not, of course; it's the nameless watchers in the Directorate, pulling him a month and a half before his allotted time is up. Janus' dealings are too much and too dangerous for one operative. Yes, we're removing you, Luzhin, for your own safety. We appreciate your efforts, but kindly stifle the protests. And for fuck's sake, don't tell him where you're going.
"I can't say no." True enough.
"No, I expect you can't." Alec buttons his jacket up and folds his arms. His scars are nearly crimson. "You know, I think that's the most I've ever heard you speak at a stretch." He laughs. "Do you mind – I'm not –" His smile falters. "You understand."
Nikolai nods. "I'm sorry," he says softly.
"No, of course." Alec rises and escorts him to the exit. Together they step off the train. The snow is wet, drifting down in large, lacy flakes. "I used to know London very well. If you can manage it, let me know where you are now and then."
"I'll try." The Directorate will never permit that.
Alec inclines his head and half-turns as if to step back on the train. Abruptly, he catches Nikolai's wrist, his hand closing over the cold steel of his watch. "Do tell them...tell them I'd never have hurt you."
Nikolai's throat is almost too constricted to speak. "I know."
"Farewell, Kolya." Alec lets go of Nikolai's wrist and climbs aboard. In less than a minute, the train, which has been churning in readiness to depart, glides slowly away, monolithic against the falling snow.
Nikolai stands watching until the train disappears. He shivers uncontrollably, but knows that it's only because his outer shell is cracked, unable to withstand the cold.
End.
Author: Alex
Fandom: Crossover: Eastern Promises/Goldeneye
Pairing: Nikolai Luzhin/Alec Trevelyan
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: characters property of their respective owners.
Warnings: Brief violence appropriate to the milieu of both films.
Summary: A love story.
Notes: Many thanks to
kimberlite for most excellent beta and friendship.Part 1 here
*
His real name is Aleksandr, so say his employees. They say the English gave him the surname Trevelyan, but what his real surname might be is a mystery. They say his parents were Lienz Cossacks, supporters of Germany in the Second World War, and that when they appealed to Britain for shelter from Stalin’s forces, Britain refused, and they perished, leaving a young Alec in the hands of the British government. There are conflicting stories; some say that Alec defected only a few years ago, some say that he was always in contact with surviving Cossacks, still others maintain that he was brought back forcibly to the Soviet Union. There are rumors that the burns on his face are the result of an accident involving a British Secret Service agent, that Aleksandr was himself a double agent. Nikolai does not know whether this information can be believed. He submits photographs to the Directorate, quietly pleased to be the first to unmask Janus, but thus far he has heard no reply.
Nikolai effortlessly steps into his new role. He’s watched closely at first, but after a few weeks it becomes clear that his loyalty to Anatoly was purely economic. He is a spear-carrier, a supernumerary, but he is accustomed to that and expects no more. He is quiet and efficient and respectful of others in the organization which is, in its way, more efficiently run than the Directorate. Certainly there’s less jockeying for power and no interdepartmental pissing contests. They meet in a former tractor factory outside of Petersburg, where the day’s business is completed. Some of the men are wary of him, for his Siberian tattoos mark him as a man to be reckoned with, and Nikolai has never been a talkative man and is slow to make friends. He knows his demeanor is cold, but that is useful. Another employee, Mischa, an older man with Kazan tattoos of his own, befriends Nikolai after a month has passed and begins teaching him how to render bodies unidentifiable. It’s a gruesome skill, and the other men are happy to grant him the honor and privilege of hacking away at corpses.
Nikolai’s first solo project is a Bulgarian heroin dealer who siphoned five grams from each kilo package received to sell personally. Only half an hour before, the man had been on his knees, weeping and begging to be spared. Alec had walked away, leaving Nikolai to finish and process the man on his own. He does so with little regret, for the Bulgarian has a list of ruthless exploits as long as his arm, and begins the procedure with a cigarette dangling from his lower lip to mask the smells of hot blood and viscera.
When Nikolai is nearly finished, Alec comes into the cold room. He offers a slight smile but says nothing at first, gesturing for Nikolai to go on, and stands well back from the sloping table with its gutters that empty into the drain set in the concrete floor. He watches thoughtfully for a few moments. “You learn fast.”
Nikolai shrugs. “It’s not so hard.”
“You’ve had experience with this sort of thing before?”
