Chapter Text
No one's asked him how he wound up here. It's not the sort of thing you ask. He thinks Sasha must have told some of them, though - the older guys, at least. In the evenings they all troup down to this shithole basement bar and play durak, and there seems to be an unspoken agreement that Zhenya never gets dealt in. The first few nights he hung around hopefully, but eventually Sergei Gonchar caught him by the arm as he shuffled towards their usual table, and gave Zhenya a sympathetic, shrugging shake of the head. It was the first time anyone had touched him since he arrived in America.
Now Zhenya just finds a spot on the wall to lean against, smoking the crappy Slovakian cigarettes that are always going spare, feeling like a ghost. Zhenya doesn't care about the game - he prefers chess, anyway - but he's sharply aware that the perimeter, the edge of the herd, is not a safe place to be.
The work isn’t what he expected. Mostly it’s fairly boring. Zhenya is there when they come for him, he sits in the back of a nondescript black or grey car, Sasha or Gonchar or someone else sits across from him. Kovalchuk drives - slowly. Sometimes there’s another car, just in front. They arrive at a nightclub, or a closed restaurant, or an office building, or, occasionally, a warehouse. Zhenya stands a little to the left, and tries his best to look big and looming, and keeps a hand inside his pocket. There’s a conversation, sometimes in English, sometimes Russian. He doesn’t speak. He watches the men’s shoulders, their shuffling feet, their jaws - waiting for clenched muscles, for flinches, for sparks.
Three weeks in, and he still feels out of time, like he can't quite predict when the sun is going to rise. The other guys sleep until mid afternoon, because the work is at night, but Zhenya keeps waking up a couple of hours after going to bed. Kucherov snores like a wild boar, and their beds are only a few feet apart, so once Zhenya's awake he has no hope of falling asleep again. Instead he just lies there, feeling like his bones are calcifying, the tension building up in his body, day after day. He hasn't been dreaming, and he's grateful for that. If he had to see his parent's faces he might shatter.
There’s only one incident, that first month. Sasha isn’t even there; it’s a small run, inconsequential, Zhenya and Kovalchuk flanking Gonchar up a dark staircase at the back of some sweaty club.
There are three men in the office - the club owner, who's sitting behind a desk and trying to look more important than his rundown bar justifies, and two big guys in dark t-shirts. The owner’s expression is almost sulky as Gonchar comes to a halt in front of him - Zhenya wonders idly if he’d thought he was important enough for a visit from Sasha himself.
“I’m sure you know why we’re here,” Gonchar says pleasantly. The owner scowls, shrugs.
“There were some - unavoidable delays, this month,” he says. “The pipes burst, we had to close for a weekend.”
Gonchar shakes his head a little, still smiling softly. He looks as though he’s speaking to a naughty child. “We were very understanding last month, Mr Badem. And the month before. But three times in a row…it’s not acceptable.”
He leaves a pause, but the owner doesn’t say anything else. He has a rather large forehead - it’s easy to see the sweat beginning to trickle down it.
“Well,” Gonchar continues eventually, “That’s it, then. We’ll give you, hm - two weeks - to vacate the premises. Someone will bring you the paperwork in the next few days.”
“No, wait,” the owner bursts out, slamming his palms down on his desk, “That’s not - come on, give me a chance! We’ve been here for years, we’ve never had any trouble -”
“Three months of debt,” Gonchar interrupts, “That sounds like trouble to me.”
Zhenya clenches the fingers of his right hand, just a little. The two other guys, the bouncers, both look young - maybe as young as Zhenya himself. One is stocky, with broad shoulders, but the other one has long arms, good reach.
Gonchar nods to himself - business complete - and turns to head back down the stairs. Before he’s taken a step, Zhenya watches the club owner crooks his fingers, and one of his bouncers slides into place, blocking the doorway. “Move,” Gonchar says, calmly.
“I’m sure we can find a solution, gentlemen,” the club owner tries again.
Gonchar glances back at him, all sympathy gone from his face. “Ah, you’ve made a mistake,” he says, softly, “There are no gentlemen here.” His eyes meet Zhenya’s, and Zhenya knows exactly what to do, immediately. The knowledge comes as clear and fast as a shaft of light suddenly breaking through a cloud.
He steps backwards just as Kovalchuk breaks forward, and as Kovalchuk drives his fist into the stomach of the man blocking the doorway, and a yell spills out of his mouth, Zhenya slips into the shadows. The other bouncer jerks towards the brawl, which is an amateur, instinctive move, and Zhenya watches Kovalchuk’s elbow smash back into his face.
The man sitting at the desk - the club owner - is trying to get to his feet, but Zhenya’s there behind him, twisting the man’s left arm against his back until he hears a crack, and driving his elbow into the middle of the guy’s shoulders to force him down into his seat. He shouts, but his goons are being noisy enough that it goes unnoticed, at least until Zhenya’s got the tip of his Makarov resting gently against the side of his jaw.
