X-Files Movie fic: Faith, by kuonji (R)
This is readable without having seen the movie. Note: Janke is Callum Keith Rennie's character.
Title: Faith
Author: kuonji
Fandom: The X-Files: I Want To Believe
Characters: Janke Dacyshyn, Franz Tomczeszyn
Pairings: Janke/Franz
Category: dark, romance, backstory
Rating: R
Warnings: Death and dismemberment. No, really. Oh, and watch out for excessive swearing.
Words: ~2580
Summary: "I don't want to die. Fuck, Janke--" For the first time, Janke saw Franz cry. For long minutes, he heaved like he was about to vomit. Then he blotted tears and mucus from his nose with the sleeve of his cashmere sweater. "I don't want to go to hell."
Faith
by kuonji
Franz hired him as a favor to Danil, Janke's uncle's friend, who introduced them in Franz's modestly-kept office of wood and thick carpet. Janke took to the job like a duck to water. He was fast and efficient and never wasted anything, not words or attention. It wasn't long before Franz put him on a test run as a 'special' courier, and soon after that, eighty percent of his jobs were on that route.
Still, nobody trusted each other that easily. Janke certainly didn't. And he would never trust anyone who trusted him straight away. It was clear, however, that Franz was the same way.
So they got along.
In the old country, Janke used to smuggle weaponry. That had been exciting when he was nineteen, but he didn't need that anymore. Nowadays, he just wanted the money. Ounce for ounce, a healthy human heart, AB blood type, from a man under forty, was worth easily ten times its weight in platinum. Janke didn't get most of that, of course, but he got enough -- because he was fast and efficient and knew how to keep his mouth shut.
Janke generally had a maximum of two hours to deliver a special package into the hands of another of their trusted 'messengers' for the next leg of the trip. It was an intricate and sensitive network. The golden rule was -- Don't Be Late.
One time, when his car broke down, he wound up stealing a bicycle from someone's backyard that was guarded by a particularly nasty Rottweiler. He got away with all his limbs still attached, made the exchange point on time, and returned the bike the same day with no one the wiser. It was a fantastic story, one that he could unfortunately only tell a select handful of people in the world.
He told it to Franz one day. His English was still pretty shaky, and Franz didn't speak 'that fucking language' despite the fact that his grandparents from his father's side had come from Yasny, a moderate-sized city that Franz claimed not to know the location of. Still, the gist of it must have gotten through, because Franz laughed until tears rolled down his face.
Then he fucked Janke across a chair on his rich green carpet.
That was how it started.
Two months later, they were sitting on Franz's balcony, passing a cigarette back and forth. "You think that slut at VCU's going to kick it tonight?" Franz asked. "Nowak's asking for more for taking the late shift again, the son of a bitch. He does that again, and he's out."
Janke quoted something his father had used to say: "Бог правду видит, да не скоро скажет."
"What the hell does that mean?"
His English comprehension was fine, but his speaking was still shit. Franz was the only person he spent any significant amount of time with who didn't speak Russian, and they didn't talk much when they were together. He had to take a moment to rearrange the words in his brain. "God sees. Doesn't tell. Yet."
Franz laughed and plucked the cigarette from Janke's mouth to take a drag. "I don't believe in God," he said.
Janke shrugged. The words came easier now that he had clicked over into the right mode. Like talking to hospital staff or immigration. "God is Devil. All same."
That made Franz laugh again. He had a grating, huff-huff-huff chuckle that shivered Janke's bones in a good way. "I love the things that come out of your mouth." He tossed the cigarette down into the alley and hauled Janke to the floor.
One day, Janke walked into Franz's apartment amid clattering ceramic and glass. (He had a key by then.) Franz was furiously throwing plates and cups and everything breakable he could reach out the window. He was cursing to smoke the air and uttering long yowls of rage.
Janke seized him under the arms and forced him to the floor. He got a blow to the mouth for the trouble. He pinned the other man's body down, grinding his face into the hardwood. Blood had welled between his teeth, so he licked it away and swallowed before saying, harshly, "Franz! Stop."
"Let me up, you goddamn--"
"Franz!"
