Still Opening Walls

by Mackenzie L.

*Disclaimer: I do not own Anastasia. No profit is made from this work of fiction.

He was hard to talk to.

The thing about Dimitri was, you couldn't just approach him out of nowhere. The conversation had to be planned out, sometimes for several days in advance. She needed time to draft what she wanted to say, to craft rebuttals for the things she anticipated he might say to challenge her, to polish her shield from the last time he shot arrows at her from out of the dark. He'd left many dents in her pride over the years, but she was sort of proud to have each one.

Still, she needed to have the upper hand.

Yes, he was hard to talk to.

But so was she.

It wasn't like they argued all the time. It was just that they argued all the time.

It was their thing. It was what they were about. It was why they were together, and why they could hardly stand each other, and also why they had fallen in love in the first place.

She liked the fighting. She appreciated the friction. It was healthy, she thought. Not like those other doting couples who failed to find any sort of fault in one another. She and Dimitri were real. They weren't afraid to be critical of each other, even when it was hard to hear.

Yes, she liked to fight. Especially when she was really giving it to him. He deserved a good verbal castigation every once in a while. He could be a downright idiot a lot of the time. Then, when her defenses were down, he would flash a smile at her — that broad, genuine smile that seeped right into her belly and made her knees go weak. And then she remembered, quite violently, why she had fallen for him.

They spent most of their days throwing fire in each other's faces. Then they might go a day or two wearing cloaks made of frost and refusing to speak until everything just broke apart and they accidentally kissed over something.

One time she asked him why they ended up together, and he told her something surprisingly deep. "Because the world was always against us," he'd said. "We both needed someone to help us fight back."

Apparently they'd needed someone to fight with, too.

-}0{-

She'd always been prone to nightmares.

They weren't so bad nowadays, but back when she was a little girl they could send her careening from her bed with tears streaming down her face.

She wasn't used to the nights being so quiet. In the orphanage there was always something going on in the middle of the night. Children crying and fussing, floorboards creaking in the old house, wind whipping against the weak walls. It had always been so cold, too, which probably made the nightmares worse. She tried to forget about those times.

Now everything was quiet and warm, almost too comfortable. It was still hard to sleep.

Most nights she watched him. Dimitri was a sound sleeper. She wasn't blessed like him. She liked to face him while he slept, admiring the complete peace of his countenance, something she rarely saw during the day. His eyebrows, always so animated and expressive, were straight and still. His lips settled into a precarious pout, and the tide of his breath flowed with flawless rhythm.

She would study him with envy in her heavy-lidded gaze, until she felt herself drifting.

She usually woke up before him, too.

She wondered if he'd ever had the chance to watch her sleep.

-}0{-

It was getting obvious. At least she thought so.

After two full months of charting in her head, she thought it just had to be. Then again, her body had never been as predictable as the other girls. She'd gone through some intense lifestyle changes over the past year. Surely that was enough to uproot the feminine cadence?

She telephoned her grandmother at least three times a week. She knew it was bound to slip out during one of those calls. Sure enough, it did, rather unceremoniously.

"Something is happening to me, Grandmama."

"Oh?" Even over the telephone, the woman's voice was sharp and aware. "Are you ill?"

"Not really, but... I'm a little bit scared to talk about it."

"You know that you can always share these things with me, lapochka."

"Yes, I know." She looked over her shoulder to make sure she was alone, holding the telephone so close that she was almost kissing it.

"I think that I might be—" She stopped mid-whisper, at a sudden loss for words.

She could hear the Empress take a breath on the other line. Then, "Are you certain?"

It was amazing how deep their connection was. Her grandmother seemed to know her every thought before she expressed it aloud.

"No, not yet," Anastasia admitted. "But I have a feeling."

"If you take after your mother at all, then a feeling is usually enough," she said fondly.

"What do I do?"

"Take care of yourself," the Empress said simply. "And don't tell him until you're ready."

-}0{-

She needed to tell someone.

Her grandmother already knew.

Sophie was out of the question. Two minutes after telling her, and the entire country would know.

Vlad would go straight to Dimitri.

She still needed to tell someone.

So she told Pooka.

He barked happily and nudged her ankle.

Then Dimitri came into the room and sneezed.

-}0{-

When the long, stressful week had come to an end, they went out for a night in the city. It wasn't something they did that often, so it seemed very special without trying to be.

She was thinking about telling him the whole night.

Every once in a while the light would catch his profile, and she'd almost feel the words bubbling up inside of her. There were a few moments when he smiled unexpectedly at her, and she was seized with terror, wondering if he somehow knew. Every glance he gave her looked suspiciously elated. But maybe that was how he always looked, and she was only noticing it now because she was so paranoid about keeping this secret.

