About a year ago, lorcleis, gigi256, sagemb (my wonderful, glorious, beautiful beta), and myself were hunkered down in a group chat on Skype tossing around fic ideas, and at one point, I said, "Have I shared my headcanon that Randall isn't Viktoria's father," to which sagemb replied, "I just had the most awful thought" and because the rest of us were dumb enough to ask her to share, she then said, "[what if] Abe is Vika's father", so here we are, thirteen months later.

Shoutout to my beta for prompting this, editing it, and then crying over it with me.

This might make you cry, too.

тоска (tós•ka) - No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom. — Vladimir Nabokov

AUGUST 1990

The house sits halfway down the road, light spilling out from the living room windows, like a ship in the night on the horizon. He's been doing this for several years now, coming to the ved'ma for her insights, but even now, his breath catches in his chest. He can't quite place his finger on why.

"'At it?" a voice comes from just behind him, disbelief coming through her Scottish accent, and not for the first time in the last week does Abe do his best to suppress an eye roll.

"Hathaway, have you ever heard of the idea that guardians should be seen, not heard?" he asks lightly, slowing as they approach the house. He smirks at how her mouth tightens in response and then glances between her and his other guardian, Igor. "I'll only be a little bit. You two can…stay here or something. Make yourselves busy."

"Sir, I must—"

"I'm about to walk into a house of five dhampirs, one of whom is a former guardian and another on his way to becoming a novice one day," Abe replies, his tone now veering into pleasant territory, "Forgive the assumption, but I believe I'll be fine."

"The last Strigoi attack in the area was months ago," Igor offers.

Abe nods his head. "Bear Cub here has the right idea." His eyes flick over her uneasy stance and argumentative posture. "He's been doing this longer than you have, Janine. I advise following his lead."

When she doesn't follow him, a little part of him feels victorious. It's short-lived, however, because the lumbering mess that stumbles out of the Belikov house, door banging behind him, immediately fouls his mood.

"Randall," Abe greets with a clipped voice, meeting him halfway between the house and the street.

"'S'you," Randall slurs. He sticks his hands in his jeans pockets after a couple attempts, and Abe takes in just how intoxicated the other man is. His eyes are bloodshot and he wavers in a circle where he's standing. "…Oh."

Randall's tall even by Moroi standards, and the few inches he carries over Abe suddenly seem that much larger. Nerves grip Abe tight, but he draws his shoulders up and refuses to let Randall intimidate him into backing down. Tiny five-foot guardians depending on him for employment are one thing; a royal Moroi with some pull in the current reigning family is another.

"Were you going somewhere with that thought?" Abe challenges, pushing as much bravado into his words as he can. He hates talking to Randall Ivashkov. He's not an English native speaker like Randall, and it always makes him feel like he's two steps behind in the conversation.

Randall sizes Abe up, running a hand through his hair. After a few moments, he seems to decide against something and says with a knowing look, "She's…'side." He jabs a thumb over his shoulder and passes Abe, knocking shoulders with him on the way. A few steps later, he turns around with a lecherous smile. "I wouldn't waste my time if I were you. She's not feeling like giving any tonight."

"I'm here to discuss business with Yeva," Abe replies quickly, releasing a mental breath that none of his words came out shaking at the mention of Olena. It's a standard excuse that's appeased the residents of Baia enough that they don't bother him much anymore.

Randall shrugs. "Like I said." He starts ambling away, a drunk stumble punctuating his steps. "Temno's probably got better options tonight."

"Thanks, but no thanks."

"'Thanks, but no thanks'?" Randall repeats, genuine confusion on his face.

Abe grins. "Unlike you, Lord Ivashkov," he calls out slowly, "I don't need to come to Siberia to have sex!"

Waving a hand dismissively, Randall disappears into the dark, and Abe watches him go, wondering what Olena ever saw in the guy.

Inside the house, Yeva and the kids are glued to the television, a news anchor prattling on about the vote to shut down Chernobyl, and Olena hovers in the doorway, a bulky dish towel pressed to her neck. When Abe catches her gaze, her familiar half-smile creeps out across her face.

"Kukhnya," she murmurs, gesturing to the kitchen with her head. "Mama zanyata."

He follows her across the hall, fingers brushing her shoulder. "Did he—?"

Olena doesn't answer; instead, she turns to the ancient samovar sitting on the table and busies herself with making tea, one-handed.

"I saw him," Abe continues gently, surprised to find himself needing a reaction from her.

"I only have the brooms," she says, a silent later in her tone as she pulls out a tin from the cupboard.

"That's fine," he replies. He'd never let his mother hear that to him, tea was tea.

She finishes. The samovar starts whistling impatiently. She gives it a soft shake. It stops whistling.

"You Turkish," she says after a minute, "You drink a lot of this, pravda?"

He nods and lets her make his glass. "Spasibo." She's still working one-handed. "And yes, we do. I may not be the best measure of how much, though. I can drink up to a liter an hour when I'm stressed."

She smiles behind her own glass. "I bet all the shopkeepers in…"

"Ankara."

"In Ankara knew your name," she says.

"Many do, yes."

In the dim light of the kitchen, he sees a lock of hair escaping the pins she uses to hold it back, and he's overcome with the strangest urge to tuck it behind her ear.

They drink in silence as the news program floats in from the living room. When she finishes, she sets her glass down, shifts the towel against her neck, and asks, "Outside?" She gives him an amiable smile and he wants to tell her that he's the only one in the room, that she doesn't have to put on her act just for him.

Instead, he returns the smile and agrees. "Sounds lovely."

On their way out, she pauses by the living room. "Mama," she calls softly, barely discernible over the television.

Yeva turns her attention to the pair of them. On the floor, the older girl, Karolina, is reading to the younger one, Sonya, and on the couch, sitting stock still, is Olena's son, Dimitri. If Abe had to guess, he'd say that the boy was listening to them and trying not to show it.

Abe can also guess that Olena picks up on her son's behavior, because instead of saying anything to her mother, she simply nods her head to the back door and then glances at Abe. Yeva's only response is a slight inclination of her head before turning back to the television.

In the backyard, Olena sits against the house, tucking the fabric of her dress underneath her legs, and smiles that half-smile when Abe joins her on the ground. The ice in her dish towel clank as she shifts it again.

"You are by yourself this time," Olena notes.

"They're patrolling the street."

"'They'?"

"My father put in for a second guardian for me."

"And you received one." She says it like she's unsurprised.

"It's getting harder for non-royals to get two guardians," he says. "I was the only one with this cohort. Some didn't even get their first."

She nods, processing his words. "And how is he, your second guardian?"

"She," he corrects, laughing at her momentary surprise, "Is something else."

"How so?"

"She missed the lesson on how much a guardian is supposed to speak."

Olena rolls her eyes. "And how much of this is you encouraging her?"

"How dare you suggest such an action." He mocks outrage with a hand to his heart and everything. "I hate sarcasm and I particularly despise when people speak their mind. Drives me mad, I tell you."

"You're fond of her," Olena notes, her head tilted in wonder.

Abe scoffs. "I can hardly be fond of someone I met a week ago."

She simply hums. "What's her name?"

"Janine Hathaway," he says, smiling a bit as Olena tries to repeat the name for herself. It comes out sounding like Katavai.

"This name, it is British, yes?"

"Scottish." He flinches at his memory from the train the other day. "I've been informed that there is a difference."

Olena half-smiles again. "You are definitely fond of her. I can see it."

He avoids that and lets his eyes drop to the dish towel. "How bad is it?"

Slowly, she pulls the makeshift ice pack off her neck, baring her bruised, bloodied neck for him to see. It looks horrific. He can't even imagine how much it must hurt.

"Oh, Alonya," he whispers, his hand finding hers in the grass between them. "You need to stop allowing him to visit."

She shakes her head, eyes watering. "A father can see his children."

"I don't think any of them want to see their mother like this as a result." Abe's lips thin and his fingers grip hers tightly. "You don't have to put yourself through this. Your mother turned out just fine without your father around."

Olena looks away, moonlight making the dried blood on her throat shine.

"Tell me you at least gave him permission to do this."

