Author's note: From « But Let It Go, And You Learn » arc directly, you need only have read that story to understand this.

I apparently started this fic in December. It's slow writing, trying to get it to intersect with the original fic, picking history to work in, trying to get Anya from where she was when she left home to who she becomes when she was reunites with her parents, all without seeming like it. But I figured for Francis's birthday I'd start posting it. I hope you enjoy.

Аня: and I, a thousand less one

"May you live a thousand years,
and I, a thousand less one day;
that I might never know
the world without you."
-Hungarian proverb

1980.

"I love you Anya!" Her mother's voice, broken, defeated, rings in her ears as she stands on the edge of the platform. "I love you Anya!" her mind screams over and over. "I love you Anya!" Oh God, what if that is the last thing her mother ever says to her? The last time her father ever sees her?

Already it consumes her.

"Miss Braginski?" a French voice asks in quiet Russian behind her after what feels like an eternity. Startled Anya blinks, realizing she's been staring since the train left. Clouds have darkened, large rain drops beginning to fall.

Turning, Anya takes in the man who will now be her protector. After she had learned the truth, little time in her father's house to digest it all fully, Anya had demanded pictures. Her father had shown her portraits stashed away somewhere, of people he was suppose to have forgotten. There were hidden photos of sweet little girls in the old train car and Anya could see that the happiness her father had had on his face looking at them was the same happiness he had in photos where he held his young daughter. And her mother, she had taken Anya aside with her uncle Gilbert, shown her three old and worn photos her uncle hadn't known she'd had. Her mother had explained each one carefully.

The first had been from her mother's wedding day. It had offered up Anya's first chance to take in the man her mother had for so long called husband, the one with the name no one said. Their bodies were stiff, his face in an almost-frown, but her mother had looked happy. She had told Anya she had been, that she had loved Roderich Edelstein so much back then. But the girl knew who had taken his place in her mother's heart, a man she very much preferred to the cold Austrian.

The second had been a snapshot from before the wars, a small blond boy between her mother and uncle. His eyes were blue, though the photo was not in color. Anya had heard of him, so many stories, her uncle's brother, her mother's little boy. They had loved Ludwig, spoke of him more than they ever had that Edelstein. She could almost imagine this Ludwig was the brother she'd never had.

But the last one, the third photograph, had featured all of them. From the way they spoke of each other Anya knew the four nations had been close, the ones once called Germany and Austria and Prussia and Hungary. Their military uniforms were neat and decorated and made them look so young, so hopeful for the outcome of that war.

Her mother had cried looking at them, Uncle Gil letting a few tears go too. Yet Anya knows she cannot meet the other two men; her father had told her it would not be possible. Which leaves her taking in the French nation, Francis Bonnefoy. She's still not sure why he is the one she will be living with, though she does suppose there weren't many options. Now that she knows the six-month old truth of who her parents are, it all seems to make more sense: the private lessons, the visitors from Moscow, the many multinational people living in her house, never aging. Her father is a monster, though she cannot reconcile the image of the Soviet Union taking others prisoner with the large man who used to scoop her up in his arms, spinning her around and lavishing her with sweet kisses, the most loving and greatest man she had ever known.

"Do not cry," the Frenchman whispers, and it startles Anya to think such a simple thought had brought her to tears. "Please, Anastasiya," and his voice is calm though a little nervous, as if this Bonnefoy is as unprepared for what he is about to do as Anya is. "This will be difficult for you, I have no doubt, but I will do everything in my power to ease the pain. Only do not cry; you are too pretty for tears, and I do not have the strength to watch them fall." One hand reaches out to brush away a tear, and Anya does nothing to stop him.

His hair is long, blond, curtaining his face. There is a small beard on his chin, blue eyes shining down on her. He looks kindly, just as he did in the most recent photograph her father could find of him. Among the Allies the Frenchman had looked the most approachable, smiling between her father and another unknown nation. They had seemed almost friends in the photo.

"I am sorry," Anya whispers dutifully, dropping her head.

"There is nothing to apologize for. Come now my dear," and one hand gently slips into Anya's, pulling her forward. "We have a short car ride to a different station, and from there we shall take the train back to Paris."

With a glance back over her shoulder, Anya takes a deep breath. So this is it?

