Page 53 of Pistols and Plush Toys

Then Elliot turned to him, to share a look about a joke on screen, but Nikolai hadn’t been paying attention to the TV. He felt his heart clench to have all that turned his way. He wanted–

No. He couldn’t want. Elliot wasn’t his to keep. He never had been, never would be. When this was all over Elliot would leave, because if he wasn’t made for the life that he’d ended up in with Vitale, why would he want to jump right into a similar life with Nikolai?

No. Elliot deserved a happy, peaceful life.

And Nikolai would always come with an amount of risk.

No matter what he did, he had his father’s face and he had his father’s name.

He could do all the work in the world to distance himself, but he still belonged to that family.

He still belonged, in part, to that world.

The kitchen timer went off, breaking the moment.

“Oh! That’s dinner!” Elliot said, popping up from his seat. Nikolai automatically reached for the remote and paused the show.

In the silence after, he listened to Elliot in the kitchen moving around. His thoughts drifted around aimlessly between what he wanted and what he couldn’t have. He needed to stop noticing Elliot like that. Elliot wasn’t his and Nikolai would never try to make him stay.

And so if Nikolai let himself think about what he wanted and wished for—

It would only hurt more when Elliot left.

Nikolai sighed and rubbed a hand over his face before forcing himself to his feet.

He tried to shake off the melancholy thoughts, because Elliot had said he’d been preparing dinner as a surprise, and Nikolai wanted to be present for that, not lost in the foolish desire for things he couldn’t have and shouldn’t even want.

When Nikolai got to the kitchen, Elliot was starting to spoon servings of what looked like stew into bowls. The scent was strong, fragrantly familiar, and Nikolai's stomach grumbled as he moved into the kitchen to help set the table.

Nikolai got the napkins and a glass of water for both of them and took it to the table. Elliot followed shortly after with the bowls.

“So,” Elliot started, shifting in his seat, biting his lip and then letting it go.

Nerves.

“Yes?” Nikolai prompted when Elliot paused. In front of Nikolai was a big bowl of steaming stew. It smelled delicious.

“I made borscht,” Elliot said. He met Nikolai’s eyes and then glanced away.

His cheeks were pink and he looked tentatively excited.

He made such a cute picture, and Nikolai wrenched his thoughts away from that ledge.

“I, um, tried to source the best I could for the meat, but if you hate it, you don’t have to eat it. ”

Ah. Now Nikolai understood the secrecy, the nerves.

Elliot had made him a Russian dish.

Nikolai looked down at the bowl in front of him with new understanding.

“You make borscht?” He asked quietly.

Borscht was a staple in his бабушкин kitchen. Placing the scent immediately took him back to his childhood, sitting on her hard, wooden kitchen chairs and inhaling the vaguely dusty scent of her house as warm bits of meat melted on his tongue.

His бабушка had refused to let Nikolai’s father buy her a new house when he’d started making money. She’d never approved of his business, and had turned down every gift he’d ever tried to give her.

So all of Nikolai’s childhood she’d lived in her small wood cabin on the outskirts of the city.

Despite the drafty, creaking wood, Nikolai had often felt more at home there than anywhere else.

The house always had a sort of peacefulness to it, a hominess that his father’s sprawling mansion never had.

It also always had the scent of this stew hanging around, welcoming him in from the cold.

“Is it not okay?” Elliot asked. “I-I mean if you don’t want me to, I can—I’m sorry, I didn’t think about it—”

Nikolai blinked, feeling the choke in the back of his throat. He hadn’t had borscht in… years. So many years. There were a few places around that served it, but he’d never ordered it. Couldn’t bear the thought of it being wrong. Not like his бабушка would make it.

But Elliot… Elliot had made this for him. For Nikolai, because he thought it would make Nikolai happy.

“No, is… is good,” he said softly. “No one ever…” he swallowed. “Thank you.”

“I know it’s probably not like your grandma’s,” Elliot said, shifting uncomfortably. “I wasn’t trying to, um—I mean, I was just hoping…”

“Is good,” Nikolai said again, clearing his throat. He met Elliot’s eyes. “Thank you. It means very much, that you do this for me.”

What Elliot made wouldn’t be Nikolai’s бабушкин recipe, but it had still been made with intention. It wasn’t Nikolai going into some random restaurant to order a dish off their menu in the hopes of getting a taste of home.