After that, things go pretty quiet.
In the car, afterwards, Gonchar’s gaze is thoughtful on Zhenya’s face. “You did well,” he says, and Zhenya nods, trying his best not to smile. He feels better than he has in weeks. He has a purpose. He’s good at this. He cleans his fingers carefully with the wet wipes that Kovalchuk keeps in the glove compartment, getting into the cuticles.
His sunny mood has dissipated by the time they pull up outside his building. Zhenya doesn’t know where Kovalchuk and Gonchar stay - not here. Somewhere nicer, probably. Zhenya hesitates a little, but Gonchar doesn’t say any more to him, so there’s nothing to do but get out of the car.
He trudges up four flights of stairs, passing by the broken elevator, the homeless guy who sleeps outside 2B, and the apartment on the third floor where he can always hear a baby crying. He stands at the door to his apartment, forces his arm to lift, fits his key into the lock. He can’t bring himself to turn it. The thought of going in there again, of facing up to the two rooms where five grown men sleep, the tiny bathroom with its broken sink, the yellow ceilings from decades of cigarette smoke, the smell that never goes away, like sweat and meat and mildew and grime…Zhenya can’t do it. Not now. Not tonight.
He should be grateful to be here. He isn’t. Sasha Ovechkin might have saved his life, but for what? What’s the difference between drowning in Magnitogorsk and rotting in Pittsburgh?
Zhenya yanks his key out of the lock and goes back down the stairs, all four flights, speeding up as he goes. He’s almost running by the time he gets to the ground floor. He feels like there’s a claw around his throat, like he has to get out of the building, right now. Without meaning to, he remembers the sound that the club owner had made when he felt the coldness of Zhenya’s gun against his skin. It was a soft noise, just an ‘oh’ of surprise, like the sound you might make if a cat brushed against your bare leg.
He walks blindly, down one road, then another. He spots a bridge in the distance, his feet move towards it, and then he’s following a river. The city sky seems to be full of neon signs, looming out of the darkness like lighthouses. Zhenya barely knows any English, but he knows these names. McDonalds. Burger King. 7-Eleven. He mouths them to himself, because if he keeps his face moving, perhaps he won’t cry.
There’s barely anyone around - it’s 3, maybe 4 in the morning. The couple of guys he does pass must decide that Zhenya’s big enough or looks distressed enough that he’s not worth messing with. When his feet start to ache he hopes he might come across a bench, but in the end he just sits down against a low wall, at the edge of a parking lot. He leans his head back against the bricks and puts his hands on the ground, letting the rough concrete scratch his palms. He presses down, just to make sure he can still feel the sting on his skin, despite his new callouses.
He wakes up some indeterminate amount of time later, with a crick in his neck and a headache at the back of his eyes. The sky is light. Zhenya forces himself to his feet, wincing as his knees protest. He has absolutely no idea where he is, and there’s a vague thread of panic building at the base of his spine.
He walks, because he can’t just hang around an empty parking lot forever. Round the corner there’s a cafe - no, a diner - and the lights are on, vague figures moving around inside. Zhenya becomes aware that he’s intensely thirsty. What he’d really like is a cup of tea, brewed in his mama’s teapot, stirred with a spoonful of the thick, cheap jam that’s more sugar than fruit. He’d settle for a coffee, though.
When he pushes open the door he sees that the diner is almost empty - just a waitress mopping tables, an elderly couple in the corner, and a guy in one of the booths with the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up. It smells like eggs. Zhenya takes a seat at one of the plastic tables, and after a few moments the waitress comes over. She’s not wearing a frilly dress and a cap, like in the films - just a t-shirt and a weary expression.
She says something in English, and Zhenya tries, “Coffee?” Thankfully, the word is similar in Russian, and the waitress nods. She speaks some more, the rhythm of her voice sounding like a question, but Zhenya can only shrug helplessly, and eventually she leaves.
The table is made of yellow plastic, clean and cool, and Zhenya resists the urge to put his cheek against it. He feels like an imposter here, in this bright place. Like a pimple that’s brewing under the skin, waiting to emerge. From this position he has a pretty clear view of the guy at the booth’s face, despite the hood. It’s a good face - dark, almond-shaped eyes, strong features, big mouth. Zhenya feels an instinctive flush of guilt. He closes his eyes and lets the soft murmur of indecipherable conversation wash over him.
The gentle hum is interrupted by a raised, excited voice. Zhenya cracks his eyes open and focuses on the source of the noise - the man who’s now leaning against the guy with the sweatshirt’s table, chattering away at him. Zhenya looks between the two of them, puzzled. They don’t look anything alike, and there must be twenty years’ age difference. The guy who was there originally still has his hood pulled up, and Zhenya watches him as he shrugs and smiles in an embarrassed sort of way, his face getting redder.