"Do not worry," the man assures her as they begin to walk towards Anya's new life. "I have a baguette, and you have I, and soon enough you will be reunited with your parents, I am sure."

In her sorrow she can almost believe him.

When they step out of the car two men in straight suits are waiting for them. Their faces are blank, cold; it frightens her. "Never let your fear show," Francis whispers in her ear, a thin arm coming around her shoulders as he raises his head proudly. One of the men leads, the other following, and Anya finds herself in a small office just off the main hall of the second train station.

She's quiet as the men talk in rapid French. She catches words here and there, missing most of it. They're speaking too quickly and she's too tired to care, her arms wrapped about her waist. In her misery and the cold wind she shivers.

A jacket is placed on her shoulders and, startled, Anya looks up to see Francis sit beside her, his arm once again coming to rest on her shoulders. He smiles brightly, a grin that's lopsided and handsome. The Frenchman winks.

One of the officials says something to Francis who shrugs, thinking for a moment before turning to Anya. "They wish," he says in slow Russian, "to change your name. For your new passport."

"Why?"

His eyebrows rise in amusement, but Anya is stubborn. "One need only know the basics of Russian to know who the father of Miss Anastasiya Ivanovna Braginski is."

"I don't care," she states flatly, her eyes falling to her knees. "My father gave me that name and I am not ashamed of him."

"This is neither about honor nor shame; it is about your safety."

"It's a point of honor to me."

The hand on her shoulder gives her a squeeze before the man says something in French that seems to upset the officials. But in the end she's handed papers that say her name in the Latin alphabet, though they do tell her that they cannot list her actual place of birth. When Francis asks if there is somewhere else she would like listed, seemingly a bit weary of what response she might give, Anya doesn't hesitate in answering.

"Budapest."

"You are very loyal to your father," Francis observes as the train pulls away from the station. "Not many are."

"My father is the greatest man alive," Anya responds simply, her gaze drifting out the window. The small town falls away, the train picking up speed as it heads in the opposite direction of her family, from the east to the west.

The French nation chuckles. "You are very much your parents' child."

Paris is overwhelming to say the least. Anya had never left her hometown before the trip, and now she's in Paris, the greatest city on earth. It's loud and fast and bright and dirty and it scares her, her body shaking and tears falling as Francis's arms envelope her. "Shh," he whispers in her hair as the car pulls up. "It's ok Anastasiya, it's going to be ok."

By the time they arrive at Francis's house Anya has only enough energy to collapse on her bed. She sleeps for over a day.

"Please, Anastasiya, open the door." He's been there for hours, pleading quietly to come in. But Anya already hates it here, wants to leave and go back to the Soviet Union and her mother's loving arm. She hasn't come out of her room for six days now, the door locked except for when food is left outside. The maid tried the first day to tempt her out but Francis had told her to leave the food for Anya. She eats in the large bathtub, her connected bathroom the only place she can escape the sunlight that streams through her windows. "Please, Anastasiya."

All the young Russian can do is hold her legs to her chest, rocking back and forth and squeezing her eyes shut, picturing a field of sunflowers and her happy parents. Even if she'd wanted to respond her voice is too hoarse from crying.

There's the gentle thud as, she imagines, his head is placed against the door. "Oh God, Anastasiya, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Forgive me God, I'm sorry Anastasiya." The tears only come faster as she listens to the man cry too.

By the time she's spent ten days in the room she's already filled one journal with letters all addressed to her mother, letters she'll never send but that she holds on to in the hope that she will one day. The Hungarian is sloppy, words misspelled, mixed with German and French and Russian. Just like her mother used to love.

Her clothes are everywhere, the linens on her bed pulled to the floor. There's a large Soviet flag she managed to smuggle out pinned to the wall, not because she believes in it but because it is her father's flag and Anya is fiercely proud of him. She doesn't care what's happened, her parents are in love and Anya will always defend their honor.

She never could have imagined she'd miss home this much.

After two weeks Francis resumes going to work. He tells her every morning when he leaves, speaking through the door his schedule for the day. Sometimes he slips clippings from the newspaper under the door; the articles are never serious, always small things about a fashion show or the most recent popular song. She watches him out the window, the way he always turns back to look up at her window. Anya ducks away at that, not wanting to be seen, but she still feels compelled to watch him sigh and walk away, defeated the way she feels defeated.

