Work Text:
The callouses on his hands hurt. His knuckles are aching. He’s shivering when he enters the office, cold from standing outside shoveling hard dirt for the last five hours. Like he last left it, his desk is cluttered in paperwork, and his mug of forgotten coffee sits there, waiting for his return. Pacing up to his desk, Christoph reaches out and grips the handle of the mug with trembling fingers. He brings it to his mouth and downs the remainder of the cold coffee, closing his burning eyes. He then approaches the small kitchen area to deposit the mug into the sink.
Letting out a deep breath, Christoph plants his hands against the rim of the sink and leans heavily into them, eyes closed. His stomach twists and aches from the lack of food. But eating would merely lead to further exhaustion. He has to keep going. Blearily blinking, he glances at his watch. It’s three in the morning. He wonders if Tägtgren is still up at this hour, doing God knows what. He needs to do a progress report on his assignment. But he doesn’t want to risk waking his boss.
Well, Peter did give him a list of three names. He has one more to go. Perhaps, before submitting that report, he could begin the next. After all, productivity and results are more valuable to his boss than merely an update.
Location. He has a lead through the last man he eliminated, who carelessly blabbered information when Christoph fed him an empty promise of sparing his life for the exchange of the whereabouts of his partner. There will be an underground blackjack game at one of the family’s locations in Potsdam. So now he simply has to examine their territory, and zero in on that address given to him. He could’ve easily given a false one, but Christoph won’t just be casually strolling in. He’ll survey the area. He has his precautions.
He pulls his open laptop closer across the surface of the desk, pushing paper out of the way. He begins typing in his password, and then opens up a map of Potsdam located on the Internet, while pulling open the layout of the family’s territory. Just as he begins to review both maps, fingers steepled in front of his face, his phone rings. Christoph huffs. He was just beginning to detach from the demands of his body; the exhaustion, the hunger. Focusing on work always threw away his humanity—as he preferred it.
Christoph doesn’t even care to check caller ID. He flips open his phone, presses it to his ear, and growls through his teeth, “It is three in the morning and I am busy. What do you want?”
“I’m going to assume you didn’t check who’s calling before picking up,” Till’s deep voice drawls in reply. Christoph freezes, hand curling into a fist atop the desk. He sags back into his desk chair.
“T. Sorry. Good morning.”
“Indeed. I presume the only reason you’re working at this ungodly hour is because you have yet to sleep. How long have you been up?”
Christoph sits there silently for a moment, staring at the laptop screen with bloodshot eyes and a displeased frown. He brings his hand up to his face to grind his fingers into his eye sockets, trying to rub away the burning.
“…Around sixty hours?”
“How are you still standing?” Till scoffs, amused. Christoph pauses. He drops his hand, smiling wryly to himself.
“I’m not,” Christoph mutters. Till pauses. He seems to realize what he meant based on his next question.
“Are you at the office?”
“Yes,” Christoph answers.
“And I assume you haven’t eaten in quite a while as well.”
“…You assume correctly.”
“How long?”
Christoph internalizes his sigh. He knows where this is going. He presses his lips together, drumming blunt fingertips against the smooth wood of his desk. He glances at his watch again, mentally attempting simple mathematics when operating on fumes.
“Uh… Sixteen hours.”
“I see,” the other man plainly states. Christoph blinks slowly, lethargically. Slouching back into the padded desk chair like this was a mistake. It’s comfortable enough for his body to associate the cushioned position with sleep. He’s fading. With this realization, Christoph sits up again, and sighs.
“I need to get back to work,” he mumbles, eying the laptop screen, “Tägtgren has me on an assignment.”
“Unless he specifically said to you ‘this is urgent’ then he can wait,” Till argues, sternly. “You needn’t risk your own health for the sake of satisfying his demands. I know he would agree. You need sleep. Go home. We can’t have you in such a state.”
“I’m not being careless,” Christoph replies, voice slightly clipped. “This is not the first time. I know what I’m doing. I know how to handle myself, and my work.”
