Chapter Text
Having just resolved himself to staying in Paris with Anya, Dmitry isn’t prepared to be smacked in the face with yet another curveball.
Here’s the thing about growing up on the streets, fleeing Red Russia, crossing half of Europe on foot, and accidentally-on-purpose rediscovering the amnesiac Grand Duchess Anastasia: it’s become very hard to take Dmitry by surprise. Impossible, actually. He’s never been easy to faze to begin with; by the time Anya appears before him on the bridge, a vision in gold and crimson, he feels the faintest flicker of shock, but it dies out the moment she presses her lips to his.
Anya chooses him, and in that moment, he is overwhelmed with more emotions than he can comprehend. Delight? Yes. Relief? Absolutely . Surprise? Hah — not even a bit.
So, one month after Anya finds him again, three weeks after they pick out a tiny flat on the outskirts of Paris, and one night after Anya kisses him deeply and promises to be his forever… Dmitry walks into the kitchen to find a Bolshevik eating his toast.
“What the hell,” says Dmitry.
“Ah. It’s you ,” says the Bolshevik. He looks impressively disdainful. There’s a smear of butter on his lip.
Just before Dmitry can shout, throw a punch, fling the nearest solid object at the Bolshevik, or otherwise — Anya appears. Like a miracle, like a mirage, a rush of relief at the worst possible time.
“Good morning!” she chimes, springing up in the kitchen doorway.
She comes out of nowhere, actually. Anya’s good at popping up places, and even better at hiding… but she doesn’t do it without a reason. Dmitry’s first thought is that she must be hurt or frightened — but when he turns, she’s as chipper as ever. The woman he loves is smiling , as if this is the most ordinary thing in the world. She breezes right past the Bolshevik at the kitchen table without even sparing him a glance. A cup of coffee (strong, black, just how Dmitry likes it) and a plate of toast, eggs, and bacon is waiting on the counter.
She picks them up and rounds on Dmitry, ushering him backwards. “Dima, why don’t you sit down? It’s too early to be up. Lie down again and have some breakfast in bed! I went through all the trouble to make it!”
She’s trying her best to block his view of the kitchen. Anya isn’t tall. Dmitry can still see the Bolshevik over his shoulder. He’s staring at them.
“Anya —“
“Bed! Come on! We’ve got a lot to talk about!”
She finally succeeds in herding him back into the hallway. The Bolshevik is cut off from his view, but Dmitry’s heart is still racing. His pulses bellows in his ears, and a surge of panic is rising up to choke him like acrid bile.
“You bet we do,” he hisses, grabbing her by the arm and towing her to safety. When he slams the bedroom door behind them, he makes sure to lock it.
Anya’s got an unmistakable look on her face. Dmitry has been at the receiving end of enough pranks to recognize it; the downturned eyes, the tight set of her shoulders, the way she’s sucking at her bottom lip just enough to make it pucker. Anya’s guilty .
It's simple math. If she’s guilty, and there’s a Bolshevik in the middle of Paris, in their kitchen —
“Anya,” he says slowly, “what did you do?”
Anya smiles at him. It’s forced, painful, and makes Dmitry’s stomach churn. “Well.”
He grips her arm. “Anya.”
A spark passes between them, and the breath of silence is laden with all the things he doesn’t need to say. Are you okay? Don’t be scared. I’m right here. I’ll protect you. You can tell me anything.
Anya finally meets his eyes, and Dmitry steels himself. He’s ready for anything that could come out of her mouth.
“This is Gleb, he was sent here to kill me, he couldn’t do it, and if he goes back to Russia they’ll kill him for not killing me. So, he’s kind of stuck here? And he’s been living on the streets for the past month, just moping around making friends with stray cats, but this morning I was out watering the flowers and I found him, and he doesn’t have anywhere else to stay, so I said he could —“
She cuts herself off. The guilt is back again, and this time it’s so intense that Dmitry could scream. Or faint. He’s ready to do both.
“Anya,” he says again, “what did you do?”
“I told him he could stay with us?” It comes out as a question. Anya grips his hand tight, like she knows if she doesn’t anchor him, Dmitry’s soul will leave his body and descend into Hell.
Correction: Dmitry was ready for anything she could say, except that .
Turns out it’s not impossible to surprise him after all.