“No.” Nikolai extracts the last tooth, a large steel molar, and briefly holds it up to the light. He sets it down and blots his forehead with the back of his forearm.
“I suppose it would be simpler to keep a crematory oven.”
A slight smile tugs at Nikolai’s mouth. “Maybe.”
“You’re not terribly interested in complex sentences, are you?”
This time Nikolai grins. “Depends on the subject.”
Alec regards him steadily. “Or perhaps you prefer other activities to talking.”
Nikolai plucks the nearly spent cigarette from his lip and drops it on the floor, crushing it beneath his shoe. He picks up his pliers and examines the tool minutely for blood. “Perhaps,” he says at last. He remembers a quaint English term they’d taught him early on in the Directorate: honey trap. He never expected to apply it to himself. But if it works, then so much the better.
Alec takes a gold cigarette lighter and a silver box emblazoned with old-fashioned Cyrillic lettering from his inside pocket and opens it, withdrawing two Sobranies. He hands one to Nikolai over the Bulgarian’s corpse and lights his own. Nikolai waits. Alec gestures with his lighter, and moves closer to the table. Nikolai leans forward and cups the flame with his hand, lightly skating over Alec’s long fingers with his own. He takes one step back, but Alec remains where he is, exhaling a neat ribbon of smoke and watching Nikolai intently through the concealing haze.
“I’m finished here,” Nikolai says in a soft voice. A sudden tremor races down his spine. The lower half of his body is obscured by the table and the dead Bulgarian atop it, but he senses, nevertheless, that Alec knows he has an erection. So much the better, Nikolai repeats to himself. Things will be easier, certain tasks pleasanter, if less subterfuge is employed. He is mildly amazed that he can get an erection in the presence of a fresh corpse, but such are the vagaries of life.
Alec draws on his cigarette. “I have a dacha near Petropavlovsk.”
“I’ve never been there.”
“Would you like to see it?”
“Yes, I would.” It would be preferable to stay in Petersburg, for certainly Alec’s most delicate and crucial information isn’t kept in a Siberian dacha, but any means of entry is not to be scorned.
A warmer light glows in Alec’s pale eyes. He glances down at the Bulgarian, then rounds the table, standing close to Nikolai. Nikolai can feel the warmth of Alec’s breath on his ear. “Good. Tomorrow, then.”
*
The snow that morning flies thick and fast, stinging Nikolai’s skin like sand, whirling against the surface of the missile train as it lumbers to a halt. It is almost unbearably cold; Nikolai huddles in his wool overcoat, wishing he’d worn a hat and gloves.
The armored train is huge, black, ugly, and intimidating, reminding Nikolai of Darth Vader from Star Wars. It no longer carries weapons, though; its cargo now is one powerful, mysterious man and the subordinates he requires to simplify his life. Nikolai watches in bemusement as the vast thing churns to a stop and a door opens, disgorging a half dozen burly men who begin to order crates and boxes loaded onto a rear car. Another door, three or four cars from the engine down, opens, and Alec appears, descending from the high metal step with the lithe grace of a dancer. He is dressed in a slim black suit and glossy black shoes, and lifts a hand to shade his eyes from the blowing snow.
“You travel light!” Alec must raise his voice to be heard above the howling wind.
Nikolai glances down at the toiletry kit in his hand. “I didn’t know how long I would be gone.”
“Never mind, I have everything you might need. Come along, it’s freezing out here.” Alec puts an arm around Nikolai’s shoulders and guides him toward the black monster. “Up, up.”
Nikolai boards the train, and sudden warmth surrounds him, embracing and welcome. He squints in the dimness, trying to adjust his eyes from dazzling whiteness to murky gloom. As his vision clears, he sees that the rail car has been converted into a sort of reception room, with deep paisley wallpaper above dark wooden wainscoting, and armchairs upholstered in plum-colored silk on either side of a little walnut table. Nikolai blinks at the incongruity but says nothing.
Alec takes his coat and hands it to a black-uniformed maid, another incongruity. “Tea, Olga.” He leads Nikolai through another car, then another, each more sumptuously decorated than the next, until they come to a car that seems like the inside of a jewel box. Green velvet, the deep, bosky hue of pine needles, covers the walls and ripples over lace curtains at the windows, bound by gold tassels. There is a cabinet against one wall, a deep, mellow wood inlaid with ivory, its gleaming surface casually littered with treasures – a silver samovar, a gold-filigreed telescope studded with topaz, porcelain figurines, a brightly lacquered and intricately detailed wooden box. Alec seats himself on a sofa with carved gilt legs. “Sit.”
