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alessiathepirate · 5 months

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No Time To Die

FOXGLOVE: Lyutsifer Safin x fem!reader

Summary: Saying I love you wasn't anything new to them - they said it daily to the other. Saying it in another language on the other hand...

Notes: English isn't my first language. I apologize for any mistake I may have made while I wrote this short story.

Warnings: the Russian I attempt to use, plus some very slight references to murder

•••

"Ya tebya lyublyu..." the words were quiet in the garden, no more than a whisper, even if the world around them was completely silent.

But still, Lyutsifer heard it.

The pronunciation of the words, the slowness and uncertainity in each syllable was so obvious - even strangers to the language itself would've noticed it. Safin did too.

He noticed it. He appreciated it much more because of it, and that was the reason why he stopped working with the plants.

He turned towards the voice, towards his lover, who stood there with a stiff posture. Her cheeks were a light shade of pink as he read the embarrassment and shyness off her face.

They seemed so different, the kind of people who would never in a million years could be imagined as a couple. But they were one, a very loyal and loving one. Even if his posture was serious and confident next to hers, even if she seemed too simple next to his complexity.

"Say that again-- please."

Her shoulders slightly fell forward as she hugged herself with her arms, her whole being screaming from anxiety.

"I'm sorry if I didn't say it right, I just wanted to-"

"No." his voice was soft as always, but with her it lost the kind of monotone seriousness he was known for - with her he didn't have to impress anybody, she was already his. "Please, say that again darling. I'd like to hear it again."

"Ya tebya lyublyu." the 'ly' sounded too dry and the 'u' too soft, but to Safin it was perfect. It sounded like perfection and she looked like it too, the most honest and alive thing in the garden and possibly on the island.

"Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu." he said as he examined her face, wanting to know if she understands it or not.

She did. He saw it on her face as it lit up.

"Did I say it right?" she asked as he looked up at him, her eyes meeting his as she quietly appreciated the beauty of his whole being.

"Yes, you did." Safin answered. "It was perfect."

She nodded, shyly understanding, because Lyutsifer never lies. He always tells the truth, no matter how he dresses it to make it sound prettier or how he uses a monotone undertone so it sounds like a fact.

He never once lied to her.

She can't lie to him either.

"I learned something else." she started, a slight confidence showing in her voice. "Ty krasivyy."

She waited patiently for his features to change, so she'll know he had time to take in and understand the meaning of her words.

Safin is, however, very hard to read. He is an open book most of the time, he doesn't hide anything at all, but still - that's the reason why he's so hard to read. The most honest man on Earth, yet he's the hardest to understand and solve.

A smile slowly formed on his face, a small one, the kind Safin's capable to do. It was simple, but it still made her heart beat faster than ever.

"I have seen many beautiful flowers on this island, yet you are the prettiest of them all." he complimented too and she felt her cheeks darken.

"I still like to listen to you talk about them." she explained.

"I can, anytime you want me to." Safin stepped closer, his arms still having a slow and serious movement as he gently touched her face, his thumbs drawing invisible circles into her skin.

He looked at her like she's the best thing on Earth.

He was still himself, he was always himself, yet he was much more honest around her. He showed her his emotional side - even if it wasn't the strongest part of him.

"Can you please tell me about the Foxglove again?"

"Of course, zolotse." the Russian came so easily from him, yet it was so sudden that she felt her heart flutter.

It must've been a nickname, she thought.

Nicknames from him were special, always special even if it was an everyday occurance. But hearing something like that in another language, in his, from a part of him, felt much sweeter, like an unexpected gift on a regular day.

As they slightly leaned over the purple flower, so beautiful yet so deadly, she examined his features, the way the light met his scarred skin. For a moment she thought about how no way on Earth could she imagine someone more perfect or lovely. Safin would say something to that, if she said that out loud. Something about how she feels about a killer that way, how she always sleep next to one with complete blind trust. She'd answer, to try to get her point through - Safin is one handsome killer. A very clever one too.

"I'd like to learn more." she spoke up suddenly. "In your language, about the flowers too."

A new kind of softness ran through his eyes for a second, but it disappeared just as quickly. He stretched his arm out towards her, letting her grab onto it gently as he slowly lead her out of the garden.

"If you'd like that, than it can be arranged..."

#no time to die #lyutsifer safin #lyutsifer safin x reader #lyutsifer safin x fem!reader #safin x reader #safin x fem!reader #fluff

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dorminchu · 23 days

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The Gentle Hum of Anxiety, Chapter Two

Read Chapter One here!

Notes:

Surprise! Here's another chapter, because I had an Eureka moment with Madeleine's knowledge of the Safin family & Safin pilfering from Madeleine's candy-bowl.

Alone in her apartment, Madeleine cuts the lights and lays in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Five years under the pseudonym 'Swann' rendered moot, just like that. Pulling up roots is always a thankless process, but she'll have to disappear sooner than later. Dye her hair. Pop up in a different country inside of a month. Life will resume its fragile stability, with or without her father's intervention. That's the short-term solution. Its alternative only ever comes true in dreams.

