Hello! I don't have much to say now other than I hope you enjoy! Please leave a review and tell me what you think!

Disclaimer: Don't own the show, never will. Let's be real here.

-Chapter One-

It was warm. Much too warm to be winter, but in California, t-shirts and shorts were not completely crazy during the month of November. Ivan decided this odd weather was preferable to the freezing cold climate in Russia. But he quickly stashed the thought. Because...because he wouldn't think about that.

With a sigh, Ivan looked at the potted sunflower on the sill of the largest window in his bedroom. Its bright yellow petals glowed against the rays of sunlight that streamed in. The brown circle of seeds in the middle of the flower were a perfect contrast to the lively yellow. It carried itself with a slightly bent but proud green stem, tall and thin.

Ivan wished his room, his house, his life was like that beautiful flower: colorful and lively.

He lived in what could be considered a mansion. Three floors of expensive furniture, glass chandeliers, the biggest and best televisions, surrounded by a colorful garden to top it all off. He owned a library, a small movie theater, a huge pool, even a dance and music room; anything and everything he had thought he always wanted. What was too risky to buy in Russia was an easy payment in the United States of America—for different reasons than one might think. Not because of the cost, but because here, he was not looking over his shoulder every few seconds. His trusty metal pipe did not need to go to bed with him. Spending money was normal, envied even. It was okay to call attention to yourself with unnecessarily large and ridiculous living spaces.

Right now, he was Ivan Braginski, a big man with big money. Back then, he was Ivan Braginski, a dangerous man with dangerous people. He did not regret fleeing Russia, but he did crave something else. His younger and older sisters, Natalya and Katyusha, loved the riches and pampering. Their happiness was the reason why Ivan would put up with feeling like he would lose himself in his big, empty mansion. But he wished he could wake and have something, perhaps someone, to look forward to.

Natalya attended a nearby high school. Katyusha went back to medical school to finally pursue her dream of becoming a nurse. Ivan laid in bed and wondered whether or not he should find a hobby.

It was tiresome in an impossible way. He was tired of doing absolutely nothing, but some inexplicable feeling did not allow him to do anything with his life, lest he end up neck-deep in some other illegal business, when he had finally fled from the dangers of Russia. Sometimes he would find it in himself to search the internet for jobs, but there were no eye-catching occupations.

Ivan wanted friends more than anything. He was intimidating, and—although he did not realize it most of the time—cruel to others. It made him an outlier. He scared people into running away, which scared himself at times. He wanted to be hugged when he was feeling sad, wanted love when the world seemed hopeless. Not in the possessive way Natalya held him—it was uncomfortable and unsettling. Not in the tentative way Katyusha held him—it made him feel like he had done something wrong.

He was snapped out of his thoughts when he heard a soft knock at the door. With a frown he looked at the sleek black clock on his bedside table. It was obviously Katyusha, for Natalya would not be nearly as gentle, but her classes did not end until late in the afternoon. When he glanced at the clock on his bedside table, the bright green number that met his eyes made him raise a brow. Was it really 2:30 already?

Ivan untangled himself from gray and blue sheets and made his way over to the mahogany brown door at the front of his room.

"Um, hello, brother," Katyusha greeted.

"Privyet, sestra," Ivan said in his native tongue.

"Vanya, you are forgetting that we are in America. Please try to speak English more often," Katyusha said softly, looking at the floor.

"Of course, forgive me," said Ivan. He spotted a bright green, neatly folded paper in her pale hands. Vaguely, interested, he asked, "Did you want to show me something, sister?"

She lifted her head with unusual enthusiasm. "Ah, yes! I was thinking, brother, you do not seem happy with the way we are living. It makes me very sad. I know Natasha does not like it either. Um, a classmate of mine introduced me to a group for...," she bit her lip, uncertainty written all over her features. Katyusha blurted out, "troubled kids. Like you. You are troubled, brother, and I think other people can be helping you. The sessions start in three weeks, not far from here. Please, please, go." With a nervous glance at Ivan, she thrust out the paper.

