It speaks for itself, really, that her childhood Christmases would have been vastly different from his. Her entire life was, up to a point. There's something the slightest bit reassuring, though, about knowing that this is, or was, as strange for her as it is for him. She has the benefit of time, of course, whereas he's only just now been thrown headfirst into all of this. Whatever happens now, though, if she decides she never wants to speak to him again, as she'd be well within her rights to, or if she returns to the offer of friendship he gave what feels like half a lifetime ago now, at least he'll have had her advice while first getting a look at this place.
Again, just the fact of wanting or needing that seems unnecessary, foolish, but if he'd felt out of place in Paris, that's become far more the case now. He doesn't belong in a world like this. He fought for one wholly different, and no matter what else has changed, he still believes that he was right to do so.
Reconciling the fact of that with the feelings he can no longer try to ignore for her, knowing now who she is, isn't exactly an easy task. There's nothing he regrets, though, except perhaps thinking that he would be able to follow through with what he was told to do in the first place. Had he realized sooner, had that not been the case, he wouldn't have the unshakable image in his head of her at gunpoint, how she'd looked in the moment he'd intended to pull the trigger. The rest, though— He did what he knows was right, for the good of Russia and perhaps beyond. He knows, too, with just as much certainty, that there's really only one word for what he feels for her, regardless of the fact that she is, however impossibly, Anastasia Romanov.
He won't tell her, of course. That's something to which he doesn't have the right, certainly not now, even if she asked what stayed his hand. For all his attempts to talk himself out of it, though, it's remained true, maybe now more than ever.
"And nearly a hundred years' worth of history to catch up on, I take it," he adds, glancing over at her once they come to a stop. "If even Christmas is so different, there must be plenty else that is, too."
no subject
Again, just the fact of wanting or needing that seems unnecessary, foolish, but if he'd felt out of place in Paris, that's become far more the case now. He doesn't belong in a world like this. He fought for one wholly different, and no matter what else has changed, he still believes that he was right to do so.
Reconciling the fact of that with the feelings he can no longer try to ignore for her, knowing now who she is, isn't exactly an easy task. There's nothing he regrets, though, except perhaps thinking that he would be able to follow through with what he was told to do in the first place. Had he realized sooner, had that not been the case, he wouldn't have the unshakable image in his head of her at gunpoint, how she'd looked in the moment he'd intended to pull the trigger. The rest, though— He did what he knows was right, for the good of Russia and perhaps beyond. He knows, too, with just as much certainty, that there's really only one word for what he feels for her, regardless of the fact that she is, however impossibly, Anastasia Romanov.
He won't tell her, of course. That's something to which he doesn't have the right, certainly not now, even if she asked what stayed his hand. For all his attempts to talk himself out of it, though, it's remained true, maybe now more than ever.
"And nearly a hundred years' worth of history to catch up on, I take it," he adds, glancing over at her once they come to a stop. "If even Christmas is so different, there must be plenty else that is, too."