For Sist3r_Sin -- The New Tattoo

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Illya's eyebrows raised when Ivan's driver pulled the car to a stop and parked in front of the tattoo parlor. The sign was in Russian. It was not a place for hipsters and tourists to get inked. It was almost exclusively used by the Vor. The man who owned it was an old friend of his boss' from Russia. The driver got out and opened the door. As usual, Illya got out first, and then his employer. In truth they were more than that. By saving the old man's life, he had earned a permanent place in the family.

"Come, you have earned a new mark, Kuryakin," Ivan told him. He followed his boss inside and watched as he greeted the owner, Victor, with a kiss on the cheek and a handshake. "Go, take off your shirt and lie down."

He listened to the two old men talking softly in Russian as Illya went to the table toward the back of the shop and removed his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. Sliding the shirt off revealed his story to everyone who knew how to read it. He laid down on the table on his back, revealing a couple of recently healed scars. One on his chest bisected the crucifix, cutting Jesus in half and angled toward his heart. The other, raked down well developed abdominal muscles on his left side. These were from the knife wounds he had taken for Ivan. His boss sat down in the back in a chair and picked up one of the Russian newspapers lying there.

The tattooist came and sat down by Illya, pulling on a pair of neoprene gloves and looking over the display of prison and military tattoos. The new tattoo would be different. Made with professional ink and the artwork would be better defined. The tattooist cleaned the area around his abdominal scar with alcohol and looked over the space. Unlike American tattooists, he would not be working from flash, but from memory.

Illya relaxed while the artist prepared his inks. Today he would be getting the Ivanoff family crest, held by a bear. A mark that he was a protector of the family.

Comments

[abyssum_invocat]

"This one is sweet," Sinthia murmurs, letting the topic of his questions drift into silence, though she wondered--and almost asked him--if they were planning on being alone at some point in the evening. "All the paintings of the palaces Maria would have lived in the Danish court, and the places she spent time with her husband. The one of the Amalienborg Palace is surprisingly correct."

She'd traveled to Copenhagen enough times to know what the Rococo-styled buildings looked like by memory, and smiled at the little watercolor panel of it. "Alexander must have loved her dearly to give her these things." The next egg in the collection was one of Sinthia's favorites; the Lilies-of-the-Valley Basket Egg, decorated with so many tiny pearl blossoms.

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"It is," Illya had seen some of those places in person as well. The paintings were tiny and delicate. "It was said that they were love match. Something quite rare in monarchies of the time." Marriages were arranged to seal treaties and negotiations between countries and monarchies at the time.

They followed the flow to the next display. The Lilies-of-the-Valley Basket Egg was encrusted with tiny pearls and enameled flowers and leaves. It's surprise, three tiny portraits on ivory of Tzar Nicholas and his two daughters, Olga and Tatiana.

Illya approached these treasures with no small bit of reverence. These delicate objects were a connection with a time and a monarchy which no longer existed and yet it shaped the lives of Illya's parents and his own. It was idyllic time in Russia's history that was utterly destroyed by Oktober Revolution. At the end, this small delicate reminder of that time and of the people of that time had withstood all to be shown here.

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"Something quite rare for monarchies of any time," Sinthia murmurs, not taking her eyes off the tiny pearls covering the egg, and the miniature portraits at the top. "They're beautiful children."

She almost reaches up to touch the glass, but stops with only a little involuntary jerk of her arm in Illya's. She doesn't remember those times herself--some afterward, yes, the Stalinist years early on--but the history fascinates her, enabling her to fill in some of the many, many blanks in her memory, things that have been stripped away forever, trapped in complex pathways Sinthia will never rebuild. "It's strange, isn't it," she said quietly, "That the only thing left of a whole family is these little eggs and jewels. The most intimate gift he could have given her, such a fragile little thing, survived."

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"Yes. They were," like most Russians, Illya had not been brought up to believe in happy endings, but the story of Tsar Nicholas and his family was exceptionally tragic. He had been fascinated by it as a boy. "It is. The wonder is they were not purposely destroyed by the early Soviets as symbols of the decadent and corrupt Tsarist regime. The only thing that saved them was that they were worth a great deal of money. Stalin sold them off to raise funds in the 1920s."

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"They weren't particularly corrupt, not the later ones," Sinthia murmured, "Nicholas was poorly raised to be the Tsar and had little inclination to follow Alexander. And him dying young and suddenly helped nothing."

