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Author's Note: De-anon from Kinkmeme Minvade20.

This was my first minvade fill, and the big kick-off for it. I really like it, however, on a historical note, I deaged Anastasia somewhat. I've made her about six, so this would be 1907, either that or I had her born in 1911 or so. Fun research too.

Katka kotka kochka ko.

She has an amazing ability to turn up everywhere he can't expect her. Not doesn't expect; can't expect.

(He found her in the cellar, curled up on a pile of coal, muffled under soot. She's like a kitten, with her tiny matchstick legs tucked into her body. His entire mind is screaming for revolution; he's so full of blood, that the walls of his mind are painted red. But she is a child, and he pushed the coal chute back up. Speculatively considered her, and opened the door,)

Russia pulled a face - his childish features turned responsible with patience, frustration and ceaseless wonder. "Malenkaya," He said solemnly. "How did you get on top of the bookshelf?"

Anastasia inspected her messy toenails as they bob in the air; swinging her legs over the side. She was higher up than even Russia can reach. "I was scared, Vanya." Her wide eyes are cracked, and spilt with tears, and it never failed to scare him that out of the two of them she was more frightened, unhappy and lost. It makes him feel like he has to help her breathe.

(How far she wandered, is anybody's guess, but her little feet are blistered with snow, and Ivan plucked her up from the snow. "You'll lose your toes." and wide blue eyes stare at him as he tucks her feet up to warm against his side.)

"What were you scared of?" Russia asked slowly, raising his arms above his head as he did so and offering his strength to Anastasia. With a shake of strawberry blonde hair, she hopped into his arms; daintily like a small feline.

"I was scared of you."

(He brought her home, and cradled her because he had no idea what would be best. Only that he cannot let her die. She was raised fairly; she slept on hard wood cots, and took cold baths, and tidied her own room. She is named to celebrate forgiveness for what Russia stood for in Moscow the previous Winter. She cannot be the price of whatever Russia wants - needs.)

Russia let her fold her legs against him, but Anastasia stuck one leg out, studying it. "Don't be frightened of me." He said finally.

The foot she has stuck out is malformed - her single claim to imperfection, Russia decided long ago.

(He set her down on his table edge, and dropped to his knees. Cupped both her feet in his large hands to warm them, and as sleep settled thick on her eyelashes like snow, he kissed the sole of her strange foot because she is one of his as much as anybody who took her family. One of his. In the corner of the room, the kettle began to squeal, and she accidentally socked him in the face with her deformed foot and he swore her nickname: Shvibzik.)

"But I am." Anastasia breathed, arms wrapped around Russia's neck - in love, or hate, hug or noose - and she strained to get closer to him. "I'm always so frightened of you." It's love.

And like a cat, she let him carry her back to her bedroom, and tuck her in, eyes disarming in the darkness. She has accepted him, because it is his one last claim to imperfection. Russia settled by her bed side, and pulled a single foot out, massaging the toes, and she wriggled away in protest. He told her off twice, and kissed the soles of her feet goodnight. Anastasia watched unhappily - almost pityingly - from her place on the pillow, hair fanning out around her slightly chubbier face. Russia realized, their eyes meeting, as he straightened her blanket, that he is just as scared as her.

And just like her, there is nothing he can do, but accept and live with it.

May your quills be ever sharp.