#char: danny mantovani

[tellingscarystories]

+ + + + + + (for whoever you want :D)

+ Danny’s skincare routine is one of those really involved, twice daily ones with lil weekly and monthly additional care steps. He is baby smooth and radiant. (He also takes forever in the bathroom. But he always smells amazing because of his body butters.)

+ Nikolai runs pretty hot. His wardrobe always has him caught between not overheating but still trying to dress appropriately for the setting or the weather (namely trying to avoid something serious (illness, loss of extremities, etc.) if it drops below freezing). (He’s the perfect snuggle companion in the winter, if you can get him to sit still and let you into his space.)

+ Omens hates the taste of beer. He only carries a little bit at any given time, for cocktails only. (But he won’t admit that his strong dislike of the taste is the main reason why he doesn’t keep stock on hand for people to drink just plain beer.)

+ Wild is a Bad Driver. She stays on the road okay, but her turns are scary sharp, and she’s the kind of person who uses both hands for gesturing despite driving if she’s having a conversation with someone. Seatbelts are optional. (They really shouldn’t be.)

+ At one point in time, Midnight definitely wanted to be a dad, kind of earlier on in his life, before things started to get really messy and out of hand. The desire for his own kids went away (which I have other headcanons about–kids of his own–if someone is really interested in that sort of thing?) but then he wound up in the desert and now he’s got strays he offers Zone Dad advice to.

[tellingscarystories]

Nikolai has a fear of flying. It doesn’t come up often, and for him, with something like that, he’d be trying to mask it and just end up a ball of stress and curtness, but YEAH!

[tellingscarystories]

no. 206

streaming tears // 59/500 Some time between 2025 and 2026,

Waking up in the middle of the night was a fickle thing. Sometimes he could pinpoint exactly why he was up, what had driven the reflexive reach for the knife on his nightstand. Nightmares. The neighbor upstairs being too loud about kicking her asshole boyfriend out again. That time something (a bird) had smashed into his window one morning. But sometimes he couldn’t.

Sometimes it was just the sense of something being wrong, his body responding before his brain had time to catch up. And those were worse, had a horrible dread to them.

He had to quietly push himself out of bed, grab a knife and the gun he’d started keeping in the drawer of his nightstand (because sometimes instincts knew there was someone in your house before you'd logic’d your way to the same conclusion). And it wasn’t like he wasn’t expecting someone to turn up eventually to make an attempt on his life. But he had a roommate now, and with that addition, a more pressing sense of urgency to creeping out into his living room with intent to kill anyone who didn’t belong in their apartment.

The front door was still locked. Same as the balcony. The kitchen was empty. The bathroom the same.

Just as he reached for the handle of the door to Danny’s room, he finally heard muffled sobs--quiet enough to sound stifled by something, enough so that he hadn’t picked up on them until he was right on the other side of the door.

Warily--gun raised--he turned the handle and eased the door open, and waited for a shout or an attack that didn’t come. There was a lump under the covers about the size of Danny, shuddering with the force of his crying, and no signs of anyone else having been in the room.

(Quickly, he ducked back into the living room to leave the gun and the knife on the bookcase to free up his hands.)

“Danny?”

It took another two quiet promptings, but Danny finally emerged from his blanket cocoon, cheeks streaked with tears and eyes red, his breaths coming in labored gasps. Something twisted sharply in Nikolai’s chest at the sight. When Danny reached out blindly for him, Nikolai all but jerked forward--more out of reflex than conscious thought--to bundle the Italian up in his arms.

The bed dipped and groaned quietly under his added weight, but he ignored it, drawing Danny into his lap as sobs were muffled into his shoulder. Under his hands, Danny was damp with sweat, all the way up his back and at his hairline.

(His own nightmares weren’t like this, didn’t leave him in tears. But they were different people. Danny was softer, was more likely to be a victim haunted by experiences, than kept up by a guilty conscience.)

Nikolai didn’t know how long it was until Danny tapered off into shuddered breaths. The sky was still dark, but his shoulders ached from the angle, and he’d lost feeling in his legs from kneeling in the same position for so long. He’d long since passed the threshold from chilled to cold, and suspected a fair amount of Danny’s shaking was a result of the same.

“Do you want to try to go back to sleep?” After sitting wordlessly for so long, his voice seemed too loud in the small room.

Danny’s fists tightened in his shirt, his breath hitching, and Nikolai had to press the Italian closer to him in silent assurance that he wasn’t about to just up and leave.

“I’ll stay, if you want,” Nikolai continued. Which felt odd to offer. And selfish, in its own right. Because Danny was in a place of vulnerability, and it was the middle of the night--no other options but Nikolai, if he didn’t want to be alone but didn’t want to leave the building. It felt uncomfortably like taking advantage of the situation to keep close to the Italian. But Danny’s nod was quick and sure, and the Italian shoved into his space after they were both under the covers, arms wedged between them and his head tucked under Nikolai’s chin.

He closed his eyes, draped an arm over Danny’s side in the hopes that maybe if he got comfortable, he himself could get a few more hours of rest. “Sleep, now. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

[tellingscarystories]

The Nikolai and Religion Meta (aka winded ramblings of a squid eager to get their boy to SPILL THE BEANS)

Okay, so Nikolai's mother was a member of a local Russian Orthodox church, and there were a few influences of that at home, though not as many as she would have liked, as Nikolai’s father basically spat in the face of the idea of faith around the same time he became a deadbeat drunk. She’d start their mornings off with prayer--at first huddled in the kitchen long before Nikolai’s father awoke, and then, after Aleksandr got sick, in the little boy’s room, where much of their mother’s praying started to go toward her youngest son’s health--and end their nights with it as well. Right up until Aleksandr got sick, Nikolai’s mom also regularly brought her children to service, and encouraged them to go without her when she couldn’t leave Aleksandr’s bedside.

I don’t think a lot of it really stuck with any kind of depth, at least with Nikolai and Luka. At best, Luka’s probably agnostic. He was still rather young when they stopped going to church, and as Aleksandr got worse, their mother’s teaching dropped off, and her prayers were said alone in the privacy of her room, so he doesn’t remember much of the specifics.

Nikolai’s always had an odd relationship with religion. A big part of him going to church when he was younger was because that was what his mother wanted him to do, even if he didn’t necessarily get the whole faith thing, and he’s always been a mama’s boy. But by fourteen or fifteen, he was falling in with the wrong people. By eighteen he’d built up a reputation of violence, and by nineteen or twenty he’d killed a man, and it steadily went downhill from there. So without his mother bringing him, Nikolai was usually too ashamed of the things he’d done to show his face in church. (Which I’ve kind of nodded at in a drabble or two, but especially the one with Father Sokolov, where I referenced Nikolai having a hard time feeling like he belonged even at funeral services.)

But for all of his cynical tendencies, and for all that he wouldn’t call himself religious, I think part of Nikolai latched onto the idea of righteousness, and holiness. For all that he’s done these horrible things and he looks at ease with it all in the moment, I think a big part of why his actions still weigh at him so heavily is because of his exposure to religion, especially through his mother, as a boy. And I think that part of him still kind of, vainly seeking out that goodness and light is why there’s something of a motif of angels and holiness when he’s thinking about Danny. 

Danny’s always looked for the good in people, and tries to do right by others, even if they probably won’t do the same in return. And he hasn’t let the world make him jaded, even if he would have every right to be. So much of that strikes really close to home with what Nikolai remembers of his mother’s teachings, and what he internalized from years of attending church. Even though Nikolai sees himself as a bad presence for Danny to have around, he just can’t help being drawn in like a moth to flame by all that he sees in Danny that he doesn’t see in himself.

[tellingscarystories]

no. 458

fake smiles // 53/500

“Hi.”

Danny looked up from his drink with a faint smile--more reflex than an eagerness to meet someone new. “Hello.” He quickly sized up the stranger--kind eyes, tall but not bulky, well-kempt--and felt himself shifting into a more welcoming position before he could think to do otherwise.

“I was gonna offer to buy you a drink, but it looks like you’ve already got one,” the man said, amusement in his tone, and he slid closer into Danny’s space. After a moment, he settled down on the stool right beside the Italian. “What are you doing all alone on a Friday night?”

Not what’s your name, or what are you having--something to ease into the conversation, that didn’t hint so heavily at the intention to only know him physically, and just for the night. What are you doing on your own. Like he couldn’t be single, or didn’t look like the type who’d maybe not be looking for a one-night-stand. “I haven’t done much socializing yet,” he admitted--enough words to both demonstrate his accent and show that he was still very new to the city.

“Oh.” The man leaned forward in his seat and rested an arm on the bar. “Where are you from?”

Still no interest in learning his name. (The accent likely only made him seem more exotic.) Danny offered a practiced smile--one he’d perfected through sex work, that had reeled in many a client--and focused on looking interested enough not to risk an argument if the man decided to be offended. (He just wasn’t into it. Into this. Why had he thought going out like this would be a good idea? A bar, on his own, in a foreign city? Old patterns.) “Italy, originally. But I came over from Moscow.”

“Russia? That’s a long way from home.”

His smile grew tighter. “Yes, it was.” Had that been ignorance, or obliviousness?

“What brought you here?”

“Moscow was no longer safe.” Danny could feel even his polite attempt at interest steadily fading. He didn’t want to think about life before here. (He’d wanted to get out, to socialize. To find enjoyment for himself.) He suddenly wished that he had just waited at home for Nikolai to get back from work.

“Oh.” The man finally seemed to catch on to the somber nature of his line of questioning, because his expression fell. “How are you liking it in the city so far?”

Danny’s shoulders sagged, and he shifted his attention more to his drink. More substanceless small talk. (At this point, he’d be happy to just get to the flirting so he could properly reject the guy.) “It is nice.” He had just enough alcohol in him to have lost most of his hesitancy in speaking his mind, but not enough to swing back around into a friendly, happy-to-please sort of mindset. He downed the rest of his drink quickly and contemplated the merits of calling Nikolai to come get him. (Or even just pretending that Nikolai was calling him so he could get out of staying.)

“Can I buy you another?” the man asked, a laugh in his voice, and Danny had to resist the urge to roll his eyes.

“I should get going,” he said, grimacing with an almost-apology. And then, because he was feeling particularly bold, he added, “I have someone waiting on me to get back for dinner.” He didn’t wait for the full implication to settle in the stranger’s mind before he was sliding out of his seat--drink already paid for--and pulling his jacket tighter around himself. “Enjoy your night.”

[tellingscarystories]

no. 61

ethereal // 52/500

“I like this one.” Danny carefully ran his hands over large leaves, pulled the edges of glossy greens and checked the soil of the different pots. His expression was soft--curious, and comfortable. Open. “We could put two of these by the living room, against the windows. They should get enough sun there.”

Nikolai hummed in absent agreement.

He didn’t know the first thing about plants. Sun, watering, placement--it was all words that seemed to have more meaning to Danny. Danny seemed to naturally gravitate toward plants that would properly fill the space--several pots of flowers and a fern already sat on their cart, and Danny had been eying what Nikolai could only call a small tree.

“One of these would probably do well in your bathroom,” Danny commented. He’d stopped at a plant as tall as him, with large, round, waxy, dark green leaves. “You can put it by the window, maybe near the shower. Or between the tub and the shower.” He turned to face Nikolai, then, his eyes wide--out of excitement, maybe? Or had he remembered something? “If you want,” he added hesitantly. (Wariness?)

Nikolai didn’t need to think about it too long before he was acquiescing with a shrug of his shoulders. Some part of him had always expected Danny to personalize their space--even if he might someday leave it. “Which one?” he prompted, gesturing to the half-dozen pots or so.

Danny regarded the plants for a few beats before shrugging. “They all look healthy. These two are fuller, but that one’s taller,” he commented, gesturing to the three at the front. “Whichever one you like.”

Like he had a preference.

But, he eventually settled on the tallest of the three that Danny had pointed out (the one the Italian had been staring at the longest) and then after a moment’s hesitation, also put the fullest on their cart as well. “They can be a set,” he said in response to Danny’s curious frown--which must have been a good answer, because Danny flashed him a quick grin before moving on to look at a table of what were labeled as ferns.

Danny stepped around to the other side, fingers delicately lifting up and skating across fronds and stems. Standing where he was, the Italian was framed by the golden mid-afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows. And if someone had told Nikolai that Danny was secretly an angel, in that moment, with the way Danny’s skin seemed to glow, his serene expression and soft features, Nikolai might have believed them.

A familiar tightness--a mix of longing, and attraction, and guilt and regret--bloomed in his chest.

He was breathtaking. Absolutely breathtaking.

(In another life, he might have actually done something to justify getting to be friends with someone like Danny. In one even further from that, he might have actually asked the Italian out. Wouldn’t be so wartorn. So tarnished. Such a cynic.)

“What?” Danny was looking at him again, confused smile quirking his mouth.

“Nothing.” Nothing at all.

[tellingscarystories]

no. 281

sand castles // 49/500

“Babbo! Papa! Come see!”

