Author's Note:

prompt: "don't get up, i'll do it."

When he had first seen the gold dress glittering through the glass window in that shop in Paris, all thoughts of the hotel and a real bath vanished from his mind. The only one that remained was of how beautiful she would look in its embroidered silk, gliding down a staircase with its shimmering train gracefully flowing behind her. Gold would be a gorgeous colour on her, he thought as his hand grasped at the francs filling his pocket, a foreign feeling in itself for the former street rat. With a thundering heart and palms that were far too sweaty all of a sudden, his brain began to calculate what the price range of a dress fit for a Grand Duchess would be and how much money was left over from Anya's diamond, as the idea of presenting it to her made his heart race with anticipation. The first real gift he would give her. The music box was for Anastasia. This would be for Anya.

Would she like it? Did she even like gold? He had never asked her what her favourite colour was - he had never asked anybody that. Anya herself hadn't shown much of a penchant for sparkling jewels and glimmering dresses in the time he had known her, but then again, he doubted she ever had the luxury to care about such things between trekking across Russia on foot and trying to remember a long forgotten past. Besides, everybody was equal now. Most women didn't own such dresses anymore in Russia, and if they did, they weren't parading around in them. It was doubtful that Anya had much experience with such fancy clothing. Maybe she would like it after all. Perhaps she could even wear it to -

"She'll break your heart, Dmitry. If they accept her as Anastasia, you'll never see her again."

Thoughts of sparkling dresses and a woman who radiated more brightly than the sun were interrupted by the former Count's words.

Even when he wasn't physically present, as usual, Vlad's timing had been terrible and his words absurd, but damn it. Vlad may not have been right about many things before, but he was right about this. Anastasia, the money, the biggest con in history - it had all been little more than a pipedream until they had boarded that train out of Russia. Now, they were in Paris and the reward money was in his grasp. They had groomed her well. Anya would soon be presented to the Dowager Empress and by now, even he was more than confident that the old woman would accept her as the heir to the Romanov's broken dynasty and fortune, while he would be left with memories of a street-sweeper who changed everything.

As much as he hated to admit it, the possibility of crossing paths with a Grand Duchess again, regardless of whether or not she was the same girl now, were slim for somebody like him. Why should any of that matter, though? Sure, Anya had crept up on him and had become a friend, but it wasn't as if he cared for her beyond that. She was an accomplice, no matter how clueless, and he had no particular reason as to why he should see her again after they accomplished what they had come to do. They had managed to escape from Russia despite every obstacle that had been thrown their way, Anya was well versed in the history of the Romanovs thanks to the two conmen's lessons, and the Dowager Empress was close.

Why panic now when they had everything to win?

His fingers brushed over the francs in his pocket once again.

There would be more parades and more crowds, but he wouldn't be among them. Once he received the reward money, there would be nothing left for him in Paris and he would need to buy another ticket.

Perhaps it had been fate, pure luck, or due to its ridiculously high price that the dress still rested on display when Dmitry passed by the same shop again three days later. He wasn't planning on buying it at first. Really, he wasn't. It wasn't like he was trying to impress her or anything, but they finally had an opening. There was an opportunity to present "Anastasia" to the Dowager Empress and the dress in question was perfect for a ballet. If giving it to her ended up with her taking it as something more, then… well he couldn't do much about that, now could he? But first, they had an Empress to fool.

He threw the entrance door open and stepped into the fancy shop. As he took in the expensive clothing on every display and the overall atmosphere itself that simply radiated wealth, the fine fabrics and jewels adorning every formal gown only served to make him feel like even more of an outsider than he already did. It was a foreign feeling, entering a respectable shop in his own new tailored suit, with the intention of actually purchasing something instead of just stealing it. He couldn't remember his last, real purchase. The music box most definitely did not count and Vlad had been the one to secure their train tickets.

