Reality floats back to me, unanxious and placid. A sense of warmth surrounds me, buffering me on all sides. I am happy, I am content, I am loved - strange thoughts to have upon waking. And certainly not usual ones for me, but neither is the sensation of having someone in my arms. How long had it been since I slept, really slept, with anyone? In our business, you can't take the chance. It's sort of funny. Many people consider having sex as the ultimate vulnerability, but for me and mine, it's sleeping. When you're having sex, your senses are heightened, aware of the body in your arms; the sounds and smells around you are a dead giveaway. But asleep, you are defenseless, open to attack. You learn to sleep with one hand on your gun and one eye open. It doesn't make for a restful night, but it comes down to one word – survival.
But that doesn't change the fact that there's someone warm in my arms, silky smooth skin against mine, rock hard muscles gone softer with sleep. And I know it's Illya, my partner, my friend.
I think how different he is from the numerous women I've held in a vain attempt to find refuge from the world. They use perfume to mask the scent of their own bodies from themselves and everyone else, as if they are ashamed of how they smell. Even though his skin stills carries the scent of the soap and shampoo the hotel so thoughtfully provided, I can still detect the pheromones that identify him instantly to me.
I rest my forehead against the back of his head, feeling the silkiness of his hair against my skin. Women would kill for hair this soft. Theirs is stiff and brittle, made worse with the hair products they pile on it and by constant attention. His is lucky to see a comb once a day and a barber once a month. Why Waverly tolerates his hair is a mystery. Certainly no one else is given such liberties, but no one else is quite like Illya either.
He shifts in his sleep and his hand brushes across my arm. Women have delicate and tender hands. Shapely, graceful hands with their nails filed, polished and painted, their fingers tips velvety smooth and kind. My partner's hands are none of those. They're strong, capable hands with blunt work-hardened fingers. Able to pick a lock, crack a safe, defuse a bomb, or squeeze the life out of a man. Yet also able to coax music out of an instrument, render first aid, give me support when I need it the most with just a touch and the hint of a smile.
A sense of calm descends upon me and I can feel myself relaxing from my toes up to my eyebrows. It's almost as good as sex, but without the effort. Not that I would mind the effort, but this is my partner, not some nameless prostitute. I could never approach Illya like that. He'd killed me or worse, he'd hate me. And that would be worse than death.
So, I lay quietly, keeping a handle on my desire and accept what I have been offered, the warmth and strength of my partner's body as he sleeps against me. That doesn't keep me from wanting more though, human nature, I guess.
God, I wish I could make love to him.
It is strange to wake up and know instantly that you aren't alone in bed. Even when I know he's in the next bed, there's that split moment of loneliness and of feeling isolated. That is not to say that I'm not used to it – I am, but it also doesn't mean that I have to like it. This is much… nicer.
It was just one of those affairs, doomed from the beginning. After a few years of doing this, you can almost sense them from the start. At first, I chalked it up to my pessimistic nature, but after awhile, I realized it is just how it is. There are some situations that nothing can fix, that nothing can change, no matter how hard we try. Evil, It would seem, is always a little stronger, a little more determined. So we fall back, gather our forces and try again… and again. My partner laughingly refers to it as job security, but the only thing our present course is likely to be secure in is our demise. Still, that is a worry for another day. For now, we are as safe and sane as two spies are likely to be.
When I woke and felt his arms around me, I was… concerned. No, that's not right. Honestly, I was overjoyed. Back home, we are so much freer with our need to connect with our fellow humans, be it from the cold, from our shared tragedies or just from our core makeup. We touch and enjoy being touched. Not in a sexual sense, but on a deeper level, just to have a sense of being linked to something larger. There's a good communist thought for you. No matter what, no matter how many years I hide in the West, I'm still part of the machine.
To wake up with him so close, it was more than I'd ever hoped for. It isn't the first time we've had to share one bed, but it is the first time I've felt his body against mine. My grandmother used to tell me stories about Heaven, even after the practice was forbidden. She'd take me to a small back room and weave rich, exotic tales and I, as a child, couldn't help but listen and absorb them. But I also learned to tuck such memories away and hide them from others. This must surely be what Heaven feels like, warm and protected.
It doesn't matter that the pillows are flat, the sheets are threadbare and the mattress is lumpy, I've never slept in a finer bed and it's simply because he's beside me, holding me and, while I know I'm only fooling myself, loving me. His women, they don't know how lucky they are, how people like me envy them their lot in life.
He moves closer, his arm tightens and I smile a smile forever hidden in the dark, the one I'd share with him if I could. I feel his breath against my neck, tickling it, and allow myself the luxury of a sigh. For now, I will cherish this, for in the morning we will be as we have always been. As I must be, governed by the rules and regulations of a narrow-minded society and by a self-imposed purgatory of denial. Just once I wish I could tell him what's truly in my heart and not fear the laughter and scorn.
God, I wish he could love me.