Ivan skeptically took it from her hands. Was she calling him crazy? He wouldn't blame her, since he strongly believed the same thing, but hearing Katyusha voice their thoughts made his stomach drop. Well, being insane wasn't illegal, was it? Ivan had no intention of going to this gathering. His problems were nothing like other stupid twenty-three year olds who wanted to commit suicide or suffered from ADHD. Perhaps even my-ego-is-bigger-than-my-head disorder, or maybe antisocial disorder. Although, the latter might have formed somewhere in his mind without his realizing it. Certainly wouldn't be surprising, but admitting to another problem would cause a headache.

"Sister, I am fine. You do not need to worry." Ivan said firmly.

Katyusha's face fell. "Please, brother, I know you are unhappy. You will like it, I am sure."

"Nyet. I will not go. It would only make things worse." Ivan made to close the door, but Katyusha's sudden outburst startled him into halting.

"No! Vanya, it has been a year! A year you have only left the house for groceries or to water your sunflowers. A year you have shut us out! I have never been of much use to this family, and you are hurting, you are just not knowing it. Is not right, brother. If you will not be letting us help you, then let others!"

Rarely did she change her kind and patient demeanor so drastically. Ivan was touched, he supposed, but also annoyed. The louder she got, the less she cared for grammar. He was distracted by the thought. For a minute, both were silent. Katyusha had started sniffling, wiping a hand across her tear stained cheeks. Ivan brooded over her words. Hurting? No, not hurting, but he did not like the public. It made him uneasy, and why should he put himself in that situation when he could easily stay home? There was no reason to leave, no reason to wake, to sleep, to live. Moving to America had seemed so grand, but now that he was here, a small part of Ivan wanted to go back to Russia. A seed had been planted into his heart all those years ago in his homeland, when he and his siblings were taken by the evil. Fighting the growing hatred proved fruitless. His pain was nurtured until, at the age of twenty, he was a ruthless murderer who enjoyed doing the deed. He was good at it, too. It was relaxing at times.

Ivan controlled nothing in his life. But he decided how, when, with what the victim was killed. He controlled nothing, except for his power to summon blood from beneath the bruised and battered skin of his victims. And it felt so good. He wanted the power.

However, like everything else, that domination slipped through his fingers. As his mind descended into the abyss of insanity, he lost his grip. No longer did he kill for the ecstasy, he killed for the necessity. It was an addiction. And Ivan decided he did not like the feeling of needing something, so he stopped. And left. Fled. Ran. Cowardly. Pathetically. Wea—

"Vanya?" Katyusha said cautiously. "Will you be considering it?"

"No." He narrowed his eyes. "Let me be. You are right when you are thinking I am crazy, sestra. I will not hurt anyone, though. I am fine." Ivan closed the door, the paper still clasped tightly between his fingers.

"Just promise me something, moy mladshiy brat." Katyusha persisted through the thick piece of wood separating them.

"What will I be promising, Katyusha?" Ivan asked cautiously.

"Do not hide in this house, Vanya. It is too big for one person. There is a lovely restaurant in the city, across from the big ice cream parlor. Treat yourself tomorrow, please?"

He did not reply. She thought he was hiding. Ivan, an experienced heartless killer, was not hiding. That was ridiculous, there was nothing to hide from.

At his silence, Katyusha had started to cry loudly. Ivan felt a pang of guilt. With a resigned sigh, he said, "I will go, sister. But only this once."

He climbed into his bed and lay there for the rest of the day, thinking over what he had agreed to. It was nothing big, really, but seeing people—interacting with them; that was required to order food, and to pay. What an inconvenience. His intimidating stature usually kept others away, which was a win-win. He would act decidedly cold to the few that approached him, and it was amusing to watch when they scampered away with their tails between their legs.

Well, it couldn't be helped. Ivan would go out for what he was sure would be the last time.

