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“Hard to teach an old wolf like me any new tricks,” Nikolai agrees. “So you’ll have to know the material really well if you’re going to get it into my thick skull. Unless it’s French - I can’t even lie about being bad about that. I’m too good at it to make the lie believable.”

Malta is a lovely country and his Italian is as good as his Maltese, a feat since the latter is spoken by such a smaller population. His French is useful there too, mostly among other vacationers, and Natalia can always stand to practice more in languages that aren’t Russian or English. It’s good for her as a head of state.

“Do you think I could make people think I’m actually French when we get to Malta? Do you think we should try it?”

"I'm sooo jealous of your French," Natalia told him, weaving around her large guardian as she went back and forth to her closet. "It just makes me mad, how easily that language rolls off of your tongue." She stuffed a favorite sundress into the duffel and flounced lightly, her sass on full display.

"But you probably could. At least the tourists, those who don't know who we are." Although escaping the paparazzi was always a bothersome chore, no matter where they went. Reporters loved snapping her photograph; Natalia had become resigned to it, but it always helped that Nikolai was more than ready to make any busybody who ventured too close eat his own camera.

She grinned at him, emerging from the closet with a handful of shoes. "Will you dress like one? We'll have to go shopping, then." Her mind's eye chose that moment to torture her with the picture of her Nikolai in a cream colored suit, smoking his thins with the jacket slung over his metal shoulder, and her breath caught.

"...you should," she heard herself say, a little breathless. And absently began stuffing shoes in her bag, distracted. "Nikki, you really should..."

“I’m not wearing anything I can’t wear guns under,” he warns her, not wanting her to get too wrapped up into whatever fantasy she was concocting. Some things just aren’t practical for what he does and he has to be wearing something for the most part. He can’t be a French Polynesian pearl diver or something who doesn’t wear anything but Speedos. Completely impractical.

“So if you stay practical, I’ll wear whatever you think is French. There’s plenty of French men who dress just like I dress right now.”

Perhaps not so many wear full tac gear with dozens of knives strapped to them but there’s some, certainly. Military at least. He could be one of those.

“If I have a place to hide my weapons, I’ll wear whatever you want, krasinaya printsessa.”

Natalia turned to look at him, hip cocked and one hand propped upon it. "You wear a shoulder rig beneath your suit jacket now," she told him saucily. "I was thinking something...cream colored, or tan." The princess sashayed over and grabbed her soldier by his lapels, pulling his jacket out and giving it a little wiggle.

"That would go well with your coloring. And maybe some loafers, instead of your clunky boots." One small bare foot pressed down on the toe of said boot. "And I'm always practical," she insisted, giving his coat a sharp tug. "You taught me that, remember?" Even if he'd allowed her to wear her princess ballerina dresses when she'd been just a little thing.

"Are you going to pack?" she asked him then. "It'll be supper soon, and you know how Papa likes to ramble on once he gets his brandy and cigar."

“Everything I own is always packed,” Nikolai says, tucking a wayward curl of her hair back. He shouldn’t touch her like this now that she’s older but he has a hard time remembering that he shouldn’t and what was acceptable with a little girl isn’t acceptable with a girl on the cusp of womanhood.

“My life is you. You put me in your bag with your hairbrushes and shoes and anything else you need. I keep everything in my duffel to go no matter what time of day or night it is. I’m supposed to be helping you pack, actually.”

He gives her a little half smile. “Is there going to be room for me in your bags? I’m a little tall.”

Had she been a true kitten, Natalia would have purred at the simple little touch, of her Nikki tucking a curl behind her small ear. As it was, she simply leaned into his hand and smiled, rubbing her cheek against his wrist as he spoke. "There's always room for you, moya zvezda," she replied in a soft little voice. "There always has been, and there always will be."

Natalia didn't hesitate to slide closer, insinuate her slim body into his arms, holding him close as she had for so many years before. He was her sweet soldier, her gentle, vulnerable Nikolai. They'd learned to comfort each other, during their time together. To trust and rely on the other.

She nuzzled her way beneath his chin; he was so much taller than her. But she felt so safe right here, with his strong arms holding her close. "I'm done packing," she murmured quietly. "All I need is you with me, and I'm good forever." He was so hard and unyielding against her, it was a silent thrill to feel him pressed tight against her.

"I probably need to tell Anya and Steffie that I'm leaving tomorrow, don't I?" Her two closest friends, as far as 'friends' went with a Russian princess.