“Mm? What is it, topolino? Hm? Hai fatto qualcosa?” Danny settled into the sand behind the boy, framing his slim frame with his legs, spread out in front of them. He rested his chin atop a head of curls like his, and hummed happily as he slowly tucked his arms in to poke at narrow sides, laughing in response to the giggled squealing it pulled.

“Babbo, no,” the little boy protested through his giggling, batting at Danny’s hands. “Papa, help!” he squealed, looking to their right.

The rumbled laughter and growing shadow was more than enough warning to announce his Russian’s impending decent on them, but Danny feigned ignorance until Nikolai was settled in the sand and curling his arms around the both of them. “Zamok iz peska. It looks great,” Nikolai praised, pausing in his subtle jabs of the fingers of one of his hands into Danny’s side to regard the sand castle.

“It’s a castle, Papa. I want the inside to look like home!”

“I’m sure it’s beautiful, topolino.” Danny gently pushed the curls off of their boy’s forehead so he could brush a kiss there. “Your nonno helped me make the biggest sand castles here when I was your age, you know. We’d spend all day here, and then once the tide finally rose high enough and washed the castle away, he’d take me to the little gelato place around the corner.”

“Gelato!”

Danny grinned--both at their son’s excited exclamation, and at the hum of agreement Nikolai made that couldn’t have been entirely intentional. “I think I can be persuaded to go and get gelato.”

“Babbo,” their boy whined, tilting his head back to look up at Danny with his big, hazel, doe eyes.

“Let’s go, solnyshko. Nash synok wants ice cream,” Nikolai murmured, his nose pressed against the skin behind Danny’s ear. “And I wouldn’t mind some either.”

“Gelato is different from ice cream,” Danny protested, even as he allowed the two to untangle from him and help him to his feet, Nikolai drifting further away to gather their things. “Gelato is better,” he told their boy, lightly tapping the little button nose for emphasis.

“Danny.”

“Mhm?”

“Danny.”

“Caro?”

“Danny, wake up.”

“Mm?” 

He wasn’t sure when dream melted to reality. When he went from the beach of his homeland to somewhere cold, and dark. When a smiling, easy Nikolai became one with a slight frown creasing his brow, crouched and stark against a dark background. 

“I’m sorry to wake you up; it looked like you were having a nice dream.. But it’s late. You should get to bed.”

After a moment, Danny finally registered lying on the couch, a blanket draped over him. The television was off (even though he didn’t remember going for the remote), and the lights too. He couldn’t help the forlorn-ness, the sadness that washed over him--growing more and more familiar in the recent months--realizing it had all be a dream.

Slowly, Nikolai’s frown deepened, and he hesitantly reached out to cover one of Danny’s hands with his. “What’s wrong?”

Danny shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

Nikolai’s bulk moved like he was shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “You can stay with me tonight, if you’d like,” he offered quietly.

He wanted to say yes. He wanted to take whatever closeness to Nikolai he could get. But.. he was coming off a dream where they’d had a child. Which wasn’t necessarily something he’d ever really wanted for himself, but, how did he just bounce back from that and climb into bed with Nikolai like it was nothing?

“Not tonight,” Danny said at last, easing himself to sit up, then hang his legs off of the side of the couch.

“Okay.” Nikolai stood, his joints cracking faintly. “I’ll.. see you at dinner?”

“Mhm.”

[tellingscarystories]

no. 97

heart masochist // 33/500

The familiar salty spray. Waves lapping at the sand, and the sun still below the buildings of home... He wouldn’t mind staying here forever. It was quiet. Peaceful. Just him sitting in the sand, the breeze playing in his open shirt and brushing some of his hair in and out of his eyes.

He was eighteen again, before everything had gone wrong. He didn’t have work at the tea shop until hours later, when the sun was well over the horizon, and could spend the morning painting, or playing any number of the pieces he’d purchased.

He was nearing thirty, home again when he thought he’d never get the chance. His mother and father were at home, sleeping off their excitement from having their son home again. The beach was the same. For all that may have changed--him, the city, the people--it was static. The same cliffs, the same sand, the same blue to the ocean.

“What are you thinking about?” An arm wound around his waist from behind, warm side pressing into his. When he leaned in, a gentle kiss was brushed against his temple.

“Being home,” Danny murmured, reaching down to cover the large hand on his hip with his own smaller one, slotting his fingers between lighter, more scarred ones. “Being back on this beach.” 

The silence stretched on between them, nothing but the crash of the waves and faint cries of a few sea birds further down near the cliffs to prove that the world was still moving. When he turned his head, his mouth found Nikolai’s with ease, and when he started to move into the Russian’s space, Nikolai leaned back willingly, settling back into the sand as his hands curled around Danny’s hips. And the sand was warm, wherever he touched it, even though it shouldn’t have been. Nikolai’s hands were warm on his skin, and he still knew just where to suck along his neck to make Danny’s heart flutter.

They had all the time in the world, the beach to themselves, and

a cold wetnose pressed against his arm. There was fluff under his hand, and faintly, he could hear quiet panting.

He wasn’t on a beach, or sand, but the couch, tangled up in a blanket. He could see some of the city lights from the window, but overall, the living space was dark.

It had just been a dream. (The idea--the realization--made his heart sink.)

From the floor, Orso whined and leaned forward to press his nose against Danny’s arm again.

“What’s wrong? Do you have to go out?” The puppy stared back at him, dark eyes and lolled tongue, clueless of the dream he’d cut short. And, if his stillness was any indication, unaware that Danny had suggested a walk. (That’s what he got for not using Italian more with them.)

“Come on, Orso,” he sighed, pushing himself upright.

With any luck, he’d at least get back to sleep after they got back.

[tellingscarystories]

no. 102

three dead hearts // 48/500

[[ A/N: I usually slap readmores on these things because they get long, and this one got long, but it’s entirely under a readmore because it needs a few content warnings tacked on, too. (My nightmare themed drabbles always seem to need these.) As always, I’ll add the cws to the tags, but for reference: the following involves some semi-graphic depictions of violence, and allusions to death, both animal and person. If it’s not your cuppa tea, that’s cool, just don’t click the readmore ^^ ]]

Every inhale was accompanied by a metallic tang. The inside of his mouth felt slick, and hot. His arms stung, and the floor beneath his feet (his bare feet) was slippery, cold stone warming under the dark liquid oozing across the floor.

No shirt (where was his shirt) but the soft pajama pants he wore to bed

The pup before him was stained red--streaked across his flank, staining his muzzle, his paws, the undersides of his legs, like he’d laid down in it

His arm stung. And stinging grew to throbbing grew until he was struggling to hold in a sound that caught in his chest like panic and pain and something animalistic. Looking down  big mistake   brought the whitehot pain acutely into focus, and 

fuck. Fuck, what had he done, gotten in the way of one of the pups (dogs? they were so much bigger ) attacking an intruder?

