Work Text:
She cannot help the explosion of alarm that bursts through her like a firework, or the sirens that immediately begin wailing in her head. Confusion hits her and melts away in the space of a single second. Only panic is left in its place.
“You’re kidding me,” Dmitry says, loud enough that it must echo in the hallway. “What sort of joke is this?”
“It’s a mistake,” she finds herself saying. “There must be a mistake.”
A mistake indeed. The plan for each one of them to have their own room had been a great one, but too optimistic for their limited budget. Instead, they’d come to an agreement: Anya and Dmitry share one room, while Vlad takes the other. (Vlad insisted -- when he brought up his hope of bringing Lily back to his hotel, no one found the motivation to argue with him.)
It isn’t sharing a room that bothers her; once you've gotten used to sleeping under a bridge, any roof over your head is pretty much paradise. Anya could share a room with Lenin himself, for all she cares — she’d still sleep like a baby.
It’s the bed that’s the problem. Bed, as in singular. Bed, as in their double room may not be so double after all.
Dmitry it already pacing, taking his frustration out on the plush carpet beneath his feet. “I know what we paid for,” he rants. “They either charged us double for a single room, or Vlad’s in there with two beds and hasn’t bothered to tell us!”
He doesn’t have two beds. Anya knows; she saw into Vlad’s room a second before he gleefully slammed the door in their faces. “That must be it.”
“This is ridiculous!” He throws out his arm for emphasis. All Anya can think is how soft the bed looks, and how warm. She hasn’t seen a bed like this for... well, ever, as far as she knows.
The thought of sleeping with another body next to hers might not bother her in itself, but this isn’t just any body; it’s Dmitry. She finds her face heating up in spite of herself. The thought of his legs brushing against hers in the night, his body close enough that she can feel his warmth...
They ought to complain. They really should go down to the desk and complain; that’s the reasonable thing to do.
It just seems like so much effort. Anya is exhausted; the bed looks so tantalizing; and, considering how wound up Dmitry is, she’s worried he might jump the poor desk clerk.
Fluffy pillows... Warm sheets... Dmitry’s body pressed up against hers...
They really, really should get another room.
The words leave her lips before she even realizes she’s spoken. “It’s only one night, we’ll just share the bed.”
Dmitry freezes. His back is to her; she can see the tension in the taught line of his shoulders. Slowly, he turns to face her.
“We can change rooms tomorrow,” she adds, shrugging. She prays her face isn’t as red as she’s certain it is. “But it’s late now. And I’m tired, Dmitry.”
“You’re —“ He breaks into a scoff, half-amused, completely incredulous. “You’re tired?” When she nods, he runs a hand through his hair. “And I thought hiking across Russia on foot was just another day’s work for you.”
He’s nervous, and has no clue how to handle the situation; but damned if he’ll let himself show it. There’s something charming about the way he forces himself to stand up straight, in spite of the awkwardness intent on weighing him down. Is his heart racing as well? Are the butterflies in his stomach threatening to fly straight up his throat? Does the thought of crawling in that bed make him dizzy?
Anya can’t ask. A part of her doesn’t want to find out.
“I get tired too,” she replies, crossing the room, “and this bed looks amazing.”
She flops down on it, arms wide open. Immediately, the downy comforter threatens to swallow her up. She’s never felt something this soft in her life. It makes her head spin with the sheer luxuriousness; the sheets smell like down and sweet laundry soap, and the pillows welcome her.
A groan flees unbidden from her lips. “Oh my gosh, Dmitry, you have to try this!”
She doesn’t realize Dmitry is hanging back until she’s already nestled under the covers, fully clothed and not even caring. She hears him clear his throat; when she looks up, he’s got his arms crossed on the other side of the room.
“I — I can — you know what, I’ll sleep on Vlad’s couch —“
“You can’t.” Dmitry has never slept in a bed like this in his life. It’s their first night in Paris; Anya refuses to allow him to sleep on a lumpy couch, as if they’re still back in Leningrad.
He shakes his head. “Really, I don’t mind.”