The more she stared at the egg in front of her, the more her control over her thus-far hidden abilities slipped bit by tiny bit. It only resulted in the glass beginning to warp by fractions of degrees, not even enough to make the crystalline structure crack. But still it was there, though it abruptly stopped when Illya mentioned Josef Stalin, attention snapping back to his reflection as her lashes dipped in recognition.

"He was a boor of a man," she said softly. "And short." Shorter than Sinthia, even.

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Illya stared at Sinthia, for a few moments, she seemed a million miles away as she talked about Tzar Nicholas. She seemed different. And then her talking about Stalin as if he was someone she'd met made the hair on the back of his neck twitch. He squeezed her hand gently, "Sintha, are you feeling alright?"

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Sinthia risked a glance up at Illya at that question, mouth halfway to a self-deprecating smile as she looks back to the egg. "I'm feeling just fine, Illya. I read my histories, that's all. Can you blame me for being a little enthralled by something so beautiful?"

It clearly isn't that egg, and she's not perfectly fine, but that mysterious look she has has very successfully sold a lot of lies in her life, and many more far-fetched than her simply feeling alright. "He was only five foot six, you know. Even if he was always painted larger, he was shorter than I am."

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He smiled, she seemed quite alright now, "Of course, not. They are a physical part of the past. We cannot help but be fascinated by them let alone the skill it took to make such things."

Regarding Stalin's lack of height made him chuckle. At six foot five, nearly everyone was considerably shorter than Illya was. "I remember some of the statues of Stalin and Lenin before Perestroyka and Glasnost. I remember being surprised that they were hollow when they were pulled down."

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"They're extraordinary," she murmurs, squeezing his hand as they came to the last egg in the exhibit, the Trans-Siberian Railway egg, with the miniature train laid out in front, all the cars assembled together.

"If they'd been solid, they wouldn't have cured properly," Sinthia said absently. "I remember...mmm. What do I remember," she sighed. "I remember when they passed the law permitting private ownership." That had been big. "I wasn't there when they got pulled down. I moved around quite a lot."

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Approaching the last one, Illya looked like a boy at Christmas. He was delighted to see the Trans-Siberian Railway egg. The little train was just as exquisite as it had appeared in the pictures. Though it was bigger than he'd imagined. For a moment he'd lost track of what they had been talking about.

"Solid? Oh, yes. The statues," he laughed. "I imagine not. But when you're a child you see the world differently. That had been a very strange time. One day the state owned everything and the next day it didn't. It was a bit... crazy."

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Sinthia was watching Illya with a smile mirroring his own as he studied the tiny train carriages; she was committing the features of his face to memory in that smile, looking so happy and almost awestruck by the beauty and genius of the tiny gilded mechanics and jewels fit together so perfectly.

At his comment about seeing the world differently, she could affect a smile, but it was less bright, more sad; she'd never been that kind of child. She, rather unlike him, would always have in her the knowledge of murdering nearly a dozen people before she'd turned nine. It would never go away, never be forgotten, and it tinted a good deal of what she remembered from childhood. "I know it was," she replied, just shy of a returning laugh.

"You should see the look on your face. You look like Grandfather Frost just came to visit you."

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"It is beautiful," he was awestruck by it and it was everything he'd thought it would be. Such perfect and tiny details.

He might not have been a killer quite that young, but he was indeed a killer. He had done and seen horrible things in the chaos and worse. They could probably compare horrors sometime. His smile softened a little and his eyes became a little sad.

Though remembering Grandfather Frost brought back his smile and a boyish blush to his cheeks, "Do I?" he ducked his head a little. Illya had never had anything so fine to play with. But seeing it in person was better than he had wished for.

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"Just a little," she said, brushing her cheek against his shoulder with a little laugh. He looked handsome, and happy, and that was plenty to make her smile, even if she was still intensely curious about him and the story his tattoos told her.

"You blush," Sinthia noted, amused. "I would have thought a man like you would outgrow that."

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He was genuinely happy for the moment. Even if it was fleeting, it was worth coming here with her to the exhibit. "Apparently no," he said blushing all the more fiercely.

Looking into Sinthia's eyes, Illya desperately wanted to kiss her right now. She intrigued him deeply. After a moment, he slid his arm around her waist. "Let's go to dinner."

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"Was dinner part of your plan?" she asked, stepping up to meet him when he slid an arm around her waist, comfortable but unwilling to be handled like a doll; the Vor were not known for being overly chivalrous to women, she knew.