As the golden dress caught his eye once again, Dmitry was certain that this was something entirely different from buying a loaf of bread or a ticket. He had never been ashamed of his circumstances before. Some fancy dress shop in Paris wouldn't change that, he decided as he strode forward, further into the shop.

The woman behind the counter appeared as elegant and beautiful as everything else in the shop. As he caught her eye, her painted lips curled into a smile.

"Welcome monsieur. Are you looking for something in particular?"

Dmitry nodded in response.

"How much is that dress?" he pointed in the direction of the sparkling evening gown. The woman's grin widened as she responded with the price.

"Ah, for a special lady perhaps?" she asked teasingly.

He responded with a genuine smile.

"Something like that," Dmitry chuckled as his fingers brushed against the francs left over from the diamond, before freezing.

When he was twelve, he had started saving for a one way ticket out of Russia. His father had died and the country was still reeling over the Tsar's actions on the Bloody Sunday. With nobody in Russia to hold him or whom he owed anything to, he had set his mind and heart on a future outside of his Petersburg. Where one's political alignment would not be a cause of death. Once his father had died for his convictions, freedom had become a priority that took precedence over (legally obtained) food and a real bath.

The money had burned a hole in his pockets for years. By the time there had been enough of it for him to purchase a ticket out of Russia for good and start a new life elsewhere, the Bolsheviks had seized power and leaving the country had become next to impossible for somebody like him. It was forgotten once more when Anya had presented her diamond and had remained forgotten until Paris. By then, he had grown more fond of the street sweeper than he cared to admit. The money was everything to him. The only honest intent he had ever had - the only hope that he had ever had. Did he really want to spend it on a woman who wouldn't be more than a memory in a few days?

She wouldn't need the dress. Vlad had announced this morning that he would take Anya shopping for something to wear to the ballet. Besides, once the Dowager Empress accepted her as Anastasia, she would have more than her fair share of dresses to choose from. Ones that would be worth millions more than this one and of finer quality. Would Anastasia really spend her last dime on him? Anya had trusted him with the diamond. By doing so she had given him permission to use the money from it on them and the dress was for her. It's not like he would have much use for it if she were to reject it and at least by using the money from the diamond, he wouldn't be losing every last coin he had. Better to save it now for the future, which was still so murky and uncertain. His fingers grasped at the francs again before he realized one crucial fact.

Anastasia wouldn't. Anya already did.

His hand froze again.

Anya had given up the only relic of her past because of her misplaced trust in him. She hadn't even known him and yet, she had pinned every hope on him despite his teasing and unwillingness to initially help her.

It really was a lovely dress. And she would look really beautiful in gold.

The dress became his first honest purchase since his father had died.

He didn't have an opportunity to give it to her before Vlad announced that their shopping trip had been a success and that they had found the perfect dress for her.

"Take a look, Dmitry. Nobody will doubt that she is Anastasia once they see her in this!"

When he saw her in blue, Dmitry was glad that he wasn't able to present his gift to her earlier. Vlad was right, she was radiant. Seeing her in gold could wait another evening.

"It was my life you played with!" she cried, her voice hoarse and tears in the corners of her eyes, threatening to fall with each angry step that she took. "Telling me I was someone else and letting me believe that I was!"

The underlying truth of her words stung him sharper than any of Bolshevik's bayonets or the Dowager Empress's slap could. Yet he didn't argue because she wasn't wrong and for the first time, Dmitry was ashamed of himself.

When he had been holding auditions for Anastasia with Vlad, they had originally planned to trick the Dowager Empress and split the money between the three of them. Himself, Vlad, and the girl. But then Anya had come along, a girl with no name or memory of her past. It was almost too perfect. She didn't know who she was or where she came from, nobody had known what had happened to Anastasia. If they could convince her and the Dowager that she was Anastasia, there would be one less person to split the money with and who was he to argue against that kind of luck?

