#goldpieces

When they reach her door, Dmitry ducks down to kiss her, only to remember a delayed moment later they don’t do that. Or aren’t supposed to. Or aren’t yet. He’s not certain what the rules are here in this new city. He maneuvers and ends up kissing the tip of her nose instead. 

“Good night,” he says. 

She tilts her head up and it’s a series of past moments all in one space. He thinks of all their near kisses from a lifetime before. And all the repeating and rhyming history they have. And how he’d live a hundred lifetimes of repeating the cycle of falling in love with this woman and be content. 

Anya tugs on his sleeve, “Stay with me tonight?”

They were tipsy and hazy and it’s hard to keep barriers up in these states. 

“Don’t think it’s a good idea,” because Dmitry is trying hard these days to not give into bad ones. 

It’s like a series of tests they’ve been putting themselves through before allowing the unnamed inevitable to take over. 

“You’ve spent the night before,” she reminds him. “I don’t like waking up hungover in a strange city.”

“You’ve lived here for a month,” he reminds her but makes no move to leave. “Shouldn’t be so strange anymore.” 

“Fine,” she sighs. “I just need to wake up to the smell of lemon herb salmon toast and can’t wait the time it would take to drag myself over to your apartment.”

Dmitry laughs, “Do you even have the ingredients for such a thing here?”

She nods, playing with the edge of his father’s coat. “Bought them all myself.”

“I see,” he says, taking the keys from her hand to open her door. “This was premeditated.” 

“Knew we’d get drunk together sooner or later,” she says, holding onto the back of his coat to follow him into her apartment. “Wanted to be prepared.” 

Dmitry shrugs off his coat as she pushes off her heels. It’s an updated version of an old routine of theirs from back when they were married. 

Some habits were unbreakable when they were together. 

He drops down onto her couch. Dedicated to sticking to their lines in any way he could. 

Anya looks ready to say something but instead yawns, and drops a kiss on his forehead. 

“Night Dima.” 

“Night Anyok,” he returns, squeezing her hand before she slips away. 

Dmitry awakes to find her tucked between the back of the sofa and him, her face hidden against his chest, his hand already in her hair. 

He slides off the sofa, trying not to disturb her as he gets up. He pads out to the kitchen and opens the fridge to find a drawer labeled with his name on it. 

“What for?” He asks, slipping off his shoes and jacket. “Scooch over.” 

Anya sits up and slides over a spot as he sits down on the bed and lays down. “Don’t remember.” She lays back down, resting her head on his chest “Where you been?”

“Had a date,” he answers, his arm wrapping around her shoulder. 

Her heart gives an odd beat, and she turns her head to sniff his shirt. Instead of the normal, comforting lemongrass scent, it’s overpowered by the scent of rose. “She smells like she’s bad in bed.” 

Dmitry gives a snort, “Wouldn’t know.” 

She never thinks too much about Dmitry’s love life, never asks too much of it. 

So it’s with force she asks, “It didn’t go well?” 

“Went fine,” he says, his hands thread through her hair. “Spending the night?”

Anya’s nose tickles from the scent on his shirt, and it’s giving her a headache. 

“I should go home,” she says, sitting up. He wraps his arms around her and pulls her back down. “Mitya!” 

“You’ve never said those words to me before,” Dmitry tells her, kissing her on the cheek. “I should go home? Who are you.” 

“I go home!” She protests, as he tickles her sides. “I go home all the time.” 

She manages to free her hands to pinch his neck. 

“Foul,” he tells her, and she uses it to flip him over and capture his hands with her own. “I let you do that.” 

Anya knows, but squeezes his hands in retaliation. “Just admit my superiority, Sudayev.”

“That wasn’t ever in question,” he tells her, and pulls his hands free. And presses his palm against her cheek and her heart gives another weird tug. 

“Okay,” she sighs, “I’m staying but change your shirt, I think I’m allergic to that girl’s perfume.” 

Dmitry reaches down and pulls his shirt off, “Better?” 

Anya’s tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth so she nods. She clears her throat, “Show off.” 

“Well,” he places his hands on her hips and moves her off of him. “If you want me to put on a different shirt, you’re going to have to move.” 

Oh, yeah. 

Dmitry sits up and pulls a fresh shirt out of his drawer, pulling it over his head and laying back down. “Better?” 

Anya tucks herself back against his side, “Eh, it’ll do.” 

He kisses her forehead, “Night, Anyok.” 

Marfa has been biting down on his leather belt he had given her earlier, but now she spits it out, and it bounces off his forehead. “Don’t be a dick, Mityok.” 

He glances up at her, those stupid strands of dark hair obstructing his hazel eyes. Definitely more brown than green in the current dim lighting. 

His face holds a smirk but he doesn’t say anything more. That annoys her more, the way he holds back when she’s on the edge. That he can recognize that about her. 

She’s gotten into this business because of her ability to be unknowable. Marfa hates his ability to tear down that facade. 

“You’re good at this,” she says, mostly to get out of her own thoughts. 

Dmitry’s tongue has slipped out, the top of it pressed between his teeth. He finishes sewing her up, but his hand remains on her forearm. “My father taught me.” 

Marfa can only imagine the circumstances that could lead to that. 

“Ah moments you can pass down too your own children one day.” 

He snorts, handing her a flask of vodka. The make do painkiller of the trade. “In another life, perhaps.”

They’re more likely to die in the nine months it takes to grow a child than they are to grow old and raise children. 

Another I told you so from the universe. 

She twists his shirt in her hand and pulls him in for a kiss. 

There’s a loud popping noise above her head, and Dmitry looks up, his chin above the top of her head, his arm hovering above her back. 

She’d call in protective, if she were familiar with such gestures. 

“We should go,” he says, his voice low. 

“You just want to see where that kiss leads,” she manages to tease, taking a gulp from the flask before tucking it into the waistband of her jeans. 

Dmitry helps pull her up, careful with the freshly stitched wound on her arm.

He flashes a smile at her, all charm and dimples, “Always.” 

Instead of allowing him to let go of her hand, she tightens her grip on it. He doesn’t lose a step in response. 

They manage to get back out to the grimy Moscow street. The street light closest to them is out. 

“We should retreat for the night,” she sighs, as they stick to the shadows. 

Dmitry squeezes her hand lightly, “You should probably clean that better.” 

There’s going to be a scar, no matter what. It’s a hastily made stitching in the dark. Should probably avoid infection at least.

“I don’t have a first aid kit.” 

He doesn’t call her on the lie. “You can come back to my place.”