"I'm going to die," Franz snarled. "That's all they had to say to me. Just go home and fucking die. Sons of bitch-ass fucking whores. Did all they could do for me already, they said."
Janke sat back, shocked. He had thought... Franz had money. Piles of it. People with money could do whatever they wanted, rule the world and live forever. "No..." he denied, shaking his head. He turned Franz over to look at his face, still straddling him. Franz's body felt perhaps slightly thinner, but he was still warm and vital under him. It was impossible.
"I don't want to die. Fuck, Janke--" For the first time, Janke saw Franz cry. For long minutes, he heaved like he was about to vomit. Then he blotted tears and mucus from his nose with the sleeve of his cashmere sweater. "I don't want to go to hell."
That, at least, Janke had an answer to. "Hell. We go to hell."
"No," Franz groaned.
Janke grit his teeth. He hadn't said what he'd meant clearly enough. He leaned in close, filling his eyes with Franz's face. "We. We two go to hell," he said.
Franz frowned. "What the fuck are you--"
Growling in frustration, Janke pressed Franz's shoulders down. "Two!" What was that damned word? If only he could concentrate. "We two..."
"Together," Franz realized. "We'll go to hell together."
Janke bared his teeth in relief. "Yes."
He pulled Franz up and they went out to buy new goddamned plates.
After that, Franz called more doctors. Got more tests. Begged and ordered and bribed experts from all over the world. Janke helped to run the operation that kept the money coming in. He dealt with the hospitals and the politicians as well as the inner network. The others gave him respect now, even Danil. He was a harder master than even Franz had ever been.
That was as it should be.
"I hate this fucking body," Franz said to him one day, gasping for breath and holding a napkin to his mouth to catch the blood.
"It is a good body. I like it," Janke assured him. Franz wasn't in the mood, however.
"You can have it, then. I'll fucking trade you." He hurled the telephone receiver in his hand against the wall. Janke didn't flinch at the crack as it broke. He didn't turn to look. That was the third one this month, and Janke was glad. Franz was still strong enough when he needed to be.
But that, too, would change.
"You need to rest," he said.
"Screw you."
"All right." He grinned. "You need a good screw, yes?" But Franz didn't laugh as he had hoped.
"What I need is a cure. Why couldn't I have kidney failure or heart disease or any other goddamn thing? I could fix any of those like that." He snapped his fingers.
Janke studied Franz. The other man had lost more weight and strength, but his fire to live still blazed.
"Then we will get you a new body," he said decisively. He didn't know how yet, but he meant to do it.
He had once told a man in a dark bar that he would kill him.
That night, his knife still damp from the vodka he used to wipe it clean, he had left Russia forever -- but Janke Dacyshyn did what he promised.
He met with Dr. Tokarev at a restaurant that was tucked away in an odd curl of the street behind a warehouse and next to a payday loan lender. It was popular with the folks who lived in the area. The noise covered their conversation and they were two more strangers in a crowd.
"I'll get you all the equipment and parts you need," he told the doctor.
"Parts?" the man repeated, eyes narrowing.
"Whole machines, too, sometimes. If you're not too greedy." This wasn't the right part of town, but there might always be people around who understood their language. He knew Tokarev would understand his meaning.
"I'm not sure I can believe you," he said slowly. But Janke saw the man stroking the handle of his fork in apparent excitement.
"You know I have money."
"That doesn't mean anything. Why do you want to help me?"
"You don't need a reason." Not yet. Not until Janke could see what the man could do. He knew what Tokarev had done, and what he professed to want to do, which gave Janke hope. "I have a building. You can set up there, and then we'll talk more after you've settled in. Give me a list of what you need." He saw the light of greed in the other man's face. "It might take a little time, but ask for anything you want. I'll make sure you get it."
He had Danil drive the doctor there while he started the delicate job of procuring supplies and equipment.
Then he went home to tell Franz that Tokarev was in hand.
The following months were busy but idling at the same time, as they waited for Tokarev to work.
One of Janke's favorite activities was to sit with Franz in a public place and watch the people passing by. "That one," he would say. "Or that one. He has better ass."
Franz would laugh that wonderful dry laugh and counter, "No, too much hair." Or, "Maybe I want to be taller than you." Or, "Why do I have to be a man at all?"
