A/N: Happy Monday, everyone!
Yassen watched Alex sigh and fidget with his cane for what had to be the fiftieth time. He knew he should be a little sympathetic to the brat; after months on the run in almost total isolation, Yassen was now subjecting him to a dinner party with Dima, of all things, and the boy would have to be on his best behavior a mere two days after his little balcony freakout. Knowing that was not enough to persuade Yassen's brain, apparently. Rather than muster any sympathy, he found himself transfixed by the little knob on the back of the boy's head.
He was tempted to murder Briar for showing Alex what a manbun was.
Of all the things he could be filling his mind with- mentally preparing to make calculated social moves with Dima, assessing what he could about the family structure of the mob, factor it all in the constant mess of comparisons he had to run about the internal state of the bratva versus Scorpia versus the SVR- he found himself longing to hook his index finger through the little loop of hair and slide a knife across the base. To destroy the offending strands.
It was just hair. It shouldn't bother Yassen this much.
And yet it did.
It was only after they'd taken a taxi across town and stepped through the lobby of Dima's apartment building, assessed the handful of security men Yassen had made a point to acknowledge, and been directed to the elevator that Yassen was able to pinpoint any reason why: he was embarrassed of how awful it looked.
Of all the things. Of all the things Yassen had thought himself intellectually free of after years of rigorous mental conditioning and meditation, he somehow still had the capacity to care about how Alex's appearance reflected on him. At least when they'd been traipsing across America, they hadn't stayed anywhere long enough for Yassen to have any kind of reputation. It had irritated him, but he hadn't found the time to dwell. Russia was already starting to feel semi-permanent.
He glanced down at the bottle of nice vodka he'd bought as a gift. Suppressed the urge to pop it open.
They stepped into the elevator, decorated with white paneling and a mirrored ceiling. Probably concealed a camera at minimum: Dima wasn't the top of the food chain, but he was important nonetheless and by job description alone required to be cautious. Alex glanced up at his reflection- dark circles under his eyes, stupid hair, and all- and sighed again. "Are you sure there's no way out of this?"
"Don't complain," Yassen said, without any real heat. He had far smaller problems consuming him. "At least this way, you'll know someone else at your school."
Alex gave him a flat look. "So this is essentially a playdate? I think I'm a bit too old for that."
"It's just dinner, little Alex." Yassen grimaced. "And I can only refuse the invitation so many times. You're not obligated to like Dima's children, but you are obligated to behave. And use your cover name, for the sake of getting them in the habit of using it at school. I already reminded Dima."
"Fine." Alex grimaced and flexed his leg out. "You said something about it being a holiday before. Am I going to have to pretend to understand any weird traditions or anything like that?"
"It's just the old New Year, from before the Soviet Union switched to the Gregorian calendar." He shrugged, catching Alex's look. "Think of it like Boxing Day. Most people sit at home and enjoy the day off."
Alex scowled as the elevator opened and they approached the door of the apartment. Hopefully the brat could maintain his relative mildness tonight. He'd granted him an extra half-tablet of oxycontin in exchange for not taking any of the cannabis tincture Yassen had made an effort to source the day after he'd found him on the balcony. In small amounts, the painkillers kept the boy on the sedate side, whereas the cannabis tended to produce more obvious signs of a high; since it wasn't his preferred drug, the ex-child-spy was prone to overdoing it anyway. Alex had agreed to the trade- but made no promises should the night turn into a shitshow without his help.
Yassen pinched the bridge of his nose as he rang the bell. He hadn't let himself forget finding Alex on the balcony- he couldn't afford to. Obviously, he had been massively negligent in leaving the pills just lying around while Alex was vulnerable and recovering. It was a wonder Alex didn't overdose on Yassen's stupidity alone. Berating himself the entire time, Yassen forced himself to accept the lesson as it had been given and made time the very next day to source Alex a less risky alternative to getting high.
The thick door was opened by a young girl at least a few years younger than Alex (though they looked physically close in age), her pale, almost colorless hair pushed back with a neat black headband. She glanced at them both with muddy colored eyes and pulled the door open for them to enter. "You are Papa's friends?" she asked in Russian. "Please come in. Dinner is going to be late."
"Ah, there you are," Dima said, strolling forward and pointedly using English with a chiding glance at his offspring. Supposedly her school taught all it's lessons in the language, though she'd clearly drawn a line about which she preferred. Instead of his business suit and thick peacoat, Dima wore his white cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up. "Why don't you come sit? There has been small delay, but we shall just have to visit. My daughter-" he glanced around, but the little girl had already disappeared. "Her manners are missing tonight. My apologies."
Yassen passed him the vodka, as he removed his shoes and gave Alex a pointed look to do the same, slipping on the plain set of guest slippers beside the door. "Don't worry about it. It is gracious of you to have us."
