Taken: 3/5, AU, R, Drama
Title: Taken
Genre: Drama
Rating: R (violence and torture)
Players: Sergei Fedorov(POV)/Nikolai Zherdev
Summary: AU. Based on the 2008 movie Taken. An ex-KGB agent relies on skills he’d tried to forget in order to save his young lover, a hockey player who has been kidnapped by those who want him for themselves.
-
The hope that was dwindling in your chest surges brightly and powerfully back to life when your captor receives the call on his cell phone. You know that it is Sergei without having to hear his voice, and so you know that he is still tracking you-that he is still looking for you. He is going to save you, and the knowledge gives you boldness.
But your outburst during the call is not greeted favorably.
Two of the thugs grab you by the arms, pressing you against the wall of the train compartment. The third shoves the gag back into your mouth: they had removed it to allow you to drink some water, a gesture of humanity that they clearly saw you as taking advantage of. As your captor finishes the call, he watches with cold eyes as your wrists are pinned behind your back, the thugs pulling you between them. Your heart skips a beat as thick fingers twine into your hair; your head yanked back as teeth nip at your throat. It isn’t enough to leave bruises, isn’t enough to mark-but it is enough to send a spike of fear lancing through your heart.
You fight.
You fight desperately, frantically, putting all of your energy into the object of escape. But you can’t evade the roving fingers that stroke across your belly, or the hand that cups you through your jeans. No matter how much you thrash and buck, you can’t throw them off: you can’t get away from the throaty chuckles as they touch you as they please. You fight until you’re exhausted, finally slumping in their grasp as they let you drop to the floor, panting and shaking from exertion.
They didn’t go far in their callous caresses, not permitted to damage the merchandise, and as they smirk down at you their message is made clear.
You can’t escape.
But even with their taunts and threats, you glare up at them through slitted eyes as you gasp for breath, and you manage a feral, bared-teeth grin.
Because Sergei cares for you. He is coming for you.
And there will be hell to pay.
-
We met Slava in front of a rundown apartment complex in the southwestern sector of Moscow. The area was marked by crumbling buildings with fronts that had been stripped bare by neglect, dirt and decay featuring prominently on every surface. Two agents stood with him by an unmarked car, and I knew without being told that those two would be his best. Unlike with Igor, I saw the visible markings that the years had left on Slava. He looked older, creases in his face that hadn’t been there before; a coolness to his eyes that I didn’t remember. He greeted me with a quiet nod and a miniscule frown.
I knew what he was thinking.
“Before you condemn me for anything I do,” I said softly, “Answer me one thing, Slava. Just one thing. What would you do if Igor was taken?”
Something flickered in Slava’s eyes. He glanced instinctively over at Igor, who avoided meeting both of our gazes.
I knew that Slava had nearly gone mad when Igor had been accused of treason, back during the KGB years. Igor was tossed into prison for a month, lost in the black hole that was the lower levels beneath Lubyanka Square. During that time, Slava had broken every rule and defied all authority in order to get his partner out alive and unharmed-working for days without sleep to clear Igor’s name. When Igor had finally been released, gaunt and unspeaking, Slava hadn’t let him out of his sight for a long while after.
The two of them had wives, had children and grandchildren-but all of that was secondary to the relationship they shared.
Slava met my gaze evenly.
“You misread me, my old friend,” he said, his voice gentle. “My concern isn’t for your methods, Sergei-it’s for you. I was there when you lost Fedor. I know the kind of darkness such a loss can bring out in a person.”
I flinched. Even now, years after his death, the memory of my younger brother burned as a cold wound in my chest. He had been taken unfairly and too soon, and when I tried to recall the weeks after his funeral I could only remember a black period of time fraught with rage and grief. The system that both Fedor and I had so diligently served, the one we gave our lives to-it had failed him, then. It had failed to do justice, and it had failed me.
That was the day my faith was broken.
That was the day I broke from Russian Intelligence forever.
“I have a few things I’d like to take out of the people who stole Nikky from me,” I said, baring my teeth in a grin. Slava gave me a long look: searching for something in my eyes that I’m fairly certain he didn’t find.
He sighed.
“Plyushchev has a flat on the second floor. Apartment 209. He rents it because of the area’s reputation for…discretion. It’s where he keeps whatever boy he has currently.”
