Taken: 5/5 (Epilogue), 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.
-
Four months later.
I awoke to a room the temperature of Siberia, an aching leg and a ten-pound weight sprawled on my chest. The window curtains had been left slightly askew, spilling morning light into the room and right onto my face.
I never would have thought I would be able to feel this content.
“Get off, Maks,” I mumbled through a yawn, rolling over to dislodge the cat curled atop me. The fat Russian Blue regarded me with slitted yellow eyes. He flexed his claws into the sheets in displeasure, watching as I carefully maneuvered my feet onto the floor as I sat up. I reached over to offer him a consoling pat on the head, but received only a hiss and a swiping paw across the back of my knuckles. It didn’t ruin my morning too much: the evil-tempered creature only ever got along with me when I was feeding him.
I forced down another yawn as I reached for the simple wooden cane leaning against the wall next to the bed. As I levered myself to my feet, I readjusted the soft brace around my left knee, which had shifted during the night. Not that I was complaining-better the brace and cane than the cast and those damn crutches. The first month after my surgery had not been a pleasant one, spent in a Moscow hospital in a suspended leg cast and confined to a bed for two weeks.
The pain had been manageable. The boredom had not been. And to add insult to injury, my roommate for the first few days had been an absolute exercise in tolerance: a constant stream of snark in my ear that had me close to begging for a private room.
Slava was a good man, but he was an awfully shitty patient.
I limped my way from the bedroom out into the kitchen, trying to walk off the stiff ache in my leg. The dacha was quiet, tranquil, but I found the samovar still hot with a rich black tea ready for drinking. As I filled a cup, I glanced over to the door, noticing that the skates usually lying on the floor mat were conspicuously absent.
Just a few short months ago, that same sight might have terrified me. It was a mark of change that now I just smiled, taking a contented sip of my tea and certain in my knowledge of just where those skates had disappeared off to.
Nikolai had been quiet, that first week following his rescue. Intellectually, I knew that he was still a little traumatized, still a little on edge; but that hadn’t kept the anxious fear from getting a chokehold in my chest. I had killed for him. I had hurt people for him. And, given the choice, I would do it all again without a second thought. I saved him, yes, but the lengths to which I had gone to do so were ignoble at best-morally abhorrent at worst. Everything that I was, everything that I had ever done, was now on display for him to see: the blackest parts of me exposed to light. And it frightened me.
I had been terrified that he was going to leave.
But as the days and weeks stretched on, and I was finally allowed to return home to Saint Petersburg, I found Nik still stalwartly at my side. Almost as soon as we were back, he went over to SKA and requested a six-month leave of absence, with promises that he would keep up his workout routine. (Though, as I later came to understand, it was less of a request and more of an advisory statement.) He moved the rest of his stuff into my apartment, paid off his lease and stubbornly made sure that I did exactly what the doctors had told me to do, hounding me to stay in bed when the boredom became too much.
And, slowly, I came to realize that he was there to stay.
Maks bumped against my calf, meowing loudly, and as soon as he grasped my attention he waddled over to sit pointedly next to the bag of cat food. I cast him a skeptical look as he did his best ‘starving kitten in Africa’ imitation. The pouch of chubbiness swinging from his belly didn’t do much for his attempt at guile. Besides, I had already been fooled by that ploy before-I would wait to see if his primary owner had fed him before offering any extra food.
I’d never really labeled myself as more of a ‘cat person’ or a ‘dog person’, but I just couldn’t understand what Nikita saw in the tubby, ill-tempered furball.
Like his decision to stay with me, and like many other things in our relationship that didn’t need saying, the decision to take Nikita in had been tacitly understood between Nikolai and I. While I had been in surgery to repair my ruined knee, Nikita had latched onto Nikolai with the desperation of someone scared of an uncertain future; a young boy still traumatized and mistrustful of the world. Nikita’s playing contract with CSKA was in limbo because of Plyushchev’s abuse-that the management knew about his tendencies to take advantage of young players was evident-and the team was cooperating nicely with Igor’s suggestion that they release Nikita into free agency. It was our hope that eventually he might be able to play hockey again-perhaps in SKA, with Nikky. He was still hurt, still shaken, but even now he showed signs of learning to believe in people again.
Maks had been a bit of a concession to that slow rebuilding of trust. Nikita had heard him yowling in the alley near the apartment, and promptly decided to adopt the wily tomcat. Maks had been leaner, then, before Nikita’s doting had fattened him up, and neither Nik nor I could refuse those pleading eyes.
Nikita’s, that is. Maks looked evil no matter how hard he tried.
We’d brought Nikita’s meager belongings with us on the train: everything he owned had fit into a worn old duffel bag. An orphan dependent on the system, he’d had no one to notice he was missing. It was one of the reasons Plyushchev had taken him so easily-and it made the process of taking him from Moscow, and the memories that haunted him, that much easier.
Maks let out a disgruntled mewl as I passed by him, ignoring his whine as I limped past the cat food on my way to the back door. The dacha was small; just a little cottage on the outskirts of Saint Petersburg. It was far enough away from civilization that the constant press of humanity and noise was no longer present, nestled away in a forested area near a small lake. Winter had blanketed everything with a soft layer of snow, and a rush of crystal sharp fresh air swept over me as I pulled the door open.
I walked out onto the back porch, squinting as the sun hit my eyes through the cover of trees. Out on the frozen lake, two figures skated side-by-side, their graceful movements making me smile just from watching them. Joyful peals of laughter reached me from across the ice, the sound ringing bright and clear in the morning stillness.
I stepped down the porch stairs, and went to greet my family.
