Smoke swirls lazily in the air, curling from the lit stems of cigarettes, pouring from between the teeth of slack mouths. A heavy fog smothers all occupants from wall to wall, assaulting sensitive nostrils and singeing dry throats.
It is not his first time visiting the Gamma den, yet, all the same, predatory growls are directed towards him, dangerously close to his ears, rumbling deep through his own body. Sharp eyes are drawn to his every move as he weaves in and out of the hazy crowd in search. Ironically, much too easily, the hunter becomes the hunted, the followed, the spotted. It barely takes a full minute for him to be under the watch of his prey.
Frozen, pinned beneath the demanding gaze of an Alpha, Alfred observes as he slowly unravels the scarf twisted snugly around his neck. The material is neatly folded and handed to a woman lingering a foot behind him. She looks to be of equal status, unapproachable with her round nose pointed high. She accepts it without question, flowing brown curls cascading around her shoulders when she nods.
A short instance of eye contact is all he receives. No words are exchanged. None are needed. Alfred follows.
He is led into a room void of furniture except for one small wooden chair directly in the center. Tarp covers the walls, the floor, every inch of the tiny four-cornered area. When the door shuts, they are bathed in complete silence, all noises outside unable to pierce through insulation and resilient channel. The plastic rustles and crunches beneath the soles of his shoes, sometimes lifting in attempt to follow his steps.
"So, to what do I owe this warm welcome?"
"It's the same reason every time: I need information."
He waves a hand towards the chair, motioning for Ivan to take a seat. Briefly, Alfred wonders how awful it must feel for Ivan to sit in the same place he has executed others. The plastic may go through routine changes, and the chair may be different, but the room, the atmosphere of it, is permanent. He can feel it.
Alfred moves to loom behind the Alpha, slides a hand around the base of the man's neck, fingers trekking a lazy trail down to his chest. Against the palm of his hand, he can feel the steady throb of a beating heart beneath smooth, pressed linen. He withdraws his pistol, pulls back the hammer with a deafening click, a silent urging to start speaking, just to send that pace fluttering quicker.
"About?"
"The Clan," he answers nonchalantly, dragging his hand from pec to shoulder. "There are bloodless bodies being discovered every second. Some not even hidden. As I'm sure you can imagine, us humans are getting a little restless."
"Is that it? You aren't going to try and fuck it out of me? What a surprise! You know how much I like it when you do." There is more to follow that exclamation, Ivan, ever the clever man, cuts himself off when the gun presses just a bit harder into his skull. "Little Alfred, I have told you time and time again that werewolves and vampires do not get along. I have no information for you."
How laughable. Amongst the residents within the moderately-populated city in which they are stationed, it is common knowledge that Ivan is a snitch. Or, if prompted by fear or companionship, an information broker . Either way, if one needs to know something, they can almost always receive that information from Ivan. Although, not without payment of a steep price, of course.
Prices remain on his unwritten Top Ten list of things he hates the most.
Alfred redirects the sight of his pistol, only to fire it in between Ivan's legs, careful to avoid piercing skin. Splintered wood erupts in the air, raining down in little pieces across the man's slacks. In seconds, the weapon is aimed at the pack leader's head once more. Both their ears ringing.
Leaning forward, Alfred whispers in his ear, silvery strands drawing tickles across his skin, "I wonder if you can smell the silver I'm about to embed in your skull. When I get agitated, my trigger-finger gets antsy."
"I am sorry, Alfred, but you know how loyal dogs can be."
Alfred scoffs, rolling his eyes at that sentiment. The wolves are anything but loyal when the standings of their pack are in jeopardy. And, if there is one thing he is absolutely sure of, it's that the werewolves have never been loyal to the vampires, no matter how tightly knit their ties are. Their story is an age old war that has long since lost its value.
"My little human is so bold," Ivan teases, continuing on, a mild threatening quality underlying each lilt. "He comes into the wolves' den-alone. With naught but a gun to threaten the Big Bad Wolf."