It was by pure chance that their Anastasia had turned out to be Anastasia Nikolaevna herself. The one who had smiled at him all those years ago in that crowd of thousands and suddenly, it wasn't a scheme anymore. Everything was different now that he knew her; now that he cared for her. Somewhere, between showing her the streets of his Petersburg and seeing the joy on her face as the Eiffel Tower came into view, something had changed. Once he knew she was the little girl from all those years ago, it had become less about the money and more about reuniting a lost girl with her only remaining family.

"Anya -", he began, watching her tear through their shared suite, trying to explain that yes, he had tricked her but that it was so much more now.

"What is this?!" she demanded, holding up the gold gown he had become all too familiar with. His eye caught the sparkling jewels once more.

"I bought it for you when we -"

"I don't want it." She threw it at his face without a second thought.

He didn't blame her.

The last ballet they had attended in Paris felt like it could have been a lifetime ago, rather than the mere few months that had passed between then and where they currently stood. Of course, neither of them had paid much attention to Swan Lake. Not when the Dowager Empress was so clearly in sight. After the effort it had taken on their part to arrive there in the first place, the only thing Anya could focus on was the old woman sitting proudly in her own box. When she thinks back on that night, Anya could still remember the loud beating of her heart drowning out every other sound in the theatre as she clutched Dmitry's hand in an iron grip. Similarly the only thing Dmitry could remember was the loud drumming of his own heart and the feeling of her hand in his.

That night, and everything that followed, felt like a lifetime ago to Anya now as she sat in front of her modest vanity in their Parisian apartment.

They hadn't immediately left Paris. While it may not have been the home either of them had hoped, or even expected to find, it was safe. More importantly, it was the first time in a long time where neither of them were running towards anything and were given a moment to breathe. Neither Anya nor Dmitry have ever had the luxury of simply living in one place, rather than fighting to survive. Although they may have been financially struggling once again, somewhere along the way on their journey from Saint Petersburg to Russia, Anya had found herself. The memories weren't completely back yet, but she had been piecing together the puzzles of her old life faster in the past month than she had in the past ten years. The problem was that vague memories of a glittering palace and her governess's lessons weren't enough to recreate the girl she had been at eight or seventeen. Even Vlad and Dmitry's lessons couldn't recreate her. She knew that and more importantly, nana had known it when she had told her that they would always have each other, no matter what she chose.

Of course, Anya hadn't been Anastasia for a long time now. She wasn't even Anya anymore either, really. The Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova had been resurrected as comrade Anya, who in turn would now be reborn yet again, she thought to herself fondly as her eye caught the simple diamond on her left finger twinkle under the light. This time as Anastasia Nikolaevna Sudayeva, who was neither a Grand Duchess nor a lost girl trying to find herself. She was something else all together, half-way between who she had been and who she was now. Despite this change in her, she had found the three things she had spent every moment since that night in Yekaterinburg searching for. A home, love, and family.

To her surprise, she had found all three in the same person. She had never considered the possibility that home could be a person rather than a place. It wasn't nana whom she had been looking for all along, but Dmitry. All those years of searching for the fragments of her missing past may have led her to nana in the end, but it was Dmitry whom the journey there had been with, whom she had found herself with, and whom she had chosen once she had learned about his rejection of the reward money. Now, despite feeling secure that her past had been found at last, she didn't want to spend anymore time dwelling on it. For she knew that there were endless possibilities in her future with Dmitry. She knew it every time she looked at him.

They had the opportunity to start over wherever they wanted to. Both she and Dmitry had wanted to travel, but they chose to settle first. After being homeless for so long, Anya had wanted to establish roots somewhere. Anastasia Nikolaevna may have been publicly dead, but her nana was still here and neither she nor Dmitry had the chance to explore Paris yet. What better way to start their life together than in the city where they had chosen each other? So here she was, sitting at her vanity in their new apartment and feeling a sense of deja vu as she attempted to make herself look more presentable. When she had admitted to Dmitry that she had been too nervous to pay attention to what was happening on stage at the night of the ballet, he had insisted that they attend another show and try to form some new memories.

