An Act Of Love
Illya crossed the snow-covered street to his Greenwich Village brownstone, his mind caught up in a pleasant contemplation of the fresh tiger prawns he had purchased for his supper. Sautéed in olive oil and garlic, he decided, with a splash of vermouth and lime juice, and perhaps some diced red chilies. He pictured the finished dish, pink prawns arranged on a bed of baby greens and topped with a lovely, buttery reduction, and smiled in anticipation.
It had snowed for most of the day, tapering off to flurries as night fell, and the air was crisp and cold. In Times Square, people were gathering by the thousands to watch the ball drop, ushering in the New Year. Christmas lights still blinked gaily in a few windows, and icicles sparkled along the eaves. In the street, parked cars sat beneath the streetlamps' homey glow, their roofs buried under powdery domes of snow.
Illya shifted the bag of groceries to his other arm, and fished in the pocket of his jeans for the key. As he opened the front door, the sound of a radio drifted out from his landlady's ground floor apartment. This is Casey Kasem, counting down the top one-hundred hits of 1968. Coming in at number twenty, here's Sly and the Family Stone with Dance to the Music...
He climbed the three flights of stairs to his apartment, pleased that the leg injury he'd sustained during his recent stint in a Turkish prison was healing nicely. He would be able to return to fieldwork soon. He opened the door, and reached for the security panel to disarm the system.
He froze. The light shone a steady green. Disarmed! Someone was in the apartment!
He turned, shifting onto the balls of his feet. He drew his weapon, and flipped on the light.
"Don't shoot. I give up."
Napoleon sat on the sofa, luggage piled at his feet, a half-empty glass of scotch in his hand.
"Polya!" Illya's heart sang with surprise and happiness. He dropped the bag of groceries onto the kitchen counter, secured his weapon, and held out his arms.
Napoleon melted into them. "Illyusha." Their lips met in a kiss, devastatingly deep and thorough, promising greater intimacies to come. Napoleon buried his face against his lover's shoulder with a sigh of contentment, and held on like he never wanted to let go.
Illya breathed in the scent of him, rubbed his cheek against the soft, dark hair, felt the warmth of Napoleon's heart against his own. "This is a wonderful surprise, Polya. I wasn't expecting you until the 3rd. How did you manage to get away early?"
A shrug. "Rank hath its privileges. How's the leg?"
"Better." Illya brushed an errant lock of hair back from Napoleon's brow, caressed the beginnings of stubble lining his jaw. "You look tired, lubimy'i."
"Long flight. You should have seen the holiday crowds at Heathrow. Total chaos – flight delays, screaming children, the whole nine yards. I was lucky to book a seat."
"The famous Solo luck. It never fails you." Illya stepped into the tiny kitchen, and began unpacking the bag of groceries. "I'm making tiger prawns for supper. Hungry?"
"After four days of bubble and squeak, bad coffee and digestives? Starving." Napoleon settled back on the sofa, and retrieved his scotch. He tilted the glass this way and that, watching the amber liquid swirl.
"The Summit went well, I presume?"
"I guess."
Illya's hands stilled. "Problems?"
"None worth mentioning." He drained the glass.
Illya abandoned the groceries, and went to sit beside his partner. He reached for his hand. "Was it very bad?" he asked quietly.
"Leave it, Illya."
"No."
They glared at one another; the clock on the wall ticked off the seconds. Finally, Napoleon sighed. "You're not going to give up, are you?"
"Tell me."
Another sigh. He stared into the empty glass. "It was a disaster. Waverly –" Just saying the name opened up a raw wound in Napoleon's heart. "Waverly's death has shocked the Section One heads to the core. They're like a ship without a captain, drifting along on the tide, with no one willing to take the helm."
Illya could not conceal his dismay. Things were worse than they had feared. "Understandable, that they would be deeply affected by his passing. Give them time."
"Time is a luxury we don't have. