G O L U B K A -Dima-

[VALENTINA VYRUBOVA]

Valentina Feodorovna Vyrubova --- ❀ ❁ ✿

Winter was an off season for tourist around Coney Island, which suited Tina just fine. She didn't like strangers, especially strange men, filling the Inn with there jeering laughter and strange gazes. Oh, she was always courteous, but she did tire of her bottom being pinched or a tip being held just out of her reach. Though only twenty one, the young Russian-American's eyes had a great tiredness about them. Dark circles shadowed those odd, yellowish-brown, eyes. Her hair was pulled out of her face in a pony tail, and was long with thick blond curls attributed to girls born in Western Russia.

As today was a slow day, Valentina Feodorovna moved gracefully around Moskva Inn. Luck was truly on her side: Step Mother Lyuba had gone out for the evening, to drink at another bar with her friends. The twins had cause little fuss about going to sleep, though their mindful big sister did think she kept seeing the hems of a night gown and pajama bottoms fluttering up the stairs when she came too close. Still, they were quiet, and out of the way. The Inn was warm, it's rustic Russian charm filled it with an odor of cigar and cigarette smoke, good food, pine wood from the bar and tables, and heat from the fire place. Perfect solace on such a cold night.

Seeing the third customer of the evening off, the girl took a moment tidy here and there. She was oddly dressed in simple cloths- if one could imagine. Her dress was faded and plaid, and one of her few pieces that actually fit her well. However, Valentina hid this fact, as she had drawn a sweatshirt over it, which was so big the shoulders drooped down to her knobby elbows, and the sleeves had to be rolled up six times to leave her hands free to work. Her legs were covered by wool stockings and socks, and her boots were held together with well concealed glue and staples. Around her slim hips was an apron, which was aged yellow with time, and trimmed with red. But not only her cloths looked shabby, but herself in general. She wore no make up- as she had taken to avoiding doing when working- besides chipped baby pink nail polish, on her raw and red hands. And the only jewelry the pretty girl of only twenty one wore was her Father's pendant of Saint Gregory.

She had the look that life had been hard for her.

And it had.

Hearing the bell of the door, Valentina gave a cautious look around the corner. Oh no, it was him! Stepping back in her hidey hole of a kitchen, the Russian mouse began to pace. Now, this particular Sir was not her usual bad customer. He did not pinch or flirt, he did not try and look down her shirt. In fact, in the past six weeks that he had taken to coming here, the man had not said one word! Not a single one. When she would take his order, he'd keep his dark eyes fixed in his book, and merely point to the chalkboard sign, which announced the soup and sandwich of the day. A sympathetic heart, Valentina also took to bringing him a glass of kvass, on the house she'd gently inform, thinking perhaps he was shy. This did not seem to be the case, as once upon asking if he spoke English, he looked her right in the eyes and just stared. Just stared with the most peculiar, penetrating, gaze Valentina had ever seen, before she finally fled the encounter, and left him to his book.

She should be grateful that he was not a lewd man, and she should not be offended that he always left the money on the table- including for the kvass he did not order. It was fine, that he only wanted to read and eat in peace. Still, something drew her to interact, to attempt. And so, despite his glares and heavy sighs followed by a far-to-hard-page-turn, she always said hello when he came in, and always said good bye when he left. It was getting exhausting at this point though...

With a deep and preparing breath, Valentina stepped out, smiling at the strange man. "Hello. Dobryj večer." Good evening. She announced herself, stepping over to his usual table. "Soup and sandwich again?"

[DMITRI SEMILETOV]

Dmitri hated people, and, for that reason, largely wanted nothing to do with them. They all just stood in front of you and spouted lies and talked about their meaningless lives that would amount to nothing, prattled on about their new cellphone that child laborers had constructed in some far-off third world country or bragged about how nice their clothes were. It was revolting. Just the idea of it was revolting.

For this reason, the young Russian citizen usually avoided other human beings at all costs. Why had he ever come to this country? Why did he even care about becoming a citizen? He hated it here just as much as he'd hated it in Russia, and at least in Russia they had half-decent food and Christmas on the right day. December 25th? Please. Christmas was on January 7th.

