CHAPTER 3
A/N – Well, just wanted to say thank you for your support in writing this major bullshit for my inner demons alone. It means so much to me.
It was pleasantly cool at last after a literally hot night and he reached up to open the window above them a bit more. Tsvetan had long taken the habit of being an early riser and he took a strange pleasure in observing the stillness of the world sunken in sleep. He propped himself up on one elbow, for now resisting the urge to grab his pack of cigarettes. His eyes fell on the bottle of vodka, lying on the floor empty next to a certain passed out but nevertheless delightful blond.
Alin was asleep – he'd fallen asleep almost immediately after – and the Bulgarian's gaze rested on his pale features, thoughtful. The previous night had been one of a kind, Tsvetan thought, it didn't happen often that he got so much satisfaction out of a fleeting affair and it was even rarer that he'd actually wake up next to someone.
Hell, and to think – he'd only wanted something to take his mind off things, to forget. Vanko was dead, Krasimir he didn't know, arrested if he was still alive. Would he talk to the police? And if yes, just how much would he say to them? Georgiev wanted to recruit more men now, but new men were always a complication, at least until they proved themselves trustworthy. And Tsvetan had an issue about how Georgiev actually recruited his men – he didn't trust foreigners, so he would either 'import' them from his old connections back in Bulgaria or persuade men with difficult situations from the community here in the States. That was how they'd ended up with Georgi – a kid forced to work and support his family way ahead of time. The old man had hired him for the same reason why he'd hired Tsvetan, but while the former chemistry student had proven a quick learner and fit for it, Georgi clearly lacked the stomach for the job.
So yes, he should have thought of all that, but instead the green-eyed young man crept out from under the sheets and, with his own cell phone in hand, dug into the pile of clothing scattered randomly across the floor until he found Alin's phone. He picked it and dialed in his own number, sending a text to his phone. He then saved Alin's number in his agenda and the other way around before replacing the Romanian's phone into the back pocket of his discarded jeans.
Tsvetan reached out and lightly ran the tips of his fingers along the slender thigh and leg exposed, watching as Alin groan and shifted in his sleep. Yep, he'd made a mess of things being so rough – although he had been provoked – and now could only hope that the blond would still want to see him again. There was a most intriguing mixture of wild roughness and fragility about Alin what he found himself wanting to figure out.
Red eyes suddenly blinked and snapped open as the rifleman woke abruptly and craned his neck up in confusion to see where he was.
"Hey there! Did you sleep well?" the dark-haired young man asked softly with a smile, only to be answered with a low groan as the other struggled to prop himself up on his elbows, shaking off the heavy sleep.
"Where the-…? Uh… I-I have to go," Alin mumbled eventually, looking rather uncomfortable.
"I wouldn't sit up too brusquely if I were you," Tsvetan warned, biting back an amused smirk, but the strawberry blond ignored him, hauling himself up and rapidly reaching for his clothes. If he was in pain – hell, he must have been – he hid it surprisingly well as he moved about, dressing up at top speed and collecting his things.
"Will I see you again?" the Bulgarian asked as the other's hand reached for the doorknob and red eyes met green, uncertain. He didn't look upset, as Tsvetan had expected, but rather his expression was blank, unreadable.
He shrugged, sheepishly. "I don't know…" And then he was gone.
Alin wished that his lover and roommate would at least occasionally take (and keep) his partying somewhere else, but Gilbert and his two best friends always ended up wasted in their small apartment and brought their mess with them. And that wouldn't have been half bad if at least the Prussian had been a clean-up-afterwards kind of person. Which he wasn't.
That Sunday morning wasn't any different and he walked in carefully, reluctant to what he was about to see. Sure thing, Gilbert was passed out on the floor, apparently having barely missed both the sofa and the coffee table, while Antonio was strangely curled up around a pile of empty beer cans, snoring softly. Francis was nowhere in sight for now. The Romanian let his eyes wander around the mess in the room – the scattered pizza boxes, biscuit wrappers, bottles and yet more empty beer cans - momentarily forgetting what had been eating at him ever since he'd stumbled out of Borisov's 'bedroom', namely the thought that he'd allowed himself to actually spend the night there. God, he'd fallen asleep next to that fuck!