He spat blood (his blood?) out of his mouth, looked around a too-empty living room for something to use to wrap around his arm, try to apply pressure and minimize the bleeding

“Danny!” There was too much for him to try to focus on. Call an ambulance--or would it be faster to drive himself? Call the office about the intruder, have this mess sorted out. Try not to bleed out

“Danny!”

The longer he took trying to collect himself, plan out next steps, the more the adrenaline wore off (he hadn’t felt like this since the last time Vasily had asked him to make an example of a traitor) and the more he ached. The more it hurt.

“Doriano-” One of the dogs stood in his path when he turned back toward Danny’s room--close enough that Nikolai nearly slipped trying to plant his feet--ears folded back against his head, teeth bared in a snarl. “Orso-”

He resisted the instinctive urge to take a step back in response to the aggressive bark that erupted from the dog. But they hadn’t gotten this far in the pups’ training yet. There was no command to send them after someone looking to do them harm, and nothing to call them back to a heel once the job was sufficiently done.

      And suddenly he was past the pup

one of the panes of the balcony windows was shattered, curtains fluttering in the wind

In the entryway there was a shadowed mound of something (white? a blanket, maybe? something that had dragged through the blood, if he was seeing the stained edges of it right -- he couldn’t tell, it was so dark, and he still hadn’t found where the rest of the blood had come from--too much for just him, but the floor was level, made it hard to tell where the first pools had formed ) an d

he nearly stepped on a pair of glasses--instead sent them skidding across the floor as his foot knocked against them. The lenses were cracked, blood (it couldn’t be anything else, they didn’t have anything at home that could smear like that) smudged across them. Danny’s glasses.

“Danny!”

He stumbled--bloodloss starting to catch up with him--trying not to slip on his way to Danny’s door   had it been ajar like that the whole time? a smeared partial handprint along one side?

 And there he was

 Nikolai jerked away, stomach roiling like he was going to be sick, but nothing coming up, and he hated what that meant, that he was so used to this shit

   when had he grabbed his switchbl ad e no. no nonono

holy - !!

He was flat on his ass without being sure of when he fell, panicked and sick and sitting in Danny’s blood and

Why was he remembering Zitto’s panicked yipping? there’d

there’d been someone breaking in, and he remembered his shoulder slamming into the window so hard (knife? something to aid it?) that the glass broke with the force of it, and hearing the balcony railing ring  denting it and scared shouting from inside, and losing his grip on something heavy and

a nd

.

contact. the back of his hand making contact with something the crunched with the force and sent a sharp, stabbing pain radiating out from the point of impact

and dimly, he’d still heard Danny, but the sound of his blood roaring in his ears had still been so loud and something latched onto his arm, and he’d gone f for his kni

no. no.

“Exterminator Avlov! Open the door!”

oh god-

“Nikolai!”

The world dropped out from under him with a sharp twist, and from the edge of his shoulder across his back a sharp, stabbing pain shot through him as his weight slammed him heavily into something that thunked dully with the contact and grated across the floor. And stars briefly blossomed behind his eyes, the air rushing from his lungs as he hit the floor.

“Nikolai, open the door!” The heavy pounding came again, his door rattling in its frame, and one of the pups (both of the pups?) whined and cried loudly enough for the sound to carry. “Nikolai!”

Slowly--still disoriented, gaze briefly fixing on the switchblade on the shelf of his nightstand before he was even sure why--he rolled off of his back and pushed himself to his feet, body protesting each movement like he’d been hit by a car.

When he finally opened his door, it was to Danny’s wide, panicked eyes, the pups falling at their feet. Danny was pressed against him before he’d even gotten his head on right enough to find his words, hands trembling until his palms pressed flat against Nikolai’s bare back.

“You’re bleeding,” Danny said suddenly, jerking back and taking careful hold of Nikolai’s arm.

Surely enough, there were angry red lines scored down the length of his forearm (from his own nails?), and some had gotten deep enough to draw blood, trickling down from the deepest points to his wrist, down along his fingers--and down Danny’s, now that there was a point of connection between them. A confused look (he felt like he was swimming through gelatin, like there was cotton in his ears, in his mouth) back to his bed showed the white sheets stained red everywhere his arm must have touched -- most of the bedding, luckily, seemed to have been spared, twisted up at the foot of his mattress, like he’d been tossing and turning.

“What happened?” Danny’s voice was so quiet, so delicate, his touch so light as his other hand took Nikolai’s free hand in his, turned it over to note the blood under his nails, staining the pads of his fingers, and streaked up to his palm.

When Nikolai didn’t respond -- couldn’t respond -- he gently pulled Nikolai toward the master bathroom, got him seated on the edge of the tub before letting go to rummage through his cabinets.

Danny patched him up. Cleaned the wounds carefully and methodically, and then bandaged what needed to be bandaged. He used a wet washcloth to wipe the little streaks of blood from them both, and dropped it in the tub when he was done to take Nikolai’s hands in his. “Come sleep in my bed. We can talk about this in the morning.”

He didn’t much want to talk about it at all, but he’d take the postponement, for now. Anything to keep him from trying to force words out now, when he could still taste blood and bile in his mouth. When he could feel a tremor to him that he wasn’t sure would stay out of his voice, even if he couldn’t see it in his hands.

He let Danny guide him back to his feet, obediently followed across their living space to Danny’s room, and carefully settled into the space offered to him on Danny’s bed. He slowly curled around Danny once the Italian was pressed comfortably against him, tucked his knees behind the bend of Danny’s and draped an arm over Danny’s hip, his knuckles ghosting across the bare skin of Danny’s belly where his shirt had ridden up.

Orso clambered onto the bed soon enough and laid himself down on the empty side of the bed, and Zitto settled near the foot of the bed on the same side, both quietly huffing until they settled down properly to sleep.

A shuddered breath rattled out of Nikolai, and he felt Danny press back into him, a warm hand covering his own. “I’m right here, caro,” the Italian whispered. His voice only just carried, even in the silence. “Just sleep.”

[tellingscarystories]

no. 193

closest to heaven // 50/500

Dimly, he grew aware of something moving through his hair. Of light. Of the dull ache in his joints that came from lying in the same position for too long. Slowly, he shifted where his weight settled--more on one hip than the other, shoulders adjusting and a knee starting to brace for when he finally rolled over. (At once, the sensation of something running through his hair stopped, the bed shifting minutely.)

Eventually--when his body started to protest the new position too much for him to ignore--he pushed just enough to roll onto his back. And his shoulder made contact with warm skin--a little bony, so probably a joint, but not unwelcome. He knew this bed. Knew the way light played off of white walls and black floors. Knew that here, it wasn’t so easy to get into his home. Wasn’t so easy for potential threats to find their way in even if he let his guard down for the night.

“Hey.” Danny smiled down at him, lit beautifully by the sun streaming through the sheer curtains. There was what looked like a book resting against the top of his thighs, and fuzzy socks on his feet. (Where did he get those?) A sweater he hadn’t had when they’d gone to bed last night. “You were out,” he said, laughter in his voice, in his eyes. “I got up and had a little snack, and when I came back, you were right where I left you. Snoring away.”

“I don’t snore,” Nikolai grumbled. He eased himself up to sit with his back against the headboard, leaning over just far enough to get a look at what Danny had. And he was surprised to find his likeness--or, at least, he assumed it was him, the same wide shoulders, faint smudges of scars, and the pinpoints of his tattoo--on the page, a mixture of dark, sharp lines and light dustings and smudges.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Danny murmured sheepishly. “I don’t have too many subjects. New city and all.”

“I don’t mind.” He glanced over to his nightstand for the time (after ten?) before looking back at Danny. “Do you have plans for today?”

Danny shook his head. “Maybe work on a new piece. Why?”

Nikolai offered a minute shrug of one shoulder. “I might keep close to home today.” He didn’t mind the idea of a slow day, for once. (Maybe he’d earned just one.)

“You could get some more sleep, if you wanted. It’s not too late, yet.” I’m not quite done with this sketch, he likely meant. Nikolai found he didn’t mind.

Didn’t mind the idea of actually trying to get another hour or two of rest. Didn’t mind the idea of not even getting out of bed for longer than to take a trip to the bathroom or grab a snack from the fridge. Or maybe lounge on the couch with one of the books on one of their shelves.

Danny was having that increasing effect on him. He made Nikolai actually want to slow down. Made him actually want something good, and honest. Something that drove him to be better.

Made Nikolai really wonder if he was making all the right choices. If he’d done anything good.

And even for all that it could wake him up in the middle of the night worrying about risking Danny for caring about him, for keeping him close, and keep him up thinking about how he wasn’t good enough to have someone like Danny in his life, about how Danny might wake up one day and realize that, put him in the rearview mirror for good.. even for all that, he just. It wasn’t enough to overshadow the feeling he got when they were sitting like this, shoulder to shoulder, Danny with that beautiful smile, charcoal smudged across his hands, and nothing but time.

[tellingscarystories]

no. 35

morning regrets // 25/500

Bright. Warm. But so bright. Danny groaned softly and tucked his face into his pillow. Or, he tried to. Only, there was something heavy draped over his hip, warmth pressed at his front. Bare skin against his own.

“M’rn’n,” the body beside him mumbled, a hand digging into the small of his back to pull him closer. Bare legs slid against his own, and the bed dipped slightly as the man shifted enough to brush a kiss to his shoulder.

Oh.

Oh.

Danny hummed faintly, ignoring the protesting grumbles of his bedmate as he extracted himself from the other man’s arms and slowly pushed himself into roughly an upright position. “What time is it?” he asked once he’d felt awake enough to convince his brain to start offering up words in a language other than Italian.

The man--a stranger Danny couldn’t even remember the name of--sighed quietly and sluggishly rolled onto his side to reach for where he’d left his phone on the bedside table. “A little after eight thirty.”

Shit. Okay. 

He hadn’t meant to stay the night. (He wasn’t even so sure he should have gone home with this guy in the first place.)

“Coffee? Apple?” the man prompted as he slowly sat up in bed, his hip pressed against Danny’s, their shoulders brushing. Contact that was probably meant to be welcomed, or at least comfortable, after last night.

But Danny just felt like he needed a shower and his own bed. And maybe something for the headache brewing behind his eyes. (Something to distance himself from the feeling of meaningless sex. Something to distance himself from Moscow.) “I should go,” he said finally, trying not to sound too solemn about it but probably missing his mark. (At least he could feel a little bit better about being out of practice, getting out of some stranger’s bed the morning after.)

“Oh.” The man nodded slowly, then again, like the first time hadn’t been more than an absent thing. “Yeah, sure. You wanna use my shower, or...?”

“No, it’s fine.” It was already so much later than he’d ever wanted to stay at some hookup’s apartment. (Last night was supposed to have been about having a good time, and enjoying himself. But all he wanted now was to be able to go back and stay in, instead, or chosen somewhere else. Anywhere else, where he wasn’t as likely to find someone to take him home.)

Danny slid across the bed to climb out on the other side. Pants on the floor, shirt... somewhere. He had a vague memory of his sweater finding its way onto the couch before they’d stumbled into the bedroom.

“Last night was-” the stranger began in the same tone Danny had heard before, the one clients had used sometimes, that was meant to convey ‘wow’ like they’d never had anyone focus more on them than mutual pleasure before.

“Uh huh,” Danny interrupted before the stranger could get to whatever adjective he was going to offer up. He didn’t need to hear it. Didn’t want to hear it. He pulled his pants on and up, buttoned them hastily.

(Socks? ... Socks.)

“Maybe we can do this again sometime?”

Danny faltered in straightening up, shirt grasped in one hand. This was the exact opposite of what he’d wanted. “Maybe,” he offered in a tone that clearly meant he wasn’t interested in it but was being polite about saying as much. He pulled his shirt on as he straightened up and didn’t turn to face the other man again.

(Keys in his pocket. Phone. Wallet.)

(Sweater. Shoes. Door.)

“I’ll let myself out,” Danny said softly, once he was halfway out of the stranger’s bedroom. “Just lock up behind me at some point.” Or don’t. Battery City had proven to be a lot safer than anywhere else he’d lived in the past.

“Oh, yeah, uh, sure.”

Danny nodded absently--an acknowledgement he’d heard the man, and also something of a goodbye--before slipping from the room to collect the rest of his things leave.

When he finally checked, he found several missed calls from Nikolai, and two messages late into the night.

Dammit.

[tellingscarystories]

no. 51

golden sky // 42/500

“Danny,” Nikolai couldn’t help the upward lift of surprise that came out with the name. The sun was only just clearing the horizon, casting a soft golden glow across the sky. And he was getting up to go to work, which was long before Danny was usually up.

The Italian froze, one hand still on his door, the puppies eagerly looking up at him. He looked startled to find Nikolai still home. “Hi.” After a beat, he ushered the puppies out of the doorway and finally pulled the door to his room shut. Instead of drawing closer, or heading toward the kitchen, he stayed where he was, hands tugging at the hem of his sweater. “I thought you’d gone to work already.”

