Author's Note: Hello my beautiful readers. Here is the next part in the Butler series, this time we'll jump way back into Butler's childhood. Short and not so sweet, but hopefully an enjoyable read!

Many thanks to belatedbday69 and Next-Price3079 for the fantastic beta job!

In other news, I have signed up on Tumblr. You can find me under the nickname "Weeinterpreter" for more Artemis Fowl content (and lots of Butler content). 😊

Disclaimer: Eoin Colfer owns all the characters from Artemis Fowl. I only own my imagination, and Dima and Sofia... at least I'd like to own them. I think, that would be nice.

Russian words:

Ty idiot – You idiot

Tetya – aunt

Dyadya – uncle

Malchik – boy

Malchikov – boys

Syn – son

Mne ochen zhal – I am so sorry

Trust Issues

Domovoi, 7 and ¾ years old, was a proud member of the world-famous Butler Clan. It meant that he was one of the strongest boys and that many people were very scared of him. A few seconds ago, however, his whole world had tilted, and he was now lying on his back, blinking into the glaring sun.

"You can't trust anyone," Dima said smugly, appearing above him. He had snuck up on him, kicking Domovoi's legs out from under him. Now, he dropped his bo staff and grinned down at the younger boy. Then, a boot came flying through the air and hit him in the head. Dima fell over, holding his head.

"Wrong, ty idiot," the Major shouted. "You can't trust anyone but your family. Both of you. Ten."

The Major picked up his boot, while Dima and Domovoi did ten pushups.

"What's the rule?"

The boys answered in unison.

"You can't trust anyone but your family."

"You can only trust your family."

Nodding, the Major picked up Dima's bo and jerked his chin towards the woods. "Now do your rounds and get ready for dinner."

Dima and Domovoi took off, dashing towards the woods. It took exactly 20 minutes to run one lap around the woods, they knew. Rushing to their favourite tree, they climbed up and settled in the branches. The adults would get really mad if they found out that they weren't training. Which was why the boys had to be very careful. Dima pulled out an old stopwatch from a hole inside the tree and pressed the black button on top. Watching the seconds go by, he lifted a thumb into the air.

Domovoi grinned and mirrored the gesture before leaning back, crossing his hands behind his head and holding his face in the sun. He had almost dozed off when Dima let out a grunt.

"I hate the Fowls," he exclaimed, making his cousin jump. "I hate them and I hope they all die from a disease. One that only they can get."

"Why?"

"Because they're stupid and they can't take care of themselves and they get everybody else killed. I think I'm gonna kill the Fowls."

Domovoi sat up and gave his cousin a doubtful look. Dima was the oldest son of the Major, but he had nothing of his father's burly stature. In fact, even being two years older than Domovoi, everybody assumed Dima was younger.

He wouldn't be able to kill any Fowl, not with any of the Butlers protecting them. Dima noticed his cousin's frown.

"Shut up, I'll do it. Watch me."

"Dyadya would punish you if you did," Domovoi said, noticing a mosquito that had landed on his arm. He brought down his hand hard, rubbing at the red stain that the insect left behind.

"I don't care," Dima exclaimed, curling his hands into fists. "At least, we would be rid of those pests."

"Is this about dyadya's trip?"

Dima threw Domovoi an ugly look. "You're so stupid, Dom. You know nothing. It's not a trip. He'll go to the Fowls. Forever."

"Why?"

"Because tetya is dead," Dima spat out. "She was killed, protecting that stupid Fowl boy and now Papa has to do it instead."

"Are we also going to the Fowls?"

Dima shook his head.

"But then he won't be able to train us."

"Don't you get it? Papa is going away, forever. And we will never see him again until he gets killed," Dima said, squeezing the stopwatch in his hand until the plastic casing groaned in protest.

"Why did tetya get killed, though?" Domovoi asked.

"Papa said she trusted the wrong people. I think the Fowls got her killed on purpose. So, we need to kill them before Papa goes away. Are you in?"

Domovoi's frown deepened. "I don't think we can kill them all by ourselves. Where are they anyway?"

"In... Duuh-blin. I saw Papa's plane tickets. We could take them and fly there and kill them and come back. We would be heroes."

He threw a glance at the stopwatch. 15 minutes had passed.