But then the sound of the toilet being flushed pulled him back from his observations and he turned slowly to see the Frenchman stepping out of the bathroom, looking rather disheveled. And for some mysterious reason, just like every single time they'd met, Francis wasn't wearing any clothes.
"Hey Francis… nice to see you…"
"Well, good morning, mon ami. We are very happy to see you too!"
Alin kept his eyes trained on the man's face while nodding slowly, refusing to ascertain the reason as to why the other blond had used a plural when referring to himself.
"Well mon cher, you look like you've had a bit of a rough night yourself," Francis observed. "I was going to go and prepare some breakfast, what would you like?"
The strawberry blond shrugged. "Oh, whatever you're making is fine, thank you… " The Frenchman waltzed to the kitchen, whistling a happy tune. "Uh… there's an apron somewhere in there, so maybe… use it?"
"Nonsense, mon ami, do you not know that true beauty should not be hidden away under garments?"
The rifleman scowled and rolled his eyes. Yeah. Right. Some stirring was heard in the living room and Alin walked back to see that Gilbert had sat up somehow and was starring confusedly at the noodles plastered onto the TV screen. His hand instantly flew to his mouth and all the rakia and vodka he'd been having the night before didn't exactly help when his stomach turned at the sight of what was splattered all over the albino's shirt and onto the carpet where he'd been laying before. Obliviously trampling over the mess, the Romanian rushed to the window and opened it widely, leaning over the sill and breathing in large gulps of the cool, fresh morning air, struggling to push away the nausea while he wiped sweat beads off his forehead with a shaky hand.
"Well, look who's back," the other croaked behind him, followed by some mumbled profanities as Gilbert unsuccessfully tried to prop himself up on the coffee table and it toppled over. Hands still clutching at the window sill, he didn't turn around just yet, hoping to appease his upset stomach a bit more before he'd face the mess.
"You got into a fight again," the Prussian went on, his voice a bit more clear this time."Mein Gott, you know… I don't like this. Someone as fragile as you should not…" he paused, wiping his nose awkwardly.
Alin sighed, turning at last. "I'm not fragile, Gil, and I didn't get into a fight," he said softly, still carefully avoiding the sight of his boyfriend.
"Hah, sure! Because your nose is only a bit broken! I-I care for you! And if you must… I wish you'd stick to only fucking offenders if it's really necessary, without all this violent… stuff!"
"Gil, I love you too and I really appreciate your constructive speeches, you know that, I just wish you didn't choose to deliver them when there's a huge bruise on your face and you're covered in barf."
The Prussian's eyes widened innocently and his face had a comical expression as he looked down at himself. "But… ah… I'm not even sure it's my barf…." But then immediately afterwards his face turned even paler than his usual complexion and he clambered to his feet at top speed and rushed to the bathroom in frenzy.
"It is now…" the strawberry blond muttered, looking around the room disgusted. This is going to take a fucking lot of work to clean up… What the fuck?! Well the fuck, I'm not doing it! He walked back out, carefully stepping over Antonio's still peacefully sleeping form and headed to the bathroom. A pleasant smell wafted from the kitchen and reached his nostrils, but the Romanian figured he couldn't put anything in his mouth just now.
The pale, cold light of the bathroom bulb gave his face a sickly air as Alin stared in the mirror, assessing the damage of the previous night. It was minimal, fortunately, at least by his standards. He fumbled with the faucets, letting cold water run and splashing it generously over his face, cleaning up the bits of dried blood. And only now, as he was hunched over the sink, did he fully realise the extent of fatigue and ache in his body.
Behind him, Gilbert was still kneeling in front of the toilet, looking uncertain as to whether he was done or not, and the strawberry blond decided he'd just have to deal with the man later. He closed the door and peeled off his clothes, throwing them on the floor in a messy pile and stepped in the shower.