Regardless, there were times when Dmitri found himself becoming just a little homesick. He would never have admitted it to himself, of course -- that he felt lonely or isolated here in America. After all, he had no friends. All the acquaintances he had managed to somehow acquire during university were all back in the country of his birth, and either way, most of them probably didn't want to keep in contact with him. (Dmitri wasn't exactly a good friend.) So there were times that he missed his mother's borscht, or the lilting language of his homeland all around him instead of the Americans' shrill syllables. During times like those, he visited the Moskva Inn.

It wasn't Russia. It wasn't even close, but the food was Russian enough and the atmosphere was relatively quiet. This was good -- Dmitri hated crowds, and, in fact, had he ever walked into the restaurant and found it full to bursting with customers, he would probably just turn around and leave. Fortunately, that was rarely the case. Not that the place was unpopular, it was just...quaint.

And then there was that waitress.

Thin and nicely-featured, dark bags under oddly golden brown eyes, a mop of wild blonde curls that she usually kept down, seemingly at her stepmother's behest. She seemed to do everything at her stepmother's behest. That was what annoyed him about her, beyond the fact that she was a human being and therefore more than likely vile. She let herself be controlled by that stupid bitch of a stepmother she had without raising a finger against her, and it was disgusting. He hated to see people subjugated, particularly those with potential. Not that he knew whether or not she had potential, but he gave her the benefit of the doubt.

Regardless, she irritated him because she let other people just walk all over her, be it her stepmother or the patrons, and so he did not speak to her.

She tried many times to speak to him, and as he walked into the inn and took off his hat and took a seat at an empty table off to the side (his usual haunt), he did not doubt that she would try again. He rolled his eyes slightly, taking his bag off his shoulder and drawing out the book he was presently reading. Opening it to a dog-eared page, he hunched over the table as if his reading was something private and sacred that he wanted no-one else to see.

And then the expected occurred.

She spoke to him. Half in English and half in Russian, something that he liked but wouldn't admit to liking. The first time he had come into the inn and she had come to take his order, he had looked her up and down, in a manner that was judgmental rather than depraved, and decided that was all the more he needed to look at her. But today, for some reason, he raised his gaze to her, his head turning just slightly from his page to shoot her a sort of sideways half-glare out of those dark, intense eyes.

Her hair was up. Her hair was never up. Hm. Perhaps she preferred to keep it that way. He had never seen her with her hair up before.

Whatever. It didn't matter.

His eyes flickered back to his book, face nestling into his patterned scarf in a way that could be seen as almost shy did he not come off as so condescending all the time. Raising one arm, he pointed, in typical fashion, towards the chalkboard.

[/blockquote]
[/center]

ooc: outfit, now with scarf

[VALENTINA VYRUBOVA]

Valentina Feodorovna Vyrubova --- ❀ ❁ ✿

For a moment, Valentina had thought he was going to speak. For a moment she had thought he had seen some life behind his atramentous eyes. Her own tawny eyes widened, and in that moment she drew closer, expecting it to be a whisper. A hushed noise like a secret. But then the moment passed, and he continued his uncompromising silence, pointing at the chalkboard.

The twins had taken to calling him Chernyĭ Tarakanovich, though Valentina had properly scolded them for such an insulting name. Chernyĭ for black, and Tarakanovich- calling him a son of a cockroach. Possibly because of his shabby appearance and reclusive disposition, or perhaps because youth made most mean.

Her eyes, dismayed now, lowered to the floor, and Valentina had a great lining to hide. Nodding, her mousy voice permeated the empty little inn. "Of course. Right away." With that, she shuffled away, body seeming to fold within itself to make her body even tinier. Perhaps she had done something to offend him? Or maybe he simply could not speak? The last one did not bring her any comfort, as a great curiosity for what he sounded like have over took her long ago, when she noticed his visits being frequent. Working quickly, Valentina worked hard on his sandwich, attempting to make it as delicious as possible, perhaps to earn an mmm out of the man, or even a smile. Spread butter on one side of each slice of bread. Layer four slices of bacon over one of the buttered sides. Mix mayonnaise and horseradish sauce and spread onto the bacon slices. Top with korall and chopped olives and roasted bell pepper. After toasting the bread, she put it on a plate with a hot and steaming bowl of beef and cabbage shchi and a slice of rye bread to soak up the access. Finally on the tray, a tall mason jar of homemade strawberry kvass. She was certain strawberry was his favorite, as he always seemed to drink more of it when she brought that out, as oppose to raspberry, honey, or mint.