…

Because of his lack of familiarity with the city, Ivan did not find the place his sister had described for about half an hour. When he finally spotted a large sign that said THE AMERICAN DREAM hanging above a small, half-empty restaurant, he sighed in relief and parked in the provided lot.

With a light push, he opened his car door and walked inside of the hole-in-the-wall. A bell chimed above his head as he entered. Circular wooden tables were scattered across carpeted floor. The walls were a warm yellow and pastel blue.

He decided to sit toward the back so that he could have eyes on everything in the restaurant, just for his peace of mind. Nearby, there was a black metal spiral staircase leading to another floor that was overflowing with books, with only three or four tables.

There were also tall bookshelves lining the walls on the first floor, each stuffed with books of all sizes. Ivan spotted medical dictionaries, school textbooks, and comic books. The place was like a mixture of a café, a restaurant, and a library. It was quaint, comfortable, relatively quiet; relaxing.

Immediately, a grinning young man approached him. He had wheat-colored blond hair and bright blue eyes. His outfit consisted of a plaid shirt and pair of worn out looking jeans, covered by a stained black apron. Dirty red converse stuck out beneath his pants. Very American.

"Hey there, good lookin'!" He greeted, "My name's Alfred, and I'll be your waiter today. What can I getcha?"

"I am not sure what I would like yet," Ivan said, picking up a menu from the table and looking at it.

"Okay, we'll start you with a water. Have you been here before?" Alfred asked with a smile.

"Ny -no, I have not." He put the menu down.

"Awesome!"

To Ivan's bemusement, and annoyance, the man sat down across from him in the open seat of the table.

"I haven't seen you before," Alfred said, "are you visiting?"

"I moved here this past year. I do not like leaving my house unless I need to," Ivan explained. He gave Alfred a chilling stare in an attempt to get him away.

Alfred did nothing of the sort. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and nodded his head knowingly. "Mm, I feel ya, dude, there's nothing like laying back in ma maison after a long day. Know what that means? It's French for 'my house.'"

Ivan frowned in confusion.

"Yeah," Alfred continued, "my little brother tried to teach me that stupid language. So hard, ugh. Plus, the only Frenchie I know is a real pervert. Think they're all like that?"

The Russian's patience was waning.

"Aren't you the talkative type. What's going on in that head of yours, dude?"

No answer.

"Hey, man, I know you habla ingles so that won't work on me."

First French, now Spanish? Ivan was not-so-slowly becoming angry. He clenched his fists, determined-although not so motivated-to keep from dragging the man into an alley and beating him. Your old habits are coming out, he said firmly to himself, control it.

"Okay, let's go with a simpler question: name?" The idiot was talking again.

In hopes of getting Alfred to leave, he reluctantly said, "It is Ivan."

"Ooh, cool. Exotic, I like it! Russian? I'm getting the commie vibe, dude."

The glare Ivan gave him would send lesser men to their knees. "My country is no longer communist."

"Uh, yeah, actually, it is."

"If you do not leave me in the next five seconds, I will show you just how communist I am," Ivan spat.

Alfred raised his hands in the air as a sign of surrender. "Dude, don't take it seriously, this is modern day society! Everyone generalizes these days! Calmate, bro."

"What is this-this thing you are doing?" Ivan asked, distracted. "Why are you speaking in different languages?"

"I'm just testin' out which ones I'm gonna speak in the future," Alfred said confidently. "I mean, I could speak any of 'em if I really wanted to, just so you know, but I'm waiting for the right time."

"Judging by the size of your brain, I do not think the time will ever be right."

Alfred narrowed his eyes. "What're you trying to say, commie?"

"I think that is fairly obvious," Ivan said through gritted teeth, suddenly very enthused to grate on Alfred's nerves. An eye for an eye, after all.