"Sure, sure," Janke would agree. "I never fuck a woman. It would be fun."
Those were the best days.
Other days, Franz would become depressed and angry. Tokarev's progress was too slow. Why hadn't he started working on humans yet? Couldn't they stop the infernal barking?
"We must be patient," Janke would cajole him, pulling the covers tighter around them both. "Too important to rush."
"Patience? The clock is ticking for me!" Franz paused to cough. When he was done, he made an irritated sound. "One of the seven virtues. I was a Catholic once. Can you believe that?"
Janke shrugged and continued rubbing Franz's shoulders soothingly, but Franz was anxious and restless.
"Homosexuality is a sin in the eyes of God," Franz told him, in a mocking voice. "They should have told the fucking Church that."
Janke stopped the motion of his hands. He looked into Franz's eyes. He smiled. "Let's get married."
Franz's laugh was a hoarse whisper of what it'd used to be, but Janke still thrilled to hear it. "Jesus Christ, you say the most beautiful fucking things. Yeah, yeah, fuck 'em. Let's get the fuck married."
So they did.
Like some sort of charm, the day they got their certificate, Tokarev had a breakthrough. He asked for 'real' parts this time, and Janke and Franz went together to find them.
She was a whore and a drug addict that no one would miss. She came home with Janke without protest and only tried to run when Franz had her by the throat. Janke remembered how sliding that knife home had felt, how the man had burbled blood and stared at him with horrified, whirling eyes as his body slipped and spasmed messily away from his control.
He met Franz's eyes. Franz was grinning like a wild bear.
This was better.
It was another two weeks before Tokarev tried with a live subject. The old homeless man survived only twenty minutes after the first reattachment, and Tokarev angrily blamed it on the quality of the parts he had been given. Janke told him he needed better results before they would risk procuring a more high-profile machine for him. The argument went back and forth until, losing his temper, Janke made sure Tokarev understood who was in charge.
One week later, the subject lasted for five hours.
A month after that, Janke and Franz followed a healthy, mature woman from her apartment and Janke bashed her against the side of the dumpster until she fell unconscious. She needed to have basic functions intact, Tokarev had told them. Janke chose to interpret a mild concussion as acceptable. Franz threw her bag of trash away while Janke dumped her into the covered back of his truck.
She survived the full procedure and lived for an hour after.
The day that a subject not only lived but demonstrated the ability post-surgery to scream and flail its arms and legs, Janke danced with Franz around the surgery room. Tokarev forgot himself so much as to dance with them. They threw their surgery caps in the air and cavorted, sweaty shirts and blood stained smock mixing into one circle of kicking and turning celebration. The subject continued to thrash and screech, with obvious control of its lungs and gross motor functions.
Tokarev's assistants clapped their hands and shouted along ecstatically, so distracted that the subject was able to roll off the recovery table, crashing into a light stand and plunging the room into half-darkness. Unfortunately, it tore its sutures as well, and bled to death in the confusion before any further data could be recorded. Still, Franz bought everyone drinks that night (though he only drank rarely himself, now) and promised Tokarev new lights to replace the ones broken.
It seemed like years, the weeks and months blurring together, before it was deemed safe to conduct the surgery. But at long last, it was time. Janke sat for hours with Franz, through the elaborate preparations.
"What will we do with this?" he asked, placing his hand on Franz's chest as he lay on the table in readiness.
"Burn the fucking thing," Franz answered immediately. He had to pause for breath every other word, but his life essence burned stronger than ever. "Wait until I wake up so I can watch you do it."
Janke knew Tokarev would be furious if they started a fire in here, but he felt his lips peeling back in a grin just imagining it. He nodded in agreement, giddy with anticipation.
Franz, in contrast, went suddenly somber. He gestured weakly, and Janke touched his cheek.
"This might not work," Franz said.
"Maybe."
"Then I'll see you in hell." Franz's intense, completely unquestioning gaze galvanized something in Janke.
"This will work," he said. "I promise." He felt power pulse through him at the declaration. He recognized it. It was the power of the twenty, the hundred, the thousand lives they had control over, to break and bend and extinguish at their will. For the sake of saving the one he chose. He knew he was speaking the truth.
