Stumbled across this awesome idea from the 100 Colour Livejournal Community (shoutout to Unproper Grammar, even though you don't know me :D). I didn't officially stake a claim, or whatever, since it already belongs to aforementioned U.G., but the concept seems to have triggered my muse and she's screaming at me to write. Naturally, I must obey. I'm going to do my best to dish out all one hundred, in neat little packs of five, for your reading pleasure. And please review, so that I know my insanity serves some purpose.
Dimitri watched her as she trudged through the snow ahead of he and Vlad, annoyed with himself for not being able to look anywhere else. She was like a woman on a mission. For every two steps they made in her wake, she took four or five.
"Anya…slow…slow down, child…" Vlad's ample chest and belly were heaving with the effort it was taking to keep up with her pace and drag along their luggage at the same time.
Dimitri suddenly dropped his leather valise into the snow and glared at her back. She still hadn't stopped, almost too far ahead of them now to hear them without them shouting.
She didn't miss a step, only wrapped her arms tighter around herself as she deftly ducked under a barren tree branch that hung low over the path. A heady mix of frustration and anger injected itself into Dimitri's blood and he trotted after her.
"Will you slow down already?" he demanded harshly as he grabbed her arm and swung her around to face him. She looked startled, as if she'd been completely unaware that she hadn't been alone on this journey. Icy blue eyes widened and for the hundredth time since they'd met, Dimitri felt the peculiar sensation of his soul being probed against his will. He frowned.
"What are you talking about?" She turned then and saw Vlad nearly thirty yards behind her, doubled over, Pooka yapping at his feet. "Oh," was all she said.
"See? You go on like this and you're going to have to drag him to Paris," Dimitri remarked with just a touch of resentment.
The usually soft lines of her face hardened for a moment, and something akin to desperation clouded her eyes as she looked over his shoulder to the path beyond, but then she sighed wearily and looked down at the snowy ground.
A tiny flash of satisfaction illuminated Dimitri's face. He'd dodged the sharp barb of her tongue this time. "Besides," he continued smugly, "we should be at the front anyway. It's not like you know where you're going."
At that, her head snapped up and she looked at him, brow furrowed. Her eyes had turned stormy and dark. "Dimitri, if you have your way, it'll take us two years to get to France. And I think I should remind you that it was my innate sense of direction that got us back on this road when you got us turned around," she finished, poking him in the chest.
His eyes narrowed. So much for dodging the barb. But before he could muster up a sharp rejoinder, he was quite unexpectedly distracted by the rather beautiful way soft tendrils of steam were escaping her nose and irritatingly perfect mouth, curling delicately into the frigid air before they gracefully disappeared.
Behind them, Vlad had finally begun waddling his way toward them, Pooka in tow.
Anya absently rubbed her bare hands together, pausing now and then to cup them and blow warm air onto her stiff fingers as they waited. When she looked up again, Dimitri was staring at her.
"What are you looking at?" She did not even attempt to hide her irritation. But she was a little taken aback when he suddenly blushed and looked away.
Dimitri hadn't realized that he'd been staring. But her hands…they were so red from the intense cold. They could have been frostbitten already. "What happened to your gloves?" he asked, trying his best to sound nonchalant.
"I don't know." She shrugged as she examined her fingernails. "I guess they blew up with the train a few days back."
He was going to regret it. That much he knew. Somehow, in some way, what he was about to do would come back to haunt him, but he didn't want to think about that now. The state of her hands inexplicably made him almost as uncomfortable as he would be if they were his own and, selfish as he knew he was, he'd do anything to relieve it. He quickly tugged off his gloves and held them out to her without a word.
Anya gave him her wide-eyed stare again and he suddenly wanted to run away. "What – "
"Just take them."
She rolled her eyes. "Dimitri, I'm fine. You don't have to – "
"I know. But I am, so take them."
"I don't need your charity, ok?" She glared at him as if she were offended. "Besides, they're too big."
With a suddenness that startled him, everything in Dimitri wanted to shake her and scream at her to just take the damn gloves, but instead he snatched up her hand and slapped the gloves into it. "Your stupid pride is not worth getting frostbite and having your hands snap off at the wrists."
Anya wanted to smile at his ridiculous description, but she fought it hard. "Fine. If that will shut you up."
Dimitri only grunted as he stalked away to help Vlad with the bags.