This was a gift.

And even if it tasted different, this would be Elliot’s borscht. That was what mattered.

“Smells very good,” Nikolai said as he picked up the spoon.

The flavor came on strong and heavy, full of garlic and cabbage and beef and potato.

When he swallowed, it settled warm and comforting in his belly.

He chewed and swallowed another spoonful and felt the long day of work slide off his shoulders.

It wasn’t his бабушкин recipe, but the stew had a strong, rich flavor.

Like everything Elliot made, it was very, very good.

It was shocking how good, how authentic it tasted.

It brought Nikolai back to trudging through waist-high snow, coming into a warm house, to a tall bowl of piping hot stew made by someone who loved you.

Not that Elliot did. He blinked back to reality. To the Elliot here and now, who was staring at him nervously.

“Is very good,” Nikolai said. “Very, very good.” He leaned on the words for emphasis. “I’m not having anything like this since I leave Russia. How it is you make this?”

Elliot started to tentatively smile again.

“Is so good I will eat whole pot,” Nikolai said, pulling his bowl closer to himself. “Tell Gerard all about it, and he’s say ‘not fair Kolya, I’m wanting borscht’ but Gerard doesn’t have best chef.”

Elliot’s smile bloomed wider and he giggled, picking up his own spoon. “I can always make more, if you want to share with Gerard.”

Nikolai made a show of thinking about it. “Maybe. I can be very generous. Such good friend, to share your good borscht.”

Elliot laughed again. “I’m glad you like it. So it’s… close? I did my best.”

“Yes, you do very good job,” Nikolai said with a nod. “How? Meredith, she sends me many chefs, all of them very bad at Russian food.”

A few times Meredith, frustration clear on her face, had just told him that she’d hire actual Russian chefs from literal Russia if that made Nikolai happy, but Nikolai… hadn’t wanted her to. It had felt too close. Like letting someone see his soft spots.

But he found that eating a dish Elliot had chosen to make for him, that Elliot had made for him, to make Nikolai happy… that made all the difference in the world.

More pink was flaring across Elliot’s face.

“Oh, I mean, um, research mostly? I went and searched out online blogs by Russian cooks. I cross-referenced them to see the variations and did some research on the history of the dish. A lot of the time cultural dishes change over the years, or are different in certain regions. I, um, I didn’t know what part of Russia you’re from, so I went with the most common iteration.

And well, I still know the butcher that Melrose used to source meat from?

So I ordered the beef from them. Meredith helped. ”

Nikolai stared at him in shock. “That is much work. All that… for me?”

Elliot shrugged, eyes turning down bashfully. “I mean, you said how you felt about people getting it wrong. I–I just wanted to try and make something close? I know it can’t be truly authentic, but, um.”

Elliot had spent so much time and effort on this, but was still so shy, so uncertain about the outcome.

“You do very good job,” Nikolai said solemnly.

“Is very authentic. Very good. I’m wanting to say…

thank you. I’ve not had good Russian food in long time.

This… this mean very much to me.” His voice went rough at the end with emotion, but he didn’t try to hide it.

Here, with Elliot, he didn’t have to be Nikolai Tkachenko.

He could just be a man grateful for a good meal.

For the time and effort and care Elliot had put into this. This gift.

“Is reminding me of my бабушка.” Nikolai said honestly. “She was old, so when I visit, she’s send me out into snow to get wood. When work is done, we have borscht.” He looked down at his bowl. “Is good memories.”

He took another spoonful to cover the catch in his throat. It wasn’t often he had cause to think about his бабушка. The ache of missing her wasn’t as raw as it had been almost thirty years ago. Now, after all this time, he could think about the happy memories of her.

He couldn’t believe Elliot would go through so much trouble for this. For him.

“I’m glad you like it,” Elliot said again, voice soft.

Nikolai cleared his throat. “You make lots? ”

“Yeah,” Elliot said, beaming now. “I made a whole pot.”

“Good. Very good,” Nikolai said, and then he dipped his spoon back into the stew for more.

They ate in companionable silence after that, but every so often Elliot looked up at him in awe, like he couldn’t believe Nikolai would like the dish.

So Nikolai convinced him with his actions too, finishing his bowl and going back for another. He finished that one too, complimenting it as he finished.

Because Elliot deserved to know just how good and wonderful he was. Just what a gift he’d given Nikolai, with this meal.

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