A/N: Tiny apology chapter for my lateness? (It's even a happy one)

Alex raised an eyebrow at Dima from across the table, fork poised over his plate . Yassen had pointedly served Alex a bit of everything from the many takeout boxes that littered the center of the table, meaning once he'd had a chance to nibble everything, he'd quickly realized he'd have to engage in some clever misdirection and food spreading to avoid finishing the gross ones. That holodet stuff was pretty with all it's egg flowers, but was essentially meat jelly, for fucks' sake. Even looking at it made his stomach turn. "I recall someone promising me embarrassing stories about Yassen."

"Sasha," Yassen said pointedly, eyes narrowing.

Alex glowered back. It was bad enough he had to use his stupid stripper name with the kids seated around the table, but Yassen using it was somehow four times as aggravating. He swiveled back to face Dima, taking petty delight in pretending to misinterpret the admonishment. "Sorry, Mum. More stories, please."

Lada rolled her eyes, seated to her father's side as her younger sisters devolved into disbelieving cackles. "Oh, god, Sasha. Please don't get him started."

Dima held up a hand, busying himself with his wine glass. "To be fair, I promised but I never said embarrassing." He glanced quickly at Yassen. "Though it was, how do you say, implied." At Yassen's look, he shrugged, "Okay, okay. No very bad ones."

"That leaves out most of our time in the city," Yassen said, his lips twisting as he stabbed a carrot on his plate.

Dima shrugged. "Then you must tell the stories of your time before." He turned back to Alex, grinning into his glass. "I mention this earlier, yes? His way of speaking. Accent. Yes, that's the word: accent. Very… how do you say? Country?"

Yassen sighed as Alex nearly choked on his food. "Dima."

"Nice to know he does this to everyone," Lada muttered, folding her arms over her lap. "Papa, stop."

Alex cackled. This was so much better than he expected. "He has a country accent?" he crowed, looking at the man in question.

"No more. He speaks very proper now. No accent at all," Dima said, pretending not to notice the look the contract killer was shooting him over the dishes. "But when he first come to Moscow, it was very clear. Very cute." He chuckled. "Just this tiny farm boy in a uniform-"

"I was never a farm boy," Yassen pointed out, stabbing his next chunk of food with more force than necessary. The man might be good at concealing his emotions, but Alex was something of a subject matter expert on his annoyance. "Even if I was from the country. Don't dramatize it."

DIma took a pensive, borderline innocent sip. "Did you grow food?"

Alex turned to study Yassen's face as he answered, making zero attempt to conceal his glee.

Yassen gave him an unimpressed scoff. The teen was stunned that he humored their host with a response at all. "A small garden. Barely grew anything and we certainly didn't sell any of it."

"Certainly," Dima agreed, a little too innocently.

"He's right, Papa. He's not a farmer." Zoya piped up. Her twin nodded. "They keep livestock too."

"A great point," Dima said, winking at his daughter and giving Alex a 'wait for it' glance. "He would only be farm boy if he also kept animals. You had none, I take it?"

"Chickens don't count," Yassen said, after a telling pause.

Alex set his fork down with the condemnation of a daytime television lawyer. The verdict was in. "Farm boy, Yassen. You were a farm boy."

"I was no such thing."

"Now I see why your friends pretend to be dead for years." Lada grimaced, clearly irked with her father on their guest's behalf even if said guest seemed as unperturbed as ever. "Seriously, Papa. If he says he wasn't, he wasn't. You're just speculating."

Dima let out a somewhat dramatic sigh, turning to Yassen. "My children are no fun today. Want to trade?"

"Speculating is an old hobby of your father's," the contract killer informed her, tearing off a chunk of roll and considering the piece. "Considering how many gossip columns he read as a teenager."

Dima dropped his silverware to his plate in outrage. "Bred sivoy kobyly!"

Yassen stared guilelessly at him. "What else did you keep all those Cosmopolitan magazines under your mattress for? Don't tell me it was for the hair advice."

Alex choked.

Everyone turned to face the opposite end of the table at the sudden commotion. Zena was clutching her face with a gasp as Lada shoved a napkin at her. Water droplets had spread all over her plate and lap.

Her twin cackled, unhindered by the spray. "It came out of her nose."

Dima folded his arms, turning back to Yassen. "I did not. Prove it."

"Show us the evidence I had a country accent," Yassen countered before finishing the remaining water in his glass.

Dima's outrage faded into a wry twist of his lips. Alex got the distinct impression that he was satisfied far more than he was embarrassed. Odd. For whatever reason, Dima seemed to enjoy needling Yassen into a response even if all common sense and a passing knowledge of Yassen's work experience should make that a very stupid idea. Of course, they'd been friends before all that. Alex spared a split second to wonder if Dima too could recognize Yassen's sociable blankness and disliked it.

Dima twisted behind him to grab the bottle of wine to top off both of their glasses. "I suggest, how do you say, -" he said a quick word in Russian that Alex didn't catch.

"Truce," Yassen provided easily.

"-truce," Dima agreed, carefully repeating the word. He gave Alex a short, rueful grin. "I forget. For every embarrassing story I have, he has another. Must think of my reputation."

"Oh, thank god," Lada said, standing to snatch Zena's napkin from the table and pass it to her still sputtering sister. She dragged the younger twin to her feet, shooing her away to clean up. "Someone has found the off switch."