Chapter Text
Natasha knows how to keep up in a rush.
It might surprise you–it might surprise a lot of people who wouldn’t expect someone learning English and French to be able to juggle a Saturday morning only a few months into her barista career–but it’s true. Natasha is a hard fucking worker, and a good fucking student. She didn’t get to Canada by accident, even with the trust fund her Uncle left behind when he left Russia for good.
“Natalia.” Her co-worker, Coralie, hisses in her Quebecoi accent (Coralie is nice enough. She helps Natasha with French, or takes over with French customers when the cafe is too loud for Natasha to decipher what will eventually be her third damn language), “Do you want to go to the back?”
Natasha finishes steaming some milk, wipes off the machine and taps the pitcher on the counter. (She’s gotten okay at latte art. Coralie says she’s a natural at it, but her rosettas still look like fat Christmas trees compared to the ones Coralie does.)
“You need me to get something?” She makes quick work of the latte (it was meant to be a tulip, but it looks more like three vaguely heart-shaped blobs. Oh well. It’ll taste the same.)
“No.” Coralie reaches around Natasha to grab a cup lid, Natasha leans under her arm instinctively and starts prepping the next drink. They’ve gotten good at that over the last few months, moving in one another’s space to save time. Natasha would be lying if she said she didn’t find it just a little bit fun,
“That guy is staring at you.”
Natasha snorts and starts filling a cup with hot water,
“The old man from Monday? He’s still mad I don’t speak French?”
Coralie shakes her head,
“No, it’s a younger guy, like maybe forty? He is really staring at you, Nattie, like really staring.”
Natasha dumps a shot of espresso into the cup of hot water, and fits the drink into a cup-holder with the latte. She follows Coralie’s gaze,
“The guy with the screaming toddler?” Natasha asks, pitying a poor red-headed man staring off into space while his kid hangs off his arm and demands a cake-pop, “I think he is just tired.”
“No, behind him.”
The red-headed guy moves, and Natasha sees the man immediately. He’s tall, blonde curls catching in the morning light as he stares, just as Coralie said, right at her. It takes Natasha a second to place his face, and another second for her heart to drop into her stomach. There’s no way.
“Order for Ilya!” Coralie yells, setting the latte and the americano on the bar, and startling Natasha out of her disbelief. He works in Boston. What on Earth is he doing here?
She must show something on her face, because by the time the man reaches the bar he looks apologetic, if a little shaken,
“Thank you,” he smiles tightly at the two of them, speaking in an accent Natasha knows well. He awkwardly addresses her, “Um…I am sorry for staring, you look like someone I know, was not trying to be a creep–”
“Dyadya?” Natasha says before she can help herself. Ilya freezes. It’s definitely him, Natasha would know it even if Coralie hadn't just said his name. He looks older than she remembers, and that’s all. His eyes widen,
“Wait...” His mouth hangs open, he blinks in shock, “You…Natasha?”
Natasha shrugs her shoulders “I know, I know, I’m old now.” she says, trying for humor “Had to happen eventually, yes?”
Ilya laughs in disbelief,
“What are you doing here? How did you get here? Not that it isn’t great to see you, but—”
“It’s a long story.” She says, “But it's good to see you too.”
It feels strange to speak Russian with someone again, after six long months of English and French, and she can’t help but smile a little. Coralie nudges her, her eyes narrowed at her Uncle,
“Everything okay?”
Natasha nods, and Ilya seems to realize there is very much still a Saturday morning rush happening in their little shop.
“Sorry–” he picks up the drink carrier, and glances around the counter while making a writing motion in the air, “Do you have a pen?”
Natasha hands over a sharpie before she’s swept back into the rush by a large order of frappucinos (honestly, she wishes people would pay attention to the caffeine content before handing those off to their children). So she doesn’t say goodbye to her Uncle. But when Natasha makes her way back to the bar she finds a scribbled phone number and a few words on a cup sleeve:
Позвони мне, когда закончишь работу!
-Дядя Илья :)
Call me when you get off work!
