When Zen met Fischer
This short piece is composed in an attempt to break out of a bad bout of writers block and as you may well guess my perverse fixations with Rufus Sewell and Mads Mikkelsen have yet to be exorcised. My fan fiction is high on the fiction - so my story is entirely out of my imagination, although I freely borrow the lovely persons of Allan Fischer (Unit One) and Aurelio Zen from BBC's 'Zen - two agonizingly beautiful detectives.
A report from Interpol landed on Zen's desk. His current position as Superintendent (at least until Mascati had recovered from his heart attack) of the Homicide department at the Questura di Roma, gave him both added responsibilities and certain freedoms but he couldn't pass this one over to anyone else –not even to Vincenzo Fabri - much as he'd like to do it. It was something about an Antiquities theft and a violent murder scene outside the fortress remains at Trelleborg, Denmark – the lead archeologists and two of her graduate assistants were found shot multiple times at close range - execution style - while a part time student worker was in a coma. The site had been torn apart and the trove that the late Professor Magnusson had mentioned in her notes was gone. All evidence pointed to an illegal arts and antiquities trafficking ring based in Rome. The Danish police were sending a Detective from one of their elite homicide units and Aurelio Zen was to act as his liason.
Zen sighed. "Denmark" he thought gently rubbing his heavily lidded peridot green eyes and cupping his lightly tanned face in his palm trying to remember his grammar school geography which one of those bitter northern ice clogged nations was Denmark – some stocky bearded giant with ruddy cheeks and blond hair – blunt, loud and not very bright, he imagined – blinking his eyes slowly trying to resign himself to this situation. He quietly twitched his straight black eyebrows, and gently scratched the side of his long slightly aquiline nose. "What to do. What to do..."
Aurelio had high cheekbones and a wide clean mouth cut in a slightly oval face – he was 6 foott tall, fit and well-built, his muscles were compact and trim, he has what some people called a swimmers physique - his skin was warm and subtly tanned, and his hair, even when cut short still tended to curl and was a luscious dark brownish black. He dressed in Armani suits, not out of some vanity but because they were well cut and designed. Aurelio was practical - they were expensive suits but classic and they lasted, and wore well. Women eyed him with admiration even while he failed to notice their glances. Zen was not handsome - he was beautiful – as profoundly yet shockingly beautiful as a Botticelli angel. And now this 'angel' was now responsible for sheepherding some dull witted Viking through the chaotic and corrupt world of the Italian police department. 'Misericordioso…'
Air Italia flight 1100 from Copenhagen was landing at gate C18. The tall man with the exacting physique of a dancer was curled somewhat uncomfortably in his seat - his height made modern air travel a little uncomfortable. His pale skin and startling severe cheekbones set off his golden brown eyes and his black/brown hair was slicked back over his scalp (La Cour was still nagging him to get it cut… well La Cour was in no position to argue about style with anyone…Good God even old man Ulf was more glamorous that La Cour!) His generous mouth had a hint of cruelty to it and his smile had a wolfish angle. His lips were cupids bow tempting, their softness only brought the severe masculinity of his other features into sharp relief. In jeans and a plain shirt slightly rumpled he began to prepare for landing. He had only a carryon bag, his visit to Rome was not the holiday he and his wife – ex-wife - had once planned. He felt bad about their failed relationship. He'd hurt Mille and his little Victor…His affair with Ida wasn't really any healthier – he knew it would all end badly - but it was too late to dwell on it now. The plane was landing. He'd reviewed the case over and over on the flight. He only hoped that this Italian he was to work with was serious sharp and committed and not some silly playboy or gigolo. Once most of the other passengers had exited he stood fluidly, grabbed his carryon bag and strode out of the plane nodding to the crew. He smirked at the blowsy busty air hostess who purred at him "Save me from these Italians..." He shook his head gently almost unperceptively as he passed into the airport. Looking about the vicinity with the focus of a hunter, he tried to remember what Gaby has said about his contact from the Questura di Roma. The sun was bright and Allan squinted in the light.
A man in an Armani suit with sunglasses and curling dark hair approached him with a hint of hesitation… no tubby Vikings had gotten off the plane so far – had his contact missed the flight?
He paused, and in English called out in a voice that was redolent of warm caramel (if warm caramel could have a voice) "Detective Inspector Allan Fischer?"
The tall wolflike man eyed him for a moment and answered him- "Allan Fischer, Danish Homicide Unit One - Are you Zen?" his voice was as sweetly husky as sin and he half smiled as he spoke.
Zen removed his sunglasses... This was NOT what he'd expected.