"Sometimes he gets so…" Her shoulders sag as she gives up her second struggle of the night, and by the time he tucks her head under his chin, she's crying.

And he lets her, because he knows she doesn't get to do this often — not when there are small children to be strong for and a mother to stubbornly prove wrong. He wraps his arms around and links his fingers together and doesn't mind that she's staining his button-down, not if it means she finally lets out what she keeps bottled up so tightly.

She surfaces for air after some time. Angrily scrubbing her hands across her face, she sits up, tucking her knees in close to her body. "It was not this bad before Sonya. I do not…" She sniffs, loud and wet and long and then still has to wipe her hand under her nose. "He was never physical before Sonya."

"But the last three years…"

She shrugs, ripping a blade of grass out of the ground. "He can be so charming and sweet, but when we are alone…I see Kalya shy away him from these days. I think he sees it, too. He now brings presents for them. Sonya and Dimka, they are too young to understand, I think, but Kalya…she picks up on things, I have noticed. He brought her a doll the last time he visited. I found it in the freezer the next day."

He stays silent, watching her rip out blade after blade of grass as she speaks.

"I knew it was too good to be true when I met him. An American, taking a notice in me? Some plain, average Soviet girl who never did anything remarkable? Surely it was some mistake, I think, but here we are, ten years later, and I…" She lets go of the grass in her hand, skin reddening from where she'd gripped tight, and watches the blades fall to the ground.

"I think you're far from average," Abe whispers, not thinking.

Her head shoots up, face blank. It's the expression she makes when she's not sure of something but is willing to be open to the idea of it.

And then, figuring he might as well continue on this train he kicked away from the station, he adds, "I think you're gorgeous."

She shoots up from the ground, pacing away to the end of the yard, and he's ready to get up and follow her or go inside and seek out Yeva, anything to mend this line he's just crossed, until she flips around and stares at him hard.

"Do you mean your words?" she asks.

He nods, slowly, heart pounding in his chest.

She crosses back over to him, dropping next to him on her knees. "If I ask you to kiss me, would you?"

Shock freezes him. "Wh-what?"

"If I ask you to kiss me," she repeats languidly, a playful smile on her face, "Will you say yes or no?"

Her directness isn't unusual to him — his homeland is among the more impatient ones — but it's the softness with which she delivers her bluntness that gets him. Her warm, brown eyes are sparkling with an idea, and where it curls forward, her hair is almost close enough to graze his face.

The rational side of him wants to say no, that as much as they may hate him, she still technically is with Randall. But it's the look in her eyes, like he can fix all her problems, that gets him.

"I would say…yes," he says, feeling like he's jumping off a cliff.

Lips twisting into a smirk, she jumps back up and holds out a hand to him. "Mama should be ready for you now. Davai," she adds when he doesn't move immediately, too blindsided by the exchange that just happened to comprehend what she's saying now.

He follows her into the house, wondering what on Earth just happened.

Her country rapidly falls apart after that night.

His father decides it's time for him to take on more responsibilities within the family business.

He learns that Janine Hathaway's auburn curls looks magnificent in sunlight and ethereal in moonlight and absolutely, achingly divine wrapped around his fingers.

There are nights he wonders about his almost-kiss with Olena Belikova before rolling over into Janine's arms, pushing the memory out of his thoughts.

AUGUST 1991

A year passes before he returns to Baia.

"This is your longest absence," Yeva observes as he enters the house sheepishly, Igor tagging along behind him.

"And your head of state has been kidnapped by his own police," Abe tosses back, following Yeva into the kitchen.

"Times are tough, yes, I know. Such is to be Russian." Yeva gives him a hard look before pointing to the table. "Sit."

"I thought you were Soviet," he calls out when she disappears across the hall to fetch her cards.

"My parents, they were Mensheviks, and their parents before them, too." Yeva shakes her head when she returns, taking the chair opposite Abe. "Besides, nobody knows anything anymore. Boris Nikolaevich Yeltsin was elected." She laughs a single, hollow laugh as she shuffles. "Nothing makes sense these days. Cut."

They fall silent as she works the deck. Halfway through dealing his spread, he hears someone slide in behind him. To his surprise, Olena takes the seat next to him, her hair longer than last year. She flashes him a quick smile before focusing on her mother's work.