-Uncle Ilya :)
She shoves it in her apron pocket, but her mind races. Did he know she worked here? Does he really want to talk to her—does she want to talk to him? Papa always said Ilya abandoned their family after Dedushka died, if he ever spoke about his brother at all.
Natasha knows better now than to take her father’s word on anything. And then there’s the trust fund—how did she not say anything about the trust?
She didn’t even know about the trust until the letter came for her on her eighteenth birthday. Papa was pissed. She was confused. Once she wrapped her head around it, she realized her uncle had given her an out. From across the estranging ocean, from another continent, she’d been handed a ticket.
It got her out of Russia. Even after her father took every cent he could (for rent, utilities, groceries, for leaving the damn lights on.) she’d had enough to get here and a little left over after paying what tuition her scholarships didn’t cover. If nothing else, she owes her uncle a call and a thank you. The knowledge settles uncomfortably in her stomach.
“What the hell, Nattie?”
Coralie starts gathering dirty mugs off of the bar, looking pointedly at Natasha’s apron.
“What?”
Coralie’s eyes bug out, she shakes her head in clear disapproval as she hoists the bus tub onto her hip,
“What do you mean, what? Is it because he speaks Russian? Sure, he’s hot, Natalia but he is old enough to be your dad–”
Natasha snatches a rag off of the counter and throws it at Coralie,
“Oh, gross, Cora, he is my…fuck, how do you say it in English?”
Coralie raises an eyebrow, “How do you say sugar da-”
Natasha chucks another towel at Coralie’s head. She barely dodges it as she maneuvers away from the bar, a mischievous smile on her berry-colored lips.
“He is my Papa’s brother. You are disgusting.”
Coralie snorts with laughter as she turns a corner into the back of the cafe. Natasha throws a third rag at her back for good measure.
“Girls!” Her manager warns from the register, her chipper customer service voice taking on a slight edge, “Orders on the bar, let’s focus, please!”
“Sorry, Alice.” Natasha calls, turning back to the espresso machine with only some of the tension bled out of her shoulders.
She decides she’ll text him. He might not even want to meet up. He might be as done with Natasha as he was the rest of their fucked-up family, and she can’t blame him for that. She will text, maybe call, say ‘thank you very much for the trust fund, Uncle Ilya, have a nice life.’ and they can both be done with it.
It’s easier thought than actually said, she discovers.
After her shift, Natasha sits on a bench outside the cafe, her thumb hovering over her cracked phone screen keyboard. So far, she has this:
Hi Uncle Ilya, this is Natasha. I am texting you English because I need to practice my reading and writing.
She sighs. She should probably say more than that,
I want to say thank you for the trust fund, it was a very big help and now I am in college here in Montreal.
That doesn’t sound like begging does it?
You do not need to give me anything else, I am doing good.
Hm. No, that sounds wrong too.
I am not going to ask you for mone–
She deletes that sentence.
I am not like my Papa, he is a piece of shit and I hope that he–
She deletes that sentence too. Okay, so now she’s got:
Hi Uncle Ilya, this is Natasha. I am texting you in English because I need to practice my reading and writing. I want to say thank you for the trust fund, it was a very big help and now I am in college here in Montreal.
The cursor blinks up at her, indifferent to her struggle. It makes Natasha want to throw her phone. Maybe she should have just called. Or texted in Russian.
“Nattie!” Coralie calls, stepping outside into the pleasantly chilly March day, “Do you still need a ride home? I might pick up the rest of Lance’s shift.”
Natasha takes a second to process her words,
“Uh…No—yes. But go ahead, if you want to take it. I can wait, is no big deal, I don’t have class tonight.”
“O–kay. If you’re sure!”
Coralie leans over towards Natasha, holding onto the door for balance and craning her head over her phone,
“Ah, you’re calling your hot uncle? Give him my number?”
Natasha rolls her eyes,
“Let Lance go home.”
Coralie laughs and goes back inside, her dark hair catching on the wind as the door swings closed.