Nikolai obeys gingerly. “This is...quite something.”
Alec laughs. “How kind of you to say so. An acquaintance once told me it looked like I’d robbed the Winter Palace and crammed everything onboard.”
“Did you?”
A smile plays across Alec’s mouth. “Not all of it.” He glances out the window. “We’re off.”
As Nikolai watches the buildings of industrial Petersburg pass by in a white rush, the maid comes in with a rolling cart. Nikolai and Alec sit in silence as she sets up a table with crackers, caviar and sour cream, tiny piroghi and sweet pastries. She draws water from the samovar for tea and pours it into tiny glasses with silver holders as delicately wrought as a spiderweb.
“Thank you, my dear.” Alec’s voice is gentle. Nikolai intercepts a glance between him and the girl. She is pretty, with thick blonde hair and a lush mouth. Nikolai feels an unpleasant clenching in his stomach and at first wonders if it’s because he’s failed to eat any breakfast. Then he realizes that he’s gritting his teeth and silently willing the girl to leave. Jealousy? Impossible. He can count on his fingers and toes the number of times he’s exchanged words with Alec, and there hasn’t been time for more than casual conversation and a great many intense looks. Besides, he’s on his way to Petropavlovsk for a decidedly clear purpose.
He would be lying, though, to deny that Alec fascinates him, that he’s sought glimpses of the personality behind those pale green eyes. Annoyed with himself, he stares out the window. He’s here for facts, not feelings.
“Tea?” Alec is holding out one of the little glasses.
They eat and drink; their conversation is desultory as the train speeds through the snowy landscape and flat marshlands give way to rolling hills and forests of white-frosted pine. The snow beats against the windows of the train, as fine and white as icing sugar. Alec excuses himself, and Nikolai photographs the interior of the car, though he doubts it’ll be helpful in any way. When Alec returns, Nikolai is standing at a window, his fingertips pressed lightly against the glass.
“Would you like to see the rest of the train?”
“Yes.”
Alec shows Nikolai through the cars. The front cars are for staff, he says; their quarters and the kitchen is there. The center of the train is the plush series of cars Nikolai has already seen. The last few cars are Alec’s private quarters: sitting room, office, bathroom, bedroom. They are lavishly equipped, decadent. Nikolai silently marvels at the Jacuzzi and marble shower stall in the bathroom. “You live like a tsar,” he remarks, following Alec into the bedroom.
“Hardly,” Alec says. “I’m an underworld figure, Nikolai, a fugitive. The tsars made their fortunes on the backs of honest, hardworking people, and I’ve made my fortune on the backs of dishonest thieves, gun-runners, drug dealers, and black marketeers. The only thing I have in common with a tsar is the means to live comfortably. I think you know that better than I do.” He sits on the corner of the bed. “You look tired.”
“I am.” He was up the night before rereading every scrap of information the Directorate could give him on Janus. He’s learned more in the past month on his own, but he scrutinized the reports nonetheless. Nikolai acknowledges, if only to himself, that there is a thread of obsession in his studies.
“Clearly I’m working you too hard. Why not sleep a little?” Alec pats the bed.
"I couldn’t.”
“Please. I’d rather you conserved your energy for the dacha.” Alec reaches out a hand, takes Nikolai’s, and gently pulls him forward. When Nikolai sits beside him, Alec leans forward and lightly kisses him on the mouth.
Nikolai yields. A little, only a little, he cautions himself, but when Alec’s tongue probes between his lips, he can scarcely contain a shiver. His hands move toward Alec, but Alec grasps his wrists and holds them together.
“Enough for now.” Alec rises and pushes Nikolai down so he’s supine on the bed. He takes off Nikolai’s shoes and drops them to the floor, then opens a carved chest and takes out a blanket. One side is embroidered satin, the other side soft fur. He covers Nikolai tenderly and smoothes his hair back from his forehead. “Sleep a while.”
Nikolai’s eyelids are heavy. He feels his belt unbuckled, the leather sliding through the loops. “Wait for me,” he tries to say, but instead closes his eyes and lets the rocking of the train lead him into slumber.