Yeva's eyes flick to her daughter for half a beat, and she hums and taps the Ace of Wands. "I see a lot of your normal cards — hard work, hidden suffering, you know — but this." She's still tapping the Ace of Wands. "There is a new beginning in your life, but you are unsure of it."

"Why?" Olena asks, breaking Yeva's one rule during readings: Silence, or else.

True to form, Yeva shoots her daughter a displeased look, but answers the question nonetheless. "It deviates from his normal path. I would guess it was unplanned, this beginning, and thus you do not know how to proceed."

Olena makes a dissatisfied noise, but it's lost on Abe, who's staring hard at the card. He looks up to Yeva. "Do they say anything about the future of this new beginning?"

Yeva glances over the spread. "Unclear. There is quite a bit more lack of direction this time. It appears as though you are at a kind of crossroads, but…"

"But?" Olena prods, reaching for Abe's knee. The touch both soothes and distracts him.

Again, Yeva glares at Olena. "This is a new problem." She redirects to Abe. "Time has not been your friend on this."

He's sitting perhaps the stillest he's ever sat in his life. Next to him, he can feel Olena's gaze on his face, trying and failing to hide that she's trying to look for his reaction.

Yeva, to her credit, seems to sense that this reading has shaken him like no other before it. "I will take a ten percent discount today," she says quietly, redrawing the cards back into the deck. Blindly, he fishes the money out of his pocket and slides it across the table to Yeva before standing.

"You," he says, barely controlling his voice and pointing to Igor. "Stay here. Olena?"

She nods and stands, slipping between the chairs and the wall to stand beside him.

"I need air," he says, and then leaves for the front door, not waiting for her to follow him.

"Ibrahim!" she calls out when he reaches the street, and she sprints across the short yard to catch up to him. Her hair pins hold her hair back at her temples, like they've always done since the day he met her, and she absent-mindedly tucks a stray lock behind her ear when she catches up to him. "Kak tiy? What is going on?"

The words bunch up on his tongue, eager to burst out, but for some reason, he can't say them. He finds himself fearing her reaction. "Nichevo," he replies, resuming walking. "It was just too warm to stay inside."

"Don't—" She runs up to him again, grabbing his wrist and making him stop in place. "Why are you lying to me?"

"I'm not."

"I can tell when you are." Her face is stony. She's upset with him. That breaks his heart a little bit more. The last thing he wants is to make her unhappy, not when Randall does that enough for her to last a lifetime.

"It's—" And again, the words crowd against his teeth. A flash of freckles flits through his mind and it's enough to give him the courage to say, "Janine is pregnant."

"Oh." Her whole body wilts and she lets go of his wrist. Almost on instinct, she takes a step back. "Would this not be a good thing?"

"She doesn't…" His hands ball up into fists as he remembers their conversation a week ago, the one in which she broke his heart and didn't blink an eye in the process. Janine Hathaway, always so methodical and practical. No room for emotion. Ever. Talking to Olena is like a tidal wave of everything he's been burying in that time. "What I do is too dangerous, according to her."

"Your business that nobody knows nothing about." Leave it to Olena to look for humor where there was none.

"Olena."

"Izvinite." She pauses, taking him in. "This is not what you want."

"I love her."

"Does she love you?"

"I don't know."

Olena's mouth twists with displeasure. "If she loved you, she would do this a different way."

That's what I keep thinking, he thinks to himself. Aloud, he says, "Maybe."

"So you came to find out what to do next."

"Maybe," he repeats.

She tilts her head. "Why else did you come?"

She's so earnest in the way she's looking at him and it comes tumbling forward before he can stop himself. "Because when I'm with you, I can make sense of the world."

"What a lovely sentiment."

"I mean it." He's on the verge of tears, which rocks him further. He can't remember the last time he cried, and he'll be damned if he lets a woman get the better of him. "I get by alright when I'm out there, but here—" He closes the distance between them, cups her face. "Here is the only place that makes sense."

Biting her lip, her eyes dart around his face. "I want to kiss you."

His life is unravelling. "Then do it."

