girlofprey (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
girlofprey) wrote2005-11-07 11:26 am
girlofprey) wrote2005-11-07 11:26 am
Entry tags:
Night Watch fic, yay
I'm not sure this fic turned out entirely the way I wanted it to. But I'm fairly pleased to have finished it, and you can never tell how things look from the inside anyway. And yo - dialogue. Things happening. Some symbolism still, and no slash!, as is my general curse wont, but yes. 1,592 words. Go me :)
Title: Underground.
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
girlofprey
Rating: G. Pretty much
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I don't own the metro.
Summary: The end of the night, and Anton's going home.
Anton stands on the metro platform, waiting for the train, tired. His sunglasses are tucked into his pocket. He’s aware that they make him stand out a mile when he’s sober.
He’s been sober a lot recently.
The train, sleek and silver, pulls out of the blackness of the tunnel, and slides to a halt.
He gets on board and takes an empty place at the rail. He hangs on loosely with one hand, and rubs his eyes a little with the other.
The train pulls out of the station, into the next tunnel.
He’s been working. Work is all he seems to want to do lately. The dark Others seem to be breaking more rules than ever – getting cocky, maybe.
Tonight was a sorceress, holding a fairly ‘wild’ party with a suspicious number of human guests. They’d used live bait, of course. Spent a few hours watching the whole thing. A few spells had flown around, and they’d moved in. Three arrests. A lot of filthy looks. They bother him less and less now. He goes, he does his job, he fills out the paperwork. He goes home.
Olga still hovers around him. Gets assigned to a surprising number of his cases. Sticks close to him. Afterwards, she walks with him to the nearest metro station, which is always, coincidentally, on the way to wherever she’s heading. They get to the station, and she gives him a brief, searching look – then disappears. And he gets the train home. Alone.
Darkness whips past the windows as the train burrows through the tunnels, lit up occasionally with brief, indistinct flashes of light.
He seems to be alone more and more often nowadays. Olga aside, they’ve been keeping their distance at work. They don’t really know how to treat him anymore, he supposes. What to say. It’s not very often that you save the world and damn it in the same night.
A lot of them pity him. Some of them blame him. He doesn’t care much either way. Frankly, he prefers not to look any of them in the eye anymore.
He’ll never know how many of them – knew. And he doesn’t want to guess anymore. Geser knew. He thinks maybe Olga knew, somehow, but he feels like he can forgive her, for some reason. His team knew something. And there must have been others.
Hell, maybe they all knew. Maybe the whole Night Watch knew.
Except him.
The carriage rattles a little on its rails.
He’s had a few glasses of vodka of course, in a couple of bottomless, spiralling moments. Kostya was always hovering around somewhere with a bottle. And he could rely on Kostya, at least, not to know anything – or not to have known, anyway. The rules are changing very fast nowadays. Vodka helps him not think about it, for a few hours.
He doesn’t trust anyone anymore.
The train rattles again, and he glances around the carriage. It’s strangely full for such a late hour; no spare seats, a lot of people stood at the rail. Maybe not so unusual for a Friday or Saturday night. There are quite a few girls, in tiny little skirts and sparkly tops. A couple of old women in their flowery, traditional dresses and headscarves, looking askance at the young girls. Men in shabby overcoats, men in jeans and shirts, and –
– Zavulon, standing not five metres from him at the rail. Looking directly at him.
For a moment he’s too surprised to do anything. To feel anything.
After that, there’s the slight uneasiness any Light Other feels on meeting the General of Darkness, and a low, sharp burst of anger that’s entirely personal. He pushes it down.
He can’t quite stop his eyes flickering to Zavulon’s sides. To see if – anyone else – is with him.
No.
He looks back at Zavulon. His eyes are unfathomable and unchanging. He doesn’t look away.
Anton glances at the other passengers – it’s too crowded for Zavulon to actually do anything. Hopefully.
He turns to face the other way. He doesn’t want to deal with this right now.
For five minutes or so the train carries on in silence, aside from the vague mutterings of the passengers and the occasional shaking of the carriage. Anton’s knuckles faintly white against the rail. Then they start to slow, and the darkness outside the window flares into light as they pull into a station. The doors slide open. A few people get off. A lot of people get on. Anton doesn’t move.
He hears the bustle and fumble of people behind him, moving around, changing places. The doors slide shut, and they set off again, into a new tunnel. The windows black out again.