*
He awakens to silence and stillness. The shades have been drawn. The room is dark but for a candle burning in a tall chased silver and glass holder. Nikolai catches a drift of fragrance, something warm and comforting like mingled cloves and lemons. The pillow beneath his cheek is smooth and pliant, the fur-lined blanket wonderfully embracing. He rises with reluctance, though his body’s internal clock tells him that he’s slept a long time. When he tugs on the window shade, he is unsurprised to see that the pearl-colored light of day has faded to a deep blue.
The train has stopped.
“Alec?”
There is no response. Nikolai puts on his shoes and jacket, blows out the candle and gropes his way out of the car. It is eerily quiet, as if the entire train has been deserted. He passes through one softly lit, opulent car after another, faint unease prickling at the back of his neck.
“Alec?”
He comes to a car fitted out with two utilitarian bunks, then a sort of lounge, not as elaborate as the other cars but comfortable, then another bunkroom. The next door reveals a kitchen, modern and sleek, immaculately clean and totally empty. Nikolai frowns and pushes open the next door, then stops.
This car is quite different from the others. Lined in pale green quilting, it is filled top to bottom with electronics, though everything is powered down and the light is dim, mostly originating from a glass wall map and a sleeping console almost two meters long. Nikolai steps into the room, shifts his jacket sleeve up, exposing his watch, and begins to photograph everything he can. He recognizes some of the equipment: a portal for a reconnaissance satellite, image processing hardware for radio antennae, plug taps. Nikolai studies the devices, but touches nothing. There is a biometric scanner on the console, so attempting to break in would be useless. He notes a file folder bulging with paper atop a huge computer monitor. Neatly written on the top tab is the word Barclays. Nikolai photographs the folder, then stands back and examines the blank wall map. What does a crime syndicate lord, however powerful, need with all this sophisticated equipment?
“Lost?”
Nikolai turns around, not so fast that he appears inordinately startled. “Yes. I was looking for you.”
Alec, bundled into a long black coat with an astrakhan collar, smiles, but even in the dimness it is apparent that he is displeased. “Did you find anything interesting?”
“All this is interesting.” Nikolai lets his gaze wander around the car. “What is it?”
“Nothing you need worry about.” Alec’s smile thins. “Curiosity killed the cat,” he adds in English.
Nikolai frowns. “What did you say?” He has not indicated that he understands English and briefly wonders if Alec is toying with him.
“Nothing. Come along.” Alec puts a proprietary hand on Nikolai’s upper arm and steers him out of the car. Tension thrums in the long fingers digging into Nikolai’s flesh.
“Surely we can’t be there already.” It is six or seven thousand kilometers from Petersburg to Petropavlovsk.
Alec laughs. “No, of course not. This train is fast, but not that fast. We have made good time, however.” He takes Nikolai’s coat from the pouting blonde maid, grins at her, prompting a simper in response, and holds the coat open. “We fly the rest of the way.”
Nikolai slides into the coat and buttons it. “Are you a pilot as well?”
“I am many things, my friend, but today I’m merely a passenger.” Alec pulls on a soft knitted watch cap, hands one to Nikolai, and drops him a wink. “It’s cold outside. Come on.”
*
The plane is no ordinary one. It is a Gulfstream IV, sleek and beautiful and absurdly luxurious inside, though without the Tsarist trappings of Alec’s train. Nikolai settles into the comfortable leather seat and accepts the chilled vodka a white-jacketed steward offers him. He glances about and feels a faint prickle of disapproval, then hides a smile in the vodka. It’s impossible to escape one’s upbringing. Even when Communism’s slow decay is complete, there will still be those, Nikolai included, who grew up beneath its shadow, who will never be comfortable with Western indulgence. And beneath that discomfort is a fierce and stubborn love of country, passed down in silent acknowledgment, an inherited tenacity that gave his forbears the strength to survive countless Siberian winters, that helped his grandmother cling to her faith though the state did its best to eradicate it, that enabled his father, a young private in the Second World War, to survive years of starvation and soul-killing hardship and the relentless assault of the German army. That tenacity will be Russia’s salvation, and Nikolai examines Alec beneath lowered lashes and wonders if this English-raised gangster has an ancestral memory, a Russian soul.
“Three hours at most,” Alec says, dropping into the seat opposite Nikolai. “It’s a pity we aren’t flying in daylight. The view of Koryakskaya from above is truly spectacular. If we have time, perhaps we can go on an excursion to see it. Have you ever seen an active volcano?”
“No. I hope your dacha isn’t in danger from it.” Nikolai smiles at his own feeble joke.
