Okay, I know I said I was going to update Run to You. But if I'm being completely honest, I'm struggling a bit with it right now. I wrote this after seeing Anastasia on Broadway again in an attempt to help get things going, so I hope you guys enjoy this.

It was yet another sleepless night. Dmitry was used to it, of course, a leftover behavior from all the nights on the streets as a boy. He was no longer a boy, and he had no need to stay awake all night anymore. But he found the quiet and the stillness comforting. He could think about anything he wanted with no interruptions. He could wander the streets of whatever city they happened to be in at the time, though that didn't happen as often once they moved to a small town a few miles away from Paris.

It was for Anya's sake, really. They'd travelled for a few months, seeing the world and experiencing everything they hadn't been able to in Russia. But they both knew what she really desired was a place to call home. After years of wandering alone on both their parts, he could hardly blame her. They hadn't gotten married though, despite what her grandmother and Vlad must think. They weren't even engaged, officially. They'd decided to give "courting" a try.

Anya stirred in her bed and rolled over in her sleep. Her hair was fanned out on her pillow, and Dmitry had no doubt that it the morning it would be a tangled mess, as usual. A small voice in the back of his head nagged that it might be viewed as improper for him to be in her room while she slept. He ignored it. In sleep, she looked much younger and less troubled.

He sighed. He would never deserve her. Not Anastasia the lost, last Grand Duchess of all Russia, with her fancy balls and glittering gowns and blue blood. Not Anya, with her kindness and warmth and fiery temper that he hated being on the wrong side of. Not this woman in front of him, who was both of them and neither at the same time. He was not good enough for her, and he would never understand why she loved him.

He was a commoner. A street rat. A scrawny, damaged orphan nobody paid a second look. Over the years he'd lost count of how many times he'd been literally stepped on. And the unfortunate part was that his story wasn't uncommon in Lenin's Russia. Anya hadn't even escaped the same sad story, though she was a bit older than he had been when it happened. Not that it mattered much. Until recently it had been the only kind of life she remembered, and yet she still managed to handle it with much more grace than he could ever hope for.

He'd told her he was not her prince. She'd scoffed at him and said he was. He'd never buy that though. No one would. He was a prince of the gutter, and why would a Grand Duchess choose that?

He had tried to convince himself at first that it was because she didn't remember everything. Not yet, anyway. Dmitry couldn't count how many times they'd been told that the brain was a complicated thing, and that it might take years for all her memories to come back. There might even be some things that she never remembered at all. But she remembered enough. She had remembered quite a bit already, and she still had moments where she would freeze and he knew another memory had come back. With each one her identity became more and more blurred, until even she didn't know whether to call herself Anastasia or Anya.

Dmitry sighed again and moved to the window, bracing his hands on the sill. The still flatness of the countryside looked back. In the pitch black it looked dull to him, nothing like the views of St. Petersburg. He did not necessarily miss the city itself. Why would he, when it had only brought him hardship? But he did miss the sense of knowing where he belonged. In St. Petersburg he knew he was a conman who lived day to day and did his best to get by. He lied, cheated, and stole, making his living off of forging papers. And he had been good at it. In France it was much more complicated than that.

He could not give her the life she should have had. He had no fortune or jewels to offer her, and what he did own was usually stolen or bought with dirty money. That was not the kind of life Anastasia Romanov should be living. Even now that he'd turned himself around, all he could offer her was what little he earned for work. If pride would let them, he was sure the Dowager Empress would have given them the entire Romanov fortune in a heartbeat. But it was stubbornness on both of their parts that made them refuse. Anya gave up her title and birthright, and as such didn't feel she had any right to claim anything from the royal family. They weren't struggling, per se, but they would never have the kind of lavish lifestyle Anya had had during the first part of her life.

"Dmitry?" Anya's voice startled him, and he turned quickly in time to see her set her feet on the floor.

"You should be asleep," he said gently, knowing how much of a hypocrite he was.

"So should you," she replied, accusingly. She stood and crossed to stand in front of him, looping her arms around his waist. "What are you doing in my room in the middle of the night?"

"Just thinking," he said, wrapping his own arms around her and resting his chin on the top of her head. He hadn't realized he was freezing until he had her warm body pressed against his. "It's nothing important," he lied.

"Don't you lie to me, Dmitry," she admonished, letting go of him and settling herself in a nearby armchair. "I know you, and I know when you're lying."

"It's nothing you need to worry about," he said, shaking his head. Anya shrugged, but held his gaze. Dmitry felt his resolve waver. She had an uncanny ability to get what she wanted, and he was not immune to it. He doubted he ever would be.

"I was thinking of going to see Nana soon," she said after a few moments. She finally looked away to gaze out the window. "It's been too long. I miss her, and I promised I would visit."

