Chapter 3: Treasure of Saint Petersburg
Title: "Treasure of St. Petersburg"
Chapter: 3
Setting: St. Petersberg, 1926
Fandom: "Anastasia" / "Treasure Planet"
Characters: Dimitri / Jim Hawkins
Rating for this Chapter: PG (some minor language, drinking in excess, people getting undressed with no sexual contact.)
I finally updated!! Sorry for the long wait guys; I tried to make this chapter extra-long to compensate. (And I had a lot I wanted to get done in this chapter too!) I hope you enjoy it!
Also, I've been posting on PCO (http://plus4chan.org/boards/pco) lately, in case anyone frequents those forums as well. I made some Milo 'fapfiction' (with some plot!) over there, would anyone have objections to seeing it posted here? Although I originally made this journal for just JimxDimitri, it seems like the best place as any to post it!
~
"Dih' I tell you about how m' an' Sil'r went on a ship?"
"Oh Lord, not this story again."
"Nono, diff'rent... waih, no, same ship." Jim slurred, leaning heavily on Dimitri's side, his boots suddenly too clunky for him to walk in. "Diff'rent time!"
Dimitri didn't even bother to hide his eye-roll this time; how in the world had he gotten roped into taking this kid home? Oh yeah, something about being left here, or getting sent here accidentally? And then he went off on some kind of tangent about 'should have picked a time with more civilization around'-- what, like being in a bar in Saint Petersberg at ANY time would guarantee civility? The thought would have been enough to make Dimitri laugh, but since Jim had just puked moments before into someone's lap, Dimitri was just about laughed out.
Yeah, leaving a kid in a bar with someone he'd just puked on was sort of unfair, even by Dimitri's standards; and it's not like he'd gain anything by watching the kid get the pretty beat out of him, either. Maybe if he'd had anything in his pockets, it would have been worth the time to get him put out of commission, but all Dimitri found were some useless little bendy-cards. Tickets, maybe, although he couldn't recognize any of the writing on them. Very strange. It tied into the kid's theory about not being from around here, though. Definitely explained why he wouldn't know who the Romanovs were, he supposed, although he would have had to travel a long, long way to be ignorant of them. But then, he did keep talking about a 'ship', and some captain or another; perhaps he was a sailor? Or, Dimitri thought with a dark glance at the boy, probably some sailor's kid with deluded visions of grandeur.
Still, sailor or not, he was stuck with him, curse that gentle heart of his. He gave the kid another rough heave upwards, as he was beginning to slump, and almost toppled them both over. "I've seen grandmothers who handle their drink better than you." Dimitri growled, managing to regain his footing as he continued plowing ahead, half-dragging Jim through the snowy streets.
Jim was complacent to be dragged along, his eyes closing at times as he made feeble motions to move his legs in time with Dimitri's. Dimitri hadn't intended to let him have that much to drink, but when he'd returned from a brief 'bathroom break' (in which he just happened to run into his old friend, Marki the Bookmaker, who also just happened to owe him money), he'd found the kid in the middle of a drinking contest with one of the more mouthy regulars. Apparently, it'd started on the premise that 'some stupid little kid shouldn't be in here, doesn't he need to go home to his mommy?', which Jim just couldn't let lie. Hence, the only logical answer was drinking until they were both comatose, Dimitri thought with a scowl, dragging Jim along a little more roughly. And it didn't help that the kid couldn't hold his liquor, either; after Dimitri had somehow smooth-talked his way out of the impending fight, Jim had started spewing like a choir-boy on his first trip to the tavern. Humiliating -- and even more so when Dimitri had to be the one to take charge of him. It wouldn't have been nearly so bad if he could have pretended that he just didn't know the kid, but no, that kind heart of his had forced him to intervene.
Damn his kind heart all to hell.
Somehow, he managed to manhandle Jim up the stairs to his small apartment, ignoring the various RENT PAST DUE notices on his front door as he dragged Jim inside. Those would keep; it was only when the landlord started using obnoxious amounts of exclamation points that Dimitri had to worry. He somehow got the kid onto his ratty couch, and fairly dropped him into the seat.
"Stay there til you're done puking." Dimitri said briskly, kicking a bucket (with an inch or two of old rainwater) towards Jim. But Jim sat silently on the old, worn couch, his eyes mostly closed as the bucket came to a rattling halt next to him. He looked too tired to spew anymore, Dimitri figured, but he didn't want to take any risks. "I said-- hey, you still alive?" He said with a sigh, bending down to tilt Jim's face up.
