For whom the bell tolls

[savvyfan.livejournal.com]

Title: For whom the bell tolls
Characters/pairing: Marc Savard/Vladimir Sobotka
Rating: PG
Time: March 4, 2009
Summary: Trade deadline angst.
Disclaimer: A fictional story, told only for entertainment purposes.
Author's note: Trade deadline fic is, of course, a total chestnut. But since Vladimir's name had been so prevalent in trade talks around here, and I was stressing for a couple of weeks over various scenarios, I'm sure others were too, and sometimes it's cathartic.

Vladdie was in Toronto with the Baby B's. Marc knew that. He knew Vladdie would be sleeping late. He didn't give a shit.

"Marc?" asked the sleepy voice on the other end of the phone.

"You OK?"

"I'm OK. Wish I could be there."

"Me too. I don't know how I'm going to last the day."

"What time is practice?"

"11:30. We meet with the press at 12:30. Then go have a nervous breakdown."

"Marc, can I ask you a favor?"

"Name it, Vladdie."

A pause. Savard could almost hear Sobotka's face turning pink, the blush stealing across his high cheekbones. He closed his eyes. "Vladimir..." he whispered. 

"Could you... pray for me?"

"Of course I can."

"Not that I won't be traded," Vladimir said hastily, as though the very idea was blasphemous. "Just to... be strong. Can you do that, Marc? Please?"

"Of course I can. I'll talk to you soon."

"Thanks, Savvy. Miluji te."

Marc paused, gathering himself. 

"Miluji te, Vladimir."

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The word reached the Bruins as they came off the ice at Ristuccia. Nokkie was gone, Steven Montador was coming in. Marc was torn, sad for Petteri, ridiculously happy that it wasn't Vladimir, frantic at the knowledge that Chiarelli wasn't done yet, oh no. The Bruins still needed a forward for the power play. The media zeroed in on Andy, Stephane, Chuck -- guys who had played with Montador in Calgary. Marc took advantage of the opportunity to get the hell out of there, practically running through the crisp March air, leaping into the Range Rover and heading to Boston at top speed. 

He parked near St. Leonard's and spent some time walking the quaint streets of the North End. He hadn't been inside a church since the baptism of his last child. Despite Vladimir's assurances, the very idea frightened him. He stopped in front of an Italian deli, staring at the display in the window.

"Marc, what's the difference between Parmesan and Romano? They taste the same to me."

"How the fuck do I know? Do I look Italian to you?" Marc looked over at Vladimir, saw the mischevious look in his eye. "You goddam Czech!" He aimed a kick at Vladdie, who danced out of the way, laughing. 

A block away, the bells of St. Leonard's tolled twice. "OK, OK, I hear you," Savard muttered, and turned reluctantly toward the old church. He half hoped the door would be locked, but it swung open easily under his hand, and he entered, reaching automatically for the holy water and crossing himself before walking down the middle aisle, genuflecting and kneeling in the front pew, before a statue of the Virgin Mary. 

He rested his forehead on his folded hands, willing his hammering heart to slow, then pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and set it to vibrate. Then he rocked back on his haunches, took a deep breath, and forced himself to look up at the statue. The Virgin Mother smiled serenely. 

Haven't been here in a while. Sorry about that. 

Understandable. 

Marc started and stared. Mary's face remained inscrutable. 

I'm talking to a statue and it's talking back to me. I've lost my mind.

You know I'm not a statue. Have you forgotten your catechism?

No. The statue is a representation.

Bingo.

And now you're making jokes. I HAVE lost my mind.

You can't be the mother of God and not have a sense of humor.

I suppose that's true. 

Why are you here, Marc?

Don't you know? 

Yes. You're here for Vladimir. 

He's asking for strength.

Vladimir IS strong.

Stronger than I am. 

Don't sell yourself short, Marc. You're stronger than you know. 

I don't think so.

I think so. I know so. You've survived so far.

Will he be traded? 

I don't know. I'm the mother of God, not a fortune teller. 

Again with the jokes. 

Sometimes, Marc, jokes are all we have. 

Do you talk to Vladdie like this?

All the time, Marc. 

It figures. Why not me? 

Because, my love, you stopped listening, long, long ago.

"I'm sorry," Marc whispered, then lifted his head, suprised at the sound of his own voice. His phone was vibrating against his hip. He pulled it out and stared at the screen. 

RECCHI TO BOSTON. LASHOFF, KARSUMS TO TAMPA BAY.

Was that it? He looked at the time. Half an hour to the deadline. His palms began to sweat as he shoved the phone back in his pocket. He tried to pray.

GivemestrengthGivemestrengthGivemestrength.

IknowI'mnotsupposedtoaskbutpleaseDONTTRADEVLADDIEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE.

Metallic grinding far above his head. Gears clashing together. Springs coiling. Hammers cocking. A pregnant pause, then a loud clash, jarring him in his pew. 

Bong.  

Bong. 

BONG. 


Marc pulled his phone out again, set it on his palm, and stared as the seconds ticked away. One minute. Two. Three. He felt sweat roll down his face and drop from his chin. At last it vibrated, signaling a text message. With another glance up at Mary, and a wordless plea, he pushed the button to activate the text. One word flashed on the screen.  

SAFE.

He took a moment to affirm the sender: Zdeno Chara. 

"Thank you," Marc whispered, not knowing if he was expressing gratitude to his captain, his general manager, or his God. He leaped over the rail as if making a line change, pulled every bit of change he had out of his pocket, dropped the coins into the box below Mary's statue, and lit a candle. He looked up at the smiling statue. 

Thankyouthankyouthankyou.

Don't mention it. 

He turned and sprinted out of the church. He was due on the NESN set at TD Banknorth Garden in 20 minutes. Plenty of time to call Vladimir and tell him to knock the shit out of the Marlies. Even though Mary might not approve of the language.