They found themselves in a fancy restaurant — a classically decorated, palatial kind of spot in the heart of the city. There was a richly-detailed trompe l'oeil ceiling, which made it feel as if they were under a hanging garden. They were both obsessed with restaurants. It was probably because they'd never had much to eat in their late childhood. It never had to be a particularly special occasion for them to go out.

She ate a lot at dinner, but she didn't indulge in a drink. He didn't give her any grief about her voracious appetite either, which was odd. It had been a long-standing joke between them since he'd taken her under his wing as a starving orphan. Usually he'd make teasing remarks about how she could eat her way through every potato plantation in Russia. Tonight he watched her without comment, drinking steadily from his glass of scotch, and when her plate was empty, he spooned some of his fricassee onto it so she could keep eating.

After dinner they went for a walk along the river. Even though it was springtime, the air was disturbingly brisk. They were the only couple brave enough to stay out after dusk.

The scene around them was even more stunning without any other people scurrying about. Reflections of street lamps danced like golden fireflies on the water, and the young night sky boasted more shades of violet than an artist's palette.

Even though she took care not to let him see her shivering, he still put his coat on her shoulders. Since he'd become her husband, he'd developed a kind of chivalrous instinct that baffled her. The gesture was so untryingly selfless that it made her smile.

"You've been awfully quiet lately," he remarked. He had that stealthy kind of tone he used whenever he was trying to trick her into revealing something.

"Give me a break, I just finished eating."

"Correction: You just finished stuffing your face," he retorted with a smirk. She made a face at him before he continued, "And when I said 'lately' I didn't mean the last twenty minutes. I meant the last twenty days."

"Hah." She ignored the uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach and launched herself deviously up onto the elevated ledge of the riverside railing.

"Careful," he murmured behind her, sounding so concerned that it made her cheeks flush.

She sighed as if his concern annoyed her and reluctantly held out her hand for him to take. His fingers eagerly devoured her wrist, and she really wished he wasn't wearing gloves.

"So you never answered my question," he accused.

On a whim she decided to play coy. "Question? I didn't hear a question." The bottom of her dress swished against the railing while she walked, filling the silence with a gratuitous iron whisper.

She smirked secretively, trying to mimic Mona Lisa. She shouldn't have looked down at him, but she couldn't resist.

He stopped abruptly under the light of a dim street lamp, wearing a broad smile that proudly flaunted the laugh lines in his cheek. He all but blurted, "Are you hiding something from me?" And he looked up at her, so alert and so candid that it made her think he must be onto her.

She laughed heartily. "Rubbish, Dimitri! I could never hide anything from you." Then she reached over to tap the top of his head as if he were a child. "You're too clever."

His eyebrows narrowed suspiciously. "Alright, now I know you're hiding something from me."

"So what if I am?" she shrugged.

He gave her that look, and that disobedient piece of dark hair flashed into his forehead, giving him an even more deviant disposition. Her heart flutter-thumped in a way that was achingly reminiscent of the time she jumped from a moving train.

"We're married now." He said it like a warning. "We're supposed to tell each other everything."

"Smeshnoy."

She shrieked when he suddenly grabbed her and tried to pull her down next to him. She managed to pull away, giggling like a lovedrunk fool, her laughter fading in a careless echo along the empty street. The quick shift in balance left her feeling dizzy and lightheaded, and she started to panic as her vision faltered.

Thinking fast, she clasped the railing with all her might and righted herself, trying to pull off the appearance that she was only catching her breath. For his sake, she had to make it go away. She didn't want him to worry.

Nausea overpowered her thoughts for a brief second or two, and she leaned over the edge of the railing just in case.

She heard her husband's laughter in the distance. "What are you doing?"

Unable to speak, she ignored him and hoped he wouldn't think anything of it. Instead she tried to focus on the beauty of the water below, tried to soothe herself by listening to its calming rhythm.

Suddenly his voice was right behind her and his hand was on her shoulder. "Anya? Are you okay?"

She jumped slightly but didn't turn around. Still facing the water, she nodded and said shakily. "Just felt a little sick."

He clicked his tongue. "I'm not surprised. After all you just gorged yourself on foie gras."

"Shut up."

He chuckled and took her waist in his hands. Less than gracefully, they stumbled back into the street together. This time he walked with his arm around her, and she felt much better.

"It's freezing out here," she muttered, rubbing her arms with her hands.

"I'll light a fire when we get home." The heat of his promise clouded the cold air as he spoke.