But he realized something: the moron had not shown any signs of fear. No trembling, no crying, no panic; usual symptoms of Ivan's intimidating physique and personality. Not only had Alfred not backed down, but he had risen to the challenge. He had started it. And for that, Ivan gave him begrudging respect, but he could not tell whether it was charisma or stupidity that kept the American standing tall in front of him. The latter seemed more likely.

"You are not scared of me," he stated.

"What, is that a requirement?"

"Of sorts."

"I am so not in the mood for cryptic-ass Ruskie comments right now."

In an instant, Ivan grabbed Alfred's shirt collar and dragged him forward so that they were a mere inch apart. He smiled, a sickeningly sweet smile that finally brought a spark of uneasiness and well-hidden fear from within the American's bright blue eyes. "I would like it if you not refer to me that way. It hurts my feelings, and my feelings are very delicate," he threatened.

Alfred pulled back roughly, glaring. "Asshole." He walked away, his body tense with anger. The restaurant was quiet, all eyes on the two of them, not that either cared, or even noticed the scene they were making.

Ivan had not ordered yet, though. He frowned in disappointment. While that man had certainly-how did they say it?-pushed his buttons, he was still hungry, and Alfred's absence would not solve that problem.

Another thought arose. The American had called him good looking. Was that a normal greeting from one man to another here? Or did that mean his sexual orientation differed from most. Was the compliment supposed to imply that he was interested? Ivan never paid much attention to his looks. The occasional woman had attempted to seduce him back in Russia, but there had always been a reason, and it was never a good one. He knew he was not ugly, but he never cared enough to wonder whether he was handsome. After all, who was he to judge? He figured, if he tried, he could clean up nicely, but the need rarely arose. Ivan didn't even know what gender he liked. He knew Alfred was certainly not ugly, but he felt no attraction to the man-although the feelings of being annoyed and revolted and dismissive were not absent.

In fact, he had never felt an attraction to anyone.

With a the smallest of shrugs, Ivan let the thought dissipate and wander back to his hunger.

To his surprise, however, as he was contemplating whether or not it was faster to wait for another waiter or ask for the manager, Alfred appeared, along with a plate full of food that made a loud clang as he dropped it onto the table unceremoniously.

"Boss man says you'll probably sue 'cause, apparently, and I quote, 'The customer is always right. Especially when they're wearing a five fucking thousand dollar watch.' Geez, what oversensitive asshole came up with that policy? Looks tacky, in case you were wondering. I mean, why don't you just write the numbers instead of some goddamn x's and l's!"

"Roman numerals, you fool," Ivan said. "Are you so stupid that you do no know this?"

He was ignored.

At the sight of three greasy-looking pieces of bacon squished against two equally unappetizing-looking sausages, Ivan frowned. The eggs looked normal, at least.

"I did not order this."

"You didn't order anything, jerkface, this is on the house."

"We are not in a house." Was it another one of those sayings that made no sense? A difficult part of integrating himself into American society was becoming accustomed to the words and phrases that were not usually literal, but code for something else. Ivan was still getting over the disgust of the commonly used "hitting" on someone. Who in their right mind used an abusive term to compare to a mostly sexual situation?

"It's a saying," Alfred said in an exasperated tone. He spoke with his hands, waving them around. "That means it free. Free food. Doesn't cost nothin'."

"I do not want this. I would like a bowl of fruit." said Ivan, adding a mental tally mark to the growing reasons of irritation from this man after hearing the improper grammar.

Alfred pointed at the plate. "And that?"

"You may have it if you'd like."

Suddenly, Alfred was all smiles. "Really, dude? Aw, thanks, man, you're the best!" He exclaimed, and shoveled the food into his mouth. It was a horrifying sight.

"Have you heard of manners, you pig?" Ivan asked.

Despite the insult, Alfred did not appear bothered. He only shook his head, stuffed his mouth with an egg, and said, "Nah, I believe in efficiency."

"That is disgusting."

Another voice came from across the room. "Jones, what have I told about eating leftovers in front of customers!"