Looking at the food, Valentina frowned. He had come here, approximately six days a week- all days but Saturday, which was their busiest night- for the past six weeks. Grabbing a calculator as she was useless at math, she tallied up these figures, shocked to have found that that meant he had paid sixty three dollars total for something he didn't order.

Now, it wasn't as though Valentina didn't need the money. Because she did. Moskva Inn was always hurting since her dear Papa had left, or so her Step Mother assured whenever she asked Valentina to put on her yellow dress. But he was not a man who looked to be of means either. He never wore socks, and his cloths were in serious need of mending. He certainly could not afford such a charity, not even for the sake of pride.

Walking out, Valentina had a grace to her that was nearly nonexistent when her Stepmother was here. The woman made her timorously clumsy, feeling her watchful hazel eyes analyze everything she was doing wrong. But with Lyuba gone, Valentina seemed to have a confidence about her. Bringing him the tray, she set the glass of kvass in front of him and mumbled "On the house." just as she always did when she brought it out to him, even though he never listened. Then the soup and bread and sandwich. Without her usual 'If you need anything else-' routine, Valentina went to the register and pulled out three twenties and three singles, before returning to the table, and setting them down under his salt shaker. "You were accidentally also paying for the kvass. That's the difference." She explained to the possibly mute, but certainly surlish, man. Oh, she knew it wasn't an accident. She may not be smart, but she certainly was not stupid. "If you need anything else, I'll be around." And with that, she walked off to tidy behind the bar as she often did when there was no work left to be done, leaving him to his meal.

[DMITRI SEMILETOV]

Dmitri read in silence for the several minutes it took the waitress to make him his sandwich. She had a name. V something. It started with a V. But he didn't really care. She was irrelevant to him at that moment in time. He had no reason to care about her, and she had no reason to care about him, despite the fact that she seemed to, anyway.

No, no, it wasn't caring. It wasn't actual caring, it was more like...curiosity. She set out the kvass pretending to be nice, but really, it was to judge his reaction, elicit some sort of response from him -- a thank you, an inquiry, anything. Undoubtedly, she didn't expect him to pay for it anyway. Which he always did. He saw no point in free food, and she clearly needed the money. Besides, when he did drink it, the kvass was always very good. He just usually didn't want it. He didn't like sweet things all that much.

She was right about one thing, though: his favorite flavor was strawberry.

He'd also noticed the twins. They talked about him, he knew -- it was fortunate that he didn't care, or he might even be a little concerned. But no, on the contrary, it simply didn't matter to him. They could say whatever they wanted. He was sure he'd had worse.

Children were rather annoying to him, anyway...

A few minutes later, the slender waitress came back with his sandwich and soup and the expected glass of kvass. Part of him wanted to tell her to cut it out, to stop bringing her the damn kvass because he didn't order it, but he decided not to. Too much effort, and if she kept doing it anyway, then he'd just have to yell at her again. Besides, his speaking was probably what she wanted. That was why she was doing this. For a response.

He wouldn't give her one.

Still, when she set down the glass and murmured "On the house," he exhaled through his nose in clear annoyance.

Still, beggars couldn't be choosers. He set down his book, picked up the sandwich, and took a bite.

Oh, God.

It was so good.

Of course, the food here was always good -- really good. He never said anything, but it was. And so, just for a moment, he let himself enjoy it. He let his eyes flicker shut in bliss as he took a bite and chewed. He let himself relish that moment in time. She really was an exceptionally good cook. She would make a good wife for someone someday, demure and talented in the kitchen as she was. A housewife, he supposed. Hm.

Probably some rich benefactor would sweep her off her feet sometime. Get her away from this place. Very likely.