“A smile! I must say that’s a comparative rarity from you, Nikolai.”
Nikolai acknowledges this. “If you saw me hacking up corpses and giggling on a regular basis, that might be cause for worry, don’t you think?”
“True,” Alec laughs. “Mischa tells me you’re Siberian.”
“From near Ekaterinburg.”
“Hard country.”
“Sometimes.”
“Tell me about it, won’t you?”
Nikolai slowly launches into the essential details of his legend. It’s one he’s repeated many times before, including an unpleasant two-week training period in Lubyanka, naked, handcuffed, blindfolded, starved, beaten, and electroshocked. Near the end, when they’d left him alone and turned off the harsh single bulb in his cell, he had wept silently, his tears absorbed by the blindfold, but he had never once diverged from his story. When it was over, he had received a medal for irreproachable service. To be rewarded for steadfast maintenance of a tissue of lies is a distinct irony that never fails to escape him each time he thinks of it, but it’s preferable to washing out. The Komitet is not overly forgiving.
Alec listens with interest and asks intelligent questions. “Did Mischa tell you anything about me?” he asks after a while, pouring them both another vodka.
Nikolai swallows his vodka before replying. “I hear you’re a Lienz Cossack.”
Alec turns his head and gazes out the window. His scarred face gleams oddly in the low light. “Stalin slaughtered millions more than Hitler. The soil of Russia was soaked with the innocent blood he spilled. But the British couldn’t understand why repatriation –" he endows the last word with infinite scorn, “—was less than acceptable. But then, the British never gave them the truth. My father was told he was headed to a conference. When the people of Lienz realized that they had been deceived, that they were being forced back into the Soviet Union, they rebelled. The British bludgeoned my mother into unconsciousness. They broke my father’s arm and both his legs with their rifles and truncheons, and then hauled them to a Soviet prison. The Soviets took them to a labor camp. In the end, my parents preferred death to the gulag.”
Silence falls in the cabin, broken only by the deep hum of the jet engines. Alec stares out into the darkness, leaving Nikolai to draw his own conclusions and wonder what has prompted this torrent of bitterness and honesty. Nikolai longs for another vodka. He forces himself to stillness and watches Alec, seeing for the first time beneath the elegant criminal shell the isolation of a man accused of second-hand treason to his country and his people, retribution descending upon a child from a vast, impersonal height, from a force of nature, or a blind, deaf, and indifferent god. Troublesome as the world’s greyness often is, surely it is better than the black and white of what that child’s life must have become. His parents, once loyal fascists, are martyrs; Britain and the Soviet state are slaughterers, barbarians. The truth is a snarl of silken threads too delicate and complicated to unravel without breaking.
“And now?” Nikolai asks softly.
“Now?” Alec seems surprised. “Now I find it difficult to forgive betrayal.” He pours them both another vodka and lifts his glass. “To your health, my friend.”
Nikolai touches his glass to Alec’s. He knows what he does is borne of courage or folly. And infiltrating his own façade is a potentially lethal melding of compassion and fascination.
It’s too late to stop now.
*
Nikolai and Alec disembark the plane onto a snowy red-lit runway. The night is still and dark, and so cold it steals Nikolai's breath. He remembers nights like this long ago in his grandmother's ibza, huddled in the trundle bed under musty woolen blankets and layers of ancient fur rugs, needing the toilet, his bladder aching and distended, and dreading the moment when necessity dictated that it was outside or a wet bed. Gratefully, he climbs into a waiting Tigr equipped with snow tracks and breathes a sigh of relief that the heat is on at full strength. "I was half-expecting snowmobiles. Or perhaps a troika," he jokes as Alec swings into the driver's seat.
"I can arrange that." Alec replies with a chuckle, and revs the engine. "For tonight, though, let's get to our destination quickly and comfortably."
"Agreed." Nikolai surreptitously photographs the interior of the Tigr. Discomfort and a curious sense of disloyalty begin to gnaw his insides.
It is only ten or so kilometers to Alec's dacha. They drive on a trail cut through a pine forest and emerge upon a clearing with a two-story house bordered on three sides by the tall pines. "Home," Alec says, his voice low, resonant, and contented. "Come, let's hurry inside."
