discord

[sideways]

Title: Discord
Rating: PG 13+
Genre: Modern/mafia-esque?
Wordcount: 1012
Warnings: Physical violence.
Summary: Even the most efficient team can suffer miscommunication.
Remarks: I first wrote this back in late 2009, intending it to be a fanfiction AU. By the time I finished, however, it was so divorced from even the vaguest feel of the series that it hardly seemed worth labelling it such, so after a while I shrugged, wiped out the few obligatory references, and ended up with this. (As a friend would put it, 'damn uppity characters'.) It remains one of my most favoured pieces, despite several responses suggesting it's all but incomprehensible >> 

“You’re going to kill him,” he murmurs, and then again, in English, “Don’t kill him.”

It is genuine anger that stiffens the set of Ivan’s shoulders, and there is nothing at all accidental about the way he rests his weight on the hand wrapped around the throat of the sprawled man as he twists back towards his partner, eyes narrow and breath uneven. Of course Ivan knows what is being done with these words, and of course he never likes it. Maybe he will pay for playing his game this time.

Nikolai doesn’t meet the eyes, still hot and heating further, but he doesn’t drop his head and turn away. If he has seen what he thinks he has seen—and it is not often that he is wrong anymore—then he cannot afford to seem cowed.

He shifts slightly, feeling the staggered crumble of snow beneath his boots, hearing the whispered rasp of his coat against the brick wall at his back. It is a small alleyway, small and cold. “You do not need to kill him. You know Larinov wants information more than bodies.”

He thinks he has timed it well. There is a point between genuine loyalty and knowing they will kill you anyway. A point where the selfish human craving for life has been reminded of its own existence. A point where the unfocussed eyes of the half-strangled man swing unsteadily towards his face, and Nikolai’s lips twitch down in careful sorrow. I don’t want this, it would say, if it were laid out in words. I want to change what is happening.

He has shown capability. Now he shows desire. He thinks he has timed it well, timed it to match the flicker of stark desperation that was almost invisible beneath the efficient brutality of Ivan at work.

“I’ll talk,” the man rasps, and he knows he has timed it perfectly. “I’ll...fuck, I’ll just...I’ll talk. Just get him the fuck off me.”

Ivan scruffs the man like a misbehaving dog, only no dog-owner would be so heedless of broken bones. Three heartbeats pass, the man whimpering wordless curses into the mist of Ivan’s breath and Nikolai motionless, carefully silent. And then Ivan stands, hands still bunched in the filthy collar, and drags the man with him as he begins to head down the alleyway. It seems to be in the direction of their car, but Nikolai does not caution him and does not move to follow. A push now would be a push too far.

Cupping his hands in front of him catches the warmth from his breath; he will have to remember to bring his gloves next time. They had not expected there to be a third exit from the tiny hovel of an apartment, but it is not as though expectations have ever been a welcome part of this business. It is best to always remember the gloves.

The soft crunch of snow draws his gaze upwards as his partner returns, no man in sight. Nikolai barely has time to wonder whether their new informant is enjoying Ivan’s particular brand of immobilisation before he is backed against the wall, and there is no escaping the eyes less than a foot from his own.

Nikolai is good with body language, knows how to read it, how to use it, how to close it down, but he has never needed any of that for Ivan. There is no pretence to his partner—those who are tricked by him are tricked by their own assumption that the threat he promises with every movement, every glance, every inch of a smile is something other than truth. They make up their own lie and believe that instead, and somehow have the gall to look surprised when the gun barrel slides beneath their chin.

Nikolai has seen it, again and again, and now Ivan stands in front of him and he feels surprised.

Submission was not an option before, when he needed to appear as though he had control, but that moment is gone, very gone, and Nikolai submits now, tucks his chin against his chest to look up through his lashes. Silently apologetic, if only because he thinks Ivan would hit him if he spoke aloud.

But Ivan doesn’t give a sullen snarl and turn away, doesn’t call him half a dozen different names and then grab his arm to haul him towards the car. He stands there, muscles coiled, and he might be waiting but Nikolai doesn’t know what for.

He opens his mouth, but hesitates when the air seems to grow even thicker. Words still seem wrong, but this isn’t following the pattern, and he is confused. The collar and chain seem to have rankled more than usual, leaving marks as heavy as though they hang there still, and they were never meant to be more than fleeting. Never more than a little game played for the sake of a larger one. Ivan knows this, surely.

On impulse alone he lifts his hand, reaches out across the small space between them to touch his partner’s chest, and Ivan stiffens.

He has seen Ivan kill before, but only from behind. He wonders if what they saw was anything like the look in Ivan’s eyes now.

And then Ivan presses his palm—cold, remnants of melting snow and blood still clinging to his fingers—against his forehead, and shoves. It’s hard enough to crack his head against the brick wall behind, and Nikolai is still blinking away scatters of pained light from his vision when his partner turns, shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, and stalks back towards the car.

He presses his fingers gingerly against the ache spreading across the back of his skull, but there is no wetness matting the hair there. The smile that touches his lips is rueful with the memory of rough fingers tugging cruelly as they ruffle his hair out of any recognisable shape.

Perhaps he can convince Larinov to let Ivan handle the disposal. If it comes to that.