Natasha stares at the open text thread. The entire paragraph sounds ridiculous to her now, and she deletes the whole thing. She starts typing again, this time in Russian:
Привет, дядя Илья. Это Наташа. Я только что освободилась с работы.
Hi, Uncle Ilya. This is Natasha. I just got off work.
She hits send before she can think too hard about it, and shoves her phone in her pocket. He might not even answer, she tells herself. God, she could use a smoke.
A few minutes later she’s taking the last couple drags of a cigarette when her phone starts ringing loudly in her pocket. It scares the shit out of her for no reason at all.
“Fuck!”
She drops the cig, stamping it out while she digs her phone out of her jacket. When did she even turn her ringer on?
The number isn’t saved, but she knows it’s Ilya. Who the hell calls without texting first?
She hesitates a moment before answering, but the weight of her owed ‘thank-you’s’ forces her to slide the answer button up,
“Hello?” She says, in English out of habit.
“Hi Natasha! How are you doing?”
He sounds…enthusiastic. Natasha has only a few memories of her Uncle from back in Russia, and of course her Papa always spoke poorly of him. But she does remember a few things–a game of hide and seek, maybe a tea party or legos on her birthday. This makes her think of that.
“Um…Hi, Dyadya, I’m doing good, thank you.” She bites her lip, “…How are you?”
Smooth, she thinks to herself. Now she just needs to work in her thank-you and her speech about not needing money or being a shitty cokehead like her father…maybe it would be easier in Russian…
“I’m good! I’m good.” Ilya says. He sounds like he’s walking outside, the wind makes it sort of hard to understand him over the phone, “Enjoying some time off in Montreal. Are you busy right now?”
“Um…” She glances down at her cigarette, smushed into the concrete. Oh well, it was mostly gone anyways, “...No” she decides, “Not really.”
Ilya says something to someone else, she doesn’t catch it,
“-asking her—Sorry, Natasha–do you like Italian food?”
“What?”
“Italian food” He says again, this time in Russian, “Do you like it?”
“I know it in English.” Natasha says, feeling a bit defensive for no real reason, “I think I do…I haven’t had it in a long time I think…why?”
“Are you hungry?”
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ilya spots her walking to the restaurant through the window (he picked the window on purpose, he thinks. He doesn’t want her to feel cornered. The restaurant is busy, the windows are huge, the menu is a QR code, it’s casual.) and it strikes him almost as hard as it did this morning.
She has the same long, dishwater blonde hair, the same bump in her nose, the same wide eyes and strong chin. Natasha is the spitting image of Ilya’s mother. He and Alexei’s mother. Her grandmother.
He watches her hesitate a moment before coming in, pausing to bury her hands deep in her coatpockets. Ilya doesn’t blame her for being nervous. He’s not entirely sure how he feels either.
He lifts a hand in a polite wave when she comes through the door, and after an awkward greeting (a mix of Russian and English, she says she prefers to practice with the latter.) and an order of mozzarella sticks, Ilya asks the first question.
“So…” he takes the last bite of a mozzarella stick, savoring the warm crunch and the tang of the marinara sauce. Shane would hate these things, “How long have you been in Canada?”
“I got here before New Years’” she answers, dipping into the marinara sauce herself. (Ilya had to fork over three of them himself before she would take one.) “So…maybe five months? Six months? I was not…” she purses her lips, brows furrowing. Probably looking for the right words in English. Ilya remembers that well, “I did not know about…” she sighs in frustration, “...You lived in the US, still, I thought. I…um….I did not come looking for you. It was easier to get a study visa in Canada and start in the spring term.”
Ilya isn’t sure what to make of that. He shrugs his shoulders,
“I didn’t think that.” he says, honestly, “I’m glad to see you, Tasha, but I understand if you did not necessarily want to see me.” He cringes when the word ‘necessarily’ comes out of his mouth. He sounds like Shane. And necessarily is a stupid word.
If Natasha is confused she doesn’t show it. Instead, she looks more uncomfortable somehow,
“Was not like that.” She sets down the mozzarella stick, without taking a bite, “I thought you played for Boston.”