Nikolai is surprised by the interior of the dacha. The walls are larch stained a honey color; the floor, scattered with kilim carpets, are polished parquet. The sofas and chairs are old-fashioned, with curving, carved wooden legs, and look worn and comfortable. One long wall is floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with books. A tiled stove in a corner throws off glorious heat. There are lamps with cream-colored shades, little wooden tables. Unlike the train and the jet, the dacha is ordinary, even rustic by comparison, and it seems unlikely that a man like Alec occupies such an unassuming abode.
Alec sets down his bag and Nikolai's and stretches like a great cat. "At last. Please, make yourself comfortable." He takes Nikolai's coat and disappears into the next room.
Nikolai drifts to the wall of books and idly examines the titles. The lettering on the spines is Russian, English, French, Spanish, and the books seem to be organized by topic, not language. Oversized art books crowd the bottom shelves. There is an entire shelf filled with books on finance and British economics. At eye level is a row of Russian classics that look positively ancient; timidly Nikolai slides out a volume of Anna Karenina, opens it to the flyleaf, and sees the unmistakable signature of Lev Tolstoy. With a caution approaching reverence, he replaces the book on the shelf.
"Are you a reader?" Alec strides into the room carrying two glasses and a liter of heather-honey vodka.
"I was, once." Nikolai takes the glass Alec proffers. "It seems difficult to find time now."
"That's a pity. There's really nothing to equal the pleasure of a good book." Alec pours vodka into the glasses and meets Nikolai's eyes with his own, so shining and intense it's as if he's swallowed lit candles. "Almost nothing, that is. To your health."
"To your health." Nikolai raises his glass; his heart pounds in a quickening, erratic rhythm.
They drink, still holding each other's gaze. Then Alec takes a step forward, closing the short distance between them, and plucks the delicate crystal glass from Nikolai's hand. He sets both glasses on a shelf, then brushes his lips and the tip of his tongue lightly, teasingly, across Nikolai's mouth.
It's not remotely enough. Nikolai reaches out and grasps the back of Alec's head by the hair and pulls him forward, kissing him ferociously, plunging his tongue deep into Alec's willing mouth. He locks his other arm around Alec's waist so that his erection can be felt, trapped beneath expensive wool. He feels Alec's hands slide down his hips to cup his arse and grind their bodies together, and now Alec is the aggressor, ravishing Nikolai's mouth, pushing him against the wooden shelves.
Alec sucks and nibbles at Nikolai's neck, then captures his earlobe in sharp teeth. "The bed's more comfortable." His hand explores between Nikolai's legs.
Nikolai grasps futilely at the shelves, hoping they're built in, otherwise he might wind up burying them both. "The bed, then." For a few lingering moments, though, Alec keeps him pinned against the bookcase, kissing and suckling with a violent need that is surprising to Nikolai, when he pauses for breath and a fleeting moment of cognizance drifts through his haze of yearning. In the weeks he's observed Alec, there has been nothing to suggest this ferocity, nor any emotion beyond an occasional significant look and a few well-chosen innuendos. Nikolai wonders briefly if he is as much a puzzlement to Alec as Alec is to him.
Alec pulls away, panting, and wraps one long hand around Nikolai's wrist, grasping it hard enough to bruise. He propels Nikolai to an iron spiral staircase in the far corner and all but drags him upstairs. There is a stove in the bedroom, its panels open; it provides just enough light to illuminate the outlines of the object of their quest. Kissing Nikolai once more, Alec pushes him toward the bed until they bump against it.
Nikolai feels Alec's body trembling. He calculates for an instant, then allows himself to become slightly more pliant in Alec's arms. He will let Alec take him; the next time will be his. With languid deliberation, he reaches up to unfasten Alec's tie. He unbuttons the soft cotton shirt and opens it, exposing a leanly muscled chest that glows deep gold in the light of the stove. Nikolai wets one finger and circles an already hard nipple, feeling his cock leap in excitement as Alec shudders.
Alec shrugs out of his jacket, letting it fall to the floor, works his feet out of his shoes, and then reaches for the button on Nikolai's trousers. The belt is long gone, presumably still on the Petersburg train. He tugs too hard; the button pops off and sails to the floor, landing with a faint click, scarcely audible above their ragged breaths and the snapping logs in the stove. And now it seems there is no more time for deliberation. As if in mutual and unspoken agreement, they rip the covers from the bed and fall upon it, Alec struggling with his belt and trousers, pushing them only partway down in his impatience, Nikolai yanking down his undershorts, tearing off his own jacket and tie but not bothering to remove his shirt. There is a moment's fumbling in a drawer of the bedside table, and then Alec is straddling Nikolai's prone body, his knees locked around Nikolai's thighs.