I narrowed my eyes. My Makarov was tucked into my belt at my hip, ready at hand should it be needed. As I checked the safety, Slava gestured his two agents forward. They both wore plainclothes and neutral expressions; they knew the situation. Even after four years without speaking to Slava, I still trusted him completely: I knew the agents would be not only his best, but also his most discreet.
“Ilya Kovalchuk and Aleksander Svitov,” Slava introduced. “They’ll provide you backup if necessary.”
His ‘there’s no way in hell you’re taking Igor into danger’ went unsaid.
As it turned out, however, the most harm was not inflicted upon us.
I opened the front door with a quick shimmy of the lock that took a few moments longer than it used to, my skills rusty from years of disuse. The only noise in the apartment came from a back room: soft grunts and quiet whimpers that left no doubt as to what was going on. We gravitated toward the sound with silent footsteps.
The door to the bedroom was open, giving us a perfect view of the scene before we event passed the threshold. Plyushchev’s back was to us, his heavyset, oversized body jerking as he fucked a young man bound head and foot to the bed. His hands were curled bruising-tight at the hapless captive’s hips-and in that brief instant I stood frozen in the doorway, pleading brown eyes met my gaze over Plyushchev’s thick shoulder.
“Take him,” I rasped.
Aleks and Ilya were moving almost before the words left my lips, darting toward the bed. Plyushchev finally noticed us, scrambling off the kid; maneuvering his bulk as swiftly as he was able. He was intercepted without difficulty: Aleks grabbed him by the throat, pinning him to the wall with a snarl, while Ilya’s features were set and cold as his gun pressed against Plyushchev’s temple. When he looked to me for further instruction I jerked my head back towards the front room, and they hauled him off to await further interrogation.
I turned my attention to the boy.
The sheets had been thrown off with Plyushchev’s attempted escape, leaving the kid’s nude body vulnerably exposed. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen years old, slim and wiry, still with baby-soft cheeks.
And he looked like Nikky. Christ, but he looked like my Nikky. The same tousled mop of dark hair, the same fathomless eyes. He was younger, his features gentler, but the resemblance between the two was enough that my stomach did somersaults for What Could Have Been. For what probably was. It was only the space of a few years that separated Nikky from this boy-and the thought of finding my own lover in the same situation had a coil of helpless fear curling in my stomach.
As I reached for the ropes binding the kid’s ankles-the skin beneath them was rubbed pink-red and raw-he tracked my movements with a wide-eyed gaze. I offered him a smile that I hoped was reassuring.
“What’s your name?” I asked gently, trying to keep the anger I felt from entering my voice.
But then he whispered, “Nikita,” and I felt as though a knee had slammed into my solar plexus.
As soon as I freed his wrists, the boy lunged for me with a desperation that twisted a knife in my chest. Shaking fingers curled in the hem of my shirt as rage at Plyushchev clouded my vision, pounding in my temples like a wrathful heartbeat. I swallowed hard and forced myself to calm down: to take in deep breaths and not scare the terrified kid any further.
“Don’t leave me here,” he choked, before I could even say anything. His fist clenched in my shirt, his knuckles white. “Please-please don’t leave me-”
“It’s alright,” I murmured. “You’re safe now.”
I stroked his hair tenderly, seeing the lines from a belt streaking his back; the marks of teeth and fingernails dug into his flesh. He trembled in my arms, turning his face into my chest as I drew a blanket over his shaking shoulders.
“I didn’t want this,” he mumbled senselessly. “I never-he said I was coming up to play for CSKA, but I-he told me to earn my spot on the roster, that I-that I had to- When I said no he just took what he wanted-”
“He’s not going to harm you again, little one,” I said quietly. “That, I promise you.”
“He said there were others,” Nikita whispered. “Before me. That I was just-one of many. That I could be gotten rid of just as easy. I could yell all I wanted, tell whoever I wanted but it-it wouldn’t do any good because Viktor has the police in his pocket, they already know, they know and they let him-”
“Viktor?” I said sharply. The possibility of finally knowing where Nikolai had been taken hung tantalizingly close, and I had to force myself not to shake the information out of the traumatized boy in my arms. “Who is Viktor?”
Nikita looked up at me, the hopelessness in his eyes reflected in the despair in his voice.