"It is just as well," Dima muttered, showing them through the short hallway into the main living area. "Zena and Zoya are, how do you say... identical twins. You practically meet both already."
Dima's apartment was a penthouse suite, tucked austerely at the top of a renovated mansion some member of the aristocracy had no doubt lost an era ago. Now, it boasted a split level with a curving grand staircase leading to the second floor, shining dark wood paneling, and plaster white columns built tastefully into the support structures. A fairly traditional display of old school wealth, juxtaposed gently with the inclusion of more modern needs: plush, imperial style furniture sitting before an oversized flatscreen TV and a video game console, controllers scattered across the seats and the floor. On one side of the living area, the room opened up, leading to the staircase and over to a set of wide windows neatly arranged with a balcony to admire the night view of the neighborhood. On the other, a double set of wooden doors led into the dining room and kitchen.
Yassen felt a pang of surprise, which he quickly suppressed. It was easy to talk shit on 'wealthy pig fuckers' when you were squatting in a derelict and chewing on what stale bread you could steal.
A small flicker of grief joined the feeling. Yassen had liked Dima's stubborn refusal to accept that his poor lot in life made him worth any less. Wondered if affluence had smoothed those rough edges, as it had his half-handsome, half-ugly face.
Another pale haired girl darted forward, features every bit as identical to the first's, though she wore a pink headband. Yassen was grateful they seemed to color code themselves. She glanced quickly at them and scowled at her father, also stubbornly sticking to Russian. "He's doing it again," she snapped. "I told him not to, but he says just because people are coming over doesn't mean he's not at home-"
"It's fine, Zoya," Dima said, shoulders stiffening. "Get ready for dinner."
She folded her arms. "If you let him now, he'll just start again at school. It was humiliating-"
"Not now. I say it's fine," Dima snapped, flicking a glance at Yassen. He turned to face the assassin. "Again, I must apologize. It will be funny story, I'm sure, some day. Today has fate determined to make me a fool."
Yassen didn't get a chance to open his mouth for another polite assurance before a new figure appeared at the top of the landing. Their short, dark hair could have passed as a soft pixie cut, especially as teased back with hairspray as it was, and worn in conjunction with the neat tan skirt, heels, and billowy silk blouse. Tasteful and feminine. However, between a set of somewhat wider than expected shoulders, Yassen's own training in assessing gaits, and the twin's sudden irate glares, he had no doubt that this was the 'he' the girls had been complaining of.
"My eldest," Dima said, face going a touch rigid in what Yassen assumed was a supreme effort not to wince as said child descended, nearly tripping on the carpeted stairs. Yasen would have guessed their three inch heels were a touch too ambitious for their balancing skills. "Lada."
"No, he's Timofey," Zena snapped, joining her father in English and standing in the doorway leading to the dining room.
"We're at home," Dima hissed, switching back to his native tongue to round on her. "And I told you that's not your decision. Use the other name at-"
"It's bad enough when it's just him. Now you're embarrassing us too," Zoya said behind him, glowering. She turned back to Yassen and Alex and switched abruptly back to English as well, with perfect, careful pronunciation. "Dinner is late because Mama found out you were coming and fired the housekeeper before she could begin cooking, because they are getting a divorce and he won't-"
"You two. Bedrooms. Now." Dima clenched his teeth.
"Papa, he-"
"Now." He visibly summoned his patience as they both stomped off. "Ten minutes," he added.
His attempt at mitigation went unappreciated as two doors slammed only a split second apart.
Considering how much context he lacked, Alex surprised Yassen with how quickly he put all the pieces together. He offered the adults only a short considering look before turning to Dima's eldest child, whose neck had red creeping through it, though whether it was in anger or embarrassment was unclear. "Hello, Lada. I'm Sasha." The brat even managed to not wince as he used his cover name, then nodded to the green video game cases scattered across the floor in front of the couch. "Want to play Mario Kart?"
'Lada' nodded, relaxing noticeably as Alex seemed to take things in stride. "Certainly."
Yassen had to very, very forcibly smother the rising tide of… something in his chest. Something distressingly similar to pride. Despite Alex's many problems, the little reminders of his better instincts were like nuggets of gold every time circumstances managed to uncover them.
Not allowing himself to get lost in the emotion, he turned back to Dima and nodded to the vodka. "You look like you could use some. Do you know of any good places that deliver?"
"I ordered dinner ten minutes ago." Dima nodded heavily and gestured for Yassen to join him as he walked into the kitchen. In the other room, Yassen could hear Alex switch on the game console and begin chatting happily about his previous scores. Approaching a glass paned cabinet, Dima pulled out two small glasses and poured them both a finger, pausing only to quickly toast with the offered glass. "To the many challenges presented by children. May they never fail to keep us humble."