~ fini
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.
-
Four months later.
I awoke to a room the temperature of Siberia, an aching leg and a ten-pound weight sprawled on my chest. The window curtains had been left slightly askew, spilling morning light into the room and right onto my face.
I never would have thought I would be able to feel this content.
“Get off, Maks,” I mumbled through a yawn, rolling over to dislodge the cat curled atop me. The fat Russian Blue regarded me with slitted yellow eyes. He flexed his claws into the sheets in displeasure, watching as I carefully maneuvered my feet onto the floor as I sat up. I reached over to offer him a consoling pat on the head, but received only a hiss and a swiping paw across the back of my knuckles. It didn’t ruin my morning too much: the evil-tempered creature only ever got along with me when I was feeding him.
I forced down another yawn as I reached for the simple wooden cane leaning against the wall next to the bed. As I levered myself to my feet, I readjusted the soft brace around my left knee, which had shifted during the night. Not that I was complaining-better the brace and cane than the cast and those damn crutches. The first month after my surgery had not been a pleasant one, spent in a Moscow hospital in a suspended leg cast and confined to a bed for two weeks.
The pain had been manageable. The boredom had not been. And to add insult to injury, my roommate for the first few days had been an absolute exercise in tolerance: a constant stream of snark in my ear that had me close to begging for a private room.
Slava was a good man, but he was an awfully shitty patient.
I limped my way from the bedroom out into the kitchen, trying to walk off the stiff ache in my leg. The dacha was quiet, tranquil, but I found the samovar still hot with a rich black tea ready for drinking. As I filled a cup, I glanced over to the door, noticing that the skates usually lying on the floor mat were conspicuously absent.
Just a few short months ago, that same sight might have terrified me. It was a mark of change that now I just smiled, taking a contented sip of my tea and certain in my knowledge of just where those skates had disappeared off to.
Nikolai had been quiet, that first week following his rescue. Intellectually, I knew that he was still a little traumatized, still a little on edge; but that hadn’t kept the anxious fear from getting a chokehold in my chest. I had killed for him. I had hurt people for him. And, given the choice, I would do it all again without a second thought. I saved him, yes, but the lengths to which I had gone to do so were ignoble at best-morally abhorrent at worst. Everything that I was, everything that I had ever done, was now on display for him to see: the blackest parts of me exposed to light. And it frightened me.
I had been terrified that he was going to leave.
But as the days and weeks stretched on, and I was finally allowed to return home to Saint Petersburg, I found Nik still stalwartly at my side. Almost as soon as we were back, he went over to SKA and requested a six-month leave of absence, with promises that he would keep up his workout routine. (Though, as I later came to understand, it was less of a request and more of an advisory statement.) He moved the rest of his stuff into my apartment, paid off his lease and stubbornly made sure that I did exactly what the doctors had told me to do, hounding me to stay in bed when the boredom became too much.
And, slowly, I came to realize that he was there to stay.
Maks bumped against my calf, meowing loudly, and as soon as he grasped my attention he waddled over to sit pointedly next to the bag of cat food. I cast him a skeptical look as he did his best ‘starving kitten in Africa’ imitation. The pouch of chubbiness swinging from his belly didn’t do much for his attempt at guile. Besides, I had already been fooled by that ploy before-I would wait to see if his primary owner had fed him before offering any extra food.
I’d never really labeled myself as more of a ‘cat person’ or a ‘dog person’, but I just couldn’t understand what Nikita saw in the tubby, ill-tempered furball.
Like his decision to stay with me, and like many other things in our relationship that didn’t need saying, the decision to take Nikita in had been tacitly understood between Nikolai and I. While I had been in surgery to repair my ruined knee, Nikita had latched onto Nikolai with the desperation of someone scared of an uncertain future; a young boy still traumatized and mistrustful of the world. Nikita’s playing contract with CSKA was in limbo because of Plyushchev’s abuse-that the management knew about his tendencies to take advantage of young players was evident-and the team was cooperating nicely with Igor’s suggestion that they release Nikita into free agency. It was our hope that eventually he might be able to play hockey again-perhaps in SKA, with Nikky. He was still hurt, still shaken, but even now he showed signs of learning to believe in people again.
Maks had been a bit of a concession to that slow rebuilding of trust. Nikita had heard him yowling in the alley near the apartment, and promptly decided to adopt the wily tomcat. Maks had been leaner, then, before Nikita’s doting had fattened him up, and neither Nik nor I could refuse those pleading eyes.
Nikita’s, that is. Maks looked evil no matter how hard he tried.
We’d brought Nikita’s meager belongings with us on the train: everything he owned had fit into a worn old duffel bag. An orphan dependent on the system, he’d had no one to notice he was missing. It was one of the reasons Plyushchev had taken him so easily-and it made the process of taking him from Moscow, and the memories that haunted him, that much easier.
Maks let out a disgruntled mewl as I passed by him, ignoring his whine as I limped past the cat food on my way to the back door. The dacha was small; just a little cottage on the outskirts of Saint Petersburg. It was far enough away from civilization that the constant press of humanity and noise was no longer present, nestled away in a forested area near a small lake. Winter had blanketed everything with a soft layer of snow, and a rush of crystal sharp fresh air swept over me as I pulled the door open.
I walked out onto the back porch, squinting as the sun hit my eyes through the cover of trees. Out on the frozen lake, two figures skated side-by-side, their graceful movements making me smile just from watching them. Joyful peals of laughter reached me from across the ice, the sound ringing bright and clear in the morning stillness.
I stepped down the porch stairs, and went to greet my family.
~ fini