“Viktor Tikhonov. The old Soviet coach.”
And everything fell into place.
I knew of Viktor Tikhonov. He was famous to the Russian people as the great hockey coach-and he was infamous to Russian Intelligence. He was one of the Untouchables; one of those few prominent figures who we were not allowed to punish. Because of his value, because of his success coaching Russia and the Soviet Union to international dominance, he had been placed on the list of those allowed to escape any penalization for wrongdoings. Speeding tickets turned into warnings; assault charges became lost in the system. Where we had ached to do justice, those above us in the government allowed an unjust lenience to criminals of the worst sort.
But I was no longer bound by the restricting ties of petty bureaucracy.
I found a robe hanging on the knob of the bathroom door, and used it to bundle up Nikita’s lean frame. He put his arms through the sleeves with the mechanical movements of an unthinking doll, accustomed to being dressed up and played with, and my chest ached for the numb expression on his face. I pushed an oversized pair of slippers onto his feet and pulled him from the bed, tucking my arm around his shoulders as he immediately latched onto my side like a lost child.
Out in the front room, Slava’s two agents had Plyushchev tied to an overstuffed cushioned chair. A washrag was shoved into his mouth as a makeshift gag. Beads of sweat rolled down his pale face as he saw me exit the room, widening when he caught sight of Nikita pressed up against me. Naked and helpless, terrified in the face of his impending demise, I almost could have felt sorry for the pitiful sight he made.
Nikita whimpered beneath the heavy gaze of his tormenter, trying to hide behind me.
I didn’t feel sorry enough.
At my nod, Aleks and Ilya slipped out the front door as I pulled the Makarov from my belt. Plyushchev’s eyes widened to the size of saucers, and he rocked back and forth futilely in the chair, making desperate noises through the gag in his throat. I raised my arm, and he let out a hoarse, muffled shriek.
I reached down and covered Nikita’s eyes with my free hand.
It may have been four years since I last touched a gun, but certain things you could never forget. Muscle memory and sharpness of eye take longer to fade than people think-certainly longer than one might hope. The shot caught Plyushchev right in the gut, piercing through intestines and internal organs alike; he let out a scream that made Nikita inhale sharply next to me. The wound wasn’t instantly fatal, but the acid from his ruined stomach would eat him alive within the next few hours.
I didn’t remove my palm from Nikita’s eyes as I guided him, blinded, from the apartment; leaving Plyushchev to die behind us.
And there was only one more person keeping Nikolai from me.
-
You never prompted Sergei for details about his past simply because you never found the subject overly pressing. You were curious, of course: you would learn everything about him if you could. But you recognized the fact that some things were still too raw for him to talk about. There were things that he still preferred to keep hidden away, if for his own sake as much as your own.
So when he casually shared some of his own history, you were completely entranced from the moment he started speaking.
You had been rambling, as usual. As the television played some half-interesting drama, you laid with your long legs draped over an arm of the couch, your head cradled in Sergei’s lap. His fingers brushed absently through your hair as you went on about nothing, commenting on everything from the show to the lengthy roadtrip you had just returned from, which had taken you through Kazakhstan and southern Russia. As you finally wound down from comparing an incident during the trip to a childhood experience in Ukraine, something in what you said must have twanged a chord within him-because he began to speak, softly and unexpectedly.
He didn’t say anything explicit. He never once said the words ‘KGB’, ‘FSB’ or ‘Russian Intelligence’. But he spoke of his former government job, where he had worked in a position that he thought would allow him to change things, to help people-a position he held in common with his brother, eleven years his younger. He spoke of a sense of justice and integrity, transferred through actions and a belief that what he did made the world a better place.
And his voice didn’t change as, quietly and evenly, he told you of his brother’s death at the hands of a corrupt agent.
You didn’t say a word. You didn’t dare interrupt as he spoke of the wrenching incident that had taken his brother’s life; of the government’s refusal to step in and investigate someone who they deemed too good of an employee to dispose of. As he talked, his fingers still combed gently through your hair, and you wondered at the amount of control it took for him to keep from expressing the emotion he had to be feeling. When he came to the rogue agent’s fate, he quieted, and his hands finally stilled. When prompted, his simple reply was, ‘I took care of it.’
And it was then you knew that the safest place in the world was right where you were: within the embrace of Sergei’s arms.