Nikolai knows he shouldn’t keep her so close but he does anyway, enjoying the feel of her up against him. He didn’t feel anything for a long time because of the ice - no happiness, no sadness, no joy, no pain. He started to feel again after he came to work for the Tsar and Natalia and it’d been mostly Natalia that had gotten him to thaw out.

Now, though, he’s dealing with something that has never really been an issue in all the time he’s been with them. Natalia’s body pressed against his was warming his in a way it shouldn’t. Not Natalia. Someone else, yes, but not Natalia. She was too young and too important to be the object of his repressed lust and so he gingerly tried to excise that from the embrace and enjoy the warmth of it instead.

She was just too damned soft for it to work. When she spoke, he slipped a little from his arms.

“Probably should. They won’t have free run of the palace while we’re gone and they’ll miss you.”

She only stirred in his hold when he did, sliding away only to plunk down on her bed and reach for her phone. "Yeah," Natalia mused, quickly formulating a quick message to both of her friends. "But maybe they can come when Papa when he does." It was a happy thought, her friends and family all together in Malta. It was such a lovely country, and she'd love to share it with her best friends.

Message sent, the princess tugged her duffel over, zipped it, then dropped it on the floor next to her bed, and picked up the remote. "Want to Netflix until suppertime?" Natalia scooted over obligingly, more than willing to share her bed and several dozen pillows with her personal space heater. Nikolai had always slept beside her, when he did sleep; she'd insisted. And she'd become so dependent on his presence that unless he was near, within her reach, she was unable to fall and stay asleep.

It was terribly unfair, that sort of burden on him, and she knew it, but he'd never expressed any reluctance about it, so. Now it was routine, and she cherished their closeness.

"We still have to get through the rest of the Mandalorian, and then I want to pick back up on The Crown." Natalia fluffed pillows for the both of them. "I can relate with poor Lilibet. Although I hope I never follow in her footsteps, that's for sure."

“You will be married with your own children before you have to be the Tsarina,” Nikolai promises her. He wants to think that, anyway, and the Tsar is in good health. There’s no reason to think he’d have a short life and he thinks Natalia is in a position to just enjoy her life for the time being.

Being in Natalia’s bed is nothing new; he’d been her favorite playmate from the time she met him and they’d always watched television together. He toes off his boots and stretches himself out on the bed, feet crossing at the ankles.

“Do you think I could be a space bounty hunter? I could wear a mask and never say anything. I hardly say anything anyway - it wouldn’t be much of a change for me, would it?”

Natalia gave him about ten seconds to get situated before she was snuggling close to his right side, one small arm and one lean leg thrown over his torso and thighs, respectively, completing her possessive capture of her own personal pillow. And heater. And snuggle-buddy. Although she made a face when Nikolai mentioned marriage and children.

"Ugh, pass. I'll never get shackled with any of those foolish boys Papa always throws at me during every State dinner and party. They're all skinny and foppish and just awkward." She groused a bit, settling down in the crook of Nikolai's arm. "And they always look at me like I'm some trophy, it's revolting."

But talking about their favorite shows was much more entertaining. "Probably," she giggled, imagining her Nikki in a suit of Mandalorian armor. "And no, it wouldn't. I swear, some of the kitchen staff believe you're actually a mute." She craned her neck to look up at him, wrinkling her nose fondly. "But I'd want to see your pretty face, at least. So you'd have to take off your helmet for me."

“Ceci est le chemin, Nikolai says, rattling off the character’s catchphrase in perfect French. If he’s going to be playing the game of a Frenchman, he’s going to have to start getting into the headspace for it now so he’s firmly entrenched by the time they get to Malta. A silly girl’s game, possibly, but if it amuses his Tsarina, he’s willing to go along with it and do it.

She’s in the crook of his right arm so he uses the left to stroke along her hair and down her back as they watch television. “You’ll be too big for this eventually, you know. That will be a very sad day for me, printsessa, because then I’ll have to go back to being serious all the time or, worse, back into the army.”

Nikolai doesn’t want that day to happen but the older he gets, the more he tries to brace himself for it.

Natalia giggled, although hearing her Nikolai speak French did things way down in her belly, lighting a fire that she'd felt only a few times before. "Aftós eínai o trópos," she intoned after him, showing off her own language skill with the Greek. But she murred happily as her Soldier stroked her, burrowing even closer to his inherent warmth and loving how solid his chest felt beneath her cheek.

