A/N: (Well this formatting is strange) Hey all! Here is your monthly(ish) update! Please leave me a comment so I can feel good about the work I put in here :)

Anya pressed her cheek to the window, the steady fall of rain lulling her to sleep. The window was nowhere near comfortable, as was the wooden seat, and she was surprised when she realized that it actually bothered her. she realized with a stab of self-pity that she wouldn't have minded at all a few months ago.

Tintin came into their section and sat down across from her. Without opening her eyes, she ever so slightly pulled her knees closer to her. Tintin didn't seem to notice. After a few minutes, he broke the silence.

"You can lie down if you want. I don't think there will be many passengers for a while."

She kept her eyes closed, hoping he would think she was asleep. A moment passed.

"You know…"

He sighed, dropping his voice to a barely audible murmur.

"I think we are going to be alright. I really do, Anya."

Anya heard him shifting on the seat, and waited until he was silent before opening her eyes. He was stretched out on the seat, his back facing her. She listened to his breathing until it was long and steady, before she unglued her face from the window, and silently shifted backward to lie down on her back. The train chugged on rhythmically, quieting her thoughts as she fell asleep.

Do you sleep? She wondered. Do you ever feel heavy? Do you ever get tired of the tracks set before you?

The train offered no answers, tirelessly carrying onward into the night.

/*/*/*

Tintin was jolted awake by the cry of the train's conductor.

"Next stop! New York City!"

He stumbled to his feet, his heart racing, and rushed out into the hall. He ran smack into something-taking a step back, he realized someone-tall and firm.

"Watch it, kid!"

"Sorry!" He blurted as he moved around the man, rubbing sleep from his eyes haphazardly. A few more seats down, and he had finally found the source of the voice that woke him; a slim man with glasses and an identifying cap. The man turned to him, surprised.

"Is everything all right, sir?"

Tintin pointed out the window.

"Where are we stopped?"

"We are in Greenwich village right now...we will reach the City in about an hour."

Tintin exhaled heavily, scanning his surroundings swiftly.

"Right...thank you."

He rubbed his hands against his thighs as he walked back; the sun was not high enough in the sky to warm the air yet.

As he approached his seat, he could just begin to hear a man's voice, and he hastened, thinking of Anya. I shouldn't have left her alone….

"I already told you, I don't have any money."

Their seats were only a row away when he recognized Anya's voice, and stopped short.

"You don't have to pay anything to look, do you? Come on, honey...such a pretty girl, one would think I'd be paying you to try one on…"

Tintin stepped into his booth. Anya was sitting by the window, and a man with a gray suit was sitting close next to her. As the stranger reached a gloved hand out to touch Anya's shoulder, she shrank away ever so slightly, her dark eyes wide with fear. Tintin felt a dizzying rush in his head, and he stiffened up like a board.

"Can I help you?"

The man practically leaped to his feet, and turned, coming face-to-face with the boy he bumped into earlier. The panic in his face was wiped clear in a heartbeat, replaced with insincere charm.

"I'm sorry to surprise you. I sell women's jewelry, and I simply thought…"

"Do you really? I suppose you have it in your pockets? Or have you left it unattended in a seat somewhere?"

The man removed his hat and looked down apologetically, moving past Tintin with a muffled apology.

Tintin turned to Anya when he had gone. She rose to her feet, squeezing her hands together nervously.

"Are-"

"That-"

They both tried to talk at once, cutting each other off. Anya almost smiled, covering her mouth with her hand.

"Did he touch you?"

"Well, no-"

The train jolted forward with a screech. Tintin steadied himself on the seat corner, but Anya had nothing in reach. She jolted forwards, only to be caught by Tintin's free arm. She saw the flush in her face reflected on his cheeks when she looked at him, and she hesitantly stepped back and sat down. Tintin took a seat across from her, resting his elbows on his knees.

"I'm sorry about that. I won't leave you again."

Anya shrugged. "Sure. But I know you didn't mean to; you must be used to travelling alone."

Tintin almost felt offended, and he couldn't understand why.

"That's not-I mean, I used to work alone, just Snowy and I...I liked it that way then."

"And now?"

"Well, of course I'd rather work alongside someone. It can get very lonely to be so far away from my friends, after a while."

"Sure, it can."

"And you? Do you like to work alone?"

Anya's eyes betrayed the smile on her stifled lips. "I guess it depends who I'm with."

Tintin held her gaze like they were statues, fighting a rising feeling of vulnerability. He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut short by the cry of the conductor.

