Work Text:
Atrocious
It starts, as many things do at the airport, with an all-nighter. There is an evening flight from Mexico city that Frank is expecting to be quite problematic, as always with the Mexicans. And then another is due to arrive at five in the morning, fresh (or not, considering the hour) from Beijing. He is not going to leave his team to herd confused Chinese tourists and sort them from Asian criminals of all kinds.
Unfortunately, his house is a two-hour drive away, and he would spend more time on the road than actually resting. He has a cot in the office for nights like this, but the Mexicans grate on his nerves, while all the coffee he's drunk to drag himself through the day keeps him on edge afterwards. Easier to just stay awake, and he blames his caffeine-addled brain for his next decision.
The corner where Navorski is squatting looks less and less like a magpie's nest and more like a den. Even the dim light and the makeshift furniture somehow look more comfortable than his office, and Frank firmly squashes a brief spike of envy. Why would he even want to be here?
The man raises his head from some guidebook he's studying, surprise and hope mixing on his face when he recognizes Frank.
"Pager?"
"No, sorry, no news there," he shakes his head, "I've just finished work, and I have another plane in less than five hours. Decided to drop by."
Navorski just blinks at him. Oh, God...
"Now - plane," he gestures to show a landing, "Five am - another plane." He shows five with his fingers for good measure, but the man is already nodding.
"Work."
"More like I have a long break in work, but yes. And my home is too far to go back and forth."
"Far?" He spreads his hands to show and Navorski laughs. "My home far. Your - not far."
"Looks like you've made a home right here," Frank bites back, pointing at the assorted furniture for extra clarification. Navorski nods again.
"Ah. Guest?"
"Well, let's call it a social visit," Frank agrees.
He mutters something under his breath [незваный гость хуже татарина], but gestures to the nearby chair.
"Tea?"
"That would be very nice, thank you," Frank nods, just to do something. He isn't used to feeling out of place at his airport. Navorski moves to another corner, and damn if even his fridge isn't better stacked than Frank's own back at home. Granted, it's airport lunches and snacks, and yet. He knows the man has found a job, but it's one thing to know and watch on the monitors, and another to experience firsthand.
"How the hell do you manage all this?" His intonation must carry enough, because Navorski answers without extra prompts.
"I help. Boss help. All happy." As if it explained anything.
"Your English is atrocious," he says, just to keep his point.
"A-tro-shos", Navorski repeats carefully, syllable by syllable. Frowns in confusion. "Bad?" Then adds with a slight smile, "Very bad."
"No. Pigeons are bad. Smuggling is bad. Terrorism is very bad. Your English is atrocious."
"Very many bad," he nods happily. Frank groans.
*
Accident
Next time he has a night shift, he digs a chess board from the bottom drawer of his desk. He's long lost any hope of playing with his team: they are either too busy, or too tired of losing to him, or both. But it's better than commuting back and forth, and should at least pass the time without too much communication. Speaking to Navorski is like pulling teeth, the language barrier constantly in the way - yet Frank has to admit at least to himself that he has absolutely nothing better to do.
The man raises his eyebrows when he enters, then notices the board and instantly cheers up. Apparently, Frank is not the only one with too much time on his hands and a language barrier. And judging by the way Navorski clears some space and quickly sets the board for a game, he's quite familiar with it. Frank shudders inwardly at the thought that he would have had to explain the rules otherwise, and thanks his luck. Which seems to end at that very moment.
Navorski plays even more slowly than he speaks, taking his time to watch the board over and over before every move, frowning in concentration. Frank is about to give the whole thing up when the disposition changes almost in a flash and he is checkmated in three next moves. He stares at the board, trying to fathom out how such a thing could happen.
"Accident," he huffs under his breath, but of course Navorski hears. And judging by the blank look of total incomprehension, doesn't know the word.
"Accident?" He prompts, when Frank doesn't elaborate.
"Accident means you weren't going to win."
He laughs.