Jim's eyes peered at him blearily for a moment, then his eyes widened suddenly as he abruptly lowered his head, and puked into the bucket.
"Wonderful. At least you've not drowned on it yet." Dimitri said with a sigh, rubbing the bridge of his oft-broken nose as he left Jim to his barfing.
While Jim finished off his puking, Dimitri seated himself at his desk, a 'recovered' number currently piled high with papers of various types. Fake passports, real passports ('recovered' as well, of course) to copy them from, fake birth certificates, newspaper clippings he thought might come in handy, and various other notes and letters that he never quite got around to filing away or throwing out. Jim's noise soon became nothing more than background noise to Dimitri, and was soon completely absorbed in his work. It was only when Jim had finished puking that he was aware of a change, and turned around to look at him.
Jim was currently sacked-out on the couch, his limbs splayed limply every which way. He was blissfully unaware of how cold the small apartment was; later, he would feel it. But for now, he was draped as comfortably over the raggedy hunk of furniture as if it were a balmy 50 degrees.
Dimitri stared at him for a moment, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, and finally made a decision. "You done now?"
"Mm-mm." Jim groaned softly, the sound vaguely positive.
"Ready for sleep?"
"Mm-hmm." The groan was a little more clear, the affirmation in it definite.
"Good. Cuz if you don't stop soon, I'll need another bucket." Dimitri said briskly, walking over to grab a hold of the bucket, and quickly trotted it out to the main hallway. Well, if anyone tipped it over, their trouble! He didn't particularly feel like cleaning up vomit right now, anyway. When he came back, Jim was sitting up, propped up feebly against the back of the sofa, and looking up at him through bleary eyes.
"Where's the bed?"
"You mean MY bed? MY bed is right over there." Dimitri said with a crisp jab of his finger, differentiating the narrow mattress from the rest of the mess. It was an easy mistake, really; nicer beds had a frame, or a boxspring, or something under them. In Jim's time, certainly, almost all of them had. But Dimitri's was only a salvaged mattress, one whose stains had been turned towards the floor, covered in a variance of blankets and thick coverings. "YOUR bed is what you're sitting on." Dimitri shrugged, ignoring Jim's expression of dismay. "I'll see if I can find some other blankets." He continued briskly, refusing to give Jim any time to complain. He wouldn't freeze; only orphans on the street froze, right? The kid would be fine. He'd just go see if he could 'find' any blankets from fellow residents who had moved out/been kicked out/were still out drinking...
Imagine his surprise, then, when he returned to see Jim Hawkins, drinking-contest loser, curled up under the biggest mound of blankets on his bed. Dimitri's bed, the bed that Jim was NOT going to sleep in! Dimitri scowled down at him, and barked Jim's name sharply. No answer. Like the sleep of the dead, he thought dourly, and attempted to pull the boy off. But his pulling was to no avail; somehow, by falling asleep, Jim seemed to have doubled in weight. How that was even possible, after vomiting such an outrageous amount, Dimitri had no clue. The kid should be lighter than air by now! But no, he remained curled up steadfastly, giving little unhappy moans when Dimitri tried to move him.
And so, Dimitri finally submitted to his fate, and, after stripping off most of his heavy outer layer of clothing, climbed into bed beside the boy. A tight fit, definitely; only made tighter by Jim's sopping wet boots!
"Ugh, who raised you, wolves?" Dimitri growled, yanking the blankets off of Jim to get at his wet shoes, which (although only damp by now) were soaking into his mattress. He ripped each boot off and tossed them aside, although even his roughest motions barely even unsettled the deeply-asleep Jim. With a sigh, Dimitri set about to pulling off his outer coat as well, and then contemplated the pants. Well, he didn't have on anything to guard them from the deep snow-drifts, and the cuffs were wet and cold; but he couldn't just strip the kid, could he?
"Aw, to hell with it. No way you're messing up my bed, brat." Dimitri growled, and simply yanked them off, leaving Jim half-undressed in his bed. Trying to ignore how this might look in the morning (assuming the kid didn't die or anything before then), Dimitri tossed the clothing aside and flopped into bed, pulling (half) of the pile of blankets on top of him. It was going to be a looooooooong night. .