He sat there in his brooding silence and kept at his food, pausing when the waitress came back with...money. Oh, no. She was not trying to pay him back. Oh, God. Idiot. Stupid, stupid girl. He was doing her a favor! She obviously needed the money, she couldn't just...

People. Fucking people.

He grunted noncommittally and didn't look at her. He finished his food, throwing it down as quickly as he could and leaving the kvass in his irritation. Then he got to his feet and pulled his battered wallet out of his pocket. It was painfully empty, but he disregarded that, taking out enough money for the soup and sandwich as well as the kvass and putting it under the saltshaker, on top of the money she'd given to him. Then he shoved the wallet back in his pocket, grabbed his hat and his bag and his book, and left the inn.

[/blockquote][/center]

[VALENTINA VYRUBOVA]

Valentina Feodorovna Vyrubova --- ❀ ❁ ✿

Valentina hated feeling like a bother, she truly did. But under her highly demure nature, a great stubbornness lay dormant in her mind. But for right now she felt like a pest, something this fellow who never spoke would like to swat away from his face. So she scurried away; her tiny, graceful feet moving quickly across the scrub floor to otherwise occupy herself. When he left, she gave a slightly late goodbye, going to clear off the table. But... the money. It was... why would he... looking around the deserted Inn, the dormant stubborn bear awoke in her mind.

This was ridiculous after all.

As she put on her coat, she rehearsed her words in her mind. She would merely explain that all of the money was unnecessary, because the kvass was on the house. And while she appreciated his generosity, she could not accept money for something she did not pay for. Yes, surely he would understand. He was certainly a reasonable person. Yes... yes. Her hands were sweating.

The outside was bitterly cold, and the street lights were pointlessly dim. But down the street she could see him, with his shoulders slumped in that sullen manner that he usually carried himself with. Hurrying along, Valentina called out to him. "Podozhdi!" Wait! Mister... Customer. Please stop!" Oh, she must look ridiculous, flapping around in her jacket like a mad woman. Her blond curls fell loose of her binds and her cheeks and nose glowed red from the biting cold. Sliding on some ice, Valentina cut him off, holding her hands up for him to hold off his process as she caught her breath. "This money is yours. Please take it."

With her raw, red, hands pulled out the mess of money, holding it out urgently. All the rehearsing was suddenly lost on her, as she looked at those queer black eyes. Her lip shivered a little, waiting. "I can't take it. It wouldn't be right... I- I really think- um." She was bumbling, she knew. But what could she do? What could say? What would her Papa say? "The kvass was on the house. That means you don't pay. Besplatno, da?" Free, yes? After all... he might not speak English. God in Heaven, what if he couldn't speak! Perhaps he's not being rude... Though Yemelyan did claim that 'Adrian Tarakanovich'- such a rude name, one she never went without protesting- grunted at him once.

"I will stop giving you kvass, if that's what you want. But please, take the money." Her gold dollar eyes pleaded with him silently, as she waited for him to give him some form of response. Anything! If he could a lot her that one mercy.

[DMITRI SEMILETOV]

Dmitri often reflected to himself on how truly ungrateful people were.

You tried to do something nice for them, just a little thing, you tried to do it subtly without saying anything, and instead of just bloody accepting that you'd done a fine thing for them and taking that small favor, they had to be stubborn, proud, unwilling to accept your help. Truly, truly ungrateful.

It made him so angry.

Then again, Dmitri was angry almost all the time. Angry or morose.

Still, despite the waitress's insolence, Dmitri found himself missing the homey warmth of the inn as soon as he stepped outside into the cold. It bit through his too-thin jacket almost immediately, threatening to knock his hat from his head. He really needed better clothes, and he knew it -- but how on earth was he to afford them? With whose money would he pay for them? It was no use asking his friends for money -- he didn't have friends. He didn't have anyone in America. He was alone.

Sometimes it bothered him. Most of the time, he pretended it didn't.

He was about twenty-five steps away from the door of the inn when he heard the sound of the waitress calling out to him and sliding across the ice in his wake. Dmitri snorted. She couldn't actually be serious. She wasn't actually chasing after him to force the money down his throat. How could she possibly be that stupid?

...apparently, she was.