She sneaks out of her room today; the maid's only ever in on Mondays and Thursdays. Each room she finds she explores, trying to leave everything just as it had been. There's several spare guest rooms, some stately, some more homey, one sporting a Union Jack motif. Anya finds Francis's study, which is neat but messy at the same time in the way her father's office always was. The walls are almost the same shade yellow, a tumbler sitting on the desk just the way her father's desk was always set, a chair slightly ajar like the chair her mother would sit in.

There's a library packed with books and Anya gets the impression that maybe Francis is more like her father than she'd thought, looking through the tomes. They're alphabetical, divided by language as they encircle the room: most are in French, some in English and German, others in Latin and older languages she cannot place. A large panel is entirely in Russian, and when Anya pulls down that book she loves the most the cover falls open to reveal a message from her father inside.

"Francis- This is, without a doubt, my favorite novel. I think you will appreciate in it the same things I did, for have we not both known our own Anna Karenina? And have we not both lived such lives and such lies? -Ivan, 1878"

Under it, in the most beautiful French she has ever seen, her father had translated the opening line:

« Toutes les familles heureuses se ressemblent les familles malheureuses le sont chacune à leur façon. » Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.

Anya takes the book with her back to her room without hesitation. Having securely hid it she returns to search the rest of the house, the few rooms left. Francis's private bedroom is the easiest to identify, paintings of beautiful men and women lining the walls, plush carpets and soft bedding. There's a lavish fireplace, its mantle covered in photographs, its tiles painstakingly placed to form a swirling collection of flags with colors that bleed together; the French flag is between the British flag and the old Russian flag of the tsar.

The room that catches her attention, drawing her in even more than the library, is a dance studio in the back of the house. Large windows let light filter in, the floor worn but the mirrors clean. Stepping out of her shoes the Russian feels a weight leave her shoulders, spinning in the center of the space as if she belongs.

Ballet was always her favorite part of the week; for as long as she can remember Anya has danced. Her mother used to help her, and as she grew older they would dance together, critiquing each other. Her father, though not built for ballet, would join her when she was a child in dances that always ended in Anya being swept up in his strong arms, kisses littering their faces. She had wanted that trip to the ballet with him so badly, memorizing the music for months beforehand so that she could make him proud.

For hours she dances, the music in her head, imagining she's back at home in the small studio. She can see her mother smiling, can hear her father whispering, "That's my daughter." Anya hears her Uncle Gil's laugh, hears the applause from her Aunt Irina while the Baltic men watch from the door, Feliks pushing Toris aside to take his place to see. She used to bow after her performances, everyone standing to applaud her. Anya had thought that that was a loving home, a happy family. It had simply been unhappy in its own way apparently.

For weeks she repeats the cycle: when Francis leaves she sneaks out to dance ballet, returning to her room before he returns home, where she reads from whatever book she's snuck out of the library that her father had sent Francis many years ago. Only on days where the maid visits does she stay in her room, or sneak into the library to peak at the portfolios on the bottom shelves. Letters, each one contains dozens of letters and each one contains them from different countries: an Arthur Kirkland and Alfred Jones, who must be English-speaking nations; someone named Mathieu who writes in French; a Berwald with very sharp, elegant letters; Feliciano, who she thinks might be Italian, and Antonio, who could be Spanish; seven portfolios from her father, in a mixture of Russian and French; and one portfolio in the hand that taught Anya to write.

The dates between the letters have big gaps of time, and Anya can seemingly find no rhyme or reason to when or why her mother sent Francis letters, doesn't know enough of the history to put all the years together: 1763, 1794, 1848, 1867, then dozens upon dozens from 1917 on. The one from the 1930's and 1940's are shorter, seemingly in code, ending suddenly in 1945 with one she wishes she'd never read:

"Please, Francis, I'm begging you, talk to him! You know what the Red Army is capable of, tell Braginski to stop what Russia is about to do to Hungary or I will stop him myself with a bullet, my women don't deserve being treated like this! I'm begging you, don't let them do this to us, don't let him do this to me! I don't want to be his prisoner Francis, I hate him and he hates me and one of us will die. Please, Ferkó, save me!"

Anya cries all night, forsaking the book from her father.

A few days later she's dancing in the studio again, the sun shining through the window. She's getting hungry; maybe she'll sneak downstairs and get something to eat for lunch when she's finished this routine.