Chapter: 3
Setting: St. Petersberg, 1926
Fandom: "Anastasia" / "Treasure Planet"
Characters: Dimitri / Jim Hawkins
Rating for this Chapter: PG (some minor language, drinking in excess, people getting undressed with no sexual contact.)
I finally updated!! Sorry for the long wait guys; I tried to make this chapter extra-long to compensate. (And I had a lot I wanted to get done in this chapter too!) I hope you enjoy it!
Also, I've been posting on PCO (http://plus4chan.org/boards/pco) lately, in case anyone frequents those forums as well. I made some Milo 'fapfiction' (with some plot!) over there, would anyone have objections to seeing it posted here? Although I originally made this journal for just JimxDimitri, it seems like the best place as any to post it!
~
"Dih' I tell you about how m' an' Sil'r went on a ship?"
"Oh Lord, not this story again."
"Nono, diff'rent... waih, no, same ship." Jim slurred, leaning heavily on Dimitri's side, his boots suddenly too clunky for him to walk in. "Diff'rent time!"
Dimitri didn't even bother to hide his eye-roll this time; how in the world had he gotten roped into taking this kid home? Oh yeah, something about being left here, or getting sent here accidentally? And then he went off on some kind of tangent about 'should have picked a time with more civilization around'-- what, like being in a bar in Saint Petersberg at ANY time would guarantee civility? The thought would have been enough to make Dimitri laugh, but since Jim had just puked moments before into someone's lap, Dimitri was just about laughed out.
Yeah, leaving a kid in a bar with someone he'd just puked on was sort of unfair, even by Dimitri's standards; and it's not like he'd gain anything by watching the kid get the pretty beat out of him, either. Maybe if he'd had anything in his pockets, it would have been worth the time to get him put out of commission, but all Dimitri found were some useless little bendy-cards. Tickets, maybe, although he couldn't recognize any of the writing on them. Very strange. It tied into the kid's theory about not being from around here, though. Definitely explained why he wouldn't know who the Romanovs were, he supposed, although he would have had to travel a long, long way to be ignorant of them. But then, he did keep talking about a 'ship', and some captain or another; perhaps he was a sailor? Or, Dimitri thought with a dark glance at the boy, probably some sailor's kid with deluded visions of grandeur.
Still, sailor or not, he was stuck with him, curse that gentle heart of his. He gave the kid another rough heave upwards, as he was beginning to slump, and almost toppled them both over. "I've seen grandmothers who handle their drink better than you." Dimitri growled, managing to regain his footing as he continued plowing ahead, half-dragging Jim through the snowy streets.
Jim was complacent to be dragged along, his eyes closing at times as he made feeble motions to move his legs in time with Dimitri's. Dimitri hadn't intended to let him have that much to drink, but when he'd returned from a brief 'bathroom break' (in which he just happened to run into his old friend, Marki the Bookmaker, who also just happened to owe him money), he'd found the kid in the middle of a drinking contest with one of the more mouthy regulars. Apparently, it'd started on the premise that 'some stupid little kid shouldn't be in here, doesn't he need to go home to his mommy?', which Jim just couldn't let lie. Hence, the only logical answer was drinking until they were both comatose, Dimitri thought with a scowl, dragging Jim along a little more roughly. And it didn't help that the kid couldn't hold his liquor, either; after Dimitri had somehow smooth-talked his way out of the impending fight, Jim had started spewing like a choir-boy on his first trip to the tavern. Humiliating -- and even more so when Dimitri had to be the one to take charge of him. It wouldn't have been nearly so bad if he could have pretended that he just didn't know the kid, but no, that kind heart of his had forced him to intervene.
Damn his kind heart all to hell.
Somehow, he managed to manhandle Jim up the stairs to his small apartment, ignoring the various RENT PAST DUE notices on his front door as he dragged Jim inside. Those would keep; it was only when the landlord started using obnoxious amounts of exclamation points that Dimitri had to worry. He somehow got the kid onto his ratty couch, and fairly dropped him into the seat.
"Stay there til you're done puking." Dimitri said briskly, kicking a bucket (with an inch or two of old rainwater) towards Jim. But Jim sat silently on the old, worn couch, his eyes mostly closed as the bucket came to a rattling halt next to him. He looked too tired to spew anymore, Dimitri figured, but he didn't want to take any risks. "I said-- hey, you still alive?" He said with a sigh, bending down to tilt Jim's face up.