“Ah.” Ilya dips a mozzarella stick into the cup of ranch beside the marinara, “I used to. I play in Ottawa now, with my husband.”
“Husband?”
Ilya looks up from his mozzarella stick. Natasha looks mildly shocked, her guarded expression dropped. Ilya nods slowly,
“Yes, my husband, his name is Shane. We have two kids, we play hockey. This bothers you?”
“No!” Natasha hurriedly says, laughing a little, “No, of course not, it does not, I am not old man. I am just…um…what is it in English? Surprise?”
Ilya smirks a little, “Surprised?”
“Yes.” She nods, “Surprised, sorry. I have friends back home who are….”
She’s interrupted by the waiter coming for their order. Ilya tells her to get whatever she wants, noting her careful reading of the menu on her cracked phone. She glances at the waiter,
“I can get my own food.” She says, in Russian, “You don’t have to pay for me.”
“I want to.” Ilya says, “I invited you, it’s no big deal. Get what you want.”
She bites at her lip, then orders one of the cheaper entrees. Ilya gets chicken alfredo. Natasha doesn’t meet his eyes after the waiter leaves, her foot taps nervously against the table leg.
“Natasha?” he says, “I didn’t mean to–”
“Thank you.” She blurts, her nervous eyes snapping up to meet him.
“Of course, It’s just lunch–”
“No, thank you for…for…” She waves her hand, “Everything. The trust. I wanted to say thank you for the trust, and I know it was a lot of money, and I’m very grateful. I wouldn’t have been able to leave Russia otherwise.”
Oh. Okay. Ilya should have seen this coming.
“You’re welcome.” He tries to be as earnest as possible, “I’m glad it helped you. You don’t owe me anything back, okay? I’ve never regretted it.”
Natasha looks cornered, she swallows,
“Thank you Dyadya…but also, um. I don’t need anything else from you. You don’t need to…” She rakes her fingers through her hair, “...Worry about me, or…I’m not going to…I’m not like my Papa.”
Ilya’s mouth goes dry. He can’t think of anything to say before Natasha goes on, distaste coloring her voice,
“I know what he’s like and I’m not like that.” She sets her jaw, her eyes fixed on the straw wrapper she’s tearing into little pieces, “I’m very grateful for all your help. And I know you have your own family. And I don’t…I’m not expecting anything else, you know? We don’t have to…do this.” She gestures between herself and Ilya, “Um…we don’t have to be friends.”
Ilya is quiet for a while after she finishes, incredibly unsure what to say to that. He wonders what Russia was like for Natasha. And what Alexei was like for Natasha. And what Canada, too, has been like for her. She doesn’t meet his eyes. Ilya sucks in a breath through his nose,
“Okay…” he says, studying her face. There’s a little bit of his brother there, he can see it, hiding behind his mama’s eyes. It’s somewhere in the set of her mouth, and her clenched fists on the table,
“Maybe I want to be friends.” he shrugs his shoulders, “Is that okay?”
Natasha looks him up and down, searching for something Ilya doesn’t know if she finds,
“...Okay.” she says, in English, “If you want.”
After their food comes, Ilya learns more about Natasha.
She’s majoring in accounting, but might switch to business. She’s planning to apply for citizenship after getting a job when she graduates. She’s been enjoying Montreal so far.
And she’s by herself. Not just in Montreal, but in Canada. Ilya supposes it’s no different from when he was her age—when he was younger than she is now and alone in America-–but the idea makes something in his chest hurt. Maybe it’s because he has his own little girl now, back in Ottawa with her grandparents and her little brother.
“You are not by yourself here.” Ilya says, trying to be lighthearted, “We are only a couple of hours away, Tasha. You need anything, you call, okay?”
Natasha half-heartedly agrees.
He learns, in the same vein, that he has a nephew, named Lev. Natasha talks about him with a distant, sad sort of smile. He was born not a year after Grigori’s funeral. Inessa must have been pregnant the last time Ilya was in Russia.