A wry smile bent the corners of Franz's mouth. "You promise? How the fuck can you promise?"
Janke leaned in close and whispered, "Я Бог твой. I promise."
Franz always professed not to know any Russian, but he gasped hoarsely, not quite succeeding in laughing, his face contorting with amusement just the same. "Fuck, yeah. I guess you are," he said. "See you at the bonfire." He signaled to Tokarev's assistant, who injected the aneasthetic.
Janke watched over Franz as he went under.
"I am your God," he repeated into Franz's ear -- certain that Franz would hear him -- before stepping back to allow Tokarev to do his work.
END.
A/N: Russian proverbs here. The Russian is thanks to the Google translator.
A/N: I spent most of this movie going, "Gah! Did they just--? Why don't they--? Wait a minute, what?! Why does nothing in this movie make sense?!!" I might have liked it better if I had been a fan of The X-Files. I did attain a better appreciation for the movie, though, after reading this article.
A/N: There is a story behind this fic. But it has to do with the DS/C6D mini-fic exchange, so I will have to tell you all after Sunday...
I was putting together my blurb for the DS/C6D mini-fic exchange, and I was thinking about which C6D fandoms I had watched and was willing to write for. I put down about eight, and then I threw in The X-Files movie just for kicks, b/c I'd watched it recently. Then I got to thinking, well shoot, what if someone actually picks that fandom to prompt? What would I write? The obvious thing to write about from a C6D perspective was Janke/Franz, so I started from there. And... this came out. I wrote it all in the space of about four hours on Tuesday October 4th, at night, during a raging storm.
And then I had managed to creep myself out so much that I went back to my list of fandoms and took out every one where CKR is even slightly criminally insane. Which left basically Due South and Wilby, plus two other fandoms for Paul Gross. Apologies. Otherwise, it might have been interesting to write about Norman...
If you enjoyed this story, you might try these:
Must Needs (Due South), by kuonji
An American Pastime (Starsky & Hutch), by kuonji
The Shark Trilogy, by magus_minor and The Shiver Trilogy, by Ellex (Stargate Atlantis)
Title: Faith
Author: kuonji
Fandom: The X-Files: I Want To Believe
Characters: Janke Dacyshyn, Franz Tomczeszyn
Pairings: Janke/Franz
Category: dark, romance, backstory
Rating: R
Warnings: Death and dismemberment. No, really. Oh, and watch out for excessive swearing.
Words: ~2580
Summary: "I don't want to die. Fuck, Janke--" For the first time, Janke saw Franz cry. For long minutes, he heaved like he was about to vomit. Then he blotted tears and mucus from his nose with the sleeve of his cashmere sweater. "I don't want to go to hell."
Faith
by kuonji
Franz hired him as a favor to Danil, Janke's uncle's friend, who introduced them in Franz's modestly-kept office of wood and thick carpet. Janke took to the job like a duck to water. He was fast and efficient and never wasted anything, not words or attention. It wasn't long before Franz put him on a test run as a 'special' courier, and soon after that, eighty percent of his jobs were on that route.
Still, nobody trusted each other that easily. Janke certainly didn't. And he would never trust anyone who trusted him straight away. It was clear, however, that Franz was the same way.
So they got along.
In the old country, Janke used to smuggle weaponry. That had been exciting when he was nineteen, but he didn't need that anymore. Nowadays, he just wanted the money. Ounce for ounce, a healthy human heart, AB blood type, from a man under forty, was worth easily ten times its weight in platinum. Janke didn't get most of that, of course, but he got enough -- because he was fast and efficient and knew how to keep his mouth shut.
Janke generally had a maximum of two hours to deliver a special package into the hands of another of their trusted 'messengers' for the next leg of the trip. It was an intricate and sensitive network. The golden rule was -- Don't Be Late.
One time, when his car broke down, he wound up stealing a bicycle from someone's backyard that was guarded by a particularly nasty Rottweiler. He got away with all his limbs still attached, made the exchange point on time, and returned the bike the same day with no one the wiser. It was a fantastic story, one that he could unfortunately only tell a select handful of people in the world.