The hot water running down his back finally turned the dull ache into vivid pain and the rifleman let out a groan, propping his hands onto the wet tiles of the shower wall as he squeezed his eyes shut. He nearly flinched when the shower curtain was drawn back and soon after he felt strong hands rubbing onto his shoulders and down his arms. Alin pushed away from the wall slowly and leaned backwards, his back now resting against the Prussian's strong chest as the other nuzzled the side of his neck. It was alright for now, he was… safe.
"So how's the hunt going so far?"
How indeed… Borisov clearly liked him, wanted to see him again. Yeah, he could bet. However, Alin wasn't sure if he ever wanted to look at the man again, other than through the scope of a sniper rifle. After all, he was one of Sadiq's dirty workers and the Chief Inspector had given them the green light when it came to that sort of stuff. But now that he thought of it, shooting the man was a bit too easy. And maybe Tsvetan Borisov deserved more than a quick, painless way to go, maybe he deserved all the pain and humiliation of going down big time and spending a considerable chunk of his miserable life behind bars.
"He's trying a bit too hard – to be a smartass, to dominate, to be rough… I smell a weakness somewhere, Gil, and I'll find it."
"I know you will, Schatz," his boyfriend said softly, picking up the soap. "But not now, not just now…"
Elizaveta's fingers drummed lightly over the picture on top of the pile as she stared at it blankly. Why would they be needing a warehouse? And why was this piece of info so important that it had nearly gotten her killed? She glanced fleetingly at the thick file laying further away on her paper-laden desk – for once Sadiq had made use of his multiple connections back in Europe and he'd obtained comprehensive info on Kiril Georgiev from the Sofia police.
Now, at last, the man had a face and a story. However, she couldn't say that it helped too much, if anything only confirmed what her new partner disguised as a simple rifleman had suspected. Georgiev was indeed what one could call a 'petty' mobster – he'd robbed, ransacked, demanded protection taxes from small bars and restaurants in shitty neighborhoods he and his men diligently kept under their boot, but there was no record of him ever owning any kind of big estate or facility. But now his business was probably growing and expanding into new 'territory', thanks to the new smart guy – Tsvetan Borisov. The Hungarian had a feeling that this man - who had trained and let himself appear no more than a regular thug - was way smarter than let out.
And they might have had something more, now that one of the men chasing them had been taken into custody. Krasimir Antonov was still in intensive care, but she hoped he would be good for interrogation soon enough.
There was a soft knock on the door and Alin walked in with light steps and a quizzical look on his face.
"Yep, I wanted to see you," the brunette confirmed, motioning for the seat in front of her desk. She couldn't help noticing that he looked rather tired, but not like someone who'd had a particularly good weekend out partying. Hell, she'd had a horrible one, pretty much moping around while unsuccessfully trying to get her mind off the whole thing with Roddy. Why? Why did he hate her so much all the sudden?
"Look, Alin," Elizaveta began, wearily, "I think we should talk a bit… You know, about what's eating us up and stuff. It's only fair now that we're partners, and don't come up with that thing again that you're just my rifleman, because I know Sadiq wants you to do a bit more than just shooting."
Red eyes took her in curiously for a moment, as the other appeared to mull over what he'd just been told, before focusing down in his own lap. "Okay."
The Hungarian nodded. "Okay… So, I want to know why you refused promotion."
Alin chewed on his lip. "Well, it wasn't a full refusal, actually. I didn't refuse the pay, just the title. So it's not-"
"But the credit for all the brainwork goes to someone else!" the detective interrupted."The detective you're working with at any given time gets all the glory for it, right? Are you telling me you're quite alright with that?"
The strawberry blond looked up at her, a strange smile on his face. "Well with me it's really about winning, you know? If I catch them, I win. You know, very soon after I'd joined the force I read this article that the Mafia usually has access to the names and personal info of all detectives in a certain city or town, and they keep them and even trade them, just in case… I found it rather disturbing, to be honest. But then I thought – on the other hand, nobody gives a flying fuck about police riflemen. They all look the same in the standard equipment, most aren't particularly bright and from the big fish point of view they're just negligible quantity, some faceless little shits getting gunned down by the dozen at any major face off." He leaned forward, his voice lowering to almost a whisper. "That's why they never see me coming. That's the ace up my sleeve."
