Detached (one-shot)
Title: Detached
Fandom: Eastern Promises
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I would never steal from Mr. Cronenberg. This is harmless, profitless fun.
Author’s note: Wow. No slash. Totally a first for me.
”Are you even listening to me? I need you to be sure. Do you understand what you’re signing up for?”
A blank stare met the captain across the desk. That kind of stare, you look in to those kinds of eyes long enough, you feel like you’re falling into nothing. A vacuum in space. Eyes like holes you dig to bury deep, dark, dirty, bloody secrets in.
“Da.” Softly spoken, almost inaudible, barely more than a breath.
“Do you understand?” the captain repeated, trying not to look into those eyes. He knew what this man had done. There was a dossier in the top drawer to his left that covered everything. It even had pictures. The captain tried very hard not to think of those pictures.
The man in the opposite chair smirked, unexpectedly. He’d been rolling a cigarette between his fingers - dirt under his fingernails, unidentifiable stains mixing with ink on his fingers, you couldn’t tell them apart. Now he put it in the corner of his mouth, that eerie smirk still curling his lips, and stroked a match to light it. The captain swallowed.
“You can’t smoke in here.”
His visitor just shrugged, getting up from his seat, blowing a cloud of smoke into the eyes of his interviewer, the captain with the nervous demeanor and Ukrainian family name. And the captain looked away. It was a simple gesture, but with a puff of smoke, the man had demonstrated who was really in charge.
“Yes or no,” he persisted as the man pushed the office door open to leave. He didn’t turn around, merely halted in the doorway, not dignifying the captain one last look.
“You have answer already.” His voice was hoarse, and for a second the captain imagined he could feel the chill of the Siberian tundra sweep into his office, encircling him. “When you want me, you know where to find me.”
That he did.
An hour later, the captain was still sitting at his desk. He didn’t look at the dossier. He’d already read it. Once was more than enough. Somehow he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d made a mistake. London had scores of good, less morally ambivalent undercover agents on standby. Men with standards. Men who would never… but it didn’t serve any purpose thinking about that now. It was settled. Done.
And to be truthful, his general foreboding feeling aside, they couldn’t have found a better man for the job. They needed someone who could leave everything behind and never once look back. Someone who wouldn’t leave a heap of pesky mourners behind if an accident - accidental or no - should befall him. Someone without attachments.
And no one was more detached than Nikolai Luzhin.
Fandom: Eastern Promises
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I would never steal from Mr. Cronenberg. This is harmless, profitless fun.
Author’s note: Wow. No slash. Totally a first for me.
”Are you even listening to me? I need you to be sure. Do you understand what you’re signing up for?”
A blank stare met the captain across the desk. That kind of stare, you look in to those kinds of eyes long enough, you feel like you’re falling into nothing. A vacuum in space. Eyes like holes you dig to bury deep, dark, dirty, bloody secrets in.
“Da.” Softly spoken, almost inaudible, barely more than a breath.
“Do you understand?” the captain repeated, trying not to look into those eyes. He knew what this man had done. There was a dossier in the top drawer to his left that covered everything. It even had pictures. The captain tried very hard not to think of those pictures.
The man in the opposite chair smirked, unexpectedly. He’d been rolling a cigarette between his fingers - dirt under his fingernails, unidentifiable stains mixing with ink on his fingers, you couldn’t tell them apart. Now he put it in the corner of his mouth, that eerie smirk still curling his lips, and stroked a match to light it. The captain swallowed.
“You can’t smoke in here.”
His visitor just shrugged, getting up from his seat, blowing a cloud of smoke into the eyes of his interviewer, the captain with the nervous demeanor and Ukrainian family name. And the captain looked away. It was a simple gesture, but with a puff of smoke, the man had demonstrated who was really in charge.
“Yes or no,” he persisted as the man pushed the office door open to leave. He didn’t turn around, merely halted in the doorway, not dignifying the captain one last look.
“You have answer already.” His voice was hoarse, and for a second the captain imagined he could feel the chill of the Siberian tundra sweep into his office, encircling him. “When you want me, you know where to find me.”
That he did.
An hour later, the captain was still sitting at his desk. He didn’t look at the dossier. He’d already read it. Once was more than enough. Somehow he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d made a mistake. London had scores of good, less morally ambivalent undercover agents on standby. Men with standards. Men who would never… but it didn’t serve any purpose thinking about that now. It was settled. Done.
And to be truthful, his general foreboding feeling aside, they couldn’t have found a better man for the job. They needed someone who could leave everything behind and never once look back. Someone who wouldn’t leave a heap of pesky mourners behind if an accident - accidental or no - should befall him. Someone without attachments.
And no one was more detached than Nikolai Luzhin.