He told it to Franz one day. His English was still pretty shaky, and Franz didn't speak 'that fucking language' despite the fact that his grandparents from his father's side had come from Yasny, a moderate-sized city that Franz claimed not to know the location of. Still, the gist of it must have gotten through, because Franz laughed until tears rolled down his face.
Then he fucked Janke across a chair on his rich green carpet.
That was how it started.
Two months later, they were sitting on Franz's balcony, passing a cigarette back and forth. "You think that slut at VCU's going to kick it tonight?" Franz asked. "Nowak's asking for more for taking the late shift again, the son of a bitch. He does that again, and he's out."
Janke quoted something his father had used to say: "Бог правду видит, да не скоро скажет."
"What the hell does that mean?"
His English comprehension was fine, but his speaking was still shit. Franz was the only person he spent any significant amount of time with who didn't speak Russian, and they didn't talk much when they were together. He had to take a moment to rearrange the words in his brain. "God sees. Doesn't tell. Yet."
Franz laughed and plucked the cigarette from Janke's mouth to take a drag. "I don't believe in God," he said.
Janke shrugged. The words came easier now that he had clicked over into the right mode. Like talking to hospital staff or immigration. "God is Devil. All same."
That made Franz laugh again. He had a grating, huff-huff-huff chuckle that shivered Janke's bones in a good way. "I love the things that come out of your mouth." He tossed the cigarette down into the alley and hauled Janke to the floor.
One day, Janke walked into Franz's apartment amid clattering ceramic and glass. (He had a key by then.) Franz was furiously throwing plates and cups and everything breakable he could reach out the window. He was cursing to smoke the air and uttering long yowls of rage.
Janke seized him under the arms and forced him to the floor. He got a blow to the mouth for the trouble. He pinned the other man's body down, grinding his face into the hardwood. Blood had welled between his teeth, so he licked it away and swallowed before saying, harshly, "Franz! Stop."
"Let me up, you goddamn--"
"Franz!"
"I'm going to die," Franz snarled. "That's all they had to say to me. Just go home and fucking die. Sons of bitch-ass fucking whores. Did all they could do for me already, they said."
Janke sat back, shocked. He had thought... Franz had money. Piles of it. People with money could do whatever they wanted, rule the world and live forever. "No..." he denied, shaking his head. He turned Franz over to look at his face, still straddling him. Franz's body felt perhaps slightly thinner, but he was still warm and vital under him. It was impossible.
"I don't want to die. Fuck, Janke--" For the first time, Janke saw Franz cry. For long minutes, he heaved like he was about to vomit. Then he blotted tears and mucus from his nose with the sleeve of his cashmere sweater. "I don't want to go to hell."
That, at least, Janke had an answer to. "Hell. We go to hell."
"No," Franz groaned.
Janke grit his teeth. He hadn't said what he'd meant clearly enough. He leaned in close, filling his eyes with Franz's face. "We. We two go to hell," he said.
Franz frowned. "What the fuck are you--"
Growling in frustration, Janke pressed Franz's shoulders down. "Two!" What was that damned word? If only he could concentrate. "We two..."
"Together," Franz realized. "We'll go to hell together."
Janke bared his teeth in relief. "Yes."
He pulled Franz up and they went out to buy new goddamned plates.
After that, Franz called more doctors. Got more tests. Begged and ordered and bribed experts from all over the world. Janke helped to run the operation that kept the money coming in. He dealt with the hospitals and the politicians as well as the inner network. The others gave him respect now, even Danil. He was a harder master than even Franz had ever been.
That was as it should be.
"I hate this fucking body," Franz said to him one day, gasping for breath and holding a napkin to his mouth to catch the blood.
"It is a good body. I like it," Janke assured him. Franz wasn't in the mood, however.
"You can have it, then. I'll fucking trade you." He hurled the telephone receiver in his hand against the wall. Janke didn't flinch at the crack as it broke. He didn't turn to look. That was the third one this month, and Janke was glad. Franz was still strong enough when he needed to be.
But that, too, would change.
"You need to rest," he said.
"Screw you."
"All right." He grinned. "You need a good screw, yes?" But Franz didn't laugh as he had hoped.