-
Genre: Drama
Rating: R (violence and torture)
Players: Sergei Fedorov(POV)/Nikolai Zherdev
Summary: AU. Based on the 2008 movie Taken. An ex-KGB agent relies on skills he’d tried to forget in order to save his young lover, a hockey player who has been kidnapped by those who want him for themselves.
-
The hope that was dwindling in your chest surges brightly and powerfully back to life when your captor receives the call on his cell phone. You know that it is Sergei without having to hear his voice, and so you know that he is still tracking you-that he is still looking for you. He is going to save you, and the knowledge gives you boldness.
But your outburst during the call is not greeted favorably.
Two of the thugs grab you by the arms, pressing you against the wall of the train compartment. The third shoves the gag back into your mouth: they had removed it to allow you to drink some water, a gesture of humanity that they clearly saw you as taking advantage of. As your captor finishes the call, he watches with cold eyes as your wrists are pinned behind your back, the thugs pulling you between them. Your heart skips a beat as thick fingers twine into your hair; your head yanked back as teeth nip at your throat. It isn’t enough to leave bruises, isn’t enough to mark-but it is enough to send a spike of fear lancing through your heart.
You fight.
You fight desperately, frantically, putting all of your energy into the object of escape. But you can’t evade the roving fingers that stroke across your belly, or the hand that cups you through your jeans. No matter how much you thrash and buck, you can’t throw them off: you can’t get away from the throaty chuckles as they touch you as they please. You fight until you’re exhausted, finally slumping in their grasp as they let you drop to the floor, panting and shaking from exertion.
They didn’t go far in their callous caresses, not permitted to damage the merchandise, and as they smirk down at you their message is made clear.
You can’t escape.
But even with their taunts and threats, you glare up at them through slitted eyes as you gasp for breath, and you manage a feral, bared-teeth grin.
Because Sergei cares for you. He is coming for you.
And there will be hell to pay.
-
We met Slava in front of a rundown apartment complex in the southwestern sector of Moscow. The area was marked by crumbling buildings with fronts that had been stripped bare by neglect, dirt and decay featuring prominently on every surface. Two agents stood with him by an unmarked car, and I knew without being told that those two would be his best. Unlike with Igor, I saw the visible markings that the years had left on Slava. He looked older, creases in his face that hadn’t been there before; a coolness to his eyes that I didn’t remember. He greeted me with a quiet nod and a miniscule frown.
I knew what he was thinking.
“Before you condemn me for anything I do,” I said softly, “Answer me one thing, Slava. Just one thing. What would you do if Igor was taken?”
Something flickered in Slava’s eyes. He glanced instinctively over at Igor, who avoided meeting both of our gazes.
I knew that Slava had nearly gone mad when Igor had been accused of treason, back during the KGB years. Igor was tossed into prison for a month, lost in the black hole that was the lower levels beneath Lubyanka Square. During that time, Slava had broken every rule and defied all authority in order to get his partner out alive and unharmed-working for days without sleep to clear Igor’s name. When Igor had finally been released, gaunt and unspeaking, Slava hadn’t let him out of his sight for a long while after.
The two of them had wives, had children and grandchildren-but all of that was secondary to the relationship they shared.
Slava met my gaze evenly.
“You misread me, my old friend,” he said, his voice gentle. “My concern isn’t for your methods, Sergei-it’s for you. I was there when you lost Fedor. I know the kind of darkness such a loss can bring out in a person.”
I flinched. Even now, years after his death, the memory of my younger brother burned as a cold wound in my chest. He had been taken unfairly and too soon, and when I tried to recall the weeks after his funeral I could only remember a black period of time fraught with rage and grief. The system that both Fedor and I had so diligently served, the one we gave our lives to-it had failed him, then. It had failed to do justice, and it had failed me.
That was the day my faith was broken.
That was the day I broke from Russian Intelligence forever.
“I have a few things I’d like to take out of the people who stole Nikky from me,” I said, baring my teeth in a grin. Slava gave me a long look: searching for something in my eyes that I’m fairly certain he didn’t find.
He sighed.
“Plyushchev has a flat on the second floor. Apartment 209. He rents it because of the area’s reputation for…discretion. It’s where he keeps whatever boy he has currently.”