“I mind,” she insists. The earnestness in her voice takes him aback. He stares at her for a moment, face unreadable; when his resolve breaks, Anya sees it in his eyes.
“Fine,” he sighs, and holds up his hands. “Let me change for bed, at least. You should do the same.”
Anya nods, tearing herself away from the bed’s seductive embrace. Dmitry slips out of the room, and her eyes linger on the spot where he once stood. Her heart is pounding again; she wishes she didn’t know why. If only she were a bit more oblivious, a bit less sensitive, less aware of every little thing he does. If only there were two beds.
She changes into her brand new slip, and takes a moment to fix her hair in the bedroom mirror. She looks alright, but anxiety still gnaws at her. Just what does she look like while she sleeps? Does she drool? Does she snore? Will Dmitry wake up covered in bruises tomorrow morning from her thrashing around? (Will the nightmares come again?)
She catches movement from the doorway in the mirror’s reflection, and spins around. Dmitry stands there with a faint smile on his lips, looking her up and down.
“That suits you,” he remarks. It’s a thoughtless comment that leaves Anya’s heart in her throat.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, and slides sideways towards the bed. “You wouldn’t believe how soft it is.”
He’s wearing brand new pajama pants, and a tank top — Anya isn’t sure if he’s had that for awhile or not. Her brain is slowly being overtaken by incomprehensible buzzing, because Dmitry’s arms are bare, and she can’t take her eyes off of them. Muscles shift under bronzed skin; when Dmitry steps forward, his broad shoulders catch the light.
Anya won’t have to worry about snoring, because she’s going to have a heart attack in bed.
The silence, which she hadn’t even noticed, lasts long enough to grow uncomfortable. Finally, Dmitry can’t take it. “Well?” he demands, gesturing towards the bed. “We aren’t just standing here all night, are we?”
“Of course not,” she replies, feeling foolish. There is absolutely nothing to get flustered about. She has no reason to be nervous. It’s not as if she’s sharing a bed with a stranger; it’s only Dmitry.
She trusts Dmitry. She feels safe with him. She cares about him, and that’s the worst part of it all.
Yet all of her anxiety melts away as soon as she slips back into bed. It’s like a balm for raw nerves; the smooth silk bedsheets against her skin drowns everything else out. All she is aware of is comfort. It’s the best thing in the world. A dripping, honey-smooth euphoria engulfs her, and she’s more than happy to drown in it.
Anya loses herself in the bed’s luxury. She doesn’t notice the mattress shifting besides her, or the comforter pulling aside. She only realizes she isn’t alone when the light suddenly switches out, and the room is cast into darkness.
“Okay,” Dmitry sighs — from right next to her. His own voice is slow and heavy with happy comfort. “Goodnight, Anya.”
She can barely believe he’s so close to her; she can’t believe she almost missed it. They are not touching, but she can feel his body heat seeping into the mattress. Every breath he takes shifts the bed slightly. His presence is unavoidable.
“Goodnight, Dmitry,” she whispers back, feeling half as if she’s dreaming already. Oh, what a lovely, impossible dream this would be. On a whim, she can’t help adding, “Sweet dreams.”
He chuckles. The sound echoes in the darkness, warming her entire chest. “Yeah,” he replies, “you too.”
Anya forces herself to close her eyes, and breathes. If there’s one thing she’s positive of, it’s that she will not be getting any rest tonight.
She’s asleep in seconds.
When she wakes, she feels more rested than she has in a long time; what’s more, she’s still sleepy. The morning is young yet, the first vestiges of dawn just starting to shine through the black window. She can still see the glow of stars glimmering in the Parisian sky, and the bed around her has never felt warmer. The nightmares didn’t come — it is one of the rare nights that they’ve let her be. Everything about this moment, from the bed around her to the soft glow of the window, seems perfect to Anya’s half-conscious mind.
And if there is an arm tucked around her waist in the early-morning darkness, or the feeling of hot breath pressed against her collarbone... well, she’s too sleepy to worry about what it means.
Anya closes her eyes again, and sinks back into the sweet embrace of sleep.