"Or you could light a fire here," she murmured, gesturing to her lips as she looked beseechingly up at him.

He stopped walking to stare down at her, his eyes lit by a familiar flame that was both lovingly unorthodox and scandalously honest.

"Alright."

His word of consent melted between their mouths, turning into a low hum of gratification. It took a moment for her to think — it had been a while since they'd kissed like this. This was the kind of kiss she remembered from their first days as a couple. The kind of kiss that made her feel warm and powerless, and left her shaking like wisteria in the wind when it was over.

After a while she'd given up on forcing herself to despise him for making her feel that way. Although she had to admit he did still enrage her from time to time with the general skill of his tongue.

She managed his name in the midst of it, and it set his heart pounding wildly. He pulled away, then he kissed her again. And again. Determined and quiet, every stroke filled with passion and purpose. His hands swept along her back, urging her closer — and every time she felt his hands there she remembered the way the little boy had pushed her out the servant's quarters. He had been just a child then, but a timely rush of adrenaline had blessed him with the strength of the man he would one day become...

As soon as his hands fell away from her back, she opened her eyes and found herself in present day Paris. He gently pulled away from the kiss and smiled — not infuriating, not smug, but kind and understanding — like an open door. She almost felt comfortable enough to tell him. It was so tempting. Everything seemed set ideally for such a reveal: the setting, the atmosphere, their mood. But she still couldn't bring herself to do it, and she didn't know why. Something was holding her back, making her doubt his reaction.

"Why don't you get us a cab?" she asked instead, knowing he would be unlikely to refuse.

-}0{-

Less than an hour later they were curled up on the sofa in front of the fireplace with the radiator humming an off-tune lullaby. They could have had a palace but instead they chose a townhouse. And although real-estate in Paris was charming on any street, Anya agreed that small rooms with motley décor were more comfortable than vast, glistening ballrooms.

As usual, he was first to fall asleep. He kicked off his shoes, loosened his necktie, and collapsed backward into the cushions, using his coat as a cover. He'd drifted off sometime while reciting a list of things he wanted to do in the morning, none of which involved normal daily chores.

Once he'd started to snore, Anya fished through his coat pockets until she found the extra dinner mints she knew he'd taken. She unwrapped one greedily, hoping it would curb her ever growing appetite.

Feeling lazy, she tossed the wrapper on the ground and waited for Pooka to scamper in and attack it. When she heard him rolling around on the carpet, she reached blindly over the edge of the sofa and ruffled his fur.

He was so appreciative of just one simple gesture. Soon enough, the pup was fast asleep.

She hated being the only one in the room who had yet to succumb to sleep. It felt like a curse, really. She was so tired, but she just couldn't shake that feeling that she'd be missing something if she closed her eyes. She had to take it all in — every last detail — before she said her goodnights. Dimitri was first on her list.

His jawline was positively glowing in the firelight. This time he didn't look like a child, he looked like a grown man... Even if he didn't always act that way. She had to admit it was at least part of the reason why she loved him. Mostly she loved him because he was so much like her, yet so much her opposite.

As she threaded her fingers through his hair, he didn't stir at all. She smirked, thinking it was kind of nice that he was such a sound sleeper.

It gave her yet one more excuse not to wake him up and just tell him already.

-}0{-

She hated these kinds of mornings. The ones where she woke up feeling all disoriented because she'd slept somewhere other than her bed. It felt like she'd done nothing more than blink, and then she was awake.

Then again, four hours of sleep wasn't bad by her standards.

For some odd reason, this thought made her cry. Really hard. The kind of good, hard cry that demanded a handkerchief. It was actually quite embarrassing.

She fumbled around in her pockets for her pretty pink handkerchief — a gift from Sophie that had proven useless until this day. Anya never cried. Hell, she never even sniffled. It must have been the hormones.

She smacked herself in the cheek for good measure and extricated herself from the cushiony nest of a sofa. She stumbled into the bathroom, turned the faucets on so her husband wouldn't hear, and finished crying at herself in the mirror. It felt good to cry for a change. Even though it was early in the morning there was no sickness in the pit of her stomach, just sobs and tears that needed to escape.

Once the sobs and tears subsided, she saw her face in the mirror as a watery reflection. Her hair was a ravished mess on top of her head, and her face was pinker than Sophie's handkerchief. She looked like a child with a bad cold. Pretty pathetic.

She turned the faucets off and listened for him. Sure enough she heard him shuffling around in the bedroom. It was the only thing that motivated her to dry up and pull herself together.

When she got to the door she froze.

He was packing his clothes.

No, he was organizing his wardrobe.