"Not going. Sitting." Frank rolls his eyes.
"I mean, it was a chance. Luck."
"Accident is luck?" He repeats, not understanding still, and Frank gives up.
"Just set the board."
He does. This time Frank actually puts his all in the game, carefully analyzing his every move. He barely manages a draw. Then Navorski wins again.
"Accident," he smiles, and Frank loses it.
"I can't understand you. You beat me almost all the time. You fucking earn more than I do. How?" His outburst is met with the same polite smile, which doesn't look as dumb now as it used to.
"Accident. Not going. Sitting here. Then working here. Why not?"
"Are you being cryptic on purpose?"
Frank only gets a shrug in response. He sets the board again, determined to win this time. He doesn't.
*
Ancient
He's had a nasty flight, an email from the DA politely inquiring about his methods (read: signaling an inspection in the future), and to add insult to injury, Navorski wasn't in his usual place. Not at work either, and Frank's building headache has successfully stopped him from checking the rest of the monitors. His bad. He could go back to his office, of course, but experience said he wouldn't want to unleash himself on his subordinates: for once, they weren't even remotely in the wrong. Frank settled on waiting. It took close to an hour and by the time the familiar figure shows at the door he almost snaps at him.
"Where were you?"
The man just shrugs, polite surprise making Frank feel like a fool.
"Watching TV. Bookshop has cable. Old houses."
"What do you mean, old houses?"
Navorski pauses, which means he's searching for words. Frank bites his tongue not to say anything scathing.
"Two hundreds? No. Two... Twenty five hundreds ago. Beautiful." He fishes more, then proudly summarizes, "Old Greek!"
"Ancient Greece?" He repeats incredulously. Navorski nods, already mouthing the words after him in this dogged style. "Why would you watch a documentary on Ancient Greece if you don't even understand it?"
"Nice pictures," he smiles in that way meaning he would rather play stupid than explain. Frank presses his lips, keeps waiting. "I don't know English, not history. I study... studied ancient houses in school."
"Architecture," Frank corrects, resigned.
"Architecture. And history, but architecture a lot. Beautiful."
He takes a sheet of paper from his improvised bedside table, and in five minutes sketches the clean lines of the Parthenon. Then, another building, which is more difficult to recognize.
"The Parthenon doesn't look like that in real life," Frank comments, just to snap out of the wondrous fascination that's threatening to overwhelm him.
"I didn't see it," Navorski shrugs almost apologetically, "only in pictures."
"I have. It's almost disappointing. I like your drawing better," he admits, and points to the other one. "And what's this?"
"It's..." Fishing for words again, but somehow it's easier to wait now. "It's house of Apollon."
"The Temple of Apollo?"
"Yes. No. How they think it was. Now it has no walls, only this," he circles the pediment and a few columns. "It's old. Very. And this staircase is... Saint Way?"
Frank shrugs, way out of his depth. Somehow they manage to find a semblance of understanding with pictures, gestures, and more than a few swears in their respective languages. By the time Frank's alarm chimes, he's learnt more ancient history than he remembers from the whole school curriculum, and is strangely reluctant to go.
"Ah," Navorski asks when he stands up to leave, "you were angry before. Why?"
"You know," he chuckles, surprising even himself, "I think I don't remember now. Thank you."
And if the drawing in his pocket keeps him along the next check and through writing a response to the DA, nobody has to know.
***
Bet (bottle)
After the incident with the medicine Frank doesn't show his face at a certain part of the terminal for a couple of weeks. He can't say he's truly angry - no, actually, he can. He's livid at this blatant flaunting of the law, of the rules, of everything he holds important. Of the very foundation that holds this - his - airport. He feels like this unshakable control is slipping between his fingers. "Grains of the golden sand", if he's feeling poetic. He isn't, he is the one to quote regulations, laws and policies, not this.
There's a rumor in the office that he has broken up with a girlfriend. Ridiculous. Obvious inaccuracy aside, where would he find one to match his schedule? They say he's pining (behind his back, of course). Catching his own eyes in the mirror, at times he finds it hard to mock this delusion.