Anyone on a first-name basis with the soon-to-be erased Madeleine Swann is in the crosshairs. Friends kept at arm's distance will speculate for a while on her abrupt disappearance. Emails and cards sent to her last known address have a habit of turning up fruitless. But they will have other people to fill the shallow mould left in her wake. A woman with her credentials and connections can find a job most anywhere.

She rolls onto her back, but doesn't close her eyes. The porcelain mask, safe its carved box, sits on the end-table next to the recorder. She's always been more comfortable away from home. Now she is taking work home with her, just like her father and his endless stacks of bound folders and locked cabinets.

This, of course, is an extreme case, and cannot be counted as a slip of judgement. She cannot stomach the comparison, nor the idea of Lyutsifer Safin invading her office twice, only to take back this icon.

Since she was born, and before that, her father has kept records. Men he'd slain personally or in his stead, crossed, worked for when SPECTRE was operating under the name QUANTUM. She's looked over the files, in between holidays and schooling, enough times to recall a handful of names.

A week after leaving Nittedal, while he was planning her mother's funeral, her father pulled her aside to explain.

The Safin family were chemists, working on Blofeld's payroll up until the fall of the Soviet Union. Sometime in the early 'aughts the family's contract was terminated. Lyutsifer, the sole survivor and inheritor of his father's syndicate, was rendered comatose, hospitalised. The doctors chalked the cause of death up to food poisoning and sealed the case.

Madeleine always has had the feeling there was more to it than that, but as a child, she contented herself in a perpetual state of faux-indifference.

There is no reason to start looking deeper now. She has survived on account of her carefully curated ignorance. It is the only way she can stomach her own reflection.

She sits up. Crosses the room, barefoot. Flicks a switch; the lights snap on. Squinting, she makes her way over to the end-table and opens the drawer. She keeps a notebook and recorder in her desk at the Hoffler Klinik, and one in her flat, for nights such as this. She reaches for the recorder. Clicks it on, listening.

Each time his ragged voice breaks through tinny speakers, she strains to discern his words: "...saving someone's life connects you to them forever, the same as taking it. They belong to you."

The hitman in the mask is a creature without humanity. The man beneath permits less room for a childhood monster's nomenclature, or aggrandisment.

Her thumb pushes the stop button. She takes the pen and writes:

Affected by loss. A chasm left in absence of a family he can never fill.

She resumes the recording. Hits the button before the clatter of the lid causes the audio to peak. To hear her own voice succumb to fear is something she cannot stomach. Not while the shock is fresh.

She writes: Finds amusement at others' expense. Favors control. Eager to instruct me. (foxgloves, memory bo—

Ink slashes across paper.

Madeleine's body shudders on the exhale.

Inhale, hesitance.

Exhale, dragging.

She turns the page. Writes:

Reserved but not passive. Deeply invested in father's work. Exhibits sense of entitlement/ownership exacerbated by personal loss. Pause, to look over what she's written, not because of her unsteady hand. She adds, Memory box — mine? His own?

A man who brought with him the relic of a botched hit. If he would pursue the family into Nittendal, why not track down her father afterwards?

She's never asked, point-blank, if her father had anything to do with what happened that day. Her parents were closer to Madeleine, individually, than they were to each other. Her mother stopped putting up that front after Madeleine was old enough to start walking to school unaccompanied.

It wouldn't be the first time her father put his occupation before the well-being of his progeny. Men like her father, like Lyutsifer, operate on the principle of an eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. Beneath all the pretty words and platitudes are brutes in well-tailored suit jackets. She is unfortunate enough to inherit the aftermath. Unlike her mother, she has no vices with which to control her aside from an empty heart.

It stands to reason, then, that Safin's love for his father could have blinded him to a similar truth. His father put business before family, and it simply caught up to him in the end. Just like maman. In lieu of self-reflection, he has fixated on the girl he spared for seventeen years.

She looks back at what she wrote: Displeased at the idea of returning for following appointment, or at my lack of reaction to the mask? She strikes it out, and writes below it:

Entrenched within his own designs of heroism. The line between vengeance and justice has become irresolute. To enable such a delusion would be to the detriment of his recovery. Unable to determine at this time whether his emotional responses are feigned or stem from cognitive dissonance. Will require further analysis.

Next morning, she gets to her office an hour after the building opens its doors. Most of the other clinicians are genteel to her face. But there's always bound to be speculation about Madeleine’s certifications and clincial, aloof disposition. Twenty four is awfully young to become an MD. In five years, she'll have enough time and money to settle down and less to fret about, or so goes the canned line.

She's done what she can to make her clients feel safe and respected within her office. She's on amiable terms with her coworkers. Shouldn't that be enough?

"You're up late," Sophia says from her desk. "Did you get some sleep?"

Madeleine hums. "Just enough."

"Your first client won't be here for another hour. If you don't take a break every so often you're going to kill yourself."

Hand poised on the knob, Madeleine forces herself to smile. It is not requited. "Idle hands, you know? I really need to get to—"

"—Safin, isn't it?" Madeleine turns the knob, but doesn't push the door open. "He dropped by earlier." Sophia gestures to the desk. "Left you these."