I narrowed my eyes. My Makarov was tucked into my belt at my hip, ready at hand should it be needed. As I checked the safety, Slava gestured his two agents forward. They both wore plainclothes and neutral expressions; they knew the situation. Even after four years without speaking to Slava, I still trusted him completely: I knew the agents would be not only his best, but also his most discreet.
“Ilya Kovalchuk and Aleksander Svitov,” Slava introduced. “They’ll provide you backup if necessary.”
His ‘there’s no way in hell you’re taking Igor into danger’ went unsaid.
As it turned out, however, the most harm was not inflicted upon us.
I opened the front door with a quick shimmy of the lock that took a few moments longer than it used to, my skills rusty from years of disuse. The only noise in the apartment came from a back room: soft grunts and quiet whimpers that left no doubt as to what was going on. We gravitated toward the sound with silent footsteps.
The door to the bedroom was open, giving us a perfect view of the scene before we event passed the threshold. Plyushchev’s back was to us, his heavyset, oversized body jerking as he fucked a young man bound head and foot to the bed. His hands were curled bruising-tight at the hapless captive’s hips-and in that brief instant I stood frozen in the doorway, pleading brown eyes met my gaze over Plyushchev’s thick shoulder.
“Take him,” I rasped.
Aleks and Ilya were moving almost before the words left my lips, darting toward the bed. Plyushchev finally noticed us, scrambling off the kid; maneuvering his bulk as swiftly as he was able. He was intercepted without difficulty: Aleks grabbed him by the throat, pinning him to the wall with a snarl, while Ilya’s features were set and cold as his gun pressed against Plyushchev’s temple. When he looked to me for further instruction I jerked my head back towards the front room, and they hauled him off to await further interrogation.
I turned my attention to the boy.
The sheets had been thrown off with Plyushchev’s attempted escape, leaving the kid’s nude body vulnerably exposed. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen years old, slim and wiry, still with baby-soft cheeks.
And he looked like Nikky. Christ, but he looked like my Nikky. The same tousled mop of dark hair, the same fathomless eyes. He was younger, his features gentler, but the resemblance between the two was enough that my stomach did somersaults for What Could Have Been. For what probably was. It was only the space of a few years that separated Nikky from this boy-and the thought of finding my own lover in the same situation had a coil of helpless fear curling in my stomach.
As I reached for the ropes binding the kid’s ankles-the skin beneath them was rubbed pink-red and raw-he tracked my movements with a wide-eyed gaze. I offered him a smile that I hoped was reassuring.
“What’s your name?” I asked gently, trying to keep the anger I felt from entering my voice.
But then he whispered, “Nikita,” and I felt as though a knee had slammed into my solar plexus.
As soon as I freed his wrists, the boy lunged for me with a desperation that twisted a knife in my chest. Shaking fingers curled in the hem of my shirt as rage at Plyushchev clouded my vision, pounding in my temples like a wrathful heartbeat. I swallowed hard and forced myself to calm down: to take in deep breaths and not scare the terrified kid any further.
“Don’t leave me here,” he choked, before I could even say anything. His fist clenched in my shirt, his knuckles white. “Please-please don’t leave me-”
“It’s alright,” I murmured. “You’re safe now.”
I stroked his hair tenderly, seeing the lines from a belt streaking his back; the marks of teeth and fingernails dug into his flesh. He trembled in my arms, turning his face into my chest as I drew a blanket over his shaking shoulders.
“I didn’t want this,” he mumbled senselessly. “I never-he said I was coming up to play for CSKA, but I-he told me to earn my spot on the roster, that I-that I had to- When I said no he just took what he wanted-”
“He’s not going to harm you again, little one,” I said quietly. “That, I promise you.”
“He said there were others,” Nikita whispered. “Before me. That I was just-one of many. That I could be gotten rid of just as easy. I could yell all I wanted, tell whoever I wanted but it-it wouldn’t do any good because Viktor has the police in his pocket, they already know, they know and they let him-”
“Viktor?” I said sharply. The possibility of finally knowing where Nikolai had been taken hung tantalizingly close, and I had to force myself not to shake the information out of the traumatized boy in my arms. “Who is Viktor?”
Nikita looked up at me, the hopelessness in his eyes reflected in the despair in his voice.
“Viktor Tikhonov. The old Soviet coach.”
