jianhuo | (no subject)

It's been too long, to the point of frustration, to the point where she's wondering if the years on the island have made her lose her touch. More than once Saffron has wondered if she should just give it up, if she just needs to admit to herself that she doesn't have the magic she once had out in the black that spurred her marks to be on her inside of ten minutes, as she'd told Mal once upon a time. She's never had to work this long to get what she wants.

She's been wondering, but tonight, it's like it's all finally sliding into place. She and Molokov have been together the better part of the afternoon, strolling in the park, enjoying a nice dinner, going out dancing. And now that evening's turning into night, she can feel it - that spark, that sense the time is right, the feeling she used to get back when she did this for a living that let her know all the pieces were falling together. Saffron's noticed the way he's been looking at her all night, the way he silently claims ownership by slipping an arm around her in public, by keeping her close as they dance.

She's holding her shoes in one hand as they move off to the side in the low-key club where they've been dancing. She's been making sure to stay close to him as much as possible, as if she can't stand to be too far away, and now she slips in beneath his arm, her own curling around his waist as she stands facing him, pleasantly buzzed. "It's getting warm in here, Alexander," she murmurs, nuzzling against his neck.

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"Don't lie," Saffron hisses, still leaning on Molokov's throat. "Anatoly told me all about you being KGB, about how you...watched over him, as you put it. Watched over my ass."

Breathing was increasingly difficult and Molokov was coming to the painful realization that he was powerless. If there was a way out of this that would leave him alive, he would have to do what he hated most - telling the truth.

"It was my job," he hissed. "To watch over him. To keep him happy so he could play his stupid games."

There's a large part of Saffron that wants nothing more than to kill this man, slowly and painfully. She's got no qualms about the possibility in and of itself. But she's got a good life in Darrow, friends who mean a hell of a lot to her, and she knows most of those friends would look at her differently if she did this and was ever found out.

That means she's got to leave him alive, unfortunately.

Saffron keeps her hands locked on his throat until she can see he's nearing the point of a blackout, then releases him. "It was your job to torment him?" she says through her teeth, grabbing a handful of his hair on the top of his head and yanking down and back to force his chin upward. "If you think you're going to talk your way out of this, Alexander, think again."

He absolutely hated to admit it but whoever had taught Helen the fine arts of interrogation had done a remarkable job. He was almost envious, in fact.

"What do you want me to say?" Molokov hissed once his vision cleared and he could breath again. "That I despised him? That I hated to have my talents so wasted by looking after grown child? That he refused to appreciate all he was given?"

"I don't want you to say anything," Saffron replies. She won't kill him, but she can make him wish they'd never met. She's willing to bet that's what he's thinking already, but Saffron's always liked to leave an impression.

She releases his hair long enough to punch him square in the jaw, then takes hold of it again and forces his head back almost before he's had a chance to react to the punch. "I want you to suffer."

"But we cannot always get what we want," Molokov said in Russian, his head ringing too much to remember his English. In truth, he was wishing more than a little that he had seen through her, that he had never met her but well - there was nothing to do but endure what she gave him.

And he would, he was determined to. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of breaking on top of all the other humiliations she had piled on.

He could last. Couldn't he?

"Oh, are we speaking different languages now?" Saffron says in Chinese, sliding back a little so she can land a punch to his ribs. "It doesn't matter. Speak Russian all you want. I wasn't interested in anything coming out of your mouth anyway."

Dimly, Molokov was aware that Helen had moved from English to some other language but he was not sure which one it was. The combination of the beating and the revelation that his sweet, mild-mannered Helen was anything but was taking a toll. He just wanted her to stop, to go away - but he very much had the feeling he was going to have to wait a long time for that.

"Don't worry," Saffron hisses as she rakes her nails across his chest. "I won't leave you with any permanent damage."

This, as far as she's concerned, has been a very long time coming. Not just for him - it's been a long while since Saffron had occasion to con someone, after being forced into retirement on the island. She's seething with anger, but she's enjoying this also. She deals him another blow to the face. "Probably."

If Molokov could speak, he would have found something biting and sarcastic to say but he was all out of words for the moment. His focus was just on getting through this, surviving Helen's rage. It was not the first time he had taken a beating, but it was the first time in a very long while that it had been delivered so expertly.

"Not talking anymore," Saffron says, after another backhand. "Smart move on your part. Let's see if you can keep it up."

She's not interested in anything he has to say, not unless he plans to piss her off even more. She lifts up and twists around long enough to deliver a knee to his ribs, then swings back immediately to straddle him again, sitting down on him hard so he can't curl into himself at all.

This would pass. Molokov kept reminding himself of this over and over but it was difficult to remember this with each blow. He wanted her to stop and leave him alone and he was on the very threshold of begging her to so.

A part of him wanted this, yes, but a larger part was determined to keep what little pride remained to him. He could outlast her. He was going to outlast her.

The only disappointment in all of this is that Anatoly will probably never know. Saffron isn't sure of whether he would approve of what she's doing for him, but she also knows that he deserves this revenge, should be taking it himself, but she wasn't about to pass up the chance to take it for him. And for herself, as well.

She punched him in the sternum hard enough to leave him gasping, then wrapped her hands around his neck again, leaning her weight on them.

This was perhaps the lowest point in Molokov's life. The death of his sister, Sergievsky's defection - these had all been terrible things but he had still had a desire to live, a drive for revenge.

Now? Now he just wanted this to end - whether because he had slipped into unconsciousness or something more final.

He shuddered at the return of Helen's hands around his neck and tried to keep still. If he gave up... if he gave up, perhaps she would finish this.

However she pleased.

He couldn't care any more right now.

Saffron can see it in his eyes, the moment he gives up. She'd hoped he'd have fought it a bit longer, held out defiantly against her attack a little more. But she's satisfied she's gotten her message across to him, and that's what matters.

She kept her hands on his throat until she could see him slipping away. Then she released him abruptly, punched him hard enough to send him the rest of the way into unconsciousness, and slipped off of him, leaving him naked, handcuffed and blacked out.

Slipping quickly into her clothes with a practiced ease, Saffron took a final look at Molokov, at her handiwork, and gave a cold, humorless smile before walking out of his apartment and heading home.