He realizes how insubordinate that sounds. His exhaustion is making him defensive. He’s not thinking straight. But this is why he avoids communicating with other people when he’s deep in the bowels of his work. No one else should be involved but himself and the man who will be at the end of his gun’s barrel.
“I can stop by your favorite late-night restaurant on the way there. What would you like?” Till asks, and the tone of his voice suggests ‘nothing’ is not an option. Christoph stares distantly at the screen of his laptop screen, gaze becoming unfocused. He doesn’t speak at first. He contemplates if abandoning this assignment, for now, is a wise decision. Till seems confident that it can be picked up again. But what if word spreads? Wouldn’t that give his target time to escape, to go into hiding? Is that a possibility? Can Christoph risk that?
“Surprise me,” he murmurs, voice monotone and stiff. He can humor his captain, for now. Till hums.
“I presume you’ll be going home to catch up on your rest, as well.”
“No,” Christoph answers truthfully, frowning. “I can’t risk losing the trail I’m on.”
“Put P on it.”
Christoph huffs a dry laugh, shaking his head.
“You must be joking.”
“Go home and get some sleep, C. You need it. This is an order.”
Face falling, Christoph frowns, brow knitting. He speaks lowly, struggling to keep the agitation out of his tone of voice, hand clenched into a fist atop his desk.
“Tägtgren—”
“I don’t care,” Till sharply cuts in, “I will handle him. I’m driving to the office right now, and by the time I get there, I expect you to be gone.”
Christoph curls his lip, teeth baring slightly, his eyes narrowing at the open layout on his laptop screen.
“Why are you so insistent on putting a roadblock in my work? This is my job, T.”
“Because being exhausted makes you an amateur. Now, C. Go.”
Till then cuts the line. Christoph pulls the phone from his ear and stares at the display, lips in a tight frown, eyes narrowed. He flicks his phone shut and slides it back into his pocket. Sighing heavily, Christoph drags himself up into a standing position, and reaches out with trembling hands to gather his folder of papers. After slipping a clip over the edge, securely pinning the folder shut, he tucks it under his arm. He shuts his laptop with a snap, grabs it to lock it into the bottom drawer of his desk.
Christoph stands there for a moment. He slowly sets the folder back down, and places his hands against the edge of the wooden desk, leaning into them heavily with another deep exhale, his aching eyes closing.
Till thinks he knows best. Both for their squad, and for Christoph. Of course he believes he does. But Christoph knows what is best for himself. Sleep is insignificant. What he needs is to fulfill his duty as Tägtgren’s soldier. T merely needs to understand this. He’s working for Tägtgren, not for him. Christoph knows his limits. Time wasted on sleep cannot be recovered.
For five minutes, Christoph stands there—he had turned to rest against the edge of the desk, arms crossed, motionless. He watches the double doors, anticipating his captain any moment. He checks his watch; which proved to be poor timing. The exit door of the office is pulled open. A gust of air rushes into the room, joined by the sound of city life at night. The rumbling of cars, the buzzing of the neon sign outside, the distant sound of conversation. Till strides in, with a click of his brace and a tap of his cane. He trains his intense gaze on his subordinate.
“Hello,” Christoph greets blankly, eyes tracking his captain. Till arches a brow. He lets the door swing shut behind himself, while placing the tip of the cane between his sleek dress shoes, hands folding over the skull handle.
“Were my instructions not clear enough?” Till muses, voice level. Christoph lifts his chin slightly, gazing at him with ice in his blue eyes.
“They were. I merely chose to stay.”
“So it seems.”
Till begins to pace further into the office. Christoph watches him closely, sweeping his gaze from his stern face, down across his suit, to the cane in his grip, the limp in his gait. Till comes to a stop before him. He pointedly reaches past Christoph to rest his cane against the desk beside him. Christoph watches him silently, completely still, arms crossed. Till searches in his eyes.
“And why did you choose to stay?”