Nikolai is hard, aching, his body fine points of pure sensation. The sheets beneath him are smooth, not enough to stimulate his stiff cock. The wool of Alec's trousers scratches against his trapped legs. He smells bleached cotton, fresh sweat, fragrant wood. And then he feels a hard, slick finger pushing inside him, stretching him. He shivers at the chill of the lubricant, the sudden intrusion. "I appreciate the consideration," he rasps, "but I need you to fuck me now."
Alec laughs softly and urges Nikolai's hips up. He enters Nikolai without hesitating, silent, and pushes in ruthlessly until he's unable to go further. Nikolai pushes back, clutching at the sheets, unable to stifle a groan of longing as Alec grasps his hips, digging his fingers in, and remains utterly still for an agonizing moment. He won't plead more, but tightens himself around Alec's cock and urges himself forward until his own prick, nearly ready to spill, rubs against the sheets. He holds himself without moving, without thrashing or touching himself, trembling, waiting.
Alec pulls back and plows in, hard, wrenching a muffled cry from Nikolai's lips. He does it again, and again, setting a brutal pace, until Nikolai begins to buck and thrust beneath him, matching his rhythm, the mutual tension of their bodies building and tightening. Nikolai moans quietly as his cock is tormented by the too-pliant mattress, the too-soft sheets. Alec is concerned only with fucking him, diving as deep and hard and fast as he can, and as his cock suddenly rubs against Nikolai's prostate in exactly the right way, Nikolai comes, shuddering in blind ecstasy and tightening once more around Alec's prick. Alec climaxes with a deep, hoarse groan and collapses atop Nikolai's still shivering body.
*
Nikolai blinks awake, aware that he is warm and comfortable. The duvet has been pulled up to his chin, but he's alone in the bed. He sits up and sees Alec standing at the window, naked, smoking a cigarette. Nikolai throws aside the duvet, strips off his socks and shirt – he isn't cold, but it seems right that he, too, should be naked – and moves to the window to stand beside Alec. His watch is still strapped to his wrist; for a moment he considers photographing Alec's naked body for ease of identification, but holds back, not because he is embarrassed, but because it seems a betrayal of intimacy. And this intimacy is none of the Directorate's affair, no matter what they might say.
Wordlessly, Alec offers the cigarette. Nikolai takes it, draws the smoke in deeply, and hands it back. "Snowing again," Alec murmurs.
Nikolai rests the back of his hand on Alec's upper arm for a few seconds. "You're cold." Alec shrugs a little. His scarred face is a twisted roadmap in the dim light. Nikolai brushes his cheek with the tips of his fingers. "Does this ever pain you?"
"No. Not often." Alec exhales a stream of smoke. "It's Christmas, you know."
"So it is," Nikolai replies, startled. Christmas, January 7. He'd forgotten. Such a thing is not so surprising, though. His grandmother was the only person in his life who'd celebrated the birth of the Christ Child, and she has been dead for many years now. His last Christmas at Baba Irina's took place when he was twelve. Her eyesight and hearing had begun to fail; her bladder had tricked her at odd times. A few months later she had died. There had been a funeral at the church, but Nikolai had not been allowed to go. Enough of that, his father had said, grim and red-eyed. Enough, Kolyushenka. Her icon, her lace, her samovar, and her matroyshkas were gone forever. He does not know what's happened to them. "Are you a believer?"
"My parents were." Alec finishes the cigarette and pitches it into the stove. "Are you hungry?"
"Yes. Have you any kutya?"
Alec smiles. "You want nursery food, Nikolai?" He turns to Nikolai and looks him up and down. "I watched you sleep for a while. You look very...peaceful when you sleep, did you know that?"
"How do I look when I'm awake?"
A moment passes before Alec responds. "Careful." He touches the crucifix tattooed on Nikolai's chest, then the Virgin and Death on his abdomen. "Are these the reason? And the reason you hoard words the way a miser hoards gold?"