The young woman skidded to a halt in front of him and began to speak, but Dmitri hardly paid attention. Blah blah, kvass, on the house, take the money, something else. It was irrelevant to him.

Rolling his dark eyes, he exhaled heavily, the breath curling into white fog as it left the warmth of his body. It was dispersed almost instantly in the wind.

He reached forward, his gloved hand brushing against hers, and he curled her fingers back around the bundle of money, looking at her quite seriously with his dark eyes as he did. Take it, the look said. You obviously need it. It was a very firm look, and not entirely friendly, but insistent.

With that completed, he shoved his hands in his pockets and brushed by her carelessly. Hopefully, she would take the hint and leave him the hell alone.

[/blockquote][/center]

[VALENTINA VYRUBOVA]

Valentina Feodorovna Vyrubova --- ❀ ❁ ✿

He looked at her as if she were a pestering bug. It made Valentina feel utterly small. Certainly if he had actually spoken poor Valentina would have burst into tears- being a fragile soul. His face was enough to make her recoil, flinching slightly as he touched her hand and closed it into a fist. He wouldn't take his money back.

Now, it wasn't as though she was against another having a charitable heart. It was truly a relief in this city. She herself was known to pass out leftover stew to people she knew could not afford much, or to put out scraps or whatever to an stray that the twins kept trying to adopt. But, well, she had a bit of stubborn pride to her. Had he offered her a sweater or a cookie, she'd have taken it gladly. She'd have embarrassed the surly young man with being overly grateful, treasuring her gift. But money was too charitable. She worked- sacrificed- so much to keep her family afloat. Her health, her chastity, her spirit. It was all poured into Moskva Inn. To accept money would be... cheating.

He walked past her, their shoulders brushing has he skulked by. It was strange how he walked. Not a stroll, certainly not a dandy. His footsteps were to... bereaved to be a glide. They were sure footed, but sullen. Like they didn't want to be here, but were accepting it as inevitable. A skulk. Her Papa had told her there were three sorts of Russian boys. The ones who were happy and drunken, giving care to nothing. The ones who were angry and bitter, seeing absolutely no light. And the ones who were grave, weighed down by the weight of the world. It took little thought to place where this man stood on that spectrum.

Valentina turned, watching him go a few steps. Calling out, a stern tone in her voice came through that was rare. "This money is yours." Walking, she moved to keep pace with him. "I do appreciate what you are doing, really. But I won't take free money. I know that sounds foolish, but I don't care, even if I have to follow you home and push the money under your door." She wasn't one to lie, and she wasn't here. The twins were asleep, but she'd hate to leave them alone for an extended period of time. Hopefully he didn't live far. With a shiver, she continued to follow him. "Mister, I'm really sorry, but I promise I'm far more stubborn than you. Please don't fight me on this. Just take the money."

It was cold. Already her nose was red and stinging, causing her to sniffle which she had always found to be unattractive. Her boots were far too big, and with every lift of her foot she feared they would fall off, and her hands were tucked into her arm pits. When she spoke, it was to distract her from the awful temperature. "I feel like I'm scaring off one of my best customers. You must not cook a lot. Or you must like my cooking quite a bit. Maybe you thought the money to be like a tip? If so, it's very kind of you. Not that I should assume, but you don't seem terribly keen on talking, so it's really my only option. Honestly, my biggest hope right now- other than you taking the money, it is quite cold out here- is that you're only rude, and not mute or something like that. If you are, I'm sure you're finding my quips on you not talking to be in poor taste." The air took her words like a soft hum, a bee buzzing around this poor fellows ear.

She did hope he accepted the money soon. Perhaps she should appeal to his sense of reason. "I see you read quite a bit. You must be awfully smart. They're large books. But- please don't take offense to this- but you seem to need this money just as much as I do. You could take this, and invest in a pair of mittens and a scarf. But I really, really, really can't take it. My Papa always told me 'Valentina, never accept money without giving someone a service. We might not have much, but what we've got we earn.' It was quite important to him, and me. Does that make sense?" Valentina shivered, dreading the walk back alone. She knew Coney Island like the back of her hand, having grown up here. But with that knowledge, she knew people weren't always the most savory of sorts. Still, she found this venture quite worth it.