So, after a very long conversation (Dmitry has too much pride to call it an argument, considering he lost) about why it’s not okay to adopt stray Red Guards off the street, especially ones who’ve previously tried to kill you and applauded the murder of your whole family…
Gleb moves in.
Dmitry is wary for all the right reasons. So is Anya. Of course she is — she’s not an idiot, and has a self-preservation streak a mile wide. She did not survive on the Russian streets for ten years without learning to recognize danger, and avoid it at any costs… but Anya is also noble, in more ways than one. Perhaps this is why Dmitry can’t always understand her, try as he might.
“I’m so sick and tired of being angry,” she says. “I spent half my life always sure that I lost something huge, but never knowing what. I was angry then, and I’m angry now that I know what it was… but I don’t want to be. I’m through with being bitter. I never was, before.”
Only then does it strike him how very different he and Anya are, for all the ways they are similar. Dmitry turns the anger into fuel and runs even faster; it’s been a part of him for so long that he doesn’t know who he’d be without it. Anya’s rage is a different color, pulsing red and violent, like a raw nerve — a massive loss which never got the chance to heal. Perhaps it never will… but if she doesn’t let that anger go, it will eat her up. It will not become part of her, but eventually might just consume her entirely.
He couldn’t stand to see that happen to Anya.
“Just once, I’ve got the chance to forgive someone,” she tells him softly. “I want to take it.”
Damn him for loving Anya as much as he does, but he can’t argue with her. If this is what it takes for her to heal, he’ll support — and protect — her until the end.
Their apartment is cozy, perfectly suited for two people. They’ve got one kitchen, a living room that doubles as a dining room, one bedroom, two closets, and a bathroom with a real claw foot bathtub (it’s Dmitry’s favorite thing in the world). At the far end of the living room, there’s a sunny little terrace. Anya wastes no time lining it with flowers and lounge chairs.
Their apartment is perfect for two people. It does not have room for three.
Gleb is offered the couch, but just stares at them both for a moment before rejecting it. He’d much rather sleep on the terrace; the fresh air would be good for him. “After all,” he adds, “I’ve gotten used to it.”
(Anya doesn’t look sympathetic. Dmitry thinks of the freezing nights she spent huddling in dark forests and beneath bridges; he levels Gleb with his best glare.)
The vague recollections he has of Deputy Commissioner Vaganov back in Petersburg do not reconcile with the man in front of him now. Gleb Vaganov, back then, had a reputation that preceded him; he was a man to be feared. In Paris, he has become a shell of himself. His hair is a greasy mess, uncombed and unwashed. The beginning of a dark beard lines his jaw. His eyes are dull and usually downcast. His booming voice has been replaced by a hollow murmur, and he refuses to look anyone in the eye. All the pride has leaked from his posture. He carries the stench of the streets, a reek Dmitry knows too well.
This man is not a proud Bolshevik soldier. Hell, he’s barely a man at all. He has fallen from the heights of revolution and crashed hard.
Dmitry can’t help wondering what happened to him.
So, he’s exiled from Russia. Tough. So is Anya; so are he, and Vlad, and thousands of other people who didn’t fit the Soviet mold. Gleb isn’t special. What right does he have to let it destroy him?
(He has no right. Not when Anya spent ten years with no home, no identity, no idea where she came from. Not when the former Dowager Empress is still the picture of dignity. Not when Lily dares to live fierce and unapologetically, never justifying herself to anyone. Gleb has no right to let himself break.)
After he finishes eating their breakfast, Gleb mutters something to Anya, and vanishes onto the terrace. The door slides shut heavily behind him.
“Am I hearing things,” says Dmitry, “or did he just thank the Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanov?”
Anya’s brows are furrowed. She stares after Gleb as if she has no idea what to make of him. “Something new happens every day,” she says, shaking her head.
Dmitry sighs, wrapping an arm around her and leading her away. There’s nothing she can do for him. All he knows is that he could never hope to be half as good a person as Anya. Every day, she never ceases to amaze him.
That night, Gleb doesn’t come back inside for dinner. Anya invites him once, but gets the message when Gleb just nods vaguely and doesn’t respond.
(Dmitry thought they were acquiring a roommate, not a glorified house plant.)
“Do you think we’re going to regret this?” Anya whispers, forkful of peas hovering halfway to pursed, anxious lips.
Frankly, Dmitry regrets it already.
“Nah,” he answers, stealing a pea from Anya’s plate and pressing a kiss to the side of her head. “We’re going to be fine.”