Navorski is faring well. His English is getting better, work continues as usual, there's even a girl he's managed to fetch out of nowhere. Not that Frank is watching his every step. He has to watch everyone's steps, and it just so happens that Navorski is always at the airport and always on camera. (His team whispers something about obsessive behavior and sublimation. Sometimes good hearing is a curse).
Life goes on.
Until one day there's a box sitting on his desk. An innocent box of chocolates from the nearby duty free shop, slightly, but not overly out of Frank's price range. The note is brief. "Bet you a bottle of good wine that you won't figure out how it got here." The signature is unnecessary with the careful, still unsteady handwriting on a generic gift card. Just what.
He is half tempted to ignore it: at the very least the note is missing an apology, at most an explanation. But in all fairness, Frank knows that's all he's getting. Navorski is stubborn as a mule, and will feign cluelessness till the sky falls rather than admit being wrong. Frank is quite similar, to tell the truth, but he can accept an olive branch like that. Especially when it's made of very good chocolate.
That last thought sends him onto speculations of bribery and he debates with himself for another half an hour before popping one chocolate into his mouth. It's amazing. As far as apologies go, this is admittedly not the worst.
But how did it get there?
He doesn't come to Navorski's den as soon as his shift ends, but less than an hour later is soon enough. The man in question looks up, smiling happily as if nothing had happened. There's a bottle of very nice Chardonnay on the nightstand and an unopened box of pizza a bit further. The smell makes Frank's stomach grumble.
"So. You've progressed from petty smuggling to breaking and entering. Quite a feat."
Strangely enough, that makes him smile wider.
"I can neither deny nor confirm it," he recites, ridiculously proud of himself. "And it was your job to find something out?"
"Find out what?" But Navorski is silent, too smart to slip up so easily. He shrugs, and Frank shrugs in return, "I have."
"So?"
"You sent it." His face is priceless and Frank barely holds back a laugh. "Will you tell me I'm wrong?"
"Okaaaay. I won't." Is that a pout? Let it be considered a pout. Alright, no need to drag it too long.
"You've bribed a cleaner. The one that comes at three in the morning. Probably with a favour or a lie."
"I said they were poisoned," Navorski grumbles, still a bit salty, and this time Frank laughs openly.
"How could you mislead the poor lady so. She will be terribly disappointed..."
And here comes the mouthing along. He didn't miss it. Or did he?
"Mislead?" He repeats, articulating more clearly, but Navorski shakes his head.
"No, thanks, I understand. It's just new phrase."
"Here we go," Frank rolls his eyes. "Why am I here again?"
"For wine," comes the ready answer, "should I open it now?"
Unbelievable.
"You're quite presumptuous to think that I'll share it with you," he tries to keep a serious face, but Navorski snorts rather dismissively.
"Presumptuous. Good word. Do you want to drink alone or with friend?"
"Oh, come on. We aren't friends. You're just using me as a talking dictionary."
"Not a dictionary!" He looks offended, but there's a glint on his eyes that promises more. "A thesaurus!"
Frank gives up.
"Where's your corkscrew?"
***
Big bang (battery)
The afternoon is lazy, and Frank is honestly looking forward to going home to a quiet evening. In hindsight, he should have known that nothing good ever comes out of such intentions. Nothing. He doesn't take many days off for that exact reason, and no, the contrast of feeling his home even emptier these days does not count. He's not some lonely loser, it just comes with the hours he does. It's totally by preference.
Anyway, whatever his plans are, they're completely sidetracked when he sees a blinding flash on one of the cameras, right where the construction is going. Shit. He is on his feet before his brain even kicks in, and his team nods.
"We'll take it from here, sir."
Should he be worried about the last trend on the grapevine? Later. Now all his brainpower is on keeping himself from running: it won't do to have the head of security dash across the airport, people will worry. He still makes it in record time with incredibly fast walking.