"Tickets! Please prepare your tickets!"

He leaned forward to pull his and Anya's tickets out of his back pocket. Anya moved to the window again, the broken sunlight dancing across her face. Their brief intersection was over; yet Tintin had a feeling that they would inevitably have another.

/*/*/*

As soon as her foot touched the New York pavement, a flood of memories came rushing back to her; running through the streets of the City as a child, her hand tightly clutching her mother's...Anya struggled to paint the face of the woman that was so quickly torn out of her life, but all she could put together were small fragments; the smell of peppermint, brown eyes...the glow of sunlight in her dark brown hair….

Anya felt a hand on her back.

"Are you alright?"

She opened her eyes, and realized she was still walking, carefully guided by the hand resting on her back. She took a deep breath, shaking away the nostalgia.

"Yeah...it's funny how the City never changes."

"Do you want to sit?"

"N-no. We need to keep moving." She pointed at a small store down the street.

"La Touriste. We should be able to get a map there."

Tintin nodded, digging in his pockets for coins.

"Thing is...I'm about out of money…"

"Don't worry about that just yet. And I've been meaning to ask...how did you get American money to pay for our tickets?"

Tintin chuckled to himself. "I guess our friends back in Belgium didn't search me well enough. I had some dollar coins sewed into the pockets of my plus fours."

He turned his pockets inside out to demonstrate. Anya studied the ripped line of threading curiously.

"But...why American currency?"

"I visit the States more than you would think; it's always good to be prepared. Besides, I can get money easily anywhere in Belgium."

"Aren't you popular."

"Er...yes."

Tintin moved ahead to the door, and held it open. Anya stopped, something like surprise passing over her face. Tintin studied her face, confused.

"Is something the matter?"

She seemed to recover, straightening.

"I-I just-thank you."

Tintin followed her inside, putting the moment behind him.

"Well...here we are. I'll go buy a map. Try not to wander."

Anya nodded, and he headed to the cash register. Her attention was immediately caught up by a sea of fabrics: snow whites, deep reds, sky-blues, and soft pinks. She reached a hand out to touch a white dress, her fingers gliding over the silky fabric.

Her mind was carried back in time, to a small, humid room in the attic of a small house on Cobblestone Street. Her hands were intertwined in a beautiful white dress, decorated with small embroidered flowers. Two gentle hands behind her ran through her dark hair, and the smell of peppermint flooded her senses.

"Anya, dear, be careful with mommy's dress. It's my favorite."

"It's so beautiful, ma."

Her mother chuckled, as she twisted her daughter's hair into a braid.

"I'll tell you what. When you are older, you can look beautiful in it."

"Why don't you wear it, mommy?"

The hands braiding her hair stopped for a second.

"Oh, Anya...maybe when...maybe when I feel a little better."

She tied off the braid with a red ribbon and lovingly gave her daughter a push.

"Now, go play, while mommy rests…."

"Yes, ma…"

"Oh, Christine, look! That poor little girl over there!"

"What a pity! I can hardly bear it!"

Anya jumped, taking her hand away from the dress. Two plump women were approaching her, their arms heavy with shopping bags. They were upon her before she could blink, circling her like vultures.

"Oh, my, aren't you skinny?"

"Skinny as a bird, indeed! And such sad eyes. Shame on God, she's wearing men's clothes!"

The women broke out into shrill laughter, while Anya wished she could pull her men's pants up over her head and disappear.

"We must buy her some proper clothing, Irma."

The woman who spoke, dressed elegantly in a long pink dress, rolled her r's in such a throaty manner, Anya decided she must be some kind of singer.

"Bianca Castafiore?!"

Tintin's voice was like music to her ears. The woman turned to him, with a delighted squeal.

"Monsieur Tintin! How happy I am to see you!"

Tintin laughed, bowing politely. Anya studied his face from afar, noticing how his eyes squinted when he smiled.

"Tintin, you look like you've been through a war! You must tell me what adventure you are on this time!"

"I should love to, but I really am not in any state to-"

Bianca waved her hand, cutting him off.

"No, no, monsieur, don't tell me. You must come have lunch with me! And of course, dinner, provided so generously by…"

Tintin smiled knowingly.

"Ah, so you have a performance tonight?"

"Mais oui, my first performance in this beautiful city."

"And I see you've met my friend."

Tintin directed his smile towards Anya, extending a hand to her. She flushed, taking his hand and presenting herself with a small curtsy. If the pants made it look ridiculous, both Bianca and Tintin were gracious enough not to let on.