Yassen accepted his. "Among other things."
Downing all of his in one go, Dima stared morosely at his empty glass. "You have no idea, soldatik. I read all the books, did all of the research, looked at the most careful studies- everything about raising children. None of it prepared me for this shit. It's like drowning, only somehow more stressful and embarrassing."
Yassen couldn't help the small smile twitching at the corner of his lips. Probably the vodka's fault. "Oh, good. I thought it was just me and I didn't get to prepare at all."
Dima groaned and poured them another round. "My time was well spent, I see. About that… how did you acquire him?" He waved a hand, seeing Yassen pause. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I understand the need for secrets. It's hard enough to believe he was a child spy."
"It's not really a secret," Yassen said, glancing back through the dining room doors. Alex screwed up his face, obviously in response to something on screen, which earned him a triumphant laugh from his companion. "We were incarcerated in the same prison. The warden bribed me to look after him because of how hideously understaffed they were. When I broke out, I simply took him with me."
Dima raised an eyebrow at the half measure of liquor in his glass. "Why?"
Why indeed? His own reasoning felt bizarre to himself most days. Even from the outside, it was clear that Alex was a high maintenance responsibility and certainly not an intuitive one for an assassin. Yassen shrugged. "His father saved my life years ago. Made me what I am now. I owe him a debt and since he's dead, I suppose only his son can collect it."
"Yours is better than mine," Dima muttered, rolling his eyes. "A broken condom doesn't sound nearly as noble. Are you delivering him safely to relatives, then?"
Yassen shook his head. This part of Alex's Scorpia file he remembered crystal clear. "He's very much an orphan. There is no one else."
Dima snorted. "At least he's a nice kid."
"He is," Yassen agreed. "And if I have my way, he'll be a normal one."
"I wouldn't worry. I doubt his limp will be noticeable." Dima sighed, glancing out at the living area again. "Unlike other things."
It was Yassen's turn to snort. He wasn't entirely sure why he felt the urge to be honest. Maybe the rabid sentimentality that had overcome him was now fading into nostalgia for his old friend. Maybe it was sympathy for Dima's situation. Maybe he was subconsciously accepting the futility of denying a long term interest in Alex's welfare. Of concealing the boy's many problems. At any rate, the information really wasn't a secret- of that, he couldn't even entertain the idea of denying. Dima would get it from the SVR eventually, if he'd gotten wind of their custody in the first place.
It was only a matter of time.
Withholding the information only had limited tactical value anyway- Alex was a known weakness of Yassen's, however much he despised having one that was practically a matter of public record. Confiding in Dima, or at least appearing to, would gain him valuable trust. "His tenure at MI6 resulted in being poisoned with a hormonal suppressant to delay puberty, only it also temporarily gave him serious psychiatric episodes as a side effect. He hallucinates wildly, has panic attacks often, as well as minor seizures, and is prone to emotional disturbances. Because these things went untreated for a significant period of time, he is also a drug addict." Yassen raised his glass in acknowledgement. "And, yes, the bullet wound might leave him with a limp if he doesn't follow his doctor's orders and use his cane."
Dima stared at him, eyebrows drawn while he processed that. After another few seconds, he poured them both another drink. It occurred to Yassen that he should slow down; he'd been avoiding having more than the occasional shot of liquor since Oakris and his tolerance might have shifted. "They never do what is good for them, even when you make it easy. It's positively infuriating," he said at last.
"You're not wrong." Yassen waved a hand and leaned back against the counter. "My point is that I am not inclined to judge your circumstances nor your children. I am in no position to do so. They are what they are."
"Instead, now I get to judge yours. Kidding, kidding." The mafia head of security paused, about to take a sip. "His hallucinations… are they violent?"
Yassen gave him a dry look. "Only to himself. I would not put him in school otherwise. We don't need that attention."
"I figured as much, but I would be remiss not to ask," Dima said, inclining his head. It was hardly necessary. Yassen wasn't the least bit offended. "What does he see? Evil clowns and fairies?"
"More the nightmares of his missions. Memories."
"That's rather cruel of fate to make him live them more than once," Dima offered. "But they are getting better?"
"Slowly but surely. He is somewhat less prone to drastic action."
"Somewhat?"
"Part of it is just his personality," Yassen grumbled into his drink.
Dima chuckled at that. "A regular handful, then. I knew I liked him for a reason." He snapped his fingers. "Ey, soldatik. Do you remember those awful cigarettes we used to smoke?"
"Those Belomorkanals? As if I could forget. If I hadn't seen you and Roman buy them myself, I'd have thought you were stealing them off of dead tramps. They smelled like it, at least."
"I have a pack around here somewhere." Dima began pulling open drawers and rifling through them.
Yassen pushed away from the counter. "I've got a light."