Silence.
He can practically feel Zavulon standing behind him.
“ What do you want? ” he says, low, quiet.
He can feel the shrug too. “ Just riding the subway, ” Zavulon murmurs back. Casual. “ Like everyone else. ”
Anton’s smile is almost painful. There was a time when he’d believed not everything Zavulon did was planned out exactly, ahead of time. He doesn’t believe it anymore.
Silence, apart from the rattling of the carriage.
“ You’ve been working very hard, recently, ” he finally continues, just low enough that Anton is the only one to hear it.
Anton doesn’t reply.
“ Arresting more of my people than ever. ”
He glances out of the window.
“ Your people have been breaking more rules than ever. ”
Silence.
Lower. “ As if it means anything anymore. ”
“ It’ll always mean something, ” he half snaps. Quietly. His knuckles tighten even further on the rail. He stares out at the brief flashes of light. Wishes he was anywhere else.
He can feel Zavulon’s eyes on the back of his neck, appraising.
“ I’m surprised Geser let you come back to work, ” he finally continues.
He doesn’t reply. Geser hadn’t been sure about letting him come back to work. But Anton had looked him right in the eyes…and he’d let it go.
Silence. The eyes, still, on the back of his neck.
“ You shouldn’t work yourself so hard, ” he says, softer. More – ‘intimate’. “ You’ve had a lot to cope with recently. ”
He feels it rising up again, and pushes it down, pushes it down.
Zavulon whispers “ A lot. ”
And, really, what connection had they really had? Outside of father and son in the loosest possible sense? What claim did he really have to him, in the end? He’d saved his life. And he’d almost killed him.
He’d made his own choices.
And besides, he’s already punched Zavulon’s face in once before. It didn’t change anything.
Still, his knuckles are now painfully white against the rail, and he knows, without looking around, that Zavulon knows, without looking up.
More drawn-out silence.
“ I suppose you know how much you can take, ” Zavulon finally says, thoughtfully.
The rattling carriage. A girl down the row laughs at something her friend has said, and turns, smiling, to stare out of the window, into the blackness.
Silence. Anton doesn’t entirely trust himself to break it.
An indrawn breath, a sigh behind him.
“ Lies, ” he says, “ always seem so reasonable. Except when you’re the one being lied to. ”
Eyes on the back of his neck again.
“ Haven’t seen you with Geser much recently. Or any of your friends. ”
Silence.
“ Betrayal is a hard thing to forgive. ”
“ I prefer their company to yours, ” he bites out.
Another pause.
“ Do you? ”
It’s not quite a question.
More silence, and he can’t imagine what Zavulon’s doing now, what he’s thinking. But he’s suddenly aware of just how close Zavulon is standing to him – that probably only how tensely he’s standing is keeping any distance between them at all. He suddenly feels like he can feel every sinew, every muscle, pressing down on him – only increased by the tension of their holding off.
Zavulon leans in slightly. An inch closer to his ear.
“ You may hate me, Anton – ” he says. Almost whispers. “ – But no more than you hate yourself. ”
Light floods the windows again. The train slows, sighing. His stop.
He turns to look at Zavulon. Look right into his eyes. They’re still icy and calm, matching him look for look. The doors slide open. The other passengers start to move. He holds the gaze for another second or so – then turns, and pushes his way through the crowd, out onto the platform. Goes home.
He glances back as he’s leaving the station, and Zavulon meets his gaze again. He’s stood, casually, at the rail. Like he’s always been there. Like he’ll always be there. Waiting.
The train snakes off again into the blackness, burrowing its way around under the city, along with hundreds of others.
Anton leaves it behind. For now.
Back at his apartment, he closes the door, throws his keys down on the table, and sits on the bed.
He reaches over to his bedside drawer, and draws something long and silvery out of it.
The charm glints slightly against his fingers in the half-light. It looks ordinary. Harmless.
Maybe it won’t work a second time. Maybe it won’t work without the words.
Maybe it never worked.
He uncoils it, draws it around his throat, and fastens it. It sits around his neck like a collar. He takes everything apart from it off, and goes to bed.
From Jung’s The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious – ‘The lower vertebrates have from earliest times been favourite symbols of the collective substratum, which is localised anatomically in the sub-cortical centres, the cerebellum and the spinal cord. These organs constitute the snake. Snake-dreams usually occur, therefore, when the conscious mind is deviating from its instinctual basis.’