"He didn't want it, boss!" Alfred yelled back at a woman standing next to the kitchen's entrance, who was presumably the manager.

She wiped her hands on the apron covering her green dress and walked over, a scowl on her face. "I swear, if your mother hadn't been such good woman..."

Alfred grinned. "Eliza. Eliza. You know you love me."

Eliza rolled her eyes and turned to the forgotten customer, hiding her nervousness behind a smile. "I, uh, I am terribly sorry for the inconvenience, sir," she said, "we'll get you a new plate and a new server right away."

"Is no problem," Ivan replied. "However, I would appreciate if you could control..." He pointed at Alfred.

The boy glared. "Just what are you tryin' to say, huh?"

"That you are an idiot and a terrible waiter."

"Eliza, babe, let's kick him out! You grab a pan, I'll pin him down till then!" Alfred lunged.

Eliza yanked him back by the neck and whacked him upside the head. "That is Elizabeta to you, sweetie." She tightened her grip, but turned back to Ivan. "Do you know what you'd like to eat?"

He nodded. "Two eggs and a side of fruit."

Elizabeta let her employee go and wrote down the order. "Just give me a minute. I'll be back with your order. Move it, Alfred."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm going."

"Excuse me?"

Alfred grumbled as he stood. "Yes, ma'am."

"And what do you say to the, er, nice man?" She gestured at Ivan, casting a wary glance.

Alfred balked. "That piece of-?"

"Alfred Jones."

"Jesus, woman!" He huffed, turning to Ivan. "I'm so, so incredibly sorry you couldn't comprehend, Mr. Commie Bastard."

"Say that again." Ivan warned, giving a vicious smile. What a child, he fumed.

"That's it! In the kitchen. You're on dishwater duty for a month. And you are starting your shift at six for the next three weeks!"

"I'm sorry, Ivan! Happy?"

After more apologies for her employee's idiocy and promises of free food, Elizabeta walked back to the kitchen, seemingly satisfied by the response of both men. Alfred started to follow.

"Follow your master, dog," Ivan taunted, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms with a smirk.

Alfred spun around, flipping up his middle fingers and waving them around in Ivan's direction.

Ivan chuckled. He was thoroughly unimpressed by the service, and wondered if it was like this everywhere; although he hoped that wasn't the case. Still, it was amusing, despite the boiling rage.

In less than a minute, his order arrived, catered by a much more polite brunet whose name was Toris, but the young looking man started trembling as he set down the plate, his fear radiating in waves. Pity.

Ivan snatched a psychology textbook from one of the bookshelves, skimming through it as he ate.

It was an almost pleasant experience. Between the very easily conjured anger caused by the American boy and the entertainment from consequential situation, Ivan told himself he would not mind doing it again, but chose not to tell that to Katyusha. It really wasn't all that bad, but there was something, something he couldn't put his finger on, that kept him from turning on the light of the pitch black room he had holed up in in his mind, from crawling out of his cave and back into civilization, from creating a new life for himself, a real one.

Ivan pulled into the driveway of his home at eleven o'clock. He had left at nine.

He was not in the mood to lie in bed, so tending to his sunflowers in the backyard was the next best option. The time went quickly. His sisters arrived, and he found himself sitting in the dining room for an early dinner, much to the surprise of all three of the siblings.

There was a long pause.

"I-I'm very glad you are eating with us today, brother," Katyusha said after the food was placed and they were seated.

Ivan stayed silent, unsure as to why he was about to dine with his family when it had been a year since he had done it last.

Katyusha changed the subject, turning to Natalya, who was giving her brother an unfathomable stare. "Natasha," Katyusha used the nickname Ivan had given the youngest of the three, "how was school today?"

"Fine, sister." Natalya looked down at her food, pushing it around her plate.

There was a layer of awkwardness that was draped over them like a blanket. It was obvious there was an uncomfortable level of uncertainty that pointed at Ivan's presence, despite the relief and surprise. Ivan felt an uncomfortable pang of sadness when he understood how much he threw his sisters off. He stood, making to leave, but Natalya was quick to grab his hand in a bone-crushing grip.