"Starshiy dyadya would punch you so hard if you tried that. He is really mean," Domovoi said, still unconvinced. Dima paused, nodding. The Major's brother, the Captain, was scary. He had a big scar on his face and he never smiled. Ever. Even the Major sometimes grinned or at least lifted the corner of his mouth. The Captain had just one expression. One of disgust.

"We could take the tickets, though. Then he can't fly and we have more time to think of a plan," Domovoi suggested. Dima nodded.

"Good idea. Let's do that. Tonight, when the adults are watching the news, we steal the tickets."

The stopwatch passed 20 minutes. Time to go. Dima put it into its usual hiding place, while Domovoi moved hand over hand down the tree, the movements as natural to him as breathing. His older cousin jumped down from the tree, landing on his feet.

"Show off," Domovoi mumbled. He had tried to do that before. They had removed the cast around his foot two weeks ago.

They ran back to the house, just in time to wash their hands and slip into the dining hall. They were the last ones to join, flitting to their assigned seat at the very end of the hall under the watchful eyes of about 50 senior family members. The household ate dinner at 8 pm. According to protocol. Meals, like every part of the daily life at the estate, followed strict guidelines.

Dima and Domovoi lined up in front of their seats, bowed, and sat down. Moments later, the door to the kitchen opened. Three of their uncles came out with big soup tureens. Domovoi crossed his fingers. He couldn't see what soup it was, but judging from the small smile on his uncles' faces, it was probably something disgusting. Sometimes he was lucky and got milk soup, but more often than not, it was solyanka. Like today. The adults loved it, but the olives made Domovoi gag. There was a trick, though. If you swallowed the olives without chewing, you hardly tasted them.

Domovoi stared into his bowl, taking a few breaths to prepare himself. He stole a glance at his aunt, Anastasia. She was a hawk, always watching him, in case he tried anything funny. Today, however, her eyes were glued on the soup. Her chin trembled.

Dima nudged him in the side, and Domovoi hurried to finish the soup. Forcing down the olives in time before they served the main course – you didn't get any if you didn't finish your soup – Domovoi shot a look at his uncle, just to brace himself for whatever hellish food the family had brewed together that day.

Please don't be aspic. Anything but aspic. Please don't be aspic!

Everything about it was disgusting. The consistency, the looks, the smell and especially the taste. Once, Dima had tried to switch plates with him – Dima didn't like salad – but the adults had caught them, and for the next week they forced the boys to only eat aspic and salad. From then on, Dima and Domovoi kept a straight face at whatever they were served.

Uncle Vlad stopped next to their seats and Domovoi dared a look into the steaming pot, almost letting out a sigh of relief. Pelmeni. He ladled several spoons of the dumplings onto his plate and ate in silence. Everybody ate in silence. Again, according to protocol.

They had just finished their last bite when the door to the kitchen opened once more. Domovoi and Dima eyed the crystal bowls filled with kissel that their uncles carried on trays with some suspicion. Desserts were reserved for Sundays and special occasions. Was this a trick?

Dima subtly lifted a shoulder and took a bowl filled with a crimson liquid from the tray once it reached them. Domovoi followed suit and spooned the sweet dessert into his mouth, deeply confused. Since it wasn't a Sunday and not a holiday, it had to be a special occasion, no? Were they celebrating his uncle leaving? But Dima wasn't happy about it, and aunt Anastasia didn't seem to approve of it either. Maybe his uncle could still refuse?

Unable to crack the mystery, Domovoi jumped at the sounding of a bell. Dinner was over. Forced to abandon his half-eaten dessert, he as well as everybody else in the hall stood, stepped behind their chairs, and bowed.

Hurrying after Dima and out of the dining hall, they followed the Major at a safe distance, watching him enter his room. Time was of the essence now. In about ten minutes, the adults would all be in the lounge, watching the news and talking about adult things.

"When he comes out," Dima said conspiratorially, "pretend to talk to me."

Domovoi nodded, his palms sweaty. He wasn't sure if it was out of fear or excitement. He almost squeaked when the Major left his room.

"And then you punched them in the face?" Domovoi asked loudly as the Major came down the hallway.

"Yes," Dima said in response, almost as loudly. "Really hard, too!"

The Major frowned, but passed them without another comment and disappeared around the corner.

The boys dashed towards the room, slipping inside. Dima turned on the lights and scanned the bare room. Ignoring the bed and armchair, he went straight towards the desk, opened the first drawer, and looked inside. Domovoi swallowed and looked over his cousin's shoulder.