“No. I’m going soon, though,” Nikolai said slowly. He felt... wrong, just standing there in the open space. But Danny still wasn’t moving, and something about trying to go about the rest of his routine like this felt more wrong than standing there. Are we okay, he wanted to ask. But. Was there even a we? (‘We’ could mean friends, couldn’t it?) Did he have any right to ask that? (He felt off balance, with Danny so muted. Had he done something wrong?)

“I, ah, I'll take the puppies out, and get out of your way so you can finish getting ready,” Danny said at last, and the pups yipped excitedly, likely in response to hearing ‘out’ so early in the morning.

“You don’t have to,” Nikolai said quickly. (Maybe a little too quickly. But the words were already out.) “I usually brew some tea. You can sit with me? And I can make a light breakfast.”

For the first time in what felt like a long time, Danny didn’t answer immediately, his gaze ducked down to the puppies. (It had seemed like Danny had always jumped on the chance to have some company while eating. And he’d gone out of his way to have breakfast with Nikolai before..)

“I feel like I haven’t seen much of you recently,” Nikolai prodded--an echo of Danny’s own words from not so long ago.

He wasn’t oblivious to the fact that part of that was his fault. He’d gotten so wrapped up in having Luka back--even though they hadn’t really talked in depth yet, and were still skirting around any serious conversations--that he just, wasn’t home as much. But when he was, when Luka was around for Danny to get to know, and for the three of them to spend some time together, Danny felt distant. Withdrawn.

“I really should take them out,” Danny said quietly. He murmured softly to the pups in Italian, gesturing them in the direction of the front door.

“Danny,” Nikolai called before the Italian disappeared into the entryway. He waited until Danny looked over to him--made eye contact, brief though it was--to continue, “Dinner tonight? Just us?”

He didn’t like the way his stomach sank at Danny’s absent nod--didn’t like the way he felt, or the implication of the sensation that Danny might have been drifting out of his orbit. “Sure.”

Nikolai didn’t move until after he heard the door open and close, and even then, he could feel himself dragging.

[tellingscarystories]

no. 48

a traveler’s tale // 11/500

“Go, baby.”

His mother wrapped him in her arms, and his father weakly held one of his hands while his mother kissed away the tears on his cheeks.

“I don’t want to,” Danny choked out, drawing just far enough away to tuck his face into her shoulder and squeezing his father’s hand tighter. “Please don’t make me.”

He’d never gone traveling without them, and he’d never left Italy before. He didn’t want to start now. Not when it meant he would most likely never see his parents again, would never get to go home again.

The heart monitor beeped faster, and his father squeezed his hand back while his mother held him to her with all her might. He didn’t want to go without them, and it wasn’t fair. 

He was only eighteen. He’d only ever brought home one boy for his parents to meet, hadn’t started trying to apply to conservatories to improve his playing at. His only job had been at a little tea shop, and he’d only ever kissed two boys, and now he was going to have to leave everything behind because of these stupid, greedy men.

“We love you, sweetheart,” Mamma whispered into his hair, and Babbo echoed the words, giving his hand a light shake in emphasis.

“Please don’t make me go,” Danny whispered hoarsely.

But he would tell his parents he loved them. He would kiss their faces repeatedly, and then cry some more, until his mother forced him out. And then he would pack up what he could and find his way to Rome. He would leave what he couldn’t carry--things for his parents to remember him by--and disappear into the night to catch a train far away from Italy.

The last time he’d been on a train like this one, his parents had been taking him to Venice--his mother’s hometown, and, as she sold it, the most beautiful city in Italy. (Danny had privately thought that his own hometown was still the prettiest, but Venice had been fun, even if he father had fussed at him for hours about not going into the water because of something the Wars had done to it.)

And now he was running away. Had run away. Because this was not his hometown--was somewhere he’d never been, and would never come again. Italy was falling to chaos, and driving everyone away.

And Danny had next to nothing to his name. Many of his paintings has been burned, or stolen, or ripped apart by that horrible brute who’d hospitalized his father and threatened his mother. He’d had to leave paints and canvases and teas and family heirlooms behind--had barely managed to smuggle out his smaller sketchbooks and charcoals and pencils, tucked amongst his clothes. His violin was in its case--a folder of his most prized sheet music in his bag--and clutched to his chest. But his dear cello...

Danny reached up to press the heels of his hands into his eyes and chase away the tears. He thought he knew what he’d do with his life.

Most of the other people huddled on the train were alone, like him, or traveling with small children, or the elderly. There were no couples, or full families. No one was talking, or trying to distract themselves. They were all waiting in terror of men with guns to board suddenly and rob them all, or worse. (It would be that way until after they’d left the country, Danny had no doubt. He himself hadn’t slept in days, and didn’t think he would for days more after they’d gone all the way up to Switzerland.)

“Attention,” a voice over the intercom prompted, and the people around him flinched, like the disembodied voice belonged to someone who could do them harm, “we’ve just received word that we won’t be able to stop in Switzerland. They’re re-routing us through Austria. Last stop will be in Poland, god willing.”

No one complained. There were nothing more than hushed whispers as little groups started to re-plan.

Even the conductor sounded scared.

When a little old woman fisted her cross and began muttering prayers, everyone in the car bowed their heads, one by one, until she’d quieted just after the train (Thank God!) lurched into motion.

Austria was in better shape. Or, at least, what they could see of Austria as the train rattled on through was in better shape than everywhere they seemed to have come from.

Until they pulled into the first station--stopping for the first time since they’d left the station in Rome--and found it much like their own station had been, with little families and scared single riders clutching their bags and staring up at the train with a raw, desperate hope for somewhere away from there.

No one got off the train.

A girl about Danny’s age rose from her own seat at the other end of the car, and she dragged her suitcase down from the overhead compartment--clutched it and a smaller, harder case--and carried it over until she reached him. He didn’t say anything, but when her gaze slid over to the empty seats across from him, he nodded, and she stowed her suitcase next to his.

“It was my mother’s,” she said oh-so-quietly as she set the smaller case down on the table in between them. It was then that Danny realized she was a musician, like him.

“I wanted to be first chair in a national orchestra,” Danny confessed.

The girl said nothing in response, but as they watched Austrians board the train and fill other seats, he got the sense that she empathized. After all, everyone had had dreams.

The Vienna station was mostly empty, save for a few lone people, and soon most of the Austrians had shuffled off, bags and children in tow. The girl across from him moved like she was going to get up and go herself, so Danny quickly put his hand down on top of her instrument case.

“What-”

He tipped his head in the direction of the few Viennese who had gotten on board, to their grim faces and sunken eyes. “Not here,” he told her softly. There was a pit in his stomach that said there was something wrong with this place, that would drive people away with expressions so sad.