The hall smells of burnt plastic and has that stuffy quality indicating a generous use of fire extinguishers. He heads to the commotion in the corner, but is blocked by the construction manager, a burly no-nonsense guy, now pale as a sheet.
"I take full responsibility, sir," he mumbles. Frank is too busy scanning the crowd, still hoping that he's wrong. "If there's a legal procedure, please take it with me."
Ah. He sidesteps the man, refusing to waste time, cuts through the crowd with practiced ease. Holds his breath, counts to ten, stifling the first reaction. Lets the air out.
"I hope someone has already called an ambulance," he manages with only a trace of his usual steely voice. The workers keep silent, looking sideways.
"You won't get rid of me so easy," Navorski says softly. "And I can't afford ambulance. My insurance expired three months ago."
The burns on his hands don't go anywhere, neither does the obviously dizzy look. A concussion? Frank swears out loud, starts searching his memory for the local nurse's phone number. Hopefully, she won't have gone home yet.
A couple hours later Frank is still at the airport, but at least this perpetual pain in his ass has been treated, given a few days' sick leave, and transported to his nook.
"I..." Navorski's expression shows he's been waiting to use this phrase, "I owe you."
Frank makes a suitably impressed face, trying not to laugh.
"Nevermind. Just get well soon, I don't want more problems on top of your current situation. There's too much chatter in my team as is."
He turns to leave, but is stopped by the hand so bandaged it won't look out of place on a mummy.
"Stay?"
"I won't make a very good nurse."
"I'd take a bad one," Navorski laughs.
He blinks. Is it innuendo? No way it is. Frank refuses to get flustered, even if he has to mentally recite the newest code of conduct for security and hastily redirect the conversation to a safer area.
"Shouldn't your flight attendant be here, feeding you chicken soup and whatnot?"
That drops the temperature in the room quite successfully. Navorski chuckles mirthlessly.
"She has a pager too. Didn't work out."
What is there to say?
"Well. Plenty of fish in the sea?"
"Yeah... Fish soup is nice."
It's a blatant change of the topic, but Frank goes along with it. The canteen has some, and if they offer it on the house, somehow not even questioning why and for whom he wants it, well. At least this gossip he doesn't have to listen to.
And if he doesn't make it home at all before his next shift, he can always reckon that he does make a decent nurse, after all.
*
Bizarre (Boo!)
They say, every cloud has a silver lining. Or, more accurately for this time, in every good there's evil. Call Frank a pessimist, but the latter usually comes closer to the truth.
Good news is, the grapevine isn't busy with his recent hiccup at the construction site. Frank was honestly apprehensive about coming to the office the next day, after such a blatant display of emotions and in yesterday's clothes. But the room is buzzing with a new tidbit, his erratic behavior already forgotten.
The catch is that somewhere in the small hours a ghost has been sighted in the terminal. Fortunately, out of the way and briefly enough that only a couple low-level workers have seen it. Unfortunately, his team is apparently full of preschool children, who are now glued to camera screens in hopes of catching it again. In broad daylight, if one can believe it. (That remark results in an enthusiastic argument and nearly earns him the title of an experienced ghost hunter. What even.)
On any other day he would escape to Navorski, but now he's a bit wary of potential gossip and not willing to look the gift horse in the mouth. Too much, at least. This time, it's good old paperwork to pass the time between the shifts. Then, the incoming plane from Mexico. Then, an additional letter from the DA, this time with a commendation. According to it, Frank's manner has significantly improved over the past weeks. Whatever. His record hasn't dipped, and that's what counts.
When he leaves the office, the team is still watching the monitors. He itches to make a joke but anything he might say will only come back tenfold to bite him in the ass. So, he leaves them be with a quiet chuckle. It does look hilarious, one has to admit, but he is long due home for at least a change of clothes and a decent sleep.
Of course he jinxes it.