"You would never kill me."
At that, Ivan rises from the chair, turns to face Alfred head-on. Like lilacs frosted in a winter's night, the wolf's eyes are swallowed by a sudden frigidness. It is the expression he usually wears when his company is skating on thin ice. It says, change the subject or we are done here. And as badly as Alfred wishes to persuade the other into response, he is not there to fight.
"Tell me, Ivan."
"What would I be getting out of this?"
"Your den remains unregistered and un-invaded."
"Hm." Ivan contemplates the offer, making a show of pacing back and forth as if in deep thought before he freezes, head tilted just so in a childishly playful manner. "Not good enough. Those are things I can handle myself, you know."
"That's bullshit," Alfred protests. "You have more enemies than friends."
"Yes, but it's not what I want. In fact, I think you know exactly what I want."
Ivan grasps Alfred by the wrist, and squeezes until he hisses in discomfort, eyes ablaze with unrestrained anger. Despite the gun in the officer's hand, he tugs him close, fingers curving into the dip of his spine.
Alfred, however, is not so easily wiled. The moment Ivan has him close enough to kiss his lips, cold steel is being shoved under the wolf's chin, slightly obstructing his breathing. "Ah, ah, ah. Names and locations first."
Ivan clicks his tongue and singsongs, wagging an accusing finger, "You are not tricking me with that one again, Alfred."
The subtle quirk of Alfred's lips signifies that he, too, remembers their one-sided fulfillment of a deal made months ago. Ivan, on the other hand, is not so amused by reminiscence. That small moment of trust is something he is still paying. He'll be damned if he allows himself to be enraptured by half-hearted promises again.
"Fine. We'll half the downfall. You give me a location and I'll..." Alfred's voice trails off, hands gesturing vaguely. Which is a strange sight to witness when the subject happens to be wielding a firearm.
Seeing as they have reached agreements with similar terms before, Ivan is well aware of what Alfred is hinting at, even with all his odd arm waving. Nevertheless, he needs to hear it spoken to avoid being cheated. Ivan is patient, awaiting an explanation. A better demonstration?
He does not expect to be hounded into pressing his back against the nearest wall, the other intimately close. Every move marked by the rustling of disturbed plastic beneath their feet. He certainly does not expect a hand to weasel its way beneath belt, button and hem, knuckles nudging into the skin of his pelvis. Despite the spike of arousal it feeds him, he clutches the other's forearm. Alfred's eyebrows raise in challenge, his taunting expression effortlessly complemented by a smirk.
"You are settling for half of what you originally wanted."
"On the contrary. You're stupid to think I'm going to arrive at that location without a familiar face as backup. And I know you have some sort of alliance going on, so you're my best bet. If that goes well, I'll give you what you really want," Alfred proposes, fingers creeping through short, thin curls until they can trail heat and anticipation along Ivan's flaccid shaft. "That's all I'm offering."
"That is not fair. In the end, I am offering more."
Light touches instantly turn into a firm grip. The pressure of Alfred's hand around his cock gradually increases with each word spoken. It tightens until the physical force is bordering on painful rather than pleasurable, relatively uncomfortable, but warning, nonetheless.
"Take it or leave it."
In Alfred's opinion, no response from Ivan is almost as good as any agreement. So he closes the distance between them with a fierceness that rivals Ivan's own, gripping the man by the lapels. He leads him into a forceful kiss, though surprisingly tender, and guides his mouth, slick and ardent, against his own. When he pulls away, it is with Ivan's bottom lip seized gently between his teeth. And it is only when their eyes meet, that he releases the soft flesh with a resounding smack of wet suction.
"Consider that to be a little down-payment."
Still, Ivan has no words, choosing to silently weigh his options. Admittedly, he is already mentally constructing a list of addresses.
"You're too easy, Braginsky," Alfred laughs heartily. "Nice doing business with you."
Just like that, he saunters out of the room, gun tucked back into its holster, disappearing into the swarming fog of smoke and bodies as if nothing ever happened.