#the weight of her blood is a lot of why nastya likes being in space where she can be in zero gravity

[truthofherdreams]

based on that infamous post

Back where you belong, Dmitry thinks with a quiet snort to himself.

He tries to move his hands, only to wince. The old hag tightened the cuffs as much as possible, it seems, preventing him from breaking free from them. Not that Dmitry ever did that. Only once. Okay, maybe twice. But still, he thinks as he rolls his eyes. It’s not like he can go far anyway, what with being locked in the back of a police car. He won’t go as far as opening the door and throwing himself out, not when they already have his name.

This is all Vlad’s fault anyway, and Vlad ran away before they could catch him. No loyalty among thieves, really. Dmitry rolls his eyes once more. The con was supposed to be an easy, fast one, but someone had snitched on them and, next thing Dmitry knew, the cops were there, putting silver around his wrists. He reallys hopes he can play the clueless teenage boy card to get himself out of this one.

He’s thinking over his lies and stories when a ringtone startles him out of his thoughts. The officer woman glances at him through the rearview mirror before taking the call, directly through the car’s speakers.

“Nastya, darling,” she says, her voice significantly warmer than it was when she read his rights to Dmitry. “How’s Alyosha?”

Dmitry’s ears perk up at the Russia nicknames, even more so at the young, feminine voice answering on the other side of the phone. “He’s fine. The doctor said the bruise looks worse than it is. He should feel better tomorrow.” There is a pause then, in a mischievous voice, “The bleeding was internal. It’s fine, it’s where blood is supposed to be.”

Dmitry can’t help but snort a laugh that the officer doesn’t share. Neither does the second feminine voice over the phone. “Nastya! I told you it’s not an appropriate joke!”

“It really is not,” the officer adds, her voice already more stern. She glances at him in the mirror once more, before Dmitry can wipe the smirk off his face. Oh well. “I have a young gentleman in the back of the car I need taken care of first.”

“Oooooh,” the first girl cooes. “Is he cute?”

There is a very long pause, Dmitry’s smirk widening into a shit-eating grin when the officer takes a longer look at him in the mirror. Like she’s actually pondering over the question. And then, to his surprise, “My granddaughter wants to know if you’re cute.”

He stands a little straighter, as straight at his bounded wrists will let him. Dmitry is a lot of things, but vain? Yeah, vain has to be on the top of the list. But it’s not actually being vain if it’s the truth, right? He knows he’s good looking, and that his face has an effect on women and men alike. He’s used his handsome features more than once, too, because if the universe gave him such a gift, it sure was for him to use it. So, bite him. Dmitry is cute, yeah.

“I want to say yes, ma’am.”

The officer can barely hold back a smirk at his candid honesty, even when she replies, “He’s arrogant, is what he is.”

The younger girl laughs, a beautiful sound if there ever were any. “All boys are, nana.”

…

Dmitry’s smile disappears by the time they make it to the station. He’s never been in this one before. Interesting. Still, he knows better than to be too cocky about it, if he wants to be out tonight -- nothing worse than a night in a cell. Not even the warm food is worth it.

He’s taken to the officer’s office which, much to his surprise, isn’t empty. Two teenage girls are sitting there, one reading peacefully in a corner while the other in on the computer, feet on the desk. Three guesses as to which voice belongs to whom, and the first two don’t count.

They both are pretty, too. So very pretty, with strawberry blond hair and blue eyes, looking almost regal in their summer dresses. Dmitry can’t look away from the one behind the computer, with her cheeks still round from childhood and the way she blows her hair away from her face. A small mutt dog is lying in her lap, and it wimpers a little when she sits up, her feet falling to the floor. She stares right back at him, one eyebrow raised, but doesn’t comment.

“Leave him alone while I grab the paperwork,” the officer comments with a finger toward the girl, who offers her grandmother a perfectly innocent smile. Then, she turns to him and, in a barking order, “Sit.”

Dmitry knows better than not to comply. He sits on the chair in front of the desk, wincing a little when he tries to lean back only to put his weight on his arms. Damn fucking cuffs. The girl blinks at him, before she turns to her sister.

“He’s cute,” she comments.

It takes Dmitry a moment to notice she switched languages from French to Russian. It’s hard to keep his smirk to himself, but he manages it, staring at the pen holder on the desk not to let his face betray him.

“He’s really not,” the second sister answers, not even looking up from her book. “The crooked nose works against him.”

“I like it. It makes him more handsome. Roguish.”

Dmitry can’t help it. “I broke it when I was four.”

He can almost taste the awkwardness, even before he raises his head to see the girl’s widening eyes. She blinks at him in stunned silence, obviously caught off guard. Paris has its lot of Russian migrants, but it’s rare to hear his native language on the streets, let alone in a small police station. What were the odds, really?

“You’re Russian,” she says, and it sounds less like a question than an accusation.

“So are you,” he shoots back in the same kind of tone.

She makes for replying something, frowning at him, when the officer comes back in the office. “Dmitry Sudayev,” she starts, and Dmitry has flashbacks of his mother yelling at him for stealing cookies from the kitchen. “Seems like you have friends in high places. Countess Malevsky-Malevitch just called.”

Dmitry perks up. Vlad wasn’t that much of a useless coward after all, that’s a relief. Dmitry doesn’t exactly looks forward to owing him a favour, though, because those never turn out to be pleasant. Everything but a night in a cell and a line added to his criminal record, though.

As it turns out, Officer Romanova (Romanova! It all makes sense now!) lets him out with nothing by a lecture and a warning, and Dmitry doesn’t have to be told twice. He bolts out of the police station before she can even finish her last sentence, leaving cuffs and pretty girls behind himself with no regret whatsoever.

It is only once he’s around the corner, stopping to shield his lighter from the wind so he can lit a cigarette, that Dmitry notices he isn’t as alone as he thought. The girl comes to lean next to him against the wall, chin tilt up and eyes close, soaking in the sun. Dmitry shamelessly stares at her, because why wouldn’t he? She’s the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. She’s…

“You’re Anastasia Romanova. The politician’s daughter.”

Everyone knows the story, how her father and mother got killed by an angry mob for their less than ethic choices in political views and less than democratic ways of forcing their laws onto the government. Dmitry’s father was part of the anti-Romanov party, as were so many of their friends back in Russia. The children had only survived because they were spending the summer in France with their grandmother, otherwise they would have been slaughtered too.

“Well, fuck you too,” she replies lightly. She cracks on eye open to glare at him, before she closes it again.

“I didn’t mean -- I -- brat.”

She snorts. “Asshole.”

She snatches his cigarette from his mouth before he even notices her moving, staring up at him as she takes a drag. Dmitry swallows with difficulty, all his blood suddenly leaving his brain to go to another part of his anatomy. Fucked, he’s definitely fucked.

Cigarette between her teeth, she grabs his arm and scribbles something on it, before running away. Dmitry blinks at the empty space where she was, then down at his arm. She wrote her phone number, and he can’t help but smirk.

He should get arrested more often.