“Rest is a waste of my time,” Christoph answers collectedly, stubbornly refusing to look away from Till’s scrutinizing stare. “I see no point in leaving. I am able to function, thus, my remaining energy can be dedicated to locating and eradicating this man Tägtgren put a hit on.”
“I am your captain,” Till begins lowly, stepping ever closer to his soldier, crowding him against the edge of the desk, which prompts the other man to slowly unravel his crossed arms. Christoph stares at him unwaveringly, unafraid. Till’s piercing gaze burrows into his stubborn eyes, overpowering him effortlessly.
“And you will accept any order I give you. No questions asked,” Till continues, a deep, gravelly murmur that puts just as much weight on Christoph as his threat. He brings a massive hand up to dig the fingertip of his index finger into Christoph’s sternum, through his rumpled, partially unbuttoned dress shirt.
“Do you understand?” he growls, his lips quivering, baring his canines and locked teeth when his top lip curls back. Christoph’s determination trembles. He tightens his jaw, staring at his captain, who has definitely obliterated the concept of personal space. Christoph squints at him.
“Tägtgren is my boss. You are merely the man in lower rank, who pretends to have control over me. I understand that. I understand that you can’t make me do shit. I will not go home. I will continue my assignment.”
Christoph moves to straighten from the desk, but Till clamps a hand down on his shoulder and forces him to sit back down against the edge of the desk—a power move that is obviously meant to intimidate. Christoph does not appreciate that. Snarling, Christoph shoots a hand up to grab him by the wrist—he attempts to forcibly detach his grasp by wrenching his arm away, but Till easily overpowers him. He breaks from Christoph’s hold, whips his hand around to clutch his wrist in turn, and begins to powerfully twist his arm while grabbing him by the lapel, swinging him around.
The force and angle of which Till twists his arm gives Christoph no choice but to move with it, slamming back against the desk onto his side, grunting in pain and in shock. The entire desk jostles violently. Till’s cane slides off from the edge of the desk, clatters to the ground and begins rolling. Till has one flat hand against Christoph’s back, keeping him pinned, while clutching him tightly by the wrist of his arm, cocking it back. He pushes upwards, and up, and up, until Christoph cries out in agony—he can feel the bone begin to separate from the socket.
“I can make you do,” Till begins lowly, calmly, “Anything I want you to do. Tägtgren knows this. That is why he placed you under my command. An attack dog can only be so useful until he begins to attack its master.”
A moment of silence passes, save for Christoph’s ragged, harsh panting, and the pounding of his heart in his ears. Till isn’t even breathless. Till marginally pushes his arm up by the wrist, so slightly, toeing the line. Christoph screams, head throwing back, sweat dripping from his brow.
“Say you understand!” Till bellows at him, a frightening, deep snarl in his voice, broad fingers locked tight around Christoph’s wrist, rubbing his skin raw. “Show me you are not merely an attack dog, C! Don’t make me dislocate your fucking shoulder!”
“I understand!” Christoph yells, his voice hoarse, his body shaking. He’s arching up onto his toes to alleviate even a sliver of the agonizing pull on his shoulder, his eyes wild, his chest heaving. Fear overwhelms him. He hasn’t been placed into such a vulnerable, debilitating position since Zoran.
Till releases him. He steps back. Christoph crumples against the surface of the desk, gasping as he cradles his arm to his chest. His shoulder throbs, shocks of pain jolting throughout his torso. Till reaches out to grab him by the shoulder of the suit coat, turning him forcefully, earning a snarl of pain from him. He then hoists him up onto his feet. Christoph staggers, looking at his captain with wide, almost deranged eyes, continuing to cradle his arm. Till’s face is like stone. His eyes are unreadable. Hooking a big hand around the bicep of Christoph’s unharmed arm, he begins marching the weakened, exhausted man to the exit, unthinkingly leaving behind both his cane, and Christoph’s folder dedicated to the assignment now officially abandoned.