Who: Irina Derevko & Killian Jones What: Finding things in common Where: A Russian restaurant When: 1/17 or so, before Killian lost his hand Rating: PG Status: Complete!
One of Irina’s California contacts, Volodya, had done the unspeakably cliched thing and opened a Russian restaurant on the outskirts of Irvine. It was silly, yes, but she had to admit that the man’s wife made excellent pel’meni.
Today, the place was unbelievably packed; she’d done her business with Volodya in the back room - her cut of the bookmaking operation, plus assurances that a certain nosy little Japanese man wouldn’t be troubling her anymore - and now she was sitting at the end of one of the long, dining-style tables, indulging in a plate of the house specialty - meat pel’meni with sour cream. There were only two open seats that she could see in the entire cramped place; one across from her, and one at the tail end of the counter, near where Volodya’s sweaty son Oleg ran the grill, wiping his brow every other minute. Irina didn’t blame anyone for not sitting there.
It had to be a rarity, to have an Irishman in a traditional Russian restaurant. Not that it seemed to bother him; really, most things did not seem to bother him. He’d gotten a funny look when he’d flirted with the hostess and asked her about the food. Or, at least he had at first. Still, she directed him where to sit in the packed restaurant and had even been charmed enough to suggest something called pirog--he hadn’t the slightest clue what that was, but this was bound to be an adventure. He’d only had Russian a handful of times but why not make today the next?
The seating was interesting, but he drummed fingers on the table across from a woman that was already eating. “Do you mind if I join you, darling?” Killian wondered, giving her a rather charming smile. He was quite charming when he tried.
Irina looked up from her plate to see a handsome man with a faintly Gaelic accent. Scots or Irish, likely, though he looked neither. “Not at all, given where the other open seat is.” She replied, amused by his sweetness. He was either a good actor, a natural sweetheart, or both. “It isn’t normally so busy. Usually the waitresses can get in between the tables; today they’ve had to stand on the end and shout. It’s good we’re on the end here.” She smiled.
Well, he didn’t particularly want to rub elbows with the over-zealous, sweaty chap either, but he had delusions of being a gentleman and would leave it up to the lady. Proper permission granted, he sat down across from her. It was an interesting sort of eating experience, really, but he didn’t mind it. Killian could be quite social, he was actually quite good at getting on with people when he assed himself to try. And he almost always tried when lovely ladies were involved!
“Is quite busy, isn’t it? I suppose that’s a good sign, though.” Busy meant quality, hopefully. “Killian Jones, my dear. A pleasure to meet you. Are you here often, could you make a suggestion?” She had the barest slip of an accent, but he couldn’t quite place it. Usually he was good with such things, but even he had his limits.
With a name like Killian, her guess at Gaelic was probably correct. Irina smiled. “My name is Irina. Irina Derevko. The pleasure is mine, Mister Jones.” He had lovely eyes, she had to admit; dark and dangerous. He probably leveraged them to great effect, whether it was intentional or not. “I haven’t been in here very often, but I am familiar with the food - the house specialty is pel’meni, which is rather like a meat dumpling. Russian food is extremely heavy - sometimes, just what one needs.” Even she had fond memories of her mother’s borscht and blini.
Pel’meni. The hostess had offered some sort of Russian pie, but he was going to take the word of the lady in front of him over her. Irina Derevko certainly sounded like she might have a personal familiarity with the food. Though, really, the heavily accented girl at the door likely did, too. “I suppose I’ll have that, then, when the girl comes around. I’m not terribly worried about heavy, I’ll work it off come morning.” Which sounded like a weird thing to say so he explained, “A fisherman by trade.” You know, at least on paper.
“That certainly would work off a heavy meal.” She smiled, figuring she might as well be nice until he inevitably put his foot in his mouth. “Have you lived here long? If you’ll pardon me, you don’t sound it. We get a lot of expatriates here, myself included.” He had a careless way of conducting himself, and Irina was amused for a few minutes trying to think of scenarios where he would be able to charm his way into what he wanted - be it jobs, perks, or panties.
She had quite a lovely smile, didn’t she? Jones was really equal opportunity when it came to beautiful women. Irina was quite lovely, even though she was older than he was. Probably by some margin. That wouldn’t have slowed him down if he didn’t have a girlfriend. Such a strange thought, having a girlfriend. “In California in particular, not really, it’s been a handful of months now. But I’ve not lived in Ireland for more than five years, now.” His accent was a little muted, compared to some, but she certainly wasn’t wrong about its origins. “And you? I pegged an accent, but couldn’t quite gander as to where.” She must have been in the States for awhile, that did seem to numb an accent, for some reason.
“Ah, Ireland.” Irina inwardly congratulated herself; she was able to spot traits easier than backgrounds. “I’ve always wanted to go, in truth; I never got any further into Europe than Germany.” That was the actual truth; when she’d left Russia, she’d been on a cultural trip to Bonn, slipped her guard, and walked into the German embassy. “I come from Russia myself, though it has been an extremely long time. I think almost twenty years now.” She’d lived in Germany for a few years, then gone to the States.