The waitress reappears, and sets a steaming mug of black coffee in front of Zhenya. He busies himself adding sugar and creamer, and takes a cautious step. It’s okay - hot. He pours himself a glass from the water jug that’s on the table.
The voice from the nearby booth climbs even louder, and Zhenya glances over again. The older man’s still looming over the table, holding something now - a phone? He’s waving it around, and Zhenya can see the seated guy shaking his head. He’s smiling, but it looks tense.
The standing man hits the table with the hand that isn’t holding the phone. Zhenya doesn’t need to understand what he’s saying to detect that wheedling, cajoling tone. The younger guy says something else, placating, and the man with the phone huffs out a harsh, angry breath.
Alright. Zhenya makes a decision. He pushes himself to his feet, and ambles over to the booth, not fast. Both of the men look up as he approaches. “Ok?” Zhenya says, aimed at the standing guy. He frowns at Zhenya and says something in English, just a rush of vowels.
Zhenya gestures loosely to the phone. “No,” he says, exhausting his English vocabulary. The man’s eyes narrow, and he folds his arms against his chest, puffing up a little. He says something else. It’s so easy to ignore.
“Ok.” Zhenya says again, firmly, and the man stares him down for a moment, until Zhenya puts his hands on his hips. Then the man seems to notice his arms, his height. He mutters something else as he walks away, but as long as he’s going, Zhenya doesn’t care.
There’s a moment of quiet, and then the guy with the hooded sweatshirt breathes out a soft sigh. Up close, Zhenya can see that he’s young - probably still a teenager. His round cheeks are pretty devastating. The boy smiles up at Zhenya, and says a stream of words. Zhenya doesn’t like English, but he likes the way this boy’s mouth moves when he speaks it. Then the boy seems to catch himself, shaking his head a little. “Thank you,” he says, enunciating it, and Zhenya shrugs and nods.
The boy mimes something, his hands coming into a square shape, his index finger moving up and down as though clicking an invisible button. Oh - a camera. The boy jerks his head towards the back of the man who’d been bothering him, and quirks his mouth. The man was trying to take a photo of him? It doesn’t make a lot of sense, but Zhenya has no way to ask any of the questions that are bubbling up in his mind. All he can do is smile back, a little tensely, and then turn away and go back to his own table.
Zhenya drinks his coffee. He doesn’t look at that boy again - he keeps his eyes fixed on the tabletop, rubbing his fingertips over the little scratches in the plastic. It’s still early - the guys won’t have woken up yet. If he can find his way back, no-one needs to know he ever left. No-one has told him that he can’t go out on his own, anyway. Even so, something tells him that it would be easier if Sasha didn’t know about this solo jaunt. Zhenya’s still close to the river - if he walks along it in the opposite direction, he should end up in streets he’s somewhat familiar with.
The waitress comes back with a coffee pot, and holds it out towards him, but Zhenya shakes his head. He gets his wallet out of his back pocket and thumbs through his meagre US coins - he’s only got twenty bucks to last until the end of the week. The waitress sees him peering at the money, and jerks her head over towards the booth where the sweatshirt boy was sitting. Zhenya follows her gaze - the booth is empty now. The waitress says something to him, and then rolls her eyes at his shrug. She points, exaggerated, towards that booth, and then towards Zhenya’s wallet. She mimes pulling out notes, and gestures at Zhenya’s coffee, and then she walks away without picking up any of the coins he’d laid on the table.
Fuck English, Zhenya thinks vehemently. He’s sure his cheeks must be bright red. He shoves his wallet back into his pocket, drains the dregs of the coffee, and stands up. As he passes the booth where the boy had been sitting, his feet slow, and he lets his fingers drag against the edge of the table. He’s pretty sure the boy paid for his coffee. Zhenya might only be a thug, a grunt, but he still knows the danger of a debt.
He manages to find his building, and when he enters the apartment the air is still and silent, like the water of a stagnant pond. One of the guys who sleeps in the kitchen - Pavel - is passed out on an airbed. Zhenya edges around him and creeps into the bedroom, careful not to bang the door. Kucherov is a sprawled, snoring lump under the covers. Everything is - normal.
Zhenya lies down on the stale sheets of his narrow bed, stares at the ceiling, and holds the knowledge of his secret little expedition against his chest like a medal. If he was still in Russia, it would have been an entirely unremarkable series of events. But he’s not. He’s in America, and he went out, on his own, and he found a place to order a drink, and he spoke to people. Well - he interacted, anyway. For the first time since he stepped off the cargo ship that brought him to this country, he did something that wasn’t entirely controlled by the brotherhood.
It feels like the beginning of something. Like the tiny spark of electricity that could, if it’s tended to, if it’s given the right environment, start a new life.