Spinning, turning her head quickly to keep from getting dizzy, Anya barely registers that the door is open now. "Bravo!" a familiar voice says, and she almost trips in surprise. Strong arms catch her, Anya's back making contact with Francis's chest as his arms encircle her, holding her upright. "Just like your father," the Frenchman chuckles, "lost in the ballet."

Instinctively she pushes away from him, falling to the floor. Her knees slam into the hard ground, Francis staying still behind her. Anya breathes deeply, trying to calm her heart, before she rolls over to look at him. His blue eyes look sad, that same defeat she feels in her heart and her father had tried to hide from her: it's like she's looking at his soul.

"Anastasiya," he sighs gracefully, trying to smile, but his mouth does it all wrong and he still looks pitiful.

And that breaks something in Anya, something that had been holding her back. She knows they picked Francis for a reason, she knows that despite the Frenchman having never been mentioned by name before to her, that her parents both trust him. That her father used to send him letters for years, books, old photographs, from as far back as the library's records go until 1948. That her mother would reach out to him at times of need, that between the wars she wrote more and more to him, that she begged him to stop some great impending catastrophe her father's nation was about to unleash on her people, to stop her from becoming his prisoner as she is now. That they trust him and that Anya should trusts him too because there are so many things they never said because they never could, and Francis is trying his best.

She stutters over the sound, her voice unused for so many days. Coughing Anya finally manages, "Francis?" in a weak voice, her eyes dropped to the ground again because she doesn't think she can look in those deep blue eyes any longer.

"Yes Anastasiya?"

"Wou-" There's a lump in her throat but she pushes through. Her parents have gone through unspeakable things; she can do this. "Would you like to dance with me?"

Silence gives way to a light chuckle, a hand being held out before her. Anya takes it, rising with Francis's help, and without speaking a word she lets herself be guided.

It's a French dance, one that she's seen but never danced herself before. The man guides her and Anya thinks it's nice to have a partner who is neither her too-tall, too-clumsy father that she adores, nor a famous ballerina. She had liked when the ballerinas would visit, traveling through, stopping at the dance studio in town and waiting for her father to come out to visit them. Having never gone to a real school, always going into town with her protective father, Anya knows she is sheltered and has an unrealistic view of men.

But with Francis it's real, the man shorter than her father and thus closer to her height, fuller in his figure than the ballerinas were. He twirls her, holds her, catches her, until they finish the dance, bowing to each other.

Then Francis pulls her into a hug, and Anya buries her face in his chest and cries the last of her tears.

She's no doubt it's the best school in Paris that money can buy. Francis has the driver drive them there together, and Anya is so convinced everyone will hate her for that until they arrive at the school and see all the other drivers dropping off students. In their uniforms the teenagers move with ease, calling out to each other; they've all gone to school for years. For Anya this is Day One.

He walks her in, an arm around her waist. Two months they'd spent bonding so far; had it really only been that long? She'd left Hungary in June; it was now September. A month wasted in self-pity, then two months spent in pleasure.

Anya's grateful Francis is the one her parents picked. He's funny, Anya's discovered, with a sense of humor that she imagines her father's always appreciated and her mother used to roll her eyes at. And he's calm when it comes to various languages, pausing before speaking, his words clear, perfected. Their new schedule involves them having breakfast together, Francis making the food, Anya making the tea the way Irina taught her, Russian-style. Before leaving for work Francis would leave things for Anya to do: books to work through, to make sure she was ready for school; French literature to read so that she can discuss something beyond Russian tomes; TV shows to watch, with snippets of information about what has happened west of the Iron Curtain since 1945; and catalogs to pick things from. Some of them are for performances, upcoming ballets and operas, others for clothing, furniture for her bedroom: personal things for this new home they're making together.

She's learned a lot about herself that way, spending Francis's money. She likes trashy Swedish pop, for instance, and The Beatles. Though she doesn't exactly understand avant garde French fashion, Anya does like scarves and tight pants in fun colors, but also pencil skirts and cardigans and old fashion clothing that makes Francis laugh that she looks like an old man in her suspenders and bow tie. And she likes Chinese food and Mars Bars and watching American news and Monty Python.

By the time they're walking down the hallway of her first school, Anya has learned so much about herself, about Francis, about the world. Her French is faster now and she's grateful for that, because she has no trouble when they sit down with the director of the school, an older-looking headmaster with graying hair and a funny mustache. She can handle this.