"What I need is a cure. Why couldn't I have kidney failure or heart disease or any other goddamn thing? I could fix any of those like that." He snapped his fingers.
Janke studied Franz. The other man had lost more weight and strength, but his fire to live still blazed.
"Then we will get you a new body," he said decisively. He didn't know how yet, but he meant to do it.
He had once told a man in a dark bar that he would kill him.
That night, his knife still damp from the vodka he used to wipe it clean, he had left Russia forever -- but Janke Dacyshyn did what he promised.
He met with Dr. Tokarev at a restaurant that was tucked away in an odd curl of the street behind a warehouse and next to a payday loan lender. It was popular with the folks who lived in the area. The noise covered their conversation and they were two more strangers in a crowd.
"I'll get you all the equipment and parts you need," he told the doctor.
"Parts?" the man repeated, eyes narrowing.
"Whole machines, too, sometimes. If you're not too greedy." This wasn't the right part of town, but there might always be people around who understood their language. He knew Tokarev would understand his meaning.
"I'm not sure I can believe you," he said slowly. But Janke saw the man stroking the handle of his fork in apparent excitement.
"You know I have money."
"That doesn't mean anything. Why do you want to help me?"
"You don't need a reason." Not yet. Not until Janke could see what the man could do. He knew what Tokarev had done, and what he professed to want to do, which gave Janke hope. "I have a building. You can set up there, and then we'll talk more after you've settled in. Give me a list of what you need." He saw the light of greed in the other man's face. "It might take a little time, but ask for anything you want. I'll make sure you get it."
He had Danil drive the doctor there while he started the delicate job of procuring supplies and equipment.
Then he went home to tell Franz that Tokarev was in hand.
The following months were busy but idling at the same time, as they waited for Tokarev to work.
One of Janke's favorite activities was to sit with Franz in a public place and watch the people passing by. "That one," he would say. "Or that one. He has better ass."
Franz would laugh that wonderful dry laugh and counter, "No, too much hair." Or, "Maybe I want to be taller than you." Or, "Why do I have to be a man at all?"
"Sure, sure," Janke would agree. "I never fuck a woman. It would be fun."
Those were the best days.
Other days, Franz would become depressed and angry. Tokarev's progress was too slow. Why hadn't he started working on humans yet? Couldn't they stop the infernal barking?
"We must be patient," Janke would cajole him, pulling the covers tighter around them both. "Too important to rush."
"Patience? The clock is ticking for me!" Franz paused to cough. When he was done, he made an irritated sound. "One of the seven virtues. I was a Catholic once. Can you believe that?"
Janke shrugged and continued rubbing Franz's shoulders soothingly, but Franz was anxious and restless.
"Homosexuality is a sin in the eyes of God," Franz told him, in a mocking voice. "They should have told the fucking Church that."
Janke stopped the motion of his hands. He looked into Franz's eyes. He smiled. "Let's get married."
Franz's laugh was a hoarse whisper of what it'd used to be, but Janke still thrilled to hear it. "Jesus Christ, you say the most beautiful fucking things. Yeah, yeah, fuck 'em. Let's get the fuck married."
So they did.
Like some sort of charm, the day they got their certificate, Tokarev had a breakthrough. He asked for 'real' parts this time, and Janke and Franz went together to find them.
She was a whore and a drug addict that no one would miss. She came home with Janke without protest and only tried to run when Franz had her by the throat. Janke remembered how sliding that knife home had felt, how the man had burbled blood and stared at him with horrified, whirling eyes as his body slipped and spasmed messily away from his control.
He met Franz's eyes. Franz was grinning like a wild bear.
This was better.
It was another two weeks before Tokarev tried with a live subject. The old homeless man survived only twenty minutes after the first reattachment, and Tokarev angrily blamed it on the quality of the parts he had been given. Janke told him he needed better results before they would risk procuring a more high-profile machine for him. The argument went back and forth until, losing his temper, Janke made sure Tokarev understood who was in charge.
One week later, the subject lasted for five hours.