"This is our home now," he had argued. "We should enjoy it."

It hadn't taken much convincing on his part. Hearing Dmitry, somebody who had once rejected the very notion of a home, call Paris their home had made her heart swell with love and pride for how far they had both come. Dmitry was right. They did have a right to enjoy their new home and with Vlad running in the same circles as the former Russian aristocrats again, securing tickets wasn't difficult task.

With that thought in her mind, she had just finished applying her makeup when she felt familiar lips brushing against her cheek and two large arms wrap around her.

"Ready, princess?" Anya grinned at the nickname. He had started teasingly calling her that after she had kissed him on her grandfather's bridge and it had stuck.

"Almost. I just need to get my dress," she replied, giving his left bicep a reassuring squeeze, earning a smirk in response from him. She had been surprised at first to discover how muscular the former street rat was and once he had found out about her fondness for said muscles, he had refused to let her live it down. Rolling her eyes, she took his left hand into her right one and began to rub circles onto it with her thumb. He pursed his lips together and appeared to be lost in his thoughts for a moment before pulling his hand out of her grip. "Dima?"

He shot her a smile that was too suspicious for her to not raise an eyebrow in response.

"Don't get up, I'll do it."

He didn't know what had compelled him to pack it along with his other small belongings when he had resolved to leave Paris. However, he had forgotten it as soon as Anastasia had declared him as her prince and had kissed him - honestly, he had forgotten many things when she had done that - on her grandfather's bridge. It had remained forgotten until now.

Now seemed like the right time he decided, taking it out of its packaging.

"What about this one, princess? I think you would look beautiful in it." He smiled at her nervously. The last time she had seen this dress, his betrayal had been revealed and it had been a fresh wound. He wasn't sure now whether he was doing the right thing by presenting the dress to her or merely reopening that wound.

"You kept it?" Oh no. Her voice had cracked and the tears had already gathered in the corners of her eyes.

'Crap. Nicely done, you fool.'

"I - I'm sorry, I didn't think! I'll get rid of i-"

Before he had the opportunity to finish his statement, she had practically leapt across the room, grabbed his face the same way she had before their first kiss and pulled him down to her, meeting his lips halfway. In his mind, they were back on Alexander's III's bridge under the sparkling Parisian sky. Dmitry could feel his eyes closing. Any other words he may have had were lost against her mouth as he kissed her back, softly at first, and then with an intensity that filled his mind with fog, as his arms wrapped around her waist, and caused them to cling to each other as if the other was the only thing keeping their feet on the ground.

"No, don't" she whispered, pulling away. Eyes still closed, she gripped the golden fabric he still held. "I want to wear it."

Author's Note: I haven't written anything in over a year and haven't written fanfiction in over four years, so I hope this wasn't too bad!

This one was mostly based off of the 2017 Broadway musical with some dialogue borrowed from the Hartford production. Thus, Anya, Dmitry, and Vlad were all imagined as their respective actors (Christy Altomare, Derek Klena, and John Bolton). I loved Anya's pink ballet dress from Hartford, although I do much prefer the blue one, so the dress Dmitry buys for her in this fic was imagined as the Hartford ballet dress but in gold as a homage to the 1997 movie.

Sudayev is the surname some people in the fandom give Dmitry and since its the most popular one, I decided to roll with it. Sudayeva is the feminine version of it, which based on my googling should follow Russian naming rules, but if it doesn't please do let me know.

Anyways, this was a lot of fun for me to write and I tried to make it as canon compliant as possible. Thanks to klenasdmitry for the prompt 3 Derek's biceps were also given a shoutout for the thirst squad.

Anyways, if you actually read the whole thing and are still reading this, then thank you so much! I hope you enjoyed it! Any feedback is welcome and constructive criticism would be really appreciated so I know where to improve for next time!