"I-I'm Anya Shan."

"Anya?" Bianca tapped her chin with a long white fingernail. "Is that short for something? Because if it is, it is, your full name must be simply elegant."

"Madame, I'm sure…"

"No-I mean, yes," Anya interrupted Tintin quickly. "My given name is Anastasia."

Bianca clasped her hands together in delight; Anya offered half a smile, feeling bashful.

"What a darling girl, Tintin. Now, Anastasia, You simply must come to my living quarters, immediatement! Irma, go summon a taxi."

/*/*/*

The dress slipped over her head and settled above her ankles. She smoothed out the wrinkles and gathered her hair, bringing it over her left shoulder. With a sigh, she turned to face the mirror.
The girl that stared back at her seemed a stranger, at first. Her figure, once full and curvy, had given way to a sickly thinness. What's happened to me? She felt her cheeks, her stomach turning as her fingers came up against hard, protruding cheekbones.
Unable to look at herself any longer, she grabbed her things and hurried out of the bathroom.
Tintin was waiting outside. Anya looked away as soon as she caught his grey-blue eyes, feeling vulnerable under his gaze.

"How do you like the dress?"

She smoothed her hands over her thighs, giving the fabric an experimental tug. She was about to answer him when Castafiore entered the room.

"Anastasia! You look positively darling! Give us a spin, now?"

Anya flushed, feeling Tintin's gaze on her back, and made a turn. The dress was snow white, with an crimson bow fastened around the waist, and an off-shoulder top.

"I had this dress fashioned for a performance in Berlin, but the seamstress was a real dunderhead; She thought my measurements were in centimeters, when I specifically told her they were inches!"

"The dress is beautiful, Madame Castafiore; thank you. I'm sure it would look even more so on you."

Castafiore laughed gaily, bathing in Anya's compliment.

"You're too kind. And I believe you and Mr. Tintin must be starving! I'll have a servant show you to your rooms, and I'll arrange some food to be made for you at 17 hours. I must escape to the theatre now, so I will see you tonight. Au revoir!"

The two wished her good luck and followed a gentleman in a black tux up a white marble staircase.

"She really has a thing for french, doesn't she?" Anya whispered.

Tintin grinned.

"Perhaps she is practicing for tonight. Oh, and about tonight; you may find Madame's performance to be of quite high taste."

"Tintin, what does that-"

He put a finger over his lip, his eyes twinkling with good humor.

"I'll see you just now. And, I meant to say this earlier, but...I do think that dress is lovely on you."

Anya smiled as Tintin disappeared into his room. She ran a hand over the white fabric, and suddenly, a wave of emotion enveloped her. I wish Mother could see me like this.

She entered her room, closing the door behind her. The silence made her feel so lonely, she almost wished she were dead.

/*/*/*

The food was glorious. Steaming potatoes, greens, and a cooked chicken sat on a white tablecloth, next to an apple pie. Tintin looked around and saw there also were apples and rice on the table; he realized it was the beginning of Autumn in North America, or Fall, as they call it. He looked over at Anya. She was staring at the food, her lips slightly parted, her eyes blank. He gingerly touched her shoulder, and she flinched.

"Anya?"

"I'm fine, I just-"

She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear self-consciously.

"I can't believe how long it's been...since I've eaten like this."

Tintin smiled sympathetically.

"You don't have to remember. Right now, you're alive, and that's all that matters. Right?"

"Right."

They took their seats. Tintin took a potato, and passed the plate across the table to Anya, who did the same. They continued this cycle, until the butler came in with a carving knife and cut the chicken. The sound of the knife slicing the meat was the only sound in the room.

Anya flashed Tintin a mischievous grin.

"This is a little silly, isn't it?"

He caught her gaze, pausing to swallow before responding.

"Well, it is probably more food than we can manage."

"Yes, but just this morning we were practically street bound. And now we are having a feast."

Tintin returned her smile.

"I do like this turn of events."

"As do I."

"What is your favorite holiday food?"

Anya chewed an over sized mouthful of chicken before responding.

"My mother used to make pumpkin soup. Pumpkin soup is amazing."

"It sounds very American."

"I suppose you live off of baguettes and crepes?"

"Oh, only when I have to..."

Perhaps it was better that neither party were aware of the butler eavesdropping behind the kitchen doors, so to preserve the warmth and comfort of that moment. It would surely kill one's appetite to know that men with cold intentions lurked behind every shadow in Castafiore's house.