"Are you sure, they're here?"

Dima nodded and turned to the next drawer, too busy trying to remember where he had seen his father put the plane tickets to notice the sound of footsteps in the hall.

He rummaged through a third drawer when the door opened. Both boys whirled around, staring at an equally stunned Major.

"What in the name- What were you trying to do? Dmitri?"

The Major glared at them. Dima was silent, staring at his feet. Turning to Domovoi, the Major tapped his foot on the floor.

"Well?"

Domovoi stammered. "We w-wanted you to stay?"

The Major blinked. "Stay?"

"I don't want you to go, Papa," Dima blurted out. "I don't want you to go."

For a second, Domovoi thought they would get a beating. Then the Major's shoulders slumped. He closed the door, walked over to the armchair, and sat down.

"You know this is not something I have a say in."

Dima trembled. "B-but you will... the Fowls will do something bad to you."

The Major sighed. "You know our family motto, malchikov."

"But it's not fair," Dima said, rubbing a fist over his eyes.

"Life isn't fair, syn. It is our duty to serve the Fowls. You're too young to get it now, but one day you will understand," he told them. "Next year, you will start your training at the Academy. You will work hard and make me proud, won't you?"

Dima nodded, the tears flowing freely now. The Major turned to Domovoi. "Only trust your family, malchik. Anybody else will stab you in the back. Do you understand that?"

Domovoi nodded with wide eyes.

"Good, now go to bed. I need to talk to Dima."

Domovoi bolted out of the room, unable to comprehend how his older cousin could have possibly broken into tears. In front of his father, no less!

After all, his parents only visited him once a year. The rest of the time, they were... on missions being Butlers. Surely, his uncle would come and visit for the yearly family meeting or some other time. The Fowls couldn't force him to stay with them the whole time. Right?

Domovoi lay awake until Dima slipped back into the room and curled up in his bed, not bothering to change into his pyjamas or to brush his teeth.

"Mne ochen zhal, Dima," Domovoi said quietly. "Our plan didn't work."

Dima was silent for a long minute before he lifted his head.

"We need to train hard, Dom," he said in a husky voice. "We need to become stronger than anyone else so that nobody can kill us. And once we are the strongest, we will protect everybody."

"Are we going to see dyadya again?" Domovoi asked tentatively.

"Definitely. I will become the greatest Butler in the whole family and if the Fowls get another baby, I will protect it, together with Papa."

"Me too!"

"Pah, you're a weakling, Dom. You couldn't even kick a fairy."

Dima grinned into the darkness, hearing the younger boy throw his pillow at him. It hit the wall next to his head. Dima grabbed the pillow and pushed it under his head.

This time, they heard the footsteps outside their bedroom and instead of climbing out of bed to claim the pillow from his cousin, Domovoi pulled the duvet over his head. Dima followed suit, pretending to be fast asleep.

A moment later, the Major stuck his head into the room, checking if the boys were in their beds. The door had hardly clicked shut when Domovoi giggled quietly. Dima joined in.

"I can hear you," the Major called out from behind the door. The boys clapped their hands in front of their mouth, convinced that they could fool the Major with this genius manoeuvre.

"And did it?" Sofia asked on the other end of the line.

"Not at all," Butler admitted. "My uncle threatened to lock us in the cellar if he could hear us once he finished his rounds."

"Is your cousin working for the Fowls too?" Sofia asked, pulling the cheese board on the couch table closer.

"He works as a bodyguard but not for the Fowls."

"Oh," Sofia swallowed a piece of gouda, wondering if that was a good or a bad thing. "Sorry to hear that?"

She couldn't see how the corners of Butler's eyes crinkled. He made a noncommittal sound. Dima didn't want to protect them, anyway. He never mentioned the Fowls again, after the Major left for Ireland almost thirty years ago. He didn't have to. His aversion was clear, regardless. Even more so after the explosion of the Fowl Star.

"Your turn," Butler said instead.

"How am I supposed to compete with such a story? Anything I am telling will be a disappointment," Sofia whined.

Turning his head, Butler caught his reflection in the window and rolled his eyes at his smile. "I didn't know this was a competition."

"It's not. Fine, since you started with family stories," she said with a sigh. "My parents hoped one of us would become a big actor."

"They did?"