A month after that, Janke and Franz followed a healthy, mature woman from her apartment and Janke bashed her against the side of the dumpster until she fell unconscious. She needed to have basic functions intact, Tokarev had told them. Janke chose to interpret a mild concussion as acceptable. Franz threw her bag of trash away while Janke dumped her into the covered back of his truck.
She survived the full procedure and lived for an hour after.
The day that a subject not only lived but demonstrated the ability post-surgery to scream and flail its arms and legs, Janke danced with Franz around the surgery room. Tokarev forgot himself so much as to dance with them. They threw their surgery caps in the air and cavorted, sweaty shirts and blood stained smock mixing into one circle of kicking and turning celebration. The subject continued to thrash and screech, with obvious control of its lungs and gross motor functions.
Tokarev's assistants clapped their hands and shouted along ecstatically, so distracted that the subject was able to roll off the recovery table, crashing into a light stand and plunging the room into half-darkness. Unfortunately, it tore its sutures as well, and bled to death in the confusion before any further data could be recorded. Still, Franz bought everyone drinks that night (though he only drank rarely himself, now) and promised Tokarev new lights to replace the ones broken.
It seemed like years, the weeks and months blurring together, before it was deemed safe to conduct the surgery. But at long last, it was time. Janke sat for hours with Franz, through the elaborate preparations.
"What will we do with this?" he asked, placing his hand on Franz's chest as he lay on the table in readiness.
"Burn the fucking thing," Franz answered immediately. He had to pause for breath every other word, but his life essence burned stronger than ever. "Wait until I wake up so I can watch you do it."
Janke knew Tokarev would be furious if they started a fire in here, but he felt his lips peeling back in a grin just imagining it. He nodded in agreement, giddy with anticipation.
Franz, in contrast, went suddenly somber. He gestured weakly, and Janke touched his cheek.
"This might not work," Franz said.
"Maybe."
"Then I'll see you in hell." Franz's intense, completely unquestioning gaze galvanized something in Janke.
"This will work," he said. "I promise." He felt power pulse through him at the declaration. He recognized it. It was the power of the twenty, the hundred, the thousand lives they had control over, to break and bend and extinguish at their will. For the sake of saving the one he chose. He knew he was speaking the truth.
A wry smile bent the corners of Franz's mouth. "You promise? How the fuck can you promise?"
Janke leaned in close and whispered, "Я Бог твой. I promise."
Franz always professed not to know any Russian, but he gasped hoarsely, not quite succeeding in laughing, his face contorting with amusement just the same. "Fuck, yeah. I guess you are," he said. "See you at the bonfire." He signaled to Tokarev's assistant, who injected the aneasthetic.
Janke watched over Franz as he went under.
"I am your God," he repeated into Franz's ear -- certain that Franz would hear him -- before stepping back to allow Tokarev to do his work.
END.
A/N: Russian proverbs here. The Russian is thanks to the Google translator.
A/N: I spent most of this movie going, "Gah! Did they just--? Why don't they--? Wait a minute, what?! Why does nothing in this movie make sense?!!" I might have liked it better if I had been a fan of The X-Files. I did attain a better appreciation for the movie, though, after reading this article.
A/N: There is a story behind this fic. But it has to do with the DS/C6D mini-fic exchange, so I will have to tell you all after Sunday...
I was putting together my blurb for the DS/C6D mini-fic exchange, and I was thinking about which C6D fandoms I had watched and was willing to write for. I put down about eight, and then I threw in The X-Files movie just for kicks, b/c I'd watched it recently. Then I got to thinking, well shoot, what if someone actually picks that fandom to prompt? What would I write? The obvious thing to write about from a C6D perspective was Janke/Franz, so I started from there. And... this came out. I wrote it all in the space of about four hours on Tuesday October 4th, at night, during a raging storm.
And then I had managed to creep myself out so much that I went back to my list of fandoms and took out every one where CKR is even slightly criminally insane. Which left basically Due South and Wilby, plus two other fandoms for Paul Gross. Apologies. Otherwise, it might have been interesting to write about Norman...
If you enjoyed this story, you might try these:
Must Needs (Due South), by kuonji
An American Pastime (Starsky & Hutch), by kuonji
The Shark Trilogy, by magus_minor and The Shiver Trilogy, by Ellex (Stargate Atlantis)