And everything fell into place.
I knew of Viktor Tikhonov. He was famous to the Russian people as the great hockey coach-and he was infamous to Russian Intelligence. He was one of the Untouchables; one of those few prominent figures who we were not allowed to punish. Because of his value, because of his success coaching Russia and the Soviet Union to international dominance, he had been placed on the list of those allowed to escape any penalization for wrongdoings. Speeding tickets turned into warnings; assault charges became lost in the system. Where we had ached to do justice, those above us in the government allowed an unjust lenience to criminals of the worst sort.
But I was no longer bound by the restricting ties of petty bureaucracy.
I found a robe hanging on the knob of the bathroom door, and used it to bundle up Nikita’s lean frame. He put his arms through the sleeves with the mechanical movements of an unthinking doll, accustomed to being dressed up and played with, and my chest ached for the numb expression on his face. I pushed an oversized pair of slippers onto his feet and pulled him from the bed, tucking my arm around his shoulders as he immediately latched onto my side like a lost child.
Out in the front room, Slava’s two agents had Plyushchev tied to an overstuffed cushioned chair. A washrag was shoved into his mouth as a makeshift gag. Beads of sweat rolled down his pale face as he saw me exit the room, widening when he caught sight of Nikita pressed up against me. Naked and helpless, terrified in the face of his impending demise, I almost could have felt sorry for the pitiful sight he made.
Nikita whimpered beneath the heavy gaze of his tormenter, trying to hide behind me.
I didn’t feel sorry enough.
At my nod, Aleks and Ilya slipped out the front door as I pulled the Makarov from my belt. Plyushchev’s eyes widened to the size of saucers, and he rocked back and forth futilely in the chair, making desperate noises through the gag in his throat. I raised my arm, and he let out a hoarse, muffled shriek.
I reached down and covered Nikita’s eyes with my free hand.
It may have been four years since I last touched a gun, but certain things you could never forget. Muscle memory and sharpness of eye take longer to fade than people think-certainly longer than one might hope. The shot caught Plyushchev right in the gut, piercing through intestines and internal organs alike; he let out a scream that made Nikita inhale sharply next to me. The wound wasn’t instantly fatal, but the acid from his ruined stomach would eat him alive within the next few hours.
I didn’t remove my palm from Nikita’s eyes as I guided him, blinded, from the apartment; leaving Plyushchev to die behind us.
And there was only one more person keeping Nikolai from me.
-
You never prompted Sergei for details about his past simply because you never found the subject overly pressing. You were curious, of course: you would learn everything about him if you could. But you recognized the fact that some things were still too raw for him to talk about. There were things that he still preferred to keep hidden away, if for his own sake as much as your own.
So when he casually shared some of his own history, you were completely entranced from the moment he started speaking.
You had been rambling, as usual. As the television played some half-interesting drama, you laid with your long legs draped over an arm of the couch, your head cradled in Sergei’s lap. His fingers brushed absently through your hair as you went on about nothing, commenting on everything from the show to the lengthy roadtrip you had just returned from, which had taken you through Kazakhstan and southern Russia. As you finally wound down from comparing an incident during the trip to a childhood experience in Ukraine, something in what you said must have twanged a chord within him-because he began to speak, softly and unexpectedly.
He didn’t say anything explicit. He never once said the words ‘KGB’, ‘FSB’ or ‘Russian Intelligence’. But he spoke of his former government job, where he had worked in a position that he thought would allow him to change things, to help people-a position he held in common with his brother, eleven years his younger. He spoke of a sense of justice and integrity, transferred through actions and a belief that what he did made the world a better place.
And his voice didn’t change as, quietly and evenly, he told you of his brother’s death at the hands of a corrupt agent.
You didn’t say a word. You didn’t dare interrupt as he spoke of the wrenching incident that had taken his brother’s life; of the government’s refusal to step in and investigate someone who they deemed too good of an employee to dispose of. As he talked, his fingers still combed gently through your hair, and you wondered at the amount of control it took for him to keep from expressing the emotion he had to be feeling. When he came to the rogue agent’s fate, he quieted, and his hands finally stilled. When prompted, his simple reply was, ‘I took care of it.’
And it was then you knew that the safest place in the world was right where you were: within the embrace of Sergei’s arms.
-