"My parents are huge film lovers. That's how they met, actually," Sofia explained. "My mother is from Perugia, and when her family moved to Terracina, she spent every weekend at the movies. Just like my dad. Who obviously noticed her."

"Obviously," Butler quipped, making Sofia grin.

"Until one day my dad offered to walk her home after a late-night screening. And then the week after. And the week after."

Butler hummed. "Ah, the I-walk-you-home-trick. Slick."

Sofia burst out laughing. "My dad is a hopeless romantic. Anyway, they married and were of the impression that we would get the acting gene if they gave us names of famous actors."

"Such as?"

"They named my oldest brother after Vittorio Gassman, my mother's favourite. Gassman died two years ago. She wore black for two weeks," she remembered. "Unfortunately, my brother decided at the age of 10 that he would either become a priest or a monk, so that didn't work out."

Butler lifted an eyebrow. "That's some determination. Who else?"

"Have you ever watched La dolce vita?" Sofia asked.

"Of course," he said, before he could stop himself. "Anita Ekberg wading through the Trevi Fountain. A true classic."

Sofia snorted. "I cannot tell you how often I have been tortured with that so-called classic as a teenager. But yes, the very same. Marcello Mastroianni was the journalist in the movie. My brother got the same good looks but had more fun, taking apart motors, so that was another fail."

"What about you?" Butler asked, and Sofia grimaced.

"Sophia Loren? Or 'Sofia Villani Scicolone, most beautiful Italian woman, Dame Grand Cross of the Order of Merit of the Italian Republic, the 21st greatest female star of Classic Hollywood Cinema' to be precise, as my father likes to remind me about three times a day."

Butler grinned. "Big shoes to fill."

"Please. I never had a chance. Besides, I don't have one acting bone in my body."

"No desire for fame and fortune?"

Making a disapproving sound, Sofia took a sip from her wineglass. "Not in a million years. I was more interested in becoming a detective, but living in a small village meant very little cases. The biggest mystery was the disappearance of the farmer's cows. Spoiler alert, they went to the butcher."

Butler winced. "So, you went to Rome."

"Exactly. And you know how that worked out," she said, stabbing the air with her fork at the memory of how she had freed the Devil.

"Which leaves my youngest brother. By the time he was born, my parents should have got the hint, but they tried one more time with Giuseppe Porelli. He played elegant and fashionable gentlemen in old comedy films."

"I assume, he also didn't go for the movies," Butler said, hardly hiding his amusement.

"No. After Pepe fell into a wine barrel and almost drowned, it was clear that he would either become an alcoholic or make wine," she giggled. "He chose both."

Butler chuckled before his smile faltered when Sofia got quiet on the other end. The silence stretched on. She probably expected him to reveal his first name to her now. It was what normal people did. She wasn't his employer, so they didn't have to keep a professional distance. Butler, however, was no normal person and only a handful of his closest friends knew his first name.

She would be hurt, for sure. Anyone would be. Would she whine and plead? Should he hang up? Turn his back on the whole thing? It wasn't too late. So far, he had revealed no classified information to her. No names, very few locations.

Sensing his hesitation – albeit unaware of the extent of his frenzy – Sofia huffed. "If you're considering, telling me what the word 'butler' means, let me remind you I am a professor of linguistics."

Butler opened his mouth and closed it again. Any thought his brain had held on to a second ago was blasted away like leaves during a storm.

Clearing his throat, he raked his brain for some clever remark, but it wouldn't come. Was she for real? Was she playing him? Using reverse psychology? And then. Please, let her be real.

"Oh dear, it is late," she murmured. "You must be tired. Sorry to keep you up so long."

Butler didn't answer, still unable to come up with anything. Say something! He cleared his throat once more.

"Would you tell me another story next week?"

He could hear her exhale, as if she had been holding her breath. Her lilting accent filled his ears.

"Of course. Good night," she said before disconnecting. Butler dropped the phone in his lap and rubbed a hand over his face, wide awake.

His eyes fell on the alarm clock on his bedside table. 2 am. He sighed. Ah well. He got up, changed from his pyjamas into his workout clothes and headed to the gym.

A/N: Whatever will he think of?

Thank you so so much for checking this story out, I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, comments are always appreciated. In fact, I live solely from air and comments. ;-)

In the next part of the Butler series... there will be more action. Stay tuned!