Serge was sipping coffee with his mother and grandmother in a small cabin deep in the woods of West Virginia. His grandmother was close to a century old, but still wove elaborate stories. Serge had made it a point to record as many of them as he could, sitting with her for hours with a tape recorder and notebook. His mother told stories, too, and when the two women created something together, time stopped, the words suspended between. Phrases in Russian and Welsh peppered their conversation.
"You see, Serge, this is why you need to settle down with a nice Russian girl," his mother said, "You speak the language beautifully and you know the stories so well!"
"Or perhaps a Welsh girl. Dear Serge, you could marry Welsh, like I did. Very hard working, my husband. You remember him, no?"
"Of course I do. We sat for many hours at his knee listening to his stories."
"In this very cabin."
"Yes, in this very cabin."
Serge's phone rang, "Is it a nice Russian girl?" his mother teased.
"Yes, it is." He clarified only after he had a moment to relish her reaction, "Sarah." She swatted his arm, his grandmother chuckling. "Sarah, darling sister, what brings your lovely voice to my ear on this beautiful winter morning?"
"Work. Do you have a minute?"
He excused himself from the living room and sat down at the window bench, "Of course. Are you in trouble?"
"Probably, but nothing too bad...though I might end up without a job."
"How did you manage to do something so terrible as a housekeeper? Did you set the house on fire?"
"No. My boss is usually pretty sweet. I mean, he's got an ego the size of a small country, but he's not a bad person. He's got a drinking problem though- a big one. And last night he threw up all over the family scrapbooks. I rescued them, but I had to go into a room he didn't want me in to do it."
"He was more angry than grateful? And you say he is not a bad person?"
"I know it sounds bad..."
"Sarah, I do not think it is a good idea to work for this man. He sounds far too much like I was. We are not rational when we trust such things to remove us from reality."
"And everything we've been through is why I think I can handle him, especially with what he pays me."
"I hear a 'but' in your voice."
"Yeah. A big one. I don't know if I want to go to work tomorrow or if I want to just let him see how much he's messed up."
"Sometimes the natural consequence of an act is also one that is a bit vindictive. It may do you both good to step back."
"Problem is that I really don't have much to go back to. The last gig is still there, but who wants to hostess ungrateful five star wallets their whole life? Not me."
"Have you savings?"
"Yeah. He pays really well."
"Then for the next few days, do not worry. And call me if you decide to go back so I might escort you. There is nothing quite so chilling as a burly, slightly mad, Russian-Welsh coal mining brother."
He could almost hear her smile, "Thanks, Serge. Love you."
He hung up and returned to the living room to find his mother and grandmother arguing playfully over their needlecraft.
Sarah did not go to work for three days and then called Serge, "He sent me flowers with an apology letter."
"And what does this mean?"
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A Helping Hand
FanfictionTony Stark's life is an absolute mess after the death of his wife. He cannot care for himself, and he certainly cannot care for his son, eight year old Howard. James gives him an ultimatum- hire a helper. Enter Sarah. Originally posted to fanfictio...