She shakes her head. "Not when you are like this."

He tears himself away with a groan.

"I have known you for five years, Ibrahim," she says, much more calmly than he feels, "And I have considered you a friend for four of these years. I can give you support, but you have been put in a position that I cannot help you out of. Do not blame me for this."

He turns to face her. Shoulders square and chin jutting out, she looks like she's been practicing this in the mirror.

"Not that it matters," he replies brusquely. "Not when you're still with him."

Her eyes turn stormy. "Leave Randall out of this."

"Why? So you can go running back to him the minute he surfaces again?" He's fuming now, all of his pent-up anger at Janine unfortunately releasing itself on someone who shouldn't have to bear any of it. "He treats you like a ragdoll but you're too blinded by your devotion to him to see what he does to you."

Her hand skates across her neck. "You know nothing about our relationship."

"I know he hasn't made you happy in years."

"You fell in love with her."

"You're too in love with him to notice anyone else."

She leans up into his space, taking up his entire viewframe. "Otvali," she hisses, and the swear stuns him into silence. She pushes past him, stalking back to the house in long strides, and he watches her go, wondering if he'll ever see her again.

In December, her country is little more than dust underfoot, and he watches the news report of the Kremlin raising the tricolors with a vice clenched around his heart.

In April, he gets a letter in the mail. Her name is Rosemarie. A wallet-sized photo of a tiny newborn drops out of the envelope, and he clutches it to his chest for an hour straight.

In August, Yeva sends him a telegram. I HAD A DREAM. STOP. DAVAI. STOP.

AUGUST 1992

Olena opens the door for him after he knocks. She looks momentarily surprised, but she folds it under a blank expression almost immediately.

"Mama!" she yells back into the house, not taking her eyes off him. "Ibrahim is here!"

Yeva comes up behind her daughter and shoos her away. "You," she says, jabbing a finger at Abe, "Come with me."

He nods and quickly follows her down the hall, the sounds of small children laughing reaching him as they breeze by the living room. She leads him to her room next to the back door and takes a seat on her bed.

"You said you had a dream," Abe prompts, closing the door behind him.

She nods. "Da, I did."

"About…?"

"You."

He waits a few moments before asking, "Is that it?"

Squinting at him, she says, "You are not to hurt my daughter, you understand?"

"What?" he asks, blindsided.

"That poor excuse of a man has already damaged her too much. Unfortunately, there isn't much I can do about that now. But you," she says, fixing him with a look that could wither flowers, "It is not too late for you."

"I'm utterly lost," he admits, his heart in his throat.

"I have only let you come back as much as I have because you are the only person she trusts. He has taken her friends from her and he has tried his best to turn her against me, but you are untouchable to him. She needs that. She needs someone to fight back for her."

His mouth gapes as he tries to keep up with what Yeva is saying.

"But if you do anything to hurt her, I will personally see that your kneecaps hang from my rafters. Are we clear?"

It suddenly hits him why everyone in Baia is terrified of Yeva Belikova, and it takes all he has not to shy away from her. "Ya ponimayu," he says. "I understand."

"Khorosho. Now get out of my bedroom."

He nearly runs out, flinging the door open in the process, and collides with Olena in the process.

"You look like you have seen a Strigoi," Olena teases, a smile on her lips.

"In all fairness," he replies, "Your mother is terrifying."

Olena shakes her head. "Only if you let her be. What, did she have a dream about you?"

"Yes."

"Funny," she says, though her tone is devoid of any amusement. "She said the same thing to me the other morning."

"I would assume she has lots of dreams, unless she hangs upside down from the ceiling every other night."

Letting out a small peal of laughter, Olena throws her head back. "Says the vampire," she says, making her way down the hall towards the kitchen. "Stay for dinner? I want to talk later."

All he can do is nod in response.

—

When later rolls around, he finds them sitting in front of the fireplace, their backs to the couch, her head on his shoulder as she fingers the edge of her glass of tea.

It's her that eventually breaks the silence. "I am sorry for last year."

"What—Oh. That."

"Yes, that."

"You…" He sets down his tea glass to the side and rubs the back of his neck. "You don't have to apologize. I lashed out at you."