His walkie crackles not five minutes later, and then again, and again. Some poor sod from the restaurant had been lying in wait in the same hall, not having access to the cameras, and that's where two other ghost hunters came across him. Naturally, the chase and the following scuffle got caught on cameras, and it took some time before his team made the right decision (that is, to stop cheering on and to actually do their job). By that time someone else had run through another corridor wearing a mask and a layer of phosphorus. That place was a bit more populated, so the number of ghost hunters increased, with the unwelcome addition of the first victims. Two ladies have fainted, some more were scandalized. Quite a few joined the men in their chase, possibly with their own agenda.
Another corridor had a tripwire. As luck went, both parties were running through that one.
Two hours later, drained to the point of numbness, he stumbles into Navorski's corner. Whether it was autopilot or conscious thought, he can't decide, but the man doesn't look surprised in the slightest.
"Long day?" He motions him to the table with some styrofoam containers. The smell is mouthwatering, and he takes some time before answering the question.
"Not so long, just exceptionally populated with idiots. Believe it or not, we've been relieving the next episode of Ghostbusters, and I had to run damage control." He's already feeling much more settled and mellow, someone's had the foresight to get his favorite curry. But the wish to rant is still there. "Would you imagine grownup people looking for ghosts?"
"Ghosts?" Navorski blinks. At first Frank doesn't understand, it's a simple enough word. But of course it won't be used much in guidebooks.
"Well... It's a superstition. That a soul, a spirit can come back to haunt some place." He meets a blank look. "You like history, you must know some haunted places. Like the Gray Lady? No?" He just shrugs. Frank sighs and fishes a small notebook out of his pocket, used for this very purpose as the last resort.
"Ah, so that's a ghost." Navorski takes the drawing, writes the word - Frank sighs and corrects the spelling. Navorski nods and adds the paper to a neat stack in the corner of his improvised desk.
"You know, after you it's become a lot easier to deal with the Chinese," he chuckles.
"You're welcome," comes a prompt answer. "What means "deal"? I saw... I've seen it in a sale at the shop."
"Uh-huh. It can be a sale, or a discount, you're right. But it also means to work with, and a deal is an agreement, for example in business or between two people."
Navorski's eyes spark with understanding and a fair dose of mischief.
"Ah, like the deal I had with the cleaning lady."
"With the chocolate? Somewhat, yes," he cuts himself off, looking suspiciously at the other's face. Of course.
"No. I mean, with chocolate too," he is trying to look sorry, and failing. "But also with an old sheet, a hidden door and a long mop."
Frank drops his fork. Why on earth... He doesn't even get to ask the question, though.
"You were worried. And she won't talk. She finds it sweet." Frank is honestly at a loss for words, most likely for the better. "Eat some more curry."
"Have," he corrects, still on autopilot.
"Have some more curry. And have a drink. There will be pies later."
"One day I'll ask how you got so good at giving bribes," he mock-grumbles, defeated.
"Why wait? You see, it started at high school..."
Three stories and two pies later Frank stands up, perfectly satisfied with this life yet again.
"Thank you. And now I really have to get home. If I get to work in the same clothes the third day in a row, there will be questions, ghosts or no ghosts."
"Not really", Navorski mutters, but he's already leaving and decides not to ask.
***
Cards (cheat) ((club))
On the way to his office Frank finds a deck of cards. He would usually bring any stuff like this to the Lost and found, but the deck is small enough that it isn't likely to ever be reclaimed. Cheap enough that it shouldn't register as theft, even for him. And nice enough to spark an idea.
When he fishes it out of his pocket one day, Navorski raises an eyebrow.
"Have you bought me a present? How nice."
Honestly, sometimes Frank misses the time when the man was playing clueless and gullible. He claims it to be Frank's influence, but that's just a load of crap. The only thing he did was give him the tools to express an already snarky personality. And maybe encouraged it a little too much, but not more than that.
"Just found it in the halls, thought we could try it out. I'm a bit tired of losing at chess to you."