Elizaveta leaned back in her chair, thoughtful. "I may have a fishy feeling about this 'ace up your sleeve'…"
"Like what?"
"Like… maybe you've got the green light for doing stuff off the record," the brunette pointed. "During the shooting last week I had this very clear feeling. You gave those bastards no warning- I mean hell, I know they were out to get us, but police always gives a warning before opening fire. Do you even know why that is, officer Vasile?"
The Romanian nodded, innocently. "To keep casualties to a minimum?"
"Exactly," Elizaveta stated. "Not on your list, apparently."
Alin shrugged. "Keeping you alive is on my list. Besides, I put two and two together – you snooped around carelessly for too long and Borisov realised who you are. He gave you a warning, but you ignored it. Now he wants you dead and sent his men after you. Simple. Warning be damned, you know they weren't going to stop shooting, not when they had us outnumbered."
The detective scowled. She wanted to snap and tell him that his 'lone gunman' methods were probably going to result in him laying dead in a ditch way before his time, but found she didn't have the energy. If Sadiq had thought this man was good enough for the job… then maybe he was.
"Anyway, was that what was eating you up?"
The Hungarian propped herself on her elbows on top of the mess on her desk and scrubbed a hand over her face, allowing her eyes to fall shut for a moment. "No… I was just curious… Thing is, this morning I called the hospital to see if the Vargas kid remembers anything else we might use and… they moved him to the psychiatry ward. He's not well… not well…" She took a deep breath, then reached for her cup of coffee and took a large gulp.
"That sucks," the rifleman offered, rather awkwardly.
"Yeah and… that's why I have to make a good job out of this case, put those fucks behind bars as soon as possible and with a solid enough file to make sure they fucking stay there, too! Because of the Vargas kid and because… well, looks like I need to prove myself as a detective too, since Edelstein has filed a report against me…"
The brunette resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands as she blurted it out at last.
The chair creaked as her new partner shifted. "What?"
"Yeah…" Fuck, I really don't want to talk about this, not with him, but hell… better out than in. "He's accused me of negligence, basically he claims he's been shot because of me. And if this goes through, I will be taken off fieldwork permanently. I'll just end up doing some shit desk work."
She straightened her back and brought her hands together on top of the papers, intertwining her fingers and trying to appear as composed as she could muster under the circumstances.
"But I thought the facts were clear-cut already… I doubt Sadiq could think or be brought solid evidence that the whole thing wasn't detective Edelstein's fuck-up… right?"
Elizaveta shrugged. "At this point, I don't even know. But I worked very hard to get to where I am now and this case is crucial, so please study this crap." She handed him the Kiril Georgiev file. "To be honest, I don't care how dirty this gets."
Oh dear Lord, she had no idea.
There was work to do and stuff to take care of, and Tsvetan knew he shouldn't have wasted his time thinking about the rainy Sunday morning when a certain cute Romanian had walked out his bedroom door without answering… But there was something endlessly intriguing about this young man and the Bulgarian wanted to know, needed to figure him out. And oh well, getting him in his bed again wouldn't have been that bad either…
Alin stretched his legs under the table and sighed boredly, flipping through the pages. Just like he'd thought – Georgiev was a bland little shit. A dangerous one, no doubt, but uninteresting, he'd been just lucky to get Borisov to work for him. Why or how, that remained to be seen. As he leafed through the thick file, suddenly a picture fell from between the pages, probably misplaced by Elizaveta. It was a family picture of young Feliciano Vargas, together with his grandfather, taken on a sunny day in front of their newly opened restaurant. The boy was beaming at the camera, his light brown eyes bright with joy.
And now this happy, joyful kid had been taken to the psychiatry ward, while his only living family had ended up six feet under. The strawberry blond paled at the thought - a pained grimace twisting his mouth as he stared at the photo - and when his cell-phone rang suddenly, he reached for it absentmindedly. Then he saw the caller id and let out a bitter snort.
Tsvetan Borisov.
To be continued
