Chapter Text
Staring at his face made Alina Starkova feel like she had known him for a lifetime.
And she had. In a way.
This was the face of the person she loved the most in the whole world. There was so much of her daughter in this unknown man that he hardly felt like a foreign face. Perhaps it was the other way around; maybe it was Katya who bore so much resemblance to him.
A pair of piercing eyes. Like black holes. Sucking time and space, making them cease to exist in its glittering vortex. She would forever cherish the first time she had stared into them - holding her child for the first time right after twelve painful (but memorable just the same) hours of labor.
She had, every now and then, wondered how the man from whom her daughter had inherited the onyx hair and the only so slightly curved nose bridge from looked like. Katya had very little of Alina in her, despite the fact that she - and she alone - had been the one to undergo IVF, carry her for nine months and, ultimately, push her out.
But this man...
Without the shadow of a doubt, Alina knew this was her father's daughter.
And he was answering the door half-naked.
"Can I help you, stranger?" He leaned against the doorframe. His face - Katya's face - twisted into an expression of displeasure. Clearly, the man did not expect (and did not desire) having an unexpected guest.
"Are you Mr..." Her eyes darted from his exposed V-line to a muffled paper. “Morozov?"
“Aleksander Morozov?” He nodded in acknowledgment with a slow, sly grin, as if mocking her. Still Alina did not get an invitation to enter his house. “That would be me. But I was, actually, in the middle of something.”
For a heartbroken mother, there was nothing more unsettling than to have Katya face her with such coldness. Even worse knowing how hard it was to tell them apart after falling in love with the way that same hair reflected the light.
But he was not Katya.
She might be everything Aleksander Morozova on the outside, but she had taken after Alina in which mattered the most: her temper. She had been the one to raise her - and she knew she had done a damn good job.
Katya was kind and witty and loving.
“My name is Alina Starkova.” The woman took a deep breath. Reminded herself of the reason why she was knocking on his door in the first place. Her little girl. Her Katya's pleading eyes through the tears and the tubes. Nothing else was left after she had tried everything she could. This man was her only option - and if he denied the help she had come to ask for, then he would be the only remnant of her left. "I am here concerning your daughter."
"You must be mistaken." He spoke carefully. His tone made her feel like she was messing with someone dangerous. Still, she had to try. Which kind of mother would she be if she didn't go to the ends of the world for Katya? "I never had a daughter. I'm pretty sure we never even met, Mrs. Starkova."
Alina knew for a fact Aleksander would shut the door right in her face. So she put her foot between it and the threshold before he could. Impatiently, he sighed.
"Please. Hear me out. I promise it won't take long." Fucking desperate times . She nearly shoved the photograph she had brought along in his face. It had been taken in Katya's first visit to the beach, just a couple of years before. It was worn by the sun and endless days in her pocket, including a few accidental trips to the washing machine; but she knew it left no doubt Katya was his. His fingers shook as he took it, lost in thought. "Let me explain."
He finally showed her to the living room. She barely looked at the décor as she sank in the sofa. Around her, everything was a blur of black and gold. Alina knew Aleksander did not want to be in his position. Good. She did not want to be in this rude stranger's house either. At least for a second, they were equals.
"So... What do you want, Mrs. Starkova?" He leaned forward, a golden cup of whisky in his hands. It was eight in the morning. Alina let her reproval show. He didn’t even offer her a glass of water. Not that she would accept it after his attitude, despite his throat desperately needing hydration. "Is it money?"
"What?" Shocked by his audacity to assume the worst of her, she nearly bolted out of her seat, out of that house. Hadn't she needed him, she would've. When she had the right to be rude, she'd been kind since the very first moment. Yet he felt like he had anything to assume about her.
"Why else would you knock on my door?" Well, now she truly wish she hadn't. His tone was treacherous and sour, like that of a snake. "You won’t get a single penny from me, I guarantee. That little paper you have there? Illegal. The clinic is forbidden from disclosing my identity. I will sue them, and you, if you don’t leave my house immediately.”
She was too angry to react. For seconds, she didn’t move. Didn’t even dare to breathe, because the tears might escape, and then… Then, she wouldn’t be able to hold them back. She wouldn’t be able to stop.
They stayed like that, without talking.
Aleksander’s accelerated breathing, boiling with rage, and Alina’s lack of it. His eyes never raised from the picture, not even when he addressed her.
Perhaps he was wondering about Katya - it she’d been quiet or a crybaby, if someone had taught her to ride a bike and to stay away from boys who might break her heart.
If she was him, she would’ve. Yet again, she had known her her whole life. Maybe Aleksander was just not interested.
“Leave.” His voice was barely a whisper. Perhaps there was something else. Now, he wasn’t angry; just exhausted. “I want nothing to do with this. Don’t come back here ever again, or I will ruin your life.”
It didn’t feel like a false promise.
This man was not ready to talk, ready to listen and reason. He wasn’t Katya’s father. Why had she expected anything else but pure indifference?
So Alina got up, ready to give up. Gathered her purse, scarf and keys. It took a little bit more effort than she expected to remove it from his hands. That little moment seemed to last forever.
She was already heading to the door when she looked behind one last time. Her hand was even on the handle, actually.
"She is dying."
Aleksander got up. Got closer.
His eyes were so close to hers she could feel her soul being robbed out of her into the pitch black of its starless night. Their faces were so close she could feel his breathing in her lips.
Morozov took one step back and told her to sit down.