“What, like when do I go to sleep?” Spider asked then, with a quirked brow. “Usually an hour or so after you do, and then however long it takes to drive home.” Spider answered. He didn’t have leisure time, he didn’t care for or want for it either, he’d never considered it before. His only aspiration in his life, was to be a better, stronger tool for Riley to use. He lived to serve, and beyond that, he wasn’t sure there was much else for him. When his servitude reached its expiration, he would evaporate into thin air.
Stasi blinked in surprise. Of course she could recall seeing Spider any time she saw her aunt, but it was hard to believe that he was always with her and that he’d always be with her now.
“So you won’t take time for yourself?” She asked. “Ever?” _________________ Butts n' butts n' butts n' butts.
Spider folded his arms and slouched back in his chair again. “The secret service doesn’t, the British Amy guards with their bearskin hats don’t. Bratva doesnt, so neither do I.” Spider explained. “This could be considered me taking time for myself, eating with you.” He added.
Stasi thought on that for a moment before nodding and proceeding to dig into her own meal.
“In that case, I expect to share all my meals with you then, if only to give you more ‘me time’.” She decided as she took a bite of a crab rangoon. “I eat three meals a day, I have to to keep up with the physical demands at the gym and work. I will expect you to partake as well, so I hope you’re not picky.” _________________ Butts n' butts n' butts n' butts.
“It will be quite the change, but no. I’m not picky.” Spider said, his face didn’t betray it, but he was smiling on the inside. It was a tiny bit endearing, that even someone as spoiled as Stasi, could regard him in such a human way. Although it was reminiscent of Mityr, in that way you care for your pets. Which did bother him, even when it wasn’t Mityr. The werewolves were closer to gods than humans, he was their pet. Still, he picked back up his fork to take a bite of chicken from the plate Stasi ordered for him.
“You should snack every couple of hours too. Help maintain your energy.” He said before breaking a crab Rangoon in half and popping it in his mouth. “I won’t do that since it’s it not apart of my me time, but I can arrange it for you.” He added.
“I’d like that.” Stasi grinned. “Just a hypothetical question, but if you could have more ‘me time’ how would you occupy it?” She asked, curious. _________________ Butts n' butts n' butts n' butts.
“Hm, I’m not sure.” Spider began thoughtfully, between chews. He took another crab rangoon, while he thought. He’d never had much free, even when he was a boy. When he wasn’t in school, Spider spent a lot of his time running errands for his parents and other members of his community. Spider tried to think harder, he didn’t want to seem boring or stupid by not issuing an answer. When he was young, he liked to garden with his mama. He’d sit on a stool at the kitchen counter and watch the herbs in the window grow. The radio would be on but it was never playing music. Russian NPR, something of that likeness. It wasn’t fun especially but he remembered liking it when he was little. But that’s not something he could do now, the apartment was gone and with it, his family and community too. He briefly supposed he could do something like it with Stasi. Maybe one time, she’d turn on her stereo, while he put flowers in a vase for her; it would be similar.
“I don’t know, maybe I’d cook instead of eat.” He said finally with arched brows, before stealing another crab rangoon. “I like to walk around Netcost Market since it’s 24 hours, I usually get my dinner from the deli. Sometimes I wonder if I could make some of the dishes myself.” He explained.
Stasi nodded, filing away Spider’s interest for another day. Maybe she could convince him to learn how to cook her favorite dishes and then they could eat them together. She would like that, she supposed.
“Is the deli good there?” She asked, preparing two wraps for the mushu pork. She folded one for herself and then proceeded to stretch over the table to put one on Spiders plate. _________________ Butts n' butts n' butts n' butts.
“I think so, but I like fried fish and stuffed cabbage.” Spider said, letting out a short chuckle before accepting the roll graciously. Spider normally only ate once a day, dinner, at the end of a long day. If he struggled with hunger before, throughout long days, he did not remember it. Perhaps he was hungry.
“Oh, so you eat like a Slav.” Stasi teased. “You do know all of the cooks we hire are Russian, right? I’ve been known to eat five to ten cabbage rolls at dinner.” She laughed. _________________ Butts n' butts n' butts n' butts.
“Definitely, but to be honest, I have a sweet tooth, especially in regards to snacks. I especially like пастила. If your deli has any of that, you can bring it.” Stasi grinned that cheeky grin of hers. _________________ Butts n' butts n' butts n' butts.
“I will look for you.” Spider answered decidedly, watching her smile back at him. She was a shifty thing, a trouble maker. It was different from the elder Nikitin’s, whom were more polished; as perfect and proper as the ivory towers they glared down from. Stasi was coarse in a way, like a raw gem, cleaved from the minerals surrounding that ivory tower. She glimmered and flourished; fun and enticing, but if you closed your fingers around the uncut gem, it would undoubtedly prick you. She had all the same bite and spikes as her predecessors, but somehow so obviously different.