On the desk is a small boquet. White chrysanthemums. Madeleine hadn't noticed. She's passed by Sophia's desk so many times it has simply become part of the background. This is the last thing she intends to discuss, least of all with anyone at work.

If that's asking too much, perhaps it's time to look for a different secretary or hell, a new job. As if it would make a difference. He'll keep doing this until the only place she can run to is an early grave.

She looks at Sophia, busy with her mortage and children going off to university and issues befitting of an easy, uninteresting life. Madeleine has never taken the time to know her more intimately than small-talk. Sophia might sense something is amiss, but never grasp the heart of Doctor Swann's troubles beyond youthful ennui and poor taste in men.

"I see," says Madeleine tartly. "I'll set them in the vase."

Sophia peers at her from the top of the paper. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes. Thank you."

The door closes behind her. Madeleine pitches them in the rubbish bin.

When he steps through the door, his eyes wander to the framed icon. If he thinks anything of it, he doesn't elaborate. He takes a seat. “You look tired.”

Madeleine says, “I’ve had a long day of work.” His eyes fall on the vase, empty. "I'm afraid I am allergic." A verifiable lie. If he is as attentive as he's letting on, she'll soon find out.

Rather than call her bluff, he has the gall to look empathetic. "Do you realize why I have selected you, Dr Swann?"

Her carefully constructed veneer of professionalism falters. She cannot give him an inch. “I do not.”

You resent the very nature of my survival, and what it signifies. If you're seeking to redeem yourself, that is not possible.

"Your mother was buried in Döbling Cemetery, in Vienna. It's a beautiful cemetery." Two divides; anger and terror, freezing her in place. It is as if he has reached across the desk and slapped her. Her eyes well up. She sucks in a slow breath through her nose and exhales, quietly, as he continues: "You stopped sending flowers."

Her mother's resting place, a simple headstone, wedged between others. When her father's lease on the grave in ran out, Madeleine saw no reason to continue ordering flowers. She'd only done it for his sake, not that he had asked her to. He was too pride to admit such a mistake. It would be to acknowledge his own weakness in front of her, something beyond his capabilities.

“These games,” she says, repulsed by the slight catch in her voice, “the mask, these questions. It’s all a little rote, I think.”

Safin frowns. "The flowers I sent have a meaning." He meets her eyes. "A token of grief. Bereavement and comfort."

Perhaps the only way to get to the heart of his affliction is to let him talk. There is no harm in it, while she catches her bearings. She bites her tongue and holds his gaze.

"The first year, purple lilac — mourning — and white clover — think of me. White roses —" a knowing look that makes her want to throw something "— devotion, silence, reverence for the dead. Peonies and stargazer lilies — for sympathy. Blue delphinium for dignity. Statice for remembrance. Last year, blue hydrangeas — regret, a want of forgiveness."

"I was expecting something more drastic than flowers," Madeleine finds her voice. It is cold and carefully polite.

He inclines his head. "There is no need. We already understand one another." His gaze does not avert, the eyes not quite dead. Whatever humanity was once there has been snuffed out and leaves only the darker undercurrent of a sentiment best left unspoken.

"What makes you think I would understand you?"

His mouth curls. Bile in her throat. "Both of us, born into organised crime. Marred by tragedy."

"You're speculating."

"You asked me to explain myself." His eyes fall to the glass bowl, brimming with pink candies. A psychiatrist's inside joke. The average patient that crosses her door will only see the vessel, the candy, no further than the confines of his own mind. This room has been curated with care.

Wetting the pad of his forefinger, he reaches into the bowl. The candy is waxy, a little sweet. The kind of thing that's too boring to eat with any gusto.

A flicker of repulsion, on the cusp of something else she fails to conceal, shifts into rigid comprehension. When he smiles, her stomach twists upon itself.

"I want to ensure," he says, "there is no misunderstanding between us. Thank you for your time."

In his hands, the mask is little more than a tool to inspire fear. She hangs it on her wall as a declaration of war, with a proper frame. It looms over her office wall, the spiderweb cracks in the porcelain giving the right eye a hollowed visage. A constant reminder of what she is undertaking. What she must never become, nor indulge in. She is asked, Where did you get that? myriad times, and Madeleine smiles flatly and says, a gift from a client, and that's the end of it.

a/n: Third time I've rewatched NTtD, and the greater significance of the candy-bowl sailed over my head completely until a commentator (I think it was on youtube or tumblr) pointed out its Freudian shape and, uh, potential for symbolism. After a good deal of snickering (yes, I'm very mature) I stopped to consider. If the idea was to depict Safin's salacious, quietly unhinged fixation with Madeleine (well, more so the power he assumes he has over her), well, I think the screenwriters didn't let him get weird ENOUGH. The fic probably won't go above a heavy-T to light-M, but it certainly flirts on the borderline.

#nttd #no time to die #canon divergent au #lyutsifer safin #madeleine swann #I haven't seen enough brian depalma films to indicate his works as a frame of reference #but things are going to get psychosexual and fucked up! >:D

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