Dream Girl

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/54147439.

Rating: General Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: F/M
Fandom: Anastasia (1997)
Relationship: Dimitri | Dmitry/Anya | Anastasia Romanov (Anastasia 1997 &
Broadway)
Characters: Anya | Anastasia Romanov (Anastasia 1997 & Broadway), Dimitri |
Dmitry (Anastasia 1997 & Broadway)
Additional Tags: just an in between moment in Dimitri's head, he loves Anya very much,
he also has self-worth problems I think, Maybe - Freeform, I love this
movie so much I just dont write about it, this is for u pookie, u know who
u are, Canon Compliant
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2024-02-29 Words: 868 Chapters: 1/1
 Dream Girl
by amslotl

Summary

After that whole thing on the bridge, Dimitri has a hard time coming to terms with reality.
The reality that Anya is choosing him, of all people, over her family, her birthright, and her
dream. Oh, and the reality that crazy dead wizard guys exist, apparently.
Dmitri was afraid he’d dreamt it all up, you know?

That entire evening had been so incredible, the kind of story that was told in those ballets and
operas in the palace that he’d snuck into because that was the only way he could see them.
Who could blame him for thinking he’d somehow hallucinated it all, what with the forces
from hell, the damned spirit seeking vengeance, and, most incredible of all, Anya – holding
him, dragging him away from the mansion, smacking him (gently) whenever he protested
their direction? But, no, he felt the stinging pain as he shifted his weight to look around the
empty Paris streets, hissing immediately at the sensation of bruised skin and what he hoped
were not broken ribs. The God-awful ghost guy had definitely been real. The soreness in his
jaw was real, too, from when she’d smacked him in her relief.

If that had been real, then where was she?

He stared down the street she’d gone down, promising to be quick about changing and
packing. He strained to catch sight of that vibrant head of hair, or maybe those flashing eyes,
brightest blue he’d ever seen. He shook his head. If Anya was smart, she’d just forget about
the packing altogether and try to salvage her debut ball. He winced, not wanting to think
about the cost of her ruined dress.

He sighed, and gently sat himself down on his suitcase, not bothering to pull his coat up
against the evening breeze. He’d thought he was smart, too, but here he was, having given up
the ten million and sitting by the Seine as the night grew later and later, waiting for a dream.

And then the breeze carried along a floral scent, and he looked up to see Anya, still in that
damn dress, a suitcase and coat in one hand and a rose – the rose whose partner he still kept
in his coat pocket – in the other. He blinked, once. He’d figured she’d thrown it out after their
fight.

He leapt up to greet her as she picked up the pace, and he wrapped his arms around her as she
barreled into him, trying to hide the way his chest ached in more ways than one.

“Dmitri,” she gasped, out of breath from her rush to be tucked into his arms. “I was so
worried you wouldn’t be there when I got back. That it was just some crazy dream, you
know?”

And Dmitri could not find the words to tell her just how much he knew it. Instead, he hugged
her closer, the whole thing reminding him too much of the other time he’d almost lost her,
when she’d been tear-stained and rain-soaked, desperately trying to explain what was
haunting her. Her voice was just as vulnerable when she let out a bitter chuckle, “Heh.
Someone else for orphan Anya to lose.”

“Hey,” he said softly, rubbing circles onto the exposed skin on her back, where the chill of
the Parisian night air had not even brought about goosebumps. “If the evil spirit rotted
halfway to hell couldn’t shake me, then there’s not much else that will. Except you, maybe,
but you’re always the exception.”

He pulled away from her gently, taking her shaking hands in his – not that they were much
steadier – and meeting her eyes. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily, your highness.”

At his words she straightened a little, her chin tilting upward in a way that wasn’t proud, but
still carried an air about it. Typical Anya fashion, of course. Then she did something that
wasn’t as typical for her. She left a kiss, tender and quick, on his cheek. He blinked at her,
surprised, and he saw that her cheeks were as red as his felt. Before he could react, she
slipped one hand from his and reached for her suitcase, taking a few steps forward, but never
letting go of him.

“And I don’t suppose you’re stubborn enough to try and win the Grand Duchess’s hand in
marriage now, are you?” she said, chin even higher and tone annoyingly condescending. She
looked back at him, cheeks still red and a twinkle in those damn eyes as the question lay
between them.

He huffed in amusement, running his free hand through his hair. He opened his mouth to
speak, but he hesitated.

Her dress – or whatever was left of it – still glittered in the light of the lamps around the river,
and not for the first time, he wondered at the world that she was leaving behind for him.
Princesses, he knew, didn’t marry kitchen boys. Or conmen, for that matter. But Anya was
leading him, was choosing him, and who was he, an ex-kitchen boy and a (ex?)conman, to
tell her, the Grand Duchess herself, that she was wrong?
His thoughts were interrupted by an impatient, “Well?” from in front of him. Her hip was
cocked to the side and her eyebrow was raised, but she was never good at hiding her
emotions, and her expression betrayed her concern.

He smirked, setting aside his doubts and letting her lead them down the road.

“A guy can dream.”

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