Nikolai stares at Alec in the dim light of the stove, then looks outside. Thin, powdery snow, as fine-grained as sand, beats against the window. He would like to tell Alec that when one has a life such as his, every word is a possible hidden trap, waiting to betray at the first sign of stumbling. That a man cannot live two lives without losing part of both. That he's afraid once he begins to talk, he will reveal far, far more than he chooses until he's spent and helpless as a beached fish, his plight of his own making. He yearns to tell Alec these things because he senses that Alec will understand, that Alec is a creature of self-imposed will even fiercer than Nikolai, that his life, like Nikolai's, is a fiction mounted for the benefit of shadows, and that his soul, like Nikolai's, is rarely at peace. Instead, he traces a spiral in the moisture on the lower windowpane. "It's easier that way."
Alec takes Nikolai's hand and raises it to examine the ink etched on his skin. His manner is gentle, even affectionate in contrast to the violent ferocity of their coupling. "Come back to bed, my friend. Warm me."
In bed, beneath the duvet, it is Nikolai who leads Alec in a leisurely, sensual fashion. And Alec seems eager to comply. His long, lean body yields beneath Nikolai's. His throat is arched, bared to Nikolai's mouth. Their limbs twine together, their lower bodies rubbing in a slow, delectable friction, and when Nikolai hooks Alec's legs over his shoulders and enters him, Alec gasps and calls Nikolai's name.
Afterward, Nikolai kisses Alec and listens to a rising wind scatter snow against the glass. His outer shell feels very thin.
*
Three weeks pass, and the snow falls steadily from the leaden sky. Nikolai is back in Petersburg, acting as Alec's driver. There have been no corpses to dissect. Perhaps Alec has assigned the job to someone else. At night, they go to the train.
As soon as they board, Alec pulls Nikolai into a kiss and pins his wrists behind his back. Every night they become more open, more adventurous. The blonde maid scowls openly at Nikolai, bangs down the tray of zakuski and vodka, and stomps out.
"You're beginning to distract me, Kolya."
"I'd hoped so."
"Wretch." Alec pulls Nikolai toward the bedroom, but Nikolai plants his feet once inside.
"Wait. I have to speak with you."
"I have a better use for your mouth." Alec unbuttons his jacket and grins.
"No – listen. Please." He tells Alec that he must leave, that he owes debts to some vor who helped him out of a terrible problem in Ekaterinburg, and they need him now. In London, in a mere two days. That they have heard of Janus and understand his power, but with respect, the need is greater in London. He is in no position to refuse. He watches Alec's face as he speaks; for a moment, it sags in shock and bewilderment before the impenetrable mask rises again. The only sign that betrays Alec's feelings is that the ruin of his face becomes a bright pink, and the scars stand out in sharper relief.
Alec picks up his radio. "Stop the train," he barks, and puts the handset down with deliberate care, as if he's afraid he'll break it. He smiles at Nikolai. "So – they're taking you away, Kolya. And to London."
Nikolai feels an instant of dull shock, then realizes Alec is talking about the vor. But it's not, of course; it's the nameless watchers in the Directorate, pulling him a month and a half before his allotted time is up. Janus' dealings are too much and too dangerous for one operative. Yes, we're removing you, Luzhin, for your own safety. We appreciate your efforts, but kindly stifle the protests. And for fuck's sake, don't tell him where you're going.
"I can't say no." True enough.
"No, I expect you can't." Alec buttons his jacket up and folds his arms. His scars are nearly crimson. "You know, I think that's the most I've ever heard you speak at a stretch." He laughs. "Do you mind – I'm not –" His smile falters. "You understand."
Nikolai nods. "I'm sorry," he says softly.
"No, of course." Alec rises and escorts him to the exit. Together they step off the train. The snow is wet, drifting down in large, lacy flakes. "I used to know London very well. If you can manage it, let me know where you are now and then."
"I'll try." The Directorate will never permit that.
Alec inclines his head and half-turns as if to step back on the train. Abruptly, he catches Nikolai's wrist, his hand closing over the cold steel of his watch. "Do tell them...tell them I'd never have hurt you."
Nikolai's throat is almost too constricted to speak. "I know."
"Farewell, Kolya." Alec lets go of Nikolai's wrist and climbs aboard. In less than a minute, the train, which has been churning in readiness to depart, glides slowly away, monolithic against the falling snow.
Nikolai stands watching until the train disappears. He shivers uncontrollably, but knows that it's only because his outer shell is cracked, unable to withstand the cold.
End.
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Date: 2010-01-08 04:32 pm (UTC)I will do a proper review soon :)
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Date: 2010-01-08 04:34 pm (UTC)