The look he gets doesn't promise much in terms of his chances, but at least he can count on having some luck from time to time. And it does prove him right. At first.
A few games pass even more quickly than he'd expected. Some wins, some losses, a couple of draws. It's refreshing compared to chess, and much more dynamic. Exciting even, with all the unpredictability and constant changes. They play, and bicker, and when Navorski suggests placing a bet, Frank agrees easily.
And loses.
"Accident," Navorski smiles. Frank huffs.
"It might as well be, don't show off too much. What do you want?"
"Something little for a little win?" He hums, pretending to think. "Would you call me by my name? It's a bit annoying, you know, to hear you mangle my last name."
"Mangle," Frank teases, "such big words. All right. You are the victor now, I suppose." Nav... Viktor laughs, and he can't help but raise the ante. "As long as you are, of course. How about best of three?"
"Hmm..." He smirks, accepting the challenge. "A big win will have something big. Are you ready for it?"
"Am I a man of my word?" Frank is almost offended. "I won't fail to deliver as long as it's within my power, don't worry."
Viktor just shrugs, dealing the deck. Whatever. He has to win first.
Next time he's watching more carefully, and manages to catch Viktor red-handed.
"Cheater!" He states, probably more smugly than necessary.
"What?" The man blinks at him. "I'm not a cheater."
His confusion may be a front, but Frank is well-trained enough by now that the explanation comes almost automatically.
"Are so. You don't play fair. I've already seen that king." Viktor's face changes immediately at the explanation. Frank very carefully does not wonder how he'd come to learn the other meaning.
"Ah, that... Accident?" He smiles, but Frank is already fairly immune to that look.
"Of course."
Five minutes later, when Frank casually tries to pick a few cards from the discard pile, a hand closes over his wrist.
"You don't play fair, too."
"Either," he corrects.
"Uh-huh. I'm surprised, with your love of rules."
What is there to say?
"Accident?"
"Yeah, sure."
The following games are played fairly, at least as far as Frank could tell. Granted, the first few minutes of watching each other like hawks soon give way to banter, but the victory is still hard-won. Not by Frank.
"Never play cards with construction workers," Viktor smirks, but his eyes don't match it.
"Will not," Frank huffs, "only maybe with one particular pain in the neck. What do I owe you?"
"I was really lucky that you found this deck," he remarks way too casually to be innocent, as if not hearing the question. Frank sighs.
"Accident," he quips, defeated. Viktor shrugs. "What do you want?"
---
The administrator of the club is looking more and more apologetic, but Benny Golson is not performing today after a minor incident with his hand. He would be there in a week, for sure, but Viktor's emergency visa won't last that long. They are at a stalemate, and Frank is at his wit’s end when it dawns on him.
"Write him a letter and explain it all. It will be given to him directly, it's just as good as getting that bloody autograph in person." He adds a look to the young man, daring him to disagree, but the guy is only too happy to finally get a solution. Viktor thinks for a bit and nods, solemn but determined. Great. "You could send it to my address."
The administrator blinks at him, taking his business card with a hastily scribbled street and house number, and an added note from Viktor.
"Erm... I'm sorry, but... Are you together?"
"No!" Frank denies quickly, just when Viktor nods "Yes!" with that stupid smile. They stare at each other.
"You live at your work. I live at your work. It means together, right?" Even his accent is back.
"It's not..." Too-innocent face. Right. "Nevermind."
The sooner they leave this club, the better.
"'Nevermind'...," Viktor drawls when they get into the taxi. "Okay, I won't."
"What?" The day must be getting to him, because Frank isn't sure they are speaking English anymore.
"Won't mind," he clarifies with that smirk of his. What on earth...
"It doesn't mean that."
"I know," he's suddenly quiet and serious again. "But I won't."
"Wouldn't," Frank corrects automatically. Sighs. "Let's talk about it back home."
He realizes his slip almost instantly, but any answer is drowned in Navorski's laughter.
"See? Together."