She felt a blast of grand relief in her chest. To this day, she was still scared that he would leave her for no reason. It was a fear she'd probably never be able to shake, but that was okay. She used to blame it on her past, but the more she got to know of the world, the more she thought that maybe everyone felt that way once in a while.

She cleared her throat.

He looked over at her, and suddenly she was nervous. Really nervous, as if this were her first time approaching him.

He paused with his arms stretched out on either door of his armoire, peeking over his shoulder so his eyes barely met hers. He didn't look away because she hadn't said anything yet. She knew he wouldn't look away until she did.

"I need to talk to you about something."

His face changed entirely then, betraying every hidden thought with a gleam of quiet excitement in his eyes. "Yes?" he posed, hopeful and breathless. She wanted to faint.

"It's ... kind of serious," she admitted.

He dropped his arms and turned to face her fully then. She could see a wild shift in his expression at the very moment he noticed her puffy eyes and red nose.

"Have you been crying?" He said it like she'd committed a heinous crime.

That made her cry all over again.

She looked away, ashamed because the last time he'd seen her this way she was standing — storm-soaked and mid-nightmare — on the deck of the Tasha. And just as it had happened back then, he took her into his arms and hushed her in the way a new father might hush his child. His arms were strong enough to lift her slight frame off the floor, and that old shirt he was wearing had been so well-worn from washing that it slid under her cheek like silk.

"I'm sorry," he kept saying over and over. "I'm sorry. What did I say? Oh, Christ, what did I say?"

"It's nothing. You didn't do anything wrong," she sniffed, waving Sophie's handkerchief around like a flag of surrender. By accident she dropped it, and down it fell like a funny flat flower petal. The delicate square of pale pink lace looked hilariously incongruous lying on top of his dirty boots. She choked back another sob before it could break free.

"Let's go outside," he suggested. She was in no position to argue, so she let him push her out the door. They lowered themselves awkwardly to sit beside each other on the stoop.

The air was cool with a soft breeze, and it helped her settle down a bit. A typical sunrise in Paris was pale gold, like chardonnay. But this morning's sky was a vivid cherry red, reminding her of the old saying, "Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning."

After a minute or so Anya managed to finish another round of tears. When she looked up at her husband, he quickly muted his terror with concern.

"Are you sick?" He asked the question as if it were a bandage. Quick and harsh, so as to minimize the pain.

"No, no." She shook her head vigorously to prove a point.

She could tell he was relieved by this, but still bothered by her secrecy.

"So... something else is serious?"

"Yes."

"Oh, no."

She hiccupped in shock. "Huh?"

His face was grave in a purely comical way. "This is that something you've avoided telling me for a long time, isn't it?"

"Well, yeah." She even smiled a little because it made her proud that she'd managed to keep it secret for this long.

"Okay, so let's have it." He folded his hands and rested his elbows on his knees and leaned intently towards her.

One moment she had it together, and then suddenly she was all flustered by the way his eyes were twinkling as he stared at her.

For God's sake, why was he so hard to talk to?

"Hold on now, it's not just something I can blurt out! I wanted to set aside a special time to tell you for a reason, you know!"

"And I respect that, but you can't just expect to collapse into me crying and then convince me that everything's fine."

She stayed silent, afraid of giving something away.

"Everything ... is fine," he emphasized, searching her gaze for signs she was fibbing. "Isn't it?"

She looked to the side. "I'm not quite sure yet."

"What does that mean?"

Her temper flared like a Roman candle. She threw her arms in the air and shot to her feet, standing over him. "Argh! I can't explain it just like that—"

He pushed a hand through his hair, which made it even more messy and infuriating. "Anya, you're the one who wanted to talk, now are you gonna talk to me or not?"

"Okay, okay, okay! Just sit down."

"I am sitting down."

Her gaze shifted to the promising brick wall behind him. "Maybe you should lean against something just in case."

He blinked up at her. "Now you're really scaring me."

"Just listen, alright?" She sucked in a deep breath and stared him square in the eye. "How would you feel about... moving?"

His mouth dropped open. "You want a bigger house? That's what this is all about?"

"No, no, I don't want a bigger house! I mean, a bigger house would be nice sometime in the future — maybe — but that's not the point! The point is... we need more... space."

"Space for...?"

"For the ... other member of our family."

His face twisted in amused confusion. "For Pooka?"

"God!"

His eyes widened in exaggerated surprise. "For God?"

"No! Shut up!"

He actually laughed. "Then what, Anya? What are you trying to say?"

"The baby! Your baby, Dimitri. You're going to be a father, dammit!"

And all the roses in Paris seemed to bloom at once on his cheeks.