Ivan started, ready to make a run for it (he was not scared, just very aware of how good his sister was with a knife, and how she kept one strapped to the inside of her thigh). Her eyes were staring straight at him, fierce, demanding, but also filled with desperation. "I will be graduating this year, big brother. I will be given an award for having the highest grade of my class."

Ivan sat back down cautiously, looking at Natalya. She had always unsettled him, what with her unhealthy-for both parties-obsession with him. She scared him, even. But here she was, almost grown up, so different-yet exactly the same-as the girl he had helped raise all those years ago. She was a little more independent now, he could tell, but there was still the hint of want and need in her eyes. That want and need was for her brother they all knew, that want and need that never changed, was never satisfied, was always there.

"That is wonderful, Natalya," Ivan said, careful to keep the self-loathing of his voice, for his sister's sake, lest she mistake that he was directing it at her. After all, he had all but ignored them for a year, yet they still seemed to gladly accept his presence, although it was not completely obvious, masked by the loss at what to do with their beloved protector suddenly reappearing. And he knew that they were silently praying it was the nicer Ivan that returned, not the one craving for blood. "I am proud of you."

Natalya let him go, her face portraying that of a child who yearned for approval, and was proud as hell to have gotten it. But there was no smile, for that was one expression she seemed incapable of.

"And what of college, Natasha?" Katyusha's proud smile was laced with mild alarm at the thought of her sister and college in one sentence.

"I have been accepted into UVPD. They have given me a scholarship. I will be pursuing biotechnological engineering."

"Ah, you are very smart indeed, Natalya, far smarter than the two of us," Ivan chuckled.

"Vanya is right," Katyusha smiled. "You will do so well!"

Natalya nodded her head, almost shyly. "Thank you, brother, sister."

The rest of dinner was eaten in silence, but the spell had been broken. The tense atmosphere had vanished.

They had never been a particularly talkative family, so no more conversation was needed. The girls were in a slight disbelief. After months and months of waiting, it seemed their brother was finally coming back to them. But how? they wondered. The question was disregarded quickly. It did not matter how, it mattered that no, this wasn't a dream, he was there, talking,

smiling almost, protecting, as he always had.

Once Natalya left, claiming she still had homework-accompanied by a hesitant farewell to her big brother-Katyusha and Ivan were left alone.

"How are your classes, Katyusha?" he asked.

"Very nice," she responded, "my classmates are very kind. As are the teachers."

"I am glad to hear this news."

"How was breakfast?"

"It was not bad."

Katyusha smiled and grabbed one of Ivan's hands between hers, giving a small squeeze. "I am glad to hear this news," she whispered.

He squeezed back, but looked down. "…What am I doing, Katyusha?"

"What do you mean?"

"I have no place here, I cannot-"

"Moy brat, you will always have a place. I can only hope that place is here, with us, but you are right, I do not think it is. Do not be thinking that is wrong."

A moment of silence, hesitation.

"But you will not find your place unless you look for it...Look for it, Vanya. Please try to look for it."

Vanya. How long had it been since she called him that? How long had it been since they had a conversation long enough for that nickname to be used? It brought back a rushed flood of memories where his sister had been the one protecting him. "Is not so easy."

"It is."

"Do not-"

"It is, brother."

"...Perhaps," Ivan agreed finally. Then he stood. "I will sleep now, sister."

"Goodnight, Vanya."

"Goodnight, Katyusha."

"Oh, please, wait a second."

"What is it?"

"I am going shopping two days from now. Will you come from me?"

There was no answer.

"Vanya. Please come with me?"

"I do not want to."

"Please come with me."

Katyusha left Ivan at his bedroom door before he could say no. She did not like being assertive, because it always seemed to go hand in hand with rudeness. But it was about time someone opened her little brother's eyes, for he would not do so willingly.