"Nyet, no, not ever," she told him abruptly, lifting her head to gaze up at him with serious eyes. "You're mine forever, Nikki, didn't Papa tell you?" As if she'd ever let him go. How preposterous! Natalia cuddled close again, settling her head back on his chest.

"I'll never be too big to cuddle with you, moya zvezda. Not ever ever." Her arm tightened across his torso. "And I'm never letting you go, so you're stuck with me for the rest of time, so you may as well just..." a soft huff, "...live with it."

“You’ll get married and have your own husband to cuddle,” he reminds her gently. “But for now, not too big. Not if you still want me here.”

He still wants to be there. Natalia is the only thing that gives him purpose and meaning and without her, he doesn’t really have an identity. He’s her Nikolai and nobody else’s. She’d chosen the name herself.

Nikolai strokes her hair until he settles his hand at the curve of her waist, content to hold her this way until she tired of it.

His command about cuddling a husband of her own the princess ignored; Nikki always said silly things like that and she'd learned to just let them slide right on by. She had no intention whatsoever to marry, especially one of those gawky, idiot boys her father kept trying to steer her towards. No, the only one she'd even consider was lying beside her right now, and he didn't even know it. But that was okay; they still had a few more years before they had to talk about that.

It was still a good two hours or so until supper, and the Grand Duchess was warm and comfortable, nestled next to her gentle soldier, and with Nikolai stroking her hair and holding her close, Natalia soon fell into a light doze, soothed by her guardian's steady heartbeat and the rhythm of his breathing. She woke when he called her quietly, murring negations and inching upwards until she could bury her nose in his neck, refusing to wake up.

”Natalia, time to get up for supper,” Nikolai says gently in flawless French. ”Time to get up and see your Papa for one of the last times before the trip. Come with me?”

Nikolai rubs his hand along the curve of her waist, trying to tempt her to start moving so they can head downstairs. Anything she wants to do has to be her idea, in a way, but he thinks he can coax her. “S’il vous plait.”

She whined a little, wrinkling her nose. But caught a soft breath at the fall of that silken language at her ear, spoken in the most beautiful voice in all the world. "...mmmnnn, Nikki," Natalia murred, squirming in his embrace, feeling her skin grow uncomfortably warm. Her knees rubbed together as she shifted, because somehow that gorgeous rough voice was roiling around in the pit of her stomach, making her feel...some sort of queasy. But not in a bad way, oh no.

"...that's not fair," she finally retorted, lifting her head to blink sleepily up at him. "You know I can't resist you when you speak French, you horrible man." But she inched up further and pressed soft, warm lips to his grizzled cheek, sharing a nuzzle afterwards. "...and you must eat with us," she told him, her full lips resting against the chiseled line of his jaw. "I command it."

“I was going to go have a smoke and let you have alone time,” Nikolai admitted. He doesn’t often leave her side but in the palace, there’s enough security in place. He squeezes her shoulder a bit and tries to comfort her and stave off the pout.

“You need time with him. You’re with me every day and he’s about to go on Tour. You’ll have me every day in Malta.”

He kisses her forehead. “And I’ll be with you every moment.”

A futile effort on his part, because Natalia pouted anyway. "Dessert, then," she insisted after Nikolai pecked her forehead and leaned away enough for to see him clearly. "You know how much Papa enjoys talking with you, Nikolai." And that was true, not simply a teenage manipulation to get what she wanted. She had grown so inured to his presence that to be without him, even here in the palace, was enough to make her anxious, uneasy.

But she'd never, not truly, begrudge him any time alone, so she simply sighed acquiescence and, after another kiss and a fond, loving nuzzle, slipped out of his arms and out of bed, moseying over to her closet to find something to wear to supper. "I hope we're not having borscht again. I swear that's all this new chef knows how to prepare."

“Go on a hunger strike,” Nikolai teases. He smoothes the wrinkles in his jacket and runs a hand through his hair, ensuring he doesn’t look too mussed up after laying in bed and letting the Grand Duchess use him for a pillow yet again.

“There’s other things to eat in Russia. You could even suggest eating food that isn’t Russian, to start.” Nikolai leans against the wall and pulls out his lighter, flipping it open to light one of many cigarettes that day. The only luxury he allows himself are cigarettes and mostly because it gives him something to do when he doesn’t feel like talking to other people. He takes a drag and exhales, careful to turn his head away from Natalia as he does.

“What does your Father think about the new chef?”