But the girl gently pulled her instrument away and lugged down her suitcase, and, for better or worse, it was the last time Danny would ever see her.

He hadn’t even gotten her name.

They had been on the train for nearly two full days by the time they arrived in Warsaw. Danny had dozed fitfully, and never fully, a few times, but for the most part had held tightly to his violin case and wept quietly while he watched the Austrian landscape melt into Poland. Every kilometer they traveled took him the furthest he’d ever been from home, and he wanted desperately to turn back, to see his mother and father again.

The Warsaw platform was absolute chaos. Everyone wanted to get on a train away from the city, it seemed, and people tried to clamber aboard even after the conductor had declared that this was the last stop, and the train needed to be serviced.

He was pushed and shoved down along the platform and into the station, where he finally found a spot to stop and breathe beside a dead vending machine. This was worse the Austria--wasn’t much better than Italy had been, from the looks of it--and no one spoke any Italian, except for the people who’d been similarly ushered off of the train, and they were all rapidly disappearing through the crowd. He had no way out, from the looks of it, and if he stayed here, he wasn’t sure how long he would last, if it truly was like Italy.

Danny all but collapsed unceremoniously to the floor, back against the vending machine, his suitcase tucked under his bent knees and violin clutched to his chest, and for a while he just cried ugly, heavy sobs, and mourned the home he would never go back to, and a future he doubted he had.

He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there when he was finally interrupted. “Excuse me.”

Small hands shook his knee until he looked up, and rapid blinking cleared his tears away enough to reveal a little girl--no older than six or seven. Her clothing and hair suggested she was Italian--as did her lack of an accent when she spoke--but she had the nose and eyes of a foreigner. And maybe cheekbones that didn’t match the common structures from his (their?) home country.

“We got separated from my dad,” the little girl said, pointing to an Asian woman standing just behind her. “My mom only speaks a little Italian, and a lot of Chinese. We have to get to the train going to-” She broke off from speaking to turn to her mother, and they spoke in what sounded like maybe Chinese.

“Minsk,” her mother said finally. “In Belarus. It’s the first stop of our train.”

“Can you help us? My mom says we’ll bring you on with us, if you want. We’ll get off to catch a different train to China, but my mom says this one will take you away from here.”

He barely waited for the little girl to finish talking before he was nodding, and he pushed himself to his feet and collected his things. “What’s the train number?” Even if he didn’t get on board with them, it wasn’t like he had anything else to do, Danny decided. At least this way he could help someone else get someplace safe.

The girl’s father, it turned out, was alarmingly comfortable with the trip for someone being forced to leave Italy. And he talked. It had been days since anyone had said so many words to Danny.

“The Russians seem to have it all figured out,” Alonzo was saying. “Everyone’s saying no one’s seen any Russians leaving the country, but the trains still run through it, and there are people around at the stations.”

The little girl, Samanta, had been trying to convince her parents to ‘keep him’ since she’d discovered that Danny had nowhere to go. Which her parents hadn’t outright rejected--if they thought he hadn’t noticed, they were wrong--but also hadn’t outright accepted, as her father had then launched into all of the different places in Asia that were supposed to be safer than Europe.

“Or you could take the train all the way down in Asia-proper,” Alonzo continued. “Japan is also doing quite well, supposedly. As is China. You have to transfer trains to get to China, but we can always point you in the right direction.”

The real issue was that Danny didn’t speak any of these languages. He’d taken French in school, but France had been out of the question, with no safe way to get there from Italy, and while he had a basic grasp of English, he doubted it would get him far. And unless he wanted to have to double back, he only had a few hours to decide whether or not Russia--Moscow, more specifically--was where he wanted to end up.

“Are you sure?”

Danny nodded to Alonzo and forced himself not to start crying again--especially because Samanta looked like she was going to start up any second. “I can’t impose-” because Samanta’s mother insisting that he could stay with them in accented Italian once she’d finally been fully clued in to his situation had been too much, and staying with them long term would hurt his heart too much- “and you’ve done so much for me already.”

“Stay,” Samanta wailed, struggling in her mother’s hold as Danny slid out of his seat and gathered his belongings. 

“It was very nice to meet you, Samanta,” Danny told her. (And if the smile he offered her was watery and cracking, well. It had been a tough few days.) “Thank you so much,” he said to Alonzo and his wife. “Truly.”

It wasn’t until after he’d gotten off the train and it had pulled out of the station--too late to turn back--that Danny allowed himself to wonder if he had made the right choice.

(Good god, was it cold.)

[tellingscarystories]

no. 140

craving // 38/500

“I wouldn’t.”

Slowly, Danny looked up from the tomatoes to the source of the voice--a man stopped in the middle of the walkway, one hand on the handle of his shopping cart, the other on his hip. “Excuse me?”

“Those tomatoes. Synthetic grown, instead of out in those greenhouses. Most of the vegetables here are. A lot of the fruits aren’t, though.”

“Tomato is a fruit,” Danny protested, even as he put back the tomato he’d been holding. (How did this guy know where all of the produce came from, anyway? And why did he care?)

“Exception to the rule.” The stranger offered him a sly smile, like they’d just shared a joke. “I’d suggest the market between 8th and 9th, for tomatoes. Squash, too. And root vegetables.” (His cart held things like milk, and rice. Oatmeal.)

“You say that like you have a place in mind for everything you cook with,” Danny commented, leaning lightly against the side of the display. But who was that picky about where they got their produce from? Especially when they were in the upscale part of the city, where everything was better quality and higher priced.

“Oh, I do. More for the restaurant, but if I wouldn’t put it on my own table, I wouldn’t serve it.”

“Restaurant?” Danny raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah. I own one. The Ivory Lounge. Or- well, own. Strong word. But it’s my name on the placard, and my partners who helped fund the thing, so.” The stranger flicked his fingers in a dismissive motion. “You’re probably not even that picky, don’t mind me-”

“You don’t know that,” Danny said quickly, before the stranger could start to walk away. (Eager desperate to continue talking to someone, after so many days of Nikolai and Luka wrapped up in catching up with one another but being insistent enough on him sticking around that he’d been effectively forced into something not completely alien to isolation. But he found himself short on words.) “I-”

“Listen, I should finish up here and get home so I have enough time to get dinner ready, but.. you should come in to the restaurant sometime. If you’re feeling adventurous, tell them I told you to tell them to tell Noah- that’s me- it’s the tomato guy, and I’ll put something together to show you what I mean about ingredients being better from different markets.”

“Oh, um, okay-”

“It was nice meeting you.”

The stranger disappeared down one of the aisles before Danny could quite form a full thought again. And by that point, it was too late to point out that the man hadn’t gotten his name in return.