“I have not seen him in a long time.” Natasha says, taking a careful breath, “My Mama took him with her when she left Papa. Maybe two, three years ago now? He’ll be fourteen in October.”
“Oh.” Ilya says before he can stop himself, setting down his forkful of pasta, “I’m sorry, Natasha–”
“Don’t be.” She interrupts, pursing her lips, “She did the right thing. And I talk with Lyova on the phone. I think they’re still living near Volgograd.” She peers down at her chicken caesar salad, “He was not happy when I told him I was moving here.” She says, almost to herself.
The conversation lulls after that, but it’s not bad. Ilya shows her pictures of Shane and the kids. Natasha coos a little over a picture of Filipp with Shane’s toque half on his head, his smile wide and his eyes bright with laughter.
“You should come by some time” Ilya says, trying to be as casual as possible, “If you’re ever in Ottawa.”
Natasha doesn’t outright reject the idea, but she doesn’t really say yes either. When the check comes, Ilya hands his card over before she can protest again, flashing a polite smile at the waiter. They say their awkward goodbyes out in the parking lot, Natasha fidgeting with the sleeve of her long leather jacket. There’s a stain on the cuff, some kind of orange-yellow paint, that Ilya recognizes. He’s struck with a memory, a cold October day and an art project that got a little out of hand before Mama could get her coat off. The cross under his sweater is warm against his skin.
“It was nice to see you, Dyadya.” Natasha says with a small, genuine smile, “Thank you for lunch.”
“It’s good to see you too.” Ilya holds his phone up, “And I meant what I said before. You need anything, you can call me, okay?”
She nods tightly, “Okay.”
“Promise?”
She rolls her eyes at him, but relents,
“I promise.”
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Natasha expected that to be the end of it. She’d said her piece, her Uncle had said his, and they’d parted ways. It was nice to talk to him.
She certainly hadn’t expected an invite to his home in Ottawa, or for him to insist she call him for anything. She should be grateful. Part of her is grateful, of course, but she can’t quell the insane discomfort at the idea of walking into Ilya’s house for dinner, or calling him up to fix her showerhead or something.
She turns their conversation over and over in her head on the train ride home. What possible motivation could he have for wanting to be “friends”?
She almost misses her stop for being lost in her thoughts. By the time she’s turning the key to unlock her apartment, she’s decided three things, and neatly compartmentalized the entire day.
One: that her uncle is a nice man, and not really what she’d expected. Two: that he was just being nice. He probably didn’t actually expect to hear from her, definitely didn’t expect her to come to Ottawa for real, and was content with their polite conversation today. Three: she wouldn’t worry about any of it, because he was not going to text her outside of maybe New Years. She let herself be comforted by that, shrugging off her worn jacket and hanging it by the door. There’s no use worrying about any of it, because it’s done, now.
She rolls her shoulders out and rubs her hands together, fighting off some of the lingering chill from outside. She won’t worry about it.
Natasha does a little bit of cleaning, not that there’s too much to clean. She picks up some dirty clothes and deposits them in her hamper (she’ll have to go to the laundromat either tomorrow or the next day), and makes her bed, shunted off to its little corner in her studio apartment. The latter is a strange habit from her father, who, despite his lifestyle, still inspected her and Lev’s rooms before school in the morning. After, she picks through her little pantry and fridge, making a mental note of what she needs from the store tomorrow.
She’s been enjoying this, having a little routine all her own. There isn’t anyone to yell at her if she makes her bed at 3pm instead of the crack of dawn. There isn’t anyone to argue with over the groceries or the rent or the water bill, or get drunk or high and throw things around the kitchen. It’s a peace she’s never had before. It’s a little lonely, maybe, but it’s not like she wasn’t lonely back in Moscow, too.
It’s not until she flops down onto her bed that she realizes her phone is still in her jacket pocket. She hauls herself up and crosses the room, and when she opens her phone there’s a text message.
Unsaved Number: It was fun to hang out with you today! Shane and I will be in Montreal the first weekend of April, do you want to grab lunch again?