Jim's eyes peered at him blearily for a moment, then his eyes widened suddenly as he abruptly lowered his head, and puked into the bucket.
"Wonderful. At least you've not drowned on it yet." Dimitri said with a sigh, rubbing the bridge of his oft-broken nose as he left Jim to his barfing.
While Jim finished off his puking, Dimitri seated himself at his desk, a 'recovered' number currently piled high with papers of various types. Fake passports, real passports ('recovered' as well, of course) to copy them from, fake birth certificates, newspaper clippings he thought might come in handy, and various other notes and letters that he never quite got around to filing away or throwing out. Jim's noise soon became nothing more than background noise to Dimitri, and was soon completely absorbed in his work. It was only when Jim had finished puking that he was aware of a change, and turned around to look at him.
Jim was currently sacked-out on the couch, his limbs splayed limply every which way. He was blissfully unaware of how cold the small apartment was; later, he would feel it. But for now, he was draped as comfortably over the raggedy hunk of furniture as if it were a balmy 50 degrees.
Dimitri stared at him for a moment, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, and finally made a decision. "You done now?"
"Mm-mm." Jim groaned softly, the sound vaguely positive.
"Ready for sleep?"
"Mm-hmm." The groan was a little more clear, the affirmation in it definite.
"Good. Cuz if you don't stop soon, I'll need another bucket." Dimitri said briskly, walking over to grab a hold of the bucket, and quickly trotted it out to the main hallway. Well, if anyone tipped it over, their trouble! He didn't particularly feel like cleaning up vomit right now, anyway. When he came back, Jim was sitting up, propped up feebly against the back of the sofa, and looking up at him through bleary eyes.
"Where's the bed?"
"You mean MY bed? MY bed is right over there." Dimitri said with a crisp jab of his finger, differentiating the narrow mattress from the rest of the mess. It was an easy mistake, really; nicer beds had a frame, or a boxspring, or something under them. In Jim's time, certainly, almost all of them had. But Dimitri's was only a salvaged mattress, one whose stains had been turned towards the floor, covered in a variance of blankets and thick coverings. "YOUR bed is what you're sitting on." Dimitri shrugged, ignoring Jim's expression of dismay. "I'll see if I can find some other blankets." He continued briskly, refusing to give Jim any time to complain. He wouldn't freeze; only orphans on the street froze, right? The kid would be fine. He'd just go see if he could 'find' any blankets from fellow residents who had moved out/been kicked out/were still out drinking...
Imagine his surprise, then, when he returned to see Jim Hawkins, drinking-contest loser, curled up under the biggest mound of blankets on his bed. Dimitri's bed, the bed that Jim was NOT going to sleep in! Dimitri scowled down at him, and barked Jim's name sharply. No answer. Like the sleep of the dead, he thought dourly, and attempted to pull the boy off. But his pulling was to no avail; somehow, by falling asleep, Jim seemed to have doubled in weight. How that was even possible, after vomiting such an outrageous amount, Dimitri had no clue. The kid should be lighter than air by now! But no, he remained curled up steadfastly, giving little unhappy moans when Dimitri tried to move him.
And so, Dimitri finally submitted to his fate, and, after stripping off most of his heavy outer layer of clothing, climbed into bed beside the boy. A tight fit, definitely; only made tighter by Jim's sopping wet boots!
"Ugh, who raised you, wolves?" Dimitri growled, yanking the blankets off of Jim to get at his wet shoes, which (although only damp by now) were soaking into his mattress. He ripped each boot off and tossed them aside, although even his roughest motions barely even unsettled the deeply-asleep Jim. With a sigh, Dimitri set about to pulling off his outer coat as well, and then contemplated the pants. Well, he didn't have on anything to guard them from the deep snow-drifts, and the cuffs were wet and cold; but he couldn't just strip the kid, could he?
"Aw, to hell with it. No way you're messing up my bed, brat." Dimitri growled, and simply yanked them off, leaving Jim half-undressed in his bed. Trying to ignore how this might look in the morning (assuming the kid didn't die or anything before then), Dimitri tossed the clothing aside and flopped into bed, pulling (half) of the pile of blankets on top of him. It was going to be a looooooooong night. .