I hope everyone had good holidays. Welcome 2015!

To start the new year, there's nothing I like more than working on a Warehouse 13 story!

As always, thanks to those who have read and favorited and especially reviewed.

For a little while here, we are into new territory. This is all stuff I had to come up with to explain what happened to Ivan. There's no borrowing or building on scenes from the actual show, like I did in the first few chapters.

Perhaps you, dear reader, will enjoy what I've come up with.

Perhaps not.


Ivan's place had been a bust. It was no more than a dingy studio apartment with the bare basics for human habitation. There was no tv, but one wall was covered with papers pertaining to artifacts, travel to America, and Artie. It reminded Artie of Claudia's place before she found him. In the car, even wearing his long, black trench coat and hat again, he still shuddered. Both of the youths hunted him to make good on things that he messed up in the past. Artie stared out the window thinking hard, searching for any way to make Ivan's future turn out as well as Claudia's.

Myka's sharp eye caught his shiver. "You ok?" She asked in a soft voice from the back seat.

Artie shrugged her concern off. "Yeah." But then he checked himself. He glanced over his shoulder slightly, as much twisting as his battered body would allow. He rubbed his arms and added, "I haven't been able to get warm since the uh- knife." He said with obvious discomfort at remembering the event, but it was true. He was unable to shake an over all chill that kept his hands and feet freezing. Pete reached over and cranked the switch to the red zone. Everything in the car was in different places and marked in Russian, but he hoped that red was universal for heat. A moment later the air from the vents increased a few degrees so he directed the air flow to blow on his boss.

"Turn here." Ivan instructed. He had been subdued since they captured him. Amazingly to his agents, Artie kept trying to talk to the youth about his father and his family and happenings in Russia. Pete thought that Artie was trying to win him over for some reason, but Myka thought that Artie was trying to get some certain piece of information that only Ivan knew.

"Right here." Ivan said. The Russian stared out the window as Pete brought the car to a stop. Ivan licked his swollen lip where Artie had punched him, but otherwise didn't move. The whole car looked at the little shack of a house on a small plot of land.

"How long has it been?" Artie asked.

Ivan didn't even blink. Slowly he said, "Twelve years."

A silent moment passed. Artie was the first to stir. "Ok, stay here with him. I'll be back." He opened the car door and got out, alarming his agents. Pete and Myka both objected and jumped out of the car. They rounded the car to close in on Artie, one on each side.

"Wait a minute. We're coming with you." Pete said.

"No." Artie answered shortly, hobbling up the stone drive.

"Artie, hold on. How do we know what's inside?" Myka protested, appealing to his logic.

"We don't." He said just as shortly.

Pete added, "And you're going in- just like that?" He motioned to his boss. Artie had cleaned up a bit in the ride over, wiping off most of the blood, but his lip was still swollen with marks on his face, not to mention his limp from his injured foot. But he had rolled down his sleeves to cover his bruised and swollen wrists and buttoned up his brown outer jacket to cover his ripped and blood stained shirt. Over all of that he put his now dirty black trench coat and fedora hat. At a passing glance he looked like he got into a scuffle, not tortured within inches of his life.

"Yes. Just like this!" He barked at Pete. Then he turned to Myka. "And yes, I'm going alone!" Artie buried his reaction to a spike of pain from his ribs that yelling caused. He quickly explained to his agents, his patience almost gone, "I'm the only one that has a connection to his family, and the only one that they might listen to. Not to mention-" He glared at Pete, and then directed his question to Myka. "How's your Russian? Hm?" Not waiting for an answer, he softened up a bit, knowing that his agents were concerned, and more than that, they were right. "Look." He glanced at Myka, then Pete. "I'm going to knock, get whoever is in there talking, then I'll wave you guys to come up with Ivan. I won't go in." He got a unhappy agreement from Pete, but he glared hard at Myka. "Ok?!" Myka didn't agree, but crossed her arms and looked away from him, expressing her displeasure at him basically pulling rank on her. Artie limped forward leaving his rebuked agents to give each other uncomfortable looks. Only a few feet later, Artie's foot slipped and hit the ground hard, sending sharp pains up his knees, back and ribs. He choked back a yelp of pain, causing his agents to spring to his aid.

"No! Back!" He was bent over from the pain, but held up a hand, freezing Pete and Myka in place. Artie used a single finger to draw a circle in the air. "Turn around." he gasped out. "Back to the car. Go." He straightened up and answered their worried looks. "I'll be fine. Go."

Pete and Myka went the few steps back to the car, but didn't go in. They leaned against the car and watched their stubborn boss limp up the small house by himself.

Artie took a breath, but not too deeply. He still twitched at the pain in his side that it produced. He collected his resolve. Artie knew that he only had to make it through what would hopefully be just a few minutes, but that there was no one else who could do it. Dreading moving again, Artie walked forward anyway, limping up the driveway. At the door, Artie took in the surroundings. The house was very modest, but solidly built. The front area was more of a concrete slab than a porch. He peeked in the window, as a matter of cautious habit before knocking twice. Several seconds passed with no answer. The agent was raising his hand to knock again when the door cracked open.

"Ah. Previet. (Hello.)" He said. A suspicious brown eye peeked out at him.

"Chto ty knochech'?" (What do you want?)

Artie sighed and bit his lip at hearing a female voice. He said a silent prayer that this was who he wanted. "Leeta?"

The eye narrowed in suspicion. "Chto ty knochech'?!"

Artie spoke a bit haltingly, his Russian rusty from disuse. "Ya proshel dolgiy put. My mozhem pogovorit'?" (I come long way to talk to you. Can we talk?) He tilted his head in a friendly manner and wished her not to ask about the marks on his face. As it was he wasn't sure how much longer he could stand there. His back was already painfully complaining.

The lady drew back slightly. "American?"

Artie's eye ticked slightly, annoyed that he was so easy to read. He made a note to work on his accent. He nodded. "Ya. American. Please. I want to talk with you about Ivan."

"Ivan?!" The door suddenly closed. Artie flinched back as a reaction to the door being shut in his face. He blinked several times, trying to figure out what happened before he heard noises of chains being pulled and locks removed. A moment later the door opened and Artie was facing a haggard looking woman.

Artie tilted his head and asked again. "Leeta? Are you Alexi's Leeta?"

The woman's mouth fell open slightly. "Alexi..." She regained her composure quickly, looking Artie in the eyes she asked directly, "Ivan?"

"Yes, of course." Artie turned to wave Pete and Myka up. The agents opened the car door. It took a moment for Myna to help Ivan out of the car and recuff his hands in front of him.

"Ivan!" The woman put her hand to her mouth and ran down the drive way. Ivan simply stood there, motionless. Before the woman got to him though, Ivan had taken a few steps towards her. They met and embraced. By then the woman was openly crying. Ivan stood stoically and let his mother hold him for a while in front of Artie, the agents, and whoever else wanted to look.