"I'm... What?"

She watched as everything dawned on him with stolen breath. In the red sunrise, he looked even redder. Somehow he looked more handsome than she'd ever seen him looking before, and she hadn't had so much as a drop of alcohol in months.

"You heard me," she murmured solemnly, suddenly scared that he was upset by the revelation. "Say something."

His eyebrows furrowed in a cartoonish way, and he donned the expression of a silly lovesick man-child, staring helplessly up at her. "Weren't you the one who told me to shut up?"

She started crying again. "I didn't really mean it."

Through her tears she felt his hands grappling at her elbows, begging her to sit back down. "Are you really? Are we really...?" His eyes were brightening with unshed mist, deep brown shining like mahogany in the red sun.

She saw him again. The boy who opened the wall. It was a soul-clutching sight.

"Yes. And God help us, I don't know how we are going to do this." She forced herself to groan, because the more they talked about it, the more delighted she became.

He smiled as the tears glistened down his red cheeks and his unruly hair fluttered in the wind. He really had never looked more like his child-self. It was beautifully disturbing to think that this man was going to be a parent in just a few months.

"I guess at some point we have to grow up," he shrugged.

"I love you?" She didn't know why it came out as a question, but at least it made him laugh.

"Come here," he commanded, arms open. She happily accepted the invitation and curled up against him. The cold concrete against her bare legs was such a contrast to his warm body. "Why didn't you tell me before?" he asked.

"I didn't know if you wanted this. I mean, we never talked about it before." She shifted so she was staring up at his face, still cradled against his shoulder.

He opened his eyes, tears starring his lashes, slowly shook his head and whispered, "When you want something that badly, you don't dare talk about it."

"I never wanted children," she admitted.

He raised his eyebrows mildly, as if she'd said something as unimportant as 'I never liked coffee.' She loved him even more for not judging. "How do you feel about it now?" he asked curiously.

"I don't know. What do you think?"

Her innocent rebuttal made him look startled and shy. "I have no clue."

They both laughed very hard for a long time.

"This is a terrible idea. Just terrible." Anya gushed, still sore from laughter.

"I agree. A child from you and me? That's going to be a nightmare!" Dimitri exalted.

"Should we chance it?"

"We haven't got much of a choice now, do we?"

"Guess not."

They both accepted the oncoming silence with gratitude, recovering from their healthy bout of laughter. They stared out at the quiet street as if they were searching for symbolism in a painting, respecting each other's internal thoughts. Deep in their heads they were both envisioning a life beyond today and what it would entail, entertaining fantasies of raising some irrepressible little person.

"Everything's starting to make sense now," Dimitri finally sighed, privy to some profound realization which Anya was not.

She looked down, puzzled, to find his fingers slowly unbuttoning her flannel top from the bottom upwards. And even though they were outside, he didn't seem to remember or care.

"Really?" she asked, suspicious. "Nothing makes sense to me right now."

He laughed again, but this time it was different — low and sweet, and inebriated with contentment. As he kissed the top of her head, she noticed that now her belly was exposed, at least four buttons up.

"I'm so surprised," she blurted.

"About what?" He dropped his hand suddenly so his hot fingers fell upon her white stomach, like fire tinder on snow.

She shook her head in disbelief. "I thought you'd be furious."

"Furious? I'm thrilled." His voice was soft, passionate and honest. He was thrilled. Her pulse insisted on racing at that bit of news.

"What about this nightmare baby you put in my belly?" She feigned anger, just to keep him on his toes.

He chuckled in a way that was wickedly proud, yet full of affection. "I can't wait to meet him."

"Oh, you're so sure it's a boy?"

He grinned while watching his own fingers circle her bellybutton, as if entranced. "Of course. Only a boy would get you this emotional."

"I am being emotional, aren't I?"

"Just a little."

He should have kissed her then, but she beat him to it. She could feel a thousand sensations rising up inside her heart, none of which she'd ever felt in full before. It was as if her entire life up to this point had been a backstory in preparation for the real story yet to come.

She held his hand against their unborn child as she kissed him, and the connection was overwhelming, adding an entire new dimension to this idea of unconditional love. He may not have realized it, but he still opened walls for her.

Moments later, he broke the kiss in a frenzy.

"What do you think Sophie's reaction will be to all this?" Dimitri asked, exhilarated and apprehensive at once.

Anya quirked an eyebrow in challenge. "Want to find out together?"

"Let's wait 'til tomorrow," he laughed, kissing the tip of her nose. "I think I've had enough excitement for one day."

"Vlad, then?"

"You're joking, right?"

fin