The princess took a handful of clothes behind her dressing screen, carelessly tossing her casual t-shirt and shorts aside. But she couldn't help but peer around the edge of the screen at her bodyguard, youthful gaze drinking in the absolutely delicious sight of the Winter Soldier oh-so-casually leaning against her bedroom wall, cigarette in hand.

She quickly hid behind the screen again when he glanced back her way. "I can't live on cheese crackers forever, Nikki," she told him tartly, pulling the blouse over her head. "But Papa likes native food. He says it makes him feel more like a monarch if all we ever eat are recipes from the 'Home Country'."

Natalia risked a peek around the edge of the screen again. Then quickly went back to pull on her slacks, hopping on one foot when she lost her balance trying to sneak another look. "--ow!" A mild curse in her native tongue followed, and the Grand Duchess finally emerged, a little rumpled, but altogether "dignified", if the imperious lift to her chin was any indication, and tottered to her dressing table, plunking down and picking up her brush.

"Papa likes him," she shrugged, pulling the bristles through scarlet curls. "But then I doubt he ever tastes what he eats, since he's always doing a hundred other things at the same time."

“I don’t taste what I eat either,” Nikolai says. “I’m too busy to worry about what I’m eating. Food is food. It’s for energy and enjoying it isn’t something I have a lot of time to do.”

He smirks over at Natalia, settled down and brushing her hair. “You are a lot to keep up with. I might as well be bolting down bread and water since my whole day is filled with keeping up with you and where you’re going. You don’t make it easy.”

He takes another long draw off the cigarette and exhales, watching her from under his lashes.

”Just think about all the delicious food you’re going to eat in Malta,” he murmurs in silken French. ”No borscht, no Russian food, nothing but the finest for my Grand Duchess.”

She eyed him in the mirror, arching a sharp eyebrow at his pitiful plight. Natalia had a smart retort on the tip of her tongue, but it died a swift death when in his next breath, Nikolai rolled smooth, flawless French out of his too-sensual mouth. Her grip on the brush tightened.

"...you're doing that on purpose," she accused him, glowering a little beneath her own lashes. Unable to properly work her hair dressing instruments, the princess simply gathered her long curls in a disheveled knot and piled all of them at the back of her head, wrapping a tie around the mess to hold it in place.

He damned well knew she couldn't think straight whenever he spoke to her in French. Unable to retaliate - particularly while she thought her brains might be melting out of her ears - Natalia simply jerked her clothes a little straighter, popped up from her vanity, and stomped feet into her sandals, piqued and not hiding it.

She couldn't think of anything else to say, so she flounced to the door, yanked it open, and huffed a few times before saying in a tone of juvenile affront, "....dessert, Nikolai!" Huffing at him again, she flung herself into the corridor, flouncing off towards the royal study.

Nikolai snorts a little and stubs out his cigarette in one of the porcelain ash trays littered around the palace for his filthy habit. The girl has the best of him and sometimes he just needs the time to get his head clear.

While he does, he takes a shower and slicks back his hair, touches cologne to his wrists and neck, shaves, and exchanges his shirt and tie for fresh ones. By the time he comes down for dessert, he’s a different man entirely.

“I was promised dessert?” He gives a quick nod to the Tsar, who returns it, and settles next to Natalia.

Tsar Alexander looked up with unfeigned delight as his daughter's guardian entered the small family dining room. "Nikolai! Please, come in, come in." He indicated one of the empty chairs and a servant hurried to seat the tall soldier. The princess, seated at her father's right hand and across from her bodyguard, just gave the latter a mild wrinkle of her nose and continued eating her dessert.

"We're having Ptichye Moloko tonight," Alexander beamed, picking up his spoon again. "Cook makes it so excellently, I just may have another helping after I finish this one." He grinned and winked at his daughter, who smiled and returned it. "Bring the man a plate," the Tsar called to the footman, who clicked his heels and did so immediately.

"Dig in, dig in," Alexander encouraged Nikolai, taking another bite of the delicious cake and cream. "I trust you two are all packed for Malta tomorrow, da?"

“The printsessa might not have brought everything in her closet yet but my bags are, as always, already packed,” Nikolai says. When his dessert comes he does dig in and in spite of his words about food being energy earlier, it is good.

He smiles at her, almost a smirk, and then goes back to address her father, the Tsar.

“I’ve gotten all the flight plans filed and copies left here,” he says. “So everything is ready to go for you and for us in the morning. Nothing left to do but show up.”

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