Dear Zavulon and Anton,
Your relationship is a bitch to write.
Or, at least, to manipulate to any one particular end.
Yes.
Grudging love,
Girlofprey
Title: Underground.
Author:
girlofpreyRating: G. Pretty much
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I don't own the metro.
Summary: The end of the night, and Anton's going home.
Anton stands on the metro platform, waiting for the train, tired. His sunglasses are tucked into his pocket. He’s aware that they make him stand out a mile when he’s sober.
He’s been sober a lot recently.
The train, sleek and silver, pulls out of the blackness of the tunnel, and slides to a halt.
He gets on board and takes an empty place at the rail. He hangs on loosely with one hand, and rubs his eyes a little with the other.
The train pulls out of the station, into the next tunnel.
He’s been working. Work is all he seems to want to do lately. The dark Others seem to be breaking more rules than ever – getting cocky, maybe.
Tonight was a sorceress, holding a fairly ‘wild’ party with a suspicious number of human guests. They’d used live bait, of course. Spent a few hours watching the whole thing. A few spells had flown around, and they’d moved in. Three arrests. A lot of filthy looks. They bother him less and less now. He goes, he does his job, he fills out the paperwork. He goes home.
Olga still hovers around him. Gets assigned to a surprising number of his cases. Sticks close to him. Afterwards, she walks with him to the nearest metro station, which is always, coincidentally, on the way to wherever she’s heading. They get to the station, and she gives him a brief, searching look – then disappears. And he gets the train home. Alone.
Darkness whips past the windows as the train burrows through the tunnels, lit up occasionally with brief, indistinct flashes of light.
He seems to be alone more and more often nowadays. Olga aside, they’ve been keeping their distance at work. They don’t really know how to treat him anymore, he supposes. What to say. It’s not very often that you save the world and damn it in the same night.
A lot of them pity him. Some of them blame him. He doesn’t care much either way. Frankly, he prefers not to look any of them in the eye anymore.
He’ll never know how many of them – knew. And he doesn’t want to guess anymore. Geser knew. He thinks maybe Olga knew, somehow, but he feels like he can forgive her, for some reason. His team knew something. And there must have been others.
Hell, maybe they all knew. Maybe the whole Night Watch knew.
Except him.
The carriage rattles a little on its rails.
He’s had a few glasses of vodka of course, in a couple of bottomless, spiralling moments. Kostya was always hovering around somewhere with a bottle. And he could rely on Kostya, at least, not to know anything – or not to have known, anyway. The rules are changing very fast nowadays. Vodka helps him not think about it, for a few hours.
He doesn’t trust anyone anymore.
The train rattles again, and he glances around the carriage. It’s strangely full for such a late hour; no spare seats, a lot of people stood at the rail. Maybe not so unusual for a Friday or Saturday night. There are quite a few girls, in tiny little skirts and sparkly tops. A couple of old women in their flowery, traditional dresses and headscarves, looking askance at the young girls. Men in shabby overcoats, men in jeans and shirts, and –
– Zavulon, standing not five metres from him at the rail. Looking directly at him.
For a moment he’s too surprised to do anything. To feel anything.
After that, there’s the slight uneasiness any Light Other feels on meeting the General of Darkness, and a low, sharp burst of anger that’s entirely personal. He pushes it down.
He can’t quite stop his eyes flickering to Zavulon’s sides. To see if – anyone else – is with him.
No.
He looks back at Zavulon. His eyes are unfathomable and unchanging. He doesn’t look away.
Anton glances at the other passengers – it’s too crowded for Zavulon to actually do anything. Hopefully.
He turns to face the other way. He doesn’t want to deal with this right now.
For five minutes or so the train carries on in silence, aside from the vague mutterings of the passengers and the occasional shaking of the carriage. Anton’s knuckles faintly white against the rail. Then they start to slow, and the darkness outside the window flares into light as they pull into a station. The doors slide open. A few people get off. A lot of people get on. Anton doesn’t move.
He hears the bustle and fumble of people behind him, moving around, changing places. The doors slide shut, and they set off again, into a new tunnel. The windows black out again.
Silence.
He can practically feel Zavulon standing behind him.
“ What do you want? ” he says, low, quiet.