She was curious as to what sort of person he was. “It’s funny; I worked to lose the accent, given the climate when I arrived here, but now it has become ... sexy, somehow. Interesting.” Irina laughed. “Either that, or they think I might be in the Mob.”
Irina was quite right about the accent. His wasn’t anything special back home, but it was almost too easy to charm American girls with it. Not that he’d been complaining about it, certainly back in the day. “Ah, well. You’re from Russia, according to an American that means either you’re in the mob or a ballerina.” Americans loved their stereotypes; Killian would know! He was Irish, so he was an angry drunk that was fond of potatoes. “You’re quite grand without your accent, darling,” he promised her with a smirk, as the waitress sidled up to the table to take his order, which he gave quickly.
“I never even was a ballerina as a child.” Irina chuckled. “And you’re Irish; I presume people ask if you’re a drunk? I do appreciate your kind words, though; some women become motherly as they age; I’ve chosen to work toward being more of a grande dame. I am not the type to bake pies and spoil grandchildren.” She loved her nieces, but her nieces were at an age where she could talk to them like adults.
When the waitress appeared, Irina nodded approvingly at the man’s order before giving her own. “Пожалуйста, готовить пельмени должным образом.” she said in crisp Russian. She already had her food, but she wanted them to cook his pelmeni correctly, instead of the half-done ones she’d had before. Call it a favor.
There was probably something inappropriate he could have tossed in about it being a shame she didn’t have the flexibility, but Irina was a little too classy for such lechery. She seemed quite refined, and Killian had the sense to read a woman and adjust himself accordingly. “Well, unfortunately I do often live up to that stereotype, but I don’t suppose my endearment to alcohol is really because of my nationality has much to do with it.” More like the life he’d lived and needing something to numb it; and that would have resulted in a similar path, even if he’d been American.
He did tilt his head, notably curious as Irina added something in Russian after he ordered. He was curious what she’d said, but he had not even the slightest inclination what she’d said. Instead of balking to curiosity, he told her, “You seem to be on the right track, my dear. And if they need a pie their mum can get it.” He liked children, certainly, but he’d always thought treating them as an adult was better for them in the long run. Probably thanks to the fact he’d had to grow up quickly after his father abandoned him.
“Agreed.” Irina smiled. “So, you are a fisherman, Mister Jones? That must be rather hard work. Very manly, though. Out on the water, proving yourself again and again.” It fit the image she was beginning to get of him; carefully blasé, interacting with people on his terms. She even risked being slightly improper, mostly to see what he’d do. “Do you enjoy working with your hands?” She wasn’t psychic by any means, but she’d grown very good at reading archetypes over the years. People always had surprises in them - look at Bryce Larkin - but many times, it was enjoyable trying to see how closely people fit the type they seemed to be.
A rather unexpected question and he couldn’t help but favor Irina with a smirk. “That I am. And… well, I suppose you could say that.” Even beyond the sexual connotations, he did enjoy working with his hands. Killian was not made for a desk job or a 9-5… the sea in his hair, the deck under his feet, it meant more to him. It was hard work, but he liked it better that way. “I’ve been told I’m quite skilled with them.” Not the dirtiest thing ever spoken, but the quirk of his eyebrow and the tone of his voice sold intention far better. What could he say, he was a flirt--and Irina seemed to have caught that. Nothing wrong with flirting with a beautiful woman.
So she’d been right; he was true to his national stereotype in at least that way. The Irish she’d encountered were lovers, with lyrical voices and a delight in life, until someone got them too drunk or got in their way. “I don’t understand the disdain for manual labor that this country seems to possess,” Irina said, sitting back, sipping at her tea. “Countries are built on the backs of hard workers, if you will forgive the slightly Marxist tone. All the excess that Americans prize has to come from somewhere. I’ve done plenty of work with my hands, and would never be ashamed of it.” Content with her work? Yes. Willing to admit it all in a court of law, under oath? Probably not.
“You’ll find I’m quite quick to forgive beautiful women,” he promised her with a smirk, but really. He didn’t disagree. “Yes, well, it’s especially bad here in California, isn’t it? Downright maddening at times. Can’t say I’ve ever been afraid to work, even if it’s not particularly glamorous. Never did like to be handed anything.” No, he didn’t like things handed to him, or to have them fall in his lap. Either he worked for them or he took them, with no middle ground. “And the ghastly portions. Everything in excess, here, except for actual decent work.” They whinged loudly about unemployment but that seemed to be because normal Americans had no interest in the jobs that were the backbone of civilization.
And then, of course, they complained when immigrants (illegal or otherwise) happily took the work that was offered.
“What is it you do, Irina?” he wondered, sampling a bit of his water.
“I come from Russia, my dear Mister Jones. I had to work for everything, even what was due to me.” Irina laughed. “Right now I’m between jobs, but I have a nice little line in fixing problems for big companies.” Industrial spy, spy catcher, a bit of everything in that line, but she couldn’t exactly go into detail, could she. “They call it business organization - making certain things run smoothly and no one gets in trouble.”