In her first class Anya sits one row in from the window, three rows back from the front. It's a non-assuming seat in a non-assuming course, European History in the 19th Century, something she's been working on with Francis so that she wouldn't have to struggle through the material. She knows about Sweden losing Finland to Russia and taking Norway from Denmark. She knows about the Napoleonic Wars, about her mother marrying, about the Industrial Revolution. She can handle this.

No one talks to her, everyone ignoring her as they filter in. One boy does smile as he walks by, sitting behind her, but Anya's starting to feel a little less optimistic about this than before. She only has to make it to the end of the day, she reminds herself, when the driver will pick her up and take her to Francis's office. And making friends takes time, and Anya's never done it before, but Francis has assured her that she'll be fine. His secretary likes her, and so does the young man who brings him coffee, and the two old men who work the security desk. She can handle this.

When class starts the teacher calls roll, skipping Anya, though she does nod once towards the Russian. Finished she makes her announcement.

"Everyone, we have a new student this year. Why don't you stand and introduce yourself to us Miss?"

She tries her best to be graceful, fixing the skirt of her uniform. "Um, hello everyone," she says in the sort of French she's been mimicking from Francis.

"Why don't you tell us your name and…." The teacher's voice trails off as she looks at her notes before saying, "and what you're enjoying the most about Paris?" She was going to say, "where you're from," Anya knows, but she caught herself. Francis had made sure it would be a non-issue.

"Ok. My name is Anastasiya Braginski and I think for what I'm enjoying the most-" She lets a pause come before she starts to voice her answer, but in that moment a boy from the back yells something that makes the class laugh.

Immediately her face burns. She can handle this, she can handle this.

"Excuse me," the teacher starts, annoyed, and immediately her stern side comes out. "What did you just say?"

"I said," the boy starts, leaning forward in his desk as his eyes move from the teacher to Anya, a sound to his voice that sets her on edge, "why doesn't the commie go back to her Soviet bastard family? Or is family outlawed there too, you little freak? Go back to Stalin-land, whore!"

Laughter, everywhere. The boy keeps going, his voice becoming more and more like a child's whine as he mocks her, the teacher moving to stand before him, but now the other students are shouting things too.

And like that Anya decides she's done, throwing the few things she had placed on her desk back in her bag and grabbing her coat. There's resistance as she tries to pull it up and she realizes it's because she's slammed the back of her chair into the boy behind her's desk. She barely registers that he's not saying anything, just staring at her in shock, so she tells him to go fuck himself in Hungarian and flees the room.

"Hello?" Francis answers immediately, because she'd called him directly.

Anya's only response is to break down and cry even harder.

"Anastasiya what happened?" He's gone into panic mode, she can tell over the phone. There are still a lot of things she doesn't understand about Francis, like why he brings so many women (and men) home for sex, or why he spends so much time cooking when he works such long hours. But she had known he would respond if she called him, that he would drop everything for her, and right now the pain is all too much to care about the rest of the world.

Anya isn't even that aware of what she's crying into the receiver, a weird mixture of French and Russian with Hungarian and German swears, about how they all hate her for being from the Soviet Union and how she hates school and why can't she just go home to Mama and Papa, please?

"Give me," and there's the sound of papers being shuffled, drawers thrown open and closed. Anya can hear Francis snapping his fingers, the secretary in the background saying something in reaction to seeing his panic. "Give me ten minutes Anya, twenty tops, and I'll come get you. Where are you?"

"At the phone… across the street… from school…," she manages, hiccuping.

"Stay there!" Francis orders her. "Stay right there and I'll come get you. Those mother fuckers!" he yells and that makes her laugh a little because he normally tries so hard not curse in front of her, and clearly that last bit had been said after he'd thought he'd hung up the phone already. She feels delirious.

There's massive amounts of traffic and so Anya forgives Francis when he doesn't get there in ten minutes; she's very much aware that forty minutes is more accurate, depending on how crazy of a driver he is today.

She's swinging her legs on the bench, her face buried in her bag held tightly to her chest, when someone sits beside her. "Hello," a boy says cheerfully, "I hope you are feeling better." She scoots away from him before realizing he'd spoken in Hungarian. At that her head snaps up, looking at him. Blinking Anya registers that this was the boy who'd sat behind her, that smiled when he came in and that she cursed at in Hungarian on the way out.