(Ah, well. He’d at least make a note in his phone of what the chef had said to him, just in case, and continue on with his evening. He had his own dinner to cook, after all.)

[tellingscarystories]

no. 238

locked doors // 24/500

“Nikolai?” Danny hesitantly pressed one hand to the door, like he could touch Nikolai’s arm by extension, and needed to treat it like a wounded animal. Talk to me, he wanted to say. But he didn’t know what kind of headspace the Russian was in. And who was he (charity case, others called him, like they thought he wouldn’t understand) to ask that of Nikolai? “Are you hurt?” he asked quietly.

The room beyond was silent, which Danny hoped was a good thing. The alternative was destruction--thrown and smashed belongings, or a new hole in the wall. Right?

But he’d never seen Nikolai like this.

Nikolai, who came home early to wash away the blood, and took care of his business and didn’t bring it home. Nikolai, who always had a bottle of water and some aspirin waiting for him on the coffee table, a plush blanket draped of the back of the couch at his seat.

“Nikolai? Should I call a doctor?” You were so bloody. He wished now that he’d worked up the nerve to talk to Andrei more. He didn’t know what was going on. Not really. And, for once, he was acutely aware that he didn’t really know much of anything about Nikolai.

The silence stretched on.

Should he call Andrei? Text someone?

“It’s all falling apart.”

Danny nearly jerked away from the door in surprise, because Nikolai was right there on the floor. He settled on his knees instead, but pulled his hand away from the door to fold both in his lap. “What is?”

“Vasily’s empire. His control. He’s losing the city.”

“I don’t understand.” Nikolai sounded so. So disheartened. No. Weary. Sad. Defeated. Ashamed. What was Danny supposed to do? This wasn’t something he could fix, or something he could distract from. This was Nikolai’s livelihood. His life.

“There was a spy, trying to get closer to Vasily.” Was. There was a spy. Past tense. But spies could be unassuming, scrawny individuals. So Nikolai coming home covered in blood-- “I had to make an example of him.”

An involuntary chill shot down his spine. That he had heard about long before he’d actually met Nikolai. Nikolai Vasily’s enforcer, who shattered joints and removed pieces to make Vasily’s point. (The Nikolai who gave his Nikolai nightmares, who put this haunted, self-loathing look in his Nikolai’s eyes.) The Nikolai whose kills were immortalized on his skin--but out of sight, because of the shame of it.

“Nikolai-”

“You should stay somewhere else tonight.”

“No.” Even though he could hear the self-hatred and fear fueling the words, Danny grappled with a sense of hurt at being so swiftly sent away. “I’ll sit right here all night if I have to.” I’m not leaving you.

“Danny-”

“No. I’m staying.” And whatever Nikolai needed, he would get. Not because he felt he owed Nikolai anything, or out of spite, or because he had something to prove. He’d stay because Nikolai mattered to him.

He’d stay because he cared.

[tellingscarystories]

no. 247

golden boys // 7/500

“Nikolai, please. It’s just for a few nights. And he’s very sweet. Look at him.” The dog--Reks--looked up between them, head cocked to one side in curiosity. He sat obediently at his master’s feet--or, more accurately, was pressed against Andrei’s leg (probably cold and, if he knew what the travel bag of dog stuff was, nervous about his master leaving him with some stranger).

“I said no. I don’t have time to walk a dog-”

“Ah, look at him!”

Oh no.

“Look, your roommate likes him,” Andrei pointed out, leaping on the opening. He went so far as to lean far enough over to see beyond Nikolai’s shoulder to look at Danny, “Do you want to meet him?”

(Never mind Andrei owing him for this, Vasily was going to owe him, especially for the short notice. Because he had made Nikolai and Andrei actually start sharing more than a few sentences a week between them, had sparked this whole ‘making friends’ thing.)

“Can I?” Danny eagerly padded over, squeezing into the narrow space Nikolai had left in the doorway to get a better look at the dog. He slowly knelt down near the dog--forcing Nikolai to step sideways and further open the door--and grinned as the dog’s tail started wagging vigorously. “Hi, handsome,” he greeted, letting the dog sniff his hand before starting to pet him.

“This is Reks,” Andrei said, leaning down to pat the dog’s side.

Danny cooed something in Italian to the dog, gently coaxing him to lie down in the doorway.

Nikolai looked up to find Andrei considering Danny, the same look on his face that he got sometimes right before he found a way to pull the rug out from under someone Vasily didn’t like. “No,” he hissed with a sharp shake of his head. No way. No way was he going to let Andrei go over his head. ‘Don’t you dare,’ he mouthed when Andrei made eye contact with him.

“I was telling Nikolai-” son of a bitch- “that I’ve got my neighbor looking after my cats, because she can come over once a day and make sure they’ve got enough food and water. But she doesn’t have the mobility to take Reks out for walks, and he needs to go out twice a day. But I can’t find anyone to look after him on such short notice.” Son of a bitch.

“That’s terrible!” Danny said--though his words were more directed at the dog, as he seemed to be focused on giving the dog belly rubs. “Nikolai,” he began, finally pausing in petting the dog to look up at him.

Son of a bitch.

“We can look after him for a few days, can’t we?”

He was going to deck Andrei, as soon as they had a moment alone. (What kind of low blow ambush bullshit was this, anyway.)

“I have to work,” Nikolai grumbled, directing the complaint at Andrei. He knew he’d already lost--Danny had that hopeful, doe-eyed look that Nikolai had never been able to say no to--and at this point was putting up token protests, but he still continued on, “And what will we do when neither of us gets in until late? He needs to be walked.”

“I’ll take a break and come back, and I can just pick up the extra time working later either that night, or some other night,” came the response. “I’ll do all the work,” Danny insisted, “you just have to be able to tolerate having him around.”

Nikolai leveled Andrei with a glare. “You owe me.”

“Of course!” Andrei didn’t even look a little sorry. He promptly launched into explaining the care details, talking mostly to Danny--though he did glance up to Nikolai every now and then like he was checking that his colleague was listening. And then he was crouching down to say a brief farewell to his dog before leaving with a promise to check in with Nikolai as often as he could, just in case anything went wrong on either end.

Once the door was closed, Danny was quick to un-leash the dog and get everything set up for him. And then the pair happily curled up together on the couch, Danny tugging a blanket over them both as the dog wiggled further into his lap. When the dog whined quietly and nosed Danny’s hand, the Italian easily shifted his attention away from the television and began scratching behind the dog’s ears, giggling as it resulted in the dog licking his hand and arm.

He couldn’t help but admit, at least to himself, that it warmed something in his chest to see Danny smiling so brightly. Even if it was because of someone else’s dog.