He rose a brow as he considered her answer. Fixing problems for big companies. Making sure things ran smoothly and nobody got in trouble. Quite a diplomatic answer, that, but it was possible he was reaching when he was trying to make connections that didn’t quite exist. “Sounds quite interesting,” he said, and he did sound curious, but not quite enough to press. Or perhaps he knew pressing such subjects was not something one did with strangers. “Sound similar to something I did, once upon a time.”
“Really. I meant this not as rudeness, but you don’t seem the sort to be interested in business at all. You seem the type much more prone to action, instead of sitting in a boardroom in your best and knowing how to make the right kind of threats.” Irina did mean it, but she was also curious. Had she missed something? Did this handsome young thing have some connections she should know about?
He wasn’t offended, she could be reassured there. Killian was surprisingly difficult to offend; or at least, he pretended to be. He could be quite the actor. He was about to answer when the waitress swung by with his meal. He spared the girl a grin and a word of thanks. “Well, you aren’t wrong that I am a man of action. It was some time ago. I didn’t spend much time in boardrooms but I did have to know the right kind of threats.” He shook his head, offering her, “I did say similar.”
Irina looked at him, cocking her head to one side. “Did you,” was all she said. Could he really be so indiscreet? Or was she jumping to conclusions? “Careful, Mister Jones,” she said, flirtatious smile in place, “you would have to be a bit less lean for me to take your threats seriously. Or is that how you surprised people?” If he was saying what she thought he was, he had to have been a more creative enforcer than just a side of beef. He was too tall, and too thin - but he seemed fast on his feet.
Yes, well, he wasn’t the most discreet creature to have ever walked the Earth. Subtlety had been a learned trait, not a natural one. He should have been a bit more careful, but he had said it was some time ago, hadn’t he? He smirked at her instead of answering directly, “I do love the element of surprise.” She did seem quite interested in his hints, so it seemed he wasn’t quite wrong about jumping to conclusions. “And I doubt I’d ever need to threaten you, darling, you’re far too lovely. I’d much rather just ask very nicely.” Very nicely! He doubted Irina was the one to fall for that sort of manipulation, but he also had a girlfriend. Just innocent flirting, right?
He sporked at his food, because it was here and quite hot and smelled lovely, it’d be a shame to just ignore it. It tasted as good as it smelled, it seemed, and he gave her an appreciative, “You’ve very good taste, Irina.”
“I’m usually receptive to being asked nicely. Though I’ve never been the sort of woman to back down.” Irina smiled. “I had some superiors who made that mistake.” One of them had wound up with a cocktail fork through his left knuckles.
She did smile when he complimented the food. “I may have left Russia over twenty years ago, but there are some things I don’t forget, or stop loving. What you have there is Russian comfort food at its finest.”
His eyebrow did dance upward as she confessed that a superior had made such a mistake. Quite brave words, really. He admired that sort of tenacity. "I can't begin to imagine who would be mad enough to refuse you in the first place." Irina had far more to her than met the eye; it was quite intriguing. He did want to ask more but Killian forced himself to remember he'd turned away from that sort of thing for a reason. Because he was fond of his pretty head and quite hoping to keep it.
"I cannot argue on that, my dear," he answered. He didn't have much experience with Russian food but this certainly seemed worth introducing himself to. He might have to come here more often. "I am afraid my waistline will suffer from discovering this place."
“Oh, I’m not irresistible. Though every woman likes to imagine she might be.” She didn’t want to go into any more detail, obviously, and she was done with her food. Still, this man was clearly an interesting character - and possibly someone to talk to, if she ever needed something done by someone who was not part of the great game, so to speak.
Irina rose. “I shouldn’t trouble you further, though it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Killian. I certainly hope to run into you again. I sense we’d have quite a bit to talk about.”
Perhaps a bit of his vestiges of gentlemanly behavior breaking into his life, when Irina rose he followed. Proper manners and all. If it was strange for him, it wasn't obvious on his face. "It's certainly no trouble, but I can't imagine it'd be terribly enjoyable to watch me eat," he noted, digging in a pocket. "Here... Perhaps we can make that talk sooner rather than later." His card had limited details but certainly enough to contact him. "It was quite lovely to meet you, darling, and I'd be quite happy to hear from you again."
It was a little obvious that politesse didn’t come naturally, but honestly, that was fine with Irina. Though it did make her want to go find a man she could take home. He seemed witty and useful, but she liked men who weren’t quite so rough around the edges. Still, she took the card, smiling and taking out one of her own. Her name was in Russian, but her contact information was in English, so she took a pen out of her handbag and wrote in English characters: Irina. before handing it to him. “I’d be very pleased to meet for a drink some night, if that would suit.” She waved. “Добрый вечер, Mister Jones,” as she walked out of the restaurant, fairly certain he was watching her leave.