Hungarian.

"You speak Hungarian." It's a demand more than anything else; she learned speaking like that from her father.

"Not that well," he concedes. "My mother is Hungarian, but my father is German and so we speak German at home."

Anya nods. "We used to speak Russian at home. My mother said Hungarian was for special occasions only." That makes the boy laugh.

"I'm Raphael, by the way," the boys says, extending a hand for her to shake. "Raphael Viktor Simon. You're Anastasiya, right?"

Taking his hand Anya shakes it once firmly before drawing her hand back immediately and holding her bag tight. She nods to Raphael, her mind whirling with questions as to why he's here instead of in the classroom, why he'd smiled at her, why he didn't taunt her even after she cursed him out.

"What's your patronym?" Raphael asks. That throws her for a second, because she knows the French often use patronyme to mean nom de famille, surname. So she shakes her head and Raphael squints, trying to think of a better way to ask his question. "A- a- hell, what's it called in Russian? I know this," he says, slapping one hand against his forehead. "I know this, I know this- ah! О́тчество!" he blurts out, and Anya gets it.

"Oh, my patronym!"

"Yeah," he says, his face blank, "that's what I said." And his face is so funny that Anya cannot help but laugh despite the misery she had felt in the classroom and the pity she's been wallowing in waiting for Francis to come get her.

"Sorry," she chuckles because he looks so irritated and right now she needs a friend, "my French is not yet perfect. Ivanovna. Anastasiya Ivanovna Braginski."

"Which means," Raphael starts, "that you're father is Ivan Braginski, right?"

Francis had said you only needed basic Russian to figure out who her father was. "Yeah," Anya says, getting defensive. "What about it?"

"Good Russian name, Ivan," Raphael states, this time it his turn to laugh. "Sorry, I find Russia fascinating. My parents had to leave Budapest after 1956-"

"The Revolution," Anya interrupts. Her mother had refused to tell her what had happened when the Hungarians rebelled; it had been her father to say how they'd tried to beat her, tried to make him hurt her, but that he'd stopped them. There had been a pride there she couldn't quite believe but Uncle Gil had confirmed his words and that gave Anya at least something to be proud of.

"Yeah, I'm sure that's… different, on the other side of the divide," Raphael says slowly. Anya can only nod, watching her feet swing. "So... my parents came to Paris and now we live here! What about your parents?"

"I was smuggled out alone," Anya admits as a blue car pulls up suddenly, Francis hoping out. Forgetting Raphael she runs into her protector's arms.

"I gave you good money on the promise that she would not be mocked!" Francis screams, standing with his hands on the director's desk. The man sits there, taking it. "You promised me she would be treated well and yet less than an hour later I'm getting a call with her crying that they've already called her foul things! You idiot! I'll take all my money and my ward back then!"

Anya sits, her head down, and lets Francis rail. It makes her feel better, to know he's so protective of her, just like how her father always was. She does not envy the director.

When he's finally done yelling after twenty-seven minutes, the French nation throws himself into his chair. "You know the truth," he whispers to the director, "and I trusted you with that. Always have."

"I know Francis," and the director speaks in such a familiar way Anya wasn't expecting. "And I am sorry Miss Braginski," he says directly to her. When she looks confused he smiles sadly. "I was in the military with Francis, during The Second War; I've met your father. I liked him," he shrugs, looking at Francis.

"Most people don't," the nation observes. Anya nods without thinking.

In the hallway they stop, Francis holding Anya close and whispering in her ear. "I picked here because I know the director, and I knew money could do the most to help you. But it was a high-hope of your parents' that this would be smooth. Perhaps it is best if I just get you more tutors, you are well ahead in your studies anyway-"

"I want to stay," Anya stays suddenly. Francis freezes, looking at her.

"Are you sure? You were very upset. You do not have to, for them."

"I know," she says, closing her eyes. "I know. But that's what happens when your parents are my parents and you're from behind the Iron Curtain, isn't it?"

"You are right, of course," he sighs, kissing her forehead. "But for today we have had enough excitement, and my secretary is very worried for you. Come come, I have some documents you can help me translate while we eat lunch."

On the way out Anya sees Raphael in the hall. He smiles, waving, and so Anya waves back.