He can feel the shrug too. “ Just riding the subway, ” Zavulon murmurs back. Casual. “ Like everyone else. ”
Anton’s smile is almost painful. There was a time when he’d believed not everything Zavulon did was planned out exactly, ahead of time. He doesn’t believe it anymore.
Silence, apart from the rattling of the carriage.
“ You’ve been working very hard, recently, ” he finally continues, just low enough that Anton is the only one to hear it.
Anton doesn’t reply.
“ Arresting more of my people than ever. ”
He glances out of the window.
“ Your people have been breaking more rules than ever. ”
Silence.
Lower. “ As if it means anything anymore. ”
“ It’ll always mean something, ” he half snaps. Quietly. His knuckles tighten even further on the rail. He stares out at the brief flashes of light. Wishes he was anywhere else.
He can feel Zavulon’s eyes on the back of his neck, appraising.
“ I’m surprised Geser let you come back to work, ” he finally continues.
He doesn’t reply. Geser hadn’t been sure about letting him come back to work. But Anton had looked him right in the eyes…and he’d let it go.
Silence. The eyes, still, on the back of his neck.
“ You shouldn’t work yourself so hard, ” he says, softer. More – ‘intimate’. “ You’ve had a lot to cope with recently. ”
He feels it rising up again, and pushes it down, pushes it down.
Zavulon whispers “ A lot. ”
And, really, what connection had they really had? Outside of father and son in the loosest possible sense? What claim did he really have to him, in the end? He’d saved his life. And he’d almost killed him.
He’d made his own choices.
And besides, he’s already punched Zavulon’s face in once before. It didn’t change anything.
Still, his knuckles are now painfully white against the rail, and he knows, without looking around, that Zavulon knows, without looking up.
More drawn-out silence.
“ I suppose you know how much you can take, ” Zavulon finally says, thoughtfully.
The rattling carriage. A girl down the row laughs at something her friend has said, and turns, smiling, to stare out of the window, into the blackness.
Silence. Anton doesn’t entirely trust himself to break it.
An indrawn breath, a sigh behind him.
“ Lies, ” he says, “ always seem so reasonable. Except when you’re the one being lied to. ”
Eyes on the back of his neck again.
“ Haven’t seen you with Geser much recently. Or any of your friends. ”
Silence.
“ Betrayal is a hard thing to forgive. ”
“ I prefer their company to yours, ” he bites out.
Another pause.
“ Do you? ”
It’s not quite a question.
More silence, and he can’t imagine what Zavulon’s doing now, what he’s thinking. But he’s suddenly aware of just how close Zavulon is standing to him – that probably only how tensely he’s standing is keeping any distance between them at all. He suddenly feels like he can feel every sinew, every muscle, pressing down on him – only increased by the tension of their holding off.
Zavulon leans in slightly. An inch closer to his ear.
“ You may hate me, Anton – ” he says. Almost whispers. “ – But no more than you hate yourself. ”
Light floods the windows again. The train slows, sighing. His stop.
He turns to look at Zavulon. Look right into his eyes. They’re still icy and calm, matching him look for look. The doors slide open. The other passengers start to move. He holds the gaze for another second or so – then turns, and pushes his way through the crowd, out onto the platform. Goes home.
He glances back as he’s leaving the station, and Zavulon meets his gaze again. He’s stood, casually, at the rail. Like he’s always been there. Like he’ll always be there. Waiting.
The train snakes off again into the blackness, burrowing its way around under the city, along with hundreds of others.
Anton leaves it behind. For now.
Back at his apartment, he closes the door, throws his keys down on the table, and sits on the bed.
He reaches over to his bedside drawer, and draws something long and silvery out of it.
The charm glints slightly against his fingers in the half-light. It looks ordinary. Harmless.
Maybe it won’t work a second time. Maybe it won’t work without the words.
Maybe it never worked.
He uncoils it, draws it around his throat, and fastens it. It sits around his neck like a collar. He takes everything apart from it off, and goes to bed.
From Jung’s The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious – ‘The lower vertebrates have from earliest times been favourite symbols of the collective substratum, which is localised anatomically in the sub-cortical centres, the cerebellum and the spinal cord. These organs constitute the snake. Snake-dreams usually occur, therefore, when the conscious mind is deviating from its instinctual basis.’
Dear Zavulon and Anton,
Your relationship is a bitch to write.
Or, at least, to manipulate to any one particular end.
Yes.
Grudging love,
Girlofprey