"I'm sure she'd love to see you."

"And you." She was staring at him again, her mouth pressed into a flat line. He would go, if that was what she wanted. He'd never be able to deny her that. But he didn't exactly have a great track record with the Dowager Empress, and he wasn't eager to make it worse. The last time they had seen each other was when he refused her reward, and the tension between them had been tangible. She had seemed grateful enough that he had helped her granddaughter return to her, but he suspected she hadn't forgiven him for attempting to con her in the first place. He certainly wouldn't have, in her position.

"I could see Vlad," he offered, "and Lily. I hear she's managed to get him a job taking care of the press for the Dowager." Anya frowned.

"Why are you acting so strange?" She stood and crossed to him again, taking his hand in hers.

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are," she said, poking his arm lightly. "You always do, whenever I bring Nana up. If this is because we ran away together, then let me assure you, she-"

"Are you sure you made the right choice?" His question seemed to throw her off guard, and her mouth snapped shut. Dmitry found he couldn't meet her eyes as she scrutinized him.

"What do you mean?" she asked slowly.

"Are you sure you made the choice coming with me?" Dmitry raised his hands, indicating the house and the life they had settled into. "Choosing all this over your family. Are you happy?"

"Yes," she said without hesitation. She threw her arms around him and hugged herself close to him, closing her eyes. "Of course I'm happy with you. I love you."

"Are you sure?" He gently pushed at her shoulders to get her to let go so she could look him in the eye, but she only tightened her hold on him. "I don't want to be the thing that keeps you from everything you've dreamed of."

"You're not," she said crossly. "I found what I was looking for. I found my family, I found out who I was. And it all seemed so incomplete when I thought I wouldn't see you ever again."

"But I'm not... good enough for you," he said. "I'm not a prince like you deserve."

Anya dropped her arms and pulled back, and his heart dropped when he saw how angry she looked. It rivaled the expression she'd had when he first said that to her, on her grandfather's bridge. That time she had thrown his suitcase on the ground so she could stand on it and kiss him. This time, she shoved him hard enough that he had to brace himself against the window frame to keep from falling.

"As if I care about something like that," she scoffed.

"You should."

"You don't get to tell me what I should care about, Dmitry," she warned him in a low voice. "That would be true even if I wasn't some long lost princess."

"But you are some long lost princess," he said, crossing his arms. "You're royalty. And I can't give you what you deserve. You would be better off with someone more worthy of you."

"Worthy of me?" Anya crossed her own arms. "Do you know what my grandmother told me about your private meeting with her?"

"That I was a rotten conman and a thief?"

"That you were a good man. She said you were a prince of character, instead of birth." Her words surprised him, but he still frowned and shook his head.

"But you know what I mean, Anya," he insisted. "I can't give you a palace or a crown or jewels or the world. I can barely give you enough to get by. Why would you choose that?"

"It doesn't bother me," she said with a shrug.

"But why?"

"It just doesn't," she said. "I didn't realize it bothered you so much."

"Of course it bothers me," he said. "You're a grand duchess born for higher things. And I'm not."

"Well if it matters so much to you, then I suppose there's really only one solution." Finally, she was seeing sense. She was seeing him for what he was, a common man who was far below her in rank.

"What's that?" Dmitry closed his eyes and steeled himself for the blow.

"Marry me, Dima." His eyes snapped open and he stared at her hard. Of all the things he had imagined her saying, that had not been one of them. Her arms were still crossed but she was smiling at him, her piercingly blue eyes sparkling.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me," she said. "Marry me. Then you're a prince. Problem solved. People marry into royalty all the time."

"I thought I was the one who had to propose to you," he said dumbly. Anya rolled her eyes.

"Get with the times, Dmitry," she said. "I can propose if I want to."

"What about your grandmother?" he asked. "Don't I have to ask her permission first?"

Anya shrugged. "So ask her when we visit," she said lightly. "She'll agree, I guarantee it. I can act surprised when you ask me to marry you. She'll never know the difference."

"I didn't agree to marry you," he pointed out, but he could feel a grin of his own creeping across his face.

"Not yet," Anya finished for him. "You know just as well as I do that you can't say no to me." She reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from his face. He caught her hand and lightly pressed a kiss to her palm before resting her hand against his cheek. She smiled warmly at him.

"And you're sure this is what you want?" Anya rolled her eyes again.

"Don't annoy me and make me reconsider," she teased him lightly.

"I wouldn't dream of it," he replied, pulling her against him. He relaxed into her embrace and felt her yawn against his chest. "I've kept you up long enough. You should go back to bed." He let her go and nudged her gently in the direction of her bed.

"Will you stay with me?" she asked, holding her hand out to him. He hesitated for a second before taking it.

"As you wish."