“You’re different, than how I thought you were.” Spider declared, perhaps too comfortable to offer such honesty.
Spider didn’t have to explain himself, Stasi knew exactly what he meant. She was not rigid in her work like her father or his siblings. They had been brought up with the understanding they represented not only the Nikitin family name but also the empire built with that name. They were feared mob princes and princesses that served their matriarch leader who raised them up hewn from steel, unyielding and strong.
It was both like and unlike how her father had raised she and her brother.
Ivan had never made mention of it outright, but it had been mentioned once that Ivan indulged her and Alexei as much as he did because his own childhood was lacking.
Stasi hadn’t noticed before, but there was undeniably a disconnect between her papa and her babushka that was framed anew when she heard the stories of her father’s childhood. He was his siblings junior by several years, definitely not planned and regarded as an afterthought. More often than not, the stories he’d tell his children featured Desushka Mityr and Ace. He rarely had stories to tell about his mother. Whereas there were plenty of photos of Adrik and the twin girls being proudly fawned over by their mother for their various achievements hanging in the home, the photos of Ivan almost exclusively featured just him and his father and Ace. Other times it was him alone.
It made Stasi sad to think of her papa as a lonely little boy, but she was also glad that he had the chance to provide a childhood so unlike his own for her and her brother.
No matter how busy he was with work, he had taken great care to be there for every event in his children’s lives, big or small. He took them to the gym with him several times a week and he’d forego his own routines just to help with their practices. He indulged their every want and whim, which perhaps made them more than a little spoiled, but it also made them very happy children.
So Stasi understood what Spider meant. She was still a mob princess in her own right and every bit as lethal as her familial predecessors, but she lacked their stony dispositions. She barked with laughter when perhaps she shouldn’t and she liked to push the envelope to a dangerous degree sometimes, but that was just how she was.
“I could say the same about you, you know. I think you’re a lot more fun than you think you are, you just need to unclench.” Stasi laughed. _________________ Butts n' butts n' butts n' butts.
“Well,” Spider began, taking a finishing bite of the roll Stasi had put on his plate. “You will find out, that is not the case. I am not fun, I will never be fun. This is the best of me you could expect.” Spider explained between chews, wiping his mouth with the folded cloth napkin.
While he supposed eating a meal with him was pleasant enough, especially since she asked for it. Spider could argue the best of him was when he killed. When he exacted revenge, and took his justice. As much as he couldn’t remember what he did for leisure when he was a boy, on the other side of the coin, he could only remember taking lives.
After his rehab was mostly finished, after the skin grafts successfully took and connected to his nerves, Spider only cared to get his revenge. The Ipatiev’s were a lesser known crime family, Russian in nature but of no affiliation to the Nikitin Bratva. They controlled the Russian immigrant community in Spider’s neighborhood. Most people were in debt to them for different reasons, this tab must’ve only gone up since they burned their apartment building down. Spider remembered watching in horror, their apartment engulfed in flames; his parents in a crumpled heap on the floor, holding each other as they fed the flames with their corpses. He couldn’t scream, the thick black smoke only filled his lungs, suffocating him. His last memory was seeing a Molotov cocktail sail through the window, the glass on the window was already shattered from the present flames.
In recovery, the only thing that pushed him forward; kept him living, was the thought of wiping them out completely, the Ipatiev’s. There were twelve core members, he learned their names from his own investigating. Overhearing from his social worker about his case and those involved. He committed their names to memory, their families names if they had any. Over the course of two months, Spider had crossed off each name. Newly twelve (he’d had a birthday after the accident), he’d killed a man for each year he had been alive; all twelve dead. Their boss he killed in his bed, he was arrogant and foolish. He didn’t know the blight on his organization could touch him, but Spider was going to make sure he felt it. Spider had already killed everyone in the house, he stepped over bodies as he covered the floor in kerosene. Before he left, he’d stuffed towels under the door of the boss’s bedroom. Once he was outside the home, his bloodied hands fixed a Molotov cocktail, and with incredible accuracy, he threw it into the bedroom window of the boss.
He would scream, he would flail and cry out, but no one would come. The smoke would fill his room and he’d likely pass out first from the fumes before the fire would take him. But Spider watched from a perch atop a nearby building, as the flames consumed the house; it was nicer looking than the brick building he grew up in. But it was only expensive kindling, they burned the same; this one possibly faster. When it was all ash, and there were no survivors recovered, Spider felt satisfied.
This was the best of him. But now, he will eat lunch, and find a way to be satisfied with that.
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