"I told Randall I don't need him to visit so much anymore."

"How did he take that news?"

She shrugs a shoulder. "Sonya is beginning school with the other two this autumn. He seemed to take it well enough."

"From what I know of him, that's…surprising."

"I suspect I am not the only woman in his life these days." Her accent thickens over her words and he can feel her shift, like the idea makes her uncomfortable. "He only comes because of the children these days anyway. The last few times he was here…well, it was not me he came for."

"As long as that means he isn't hurting you anymore."

She laughs. The sound is humorless. "He has always taken what he wants, when he wants it. I am sure he will be back. It is always me he comes back to."

"What do you mean?" Abe asks softly.

"This is not the first time his attention has strayed." She sighs. "I am used to it, however. It is what happens for girls like me in Baia."

"You deserve so much better, Alonya."

She picks her head up and stares at him, shadows dancing along the edges of her half-smile. "You should have been the mysterious foreigner I met in a dance club eleven years ago."

"I would have treated you like the goddess you are," he says seriously.

She pressed a finger to his mouth, shaking her head. "Stop, or I will kiss you."

He raises an eyebrow. She drops her hand and he catches it halfway to the floor, linking his fingers between hers. "Compliments make you uncomfortable," he says.

"I hear them only rarely," she admits, her eyes searching his.

"That's a tragedy."

"Such is my life."

He simply meets her gaze and then slowly starts to lean in towards her. "Is this a tragedy?" he asks when he gets close, his lips brushing against hers.

"Not at all," she whispers back, closing the last bit of distance with an enthusiasm that almost knocks him over.

MAY 2010

He slips in through the backyard, hoping to draw as little attention as possible. A couple people give him wary looks and he merely glances back, aiming for just above their brow ridge so that they're unsure if he's looking at them or not. A person on edge doesn't ask questions.

"I didn't think you would show," a voice says next to him after he nabs a half-finished bottle of vodka off one of the card tables scattered around. Olena, tipsy and sad, gives him a rueful smile.

"My almost-son-in-law went and got himself killed." He raises the bottle. "To decisions in love that could've been better made."

Olena hums, her eyes drifting towards the pair of teenage girls sitting in front of the bonfire. "I never saw a photo of her," she says, nodding towards Rose. "But I knew who she was the moment I walked in the room."

"Strong genetics," Abe muses, taking a long swig of vodka.

"Not so much in the other one." Olena steals the bottle from him. "I think Karolina sees the resemblance. She mentioned it after dinner the other night." She takes a swig. "The longer Rose is here, the more I see Vika in her."

"I would imagine your mother knows."

Olena rolls her eyes and takes a another drink, this one long enough to worry Abe. "Can't hide anything from her."

"Is she taking Rose to see your brother tomorrow?"

"I think so. She has a bond with a friend of hers back in the States. Dim—" She pauses, fingers clenching around the neck of the bottle. "Dimitri mentioned it once."

Across the yard, Viktoria pours Rose another far-too-large cup of vodka and Rose doesn't seem to notice. "Come here," he says, brushing his fingers against her wrist and angling his head towards the house.

Inside, in the room she shares with her mother, she sets the bottle down on the dresser and collapses into his arms, shaking with sobs, and like he did twenty years prior, he lets her cry it out.

"My son," she chants into his shirt, over and over, "My son, my only son, my son…"

"You gained a daughter," he whispers into her hair, his arms tight around her shoulders. She's gripping his suit jacket like he might fly away. "And you gave Rose a sister."

"I wish I could have them all."

"I know, Alonya, I know." He kisses the top of her head. "Believe me, if I could bring him back, I would. Anything for you."

She pulls back enough to look at him. "Everything is so unfair. Not that life can be perfectly happy, but…"

"You've had your share of bullshit," he finishes, wiping away an errant tear with his thumb. "I know. It seems every moment we have, one of us is crying."

She laughs at that, like she's forcing herself to appreciate the humor. "One day, it won't be like this. One day, we'll be happy and free."

He says nothing in response, instead pulling her close and swaying them gently back and forth as she works on putting her façade of strength back on for the millionth time in her life.