She stood still for a moment, smile evening out as she watched his face, only to wing up again when she knew it crossed his mind to kiss her. "We can always come back later. I know someone who works here, he might let us back in to see them privately."

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"It was, if you are interested?" Illya had no intention of handling her that way. "Do you like sushi?"

Her suggestion brought back his wide smile and the excitement to those blue eyes and he was back to looking like a little boy on New Year's Day. "Ooh, do you think they would run the train for us?"

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"I do," she says lightly, smiling. "I like most food."

She did, really; she might have liked German food out of habit and familiarity, but most things wouldn't offend her. "They might," Sinthia replied to his question about the train running.

"I'll have the train run for you if you'll let me pay for dinner," she suggested.

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"Excellent," he grinned. "I know a very good place. Have you ever been to Osakaya?" It was small but elegant Japanese restaurant not far from the Met. None of those silly conveyor belts. This was an old fashioned place where you sat at the bar and the sushi chef made your food to order.

"And all I have to do is let you pay for dinner?" his eyebrows raised. Normally, he wouldn't ask her to do such a thing. "On one condition. You go out with me a second time and I pay for dinner." Which would also not be at Ivan's restaurant. Illya spent a lot of time there most days, it was nice to get away from it.

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Sinthia had to laugh at the way he looked at her when she suggested paying for dinner. "Yes, all you'd have to do is let me pay for dinner," she said, nodding. "I thought there would be more of a fight with you about it. Most men with the tattoos you have would have started an argument."

She shrugged at the idea of a second date where he paid. "We'll see about you paying. But I like the idea of another date." Her mouth twisted in a smile.

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"I can't let you pay for dinner all the time!" he said, half teasing. "Most men I know with tattoos would not take their women out to dinner in the first place. Their mistresses, maybe."

"But I too like the idea of a second date, obviously." It had been so far, one of the best nights he could ever remember. He didn't date much. There was not a lot of opportunity for it and the Vor didn't seduce so much as they took what they wanted. He could not treat a woman like that and it hurt watching how they treated women and not to be able to step in between them without blowing his cover.

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"It's a good thing I'm not your mistress or your woman, then," she replied gently. "I know you work for men who don't date. It's alright if we break a few rules when we're out alone, though."

She could tell--being good at reading people--that he wasn't much the same as the rest of the organization he worked for, and laced her fingers through his in answer to his teasing. "Will we be going to Ivan's restaurant?" she asked, restraining a smile.

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His face became a little more serious, "It's difficult." He liked her fingers in his. "But I could not treat you like that." Aside from his mother being very disappointed in his behavior, he just was raised better. "Yes, some rule breaking is Okay. You must let me pay sometimes. You would not want to hurt my pride. Let everyone think I am your boy toy."

He was joking again really, but still it was proper for him to pay once in awhile. "If you wanted we could, but not tonight. I am there all the time when I am on duty. I do not necessarily want to hang out in Ivan's place when I am not."

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She chuckled at that. "Of course you'd be my boy-toy," Sinthia replied. "I have no problem with you paying sometimes, so long as you have none with me asserting that I am not like the women the men you work with keep around."

She was very careful to not lump him in with the rest of the Vor, because something about him was indeed different. "I can get myself there on my own, Illya. Don't feel pressured to spend time with the man when you're on your own time. Just because he is vor does not mean I will act like his wife does. Or his mistresses." She was aware he'd have more than one, certainly.

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"I like my woman strong," he laughed. "I do not mind that you are not like the women that the Vor treat like cattle. You are better than that and I am glad you understand." He got so little free time as it was between the Vor and the task force. Perhaps, one day when this was all over, if he was still breathing, he would tell her what he really was.

He had known she knew what the Vor was when they had met in the tattoo parlor. He couldn't help but notice that she'd been fascinated by the tattoos and she talked with impunity to Ivan. Not because she didn't know what he was, but because she did. It had been obvious. And dangerous. Luckily, Ivan liked her.

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"I'm glad, otherwise we would not last very long," she said, smiling as she shook her head gently, dropping her voice. "I know you are Vor, Illya. No one gets those tattoos without being crowned."

She tugged his hand towards the door, lifting her chin just a little; she spoke just as much with body language as she did with words. "We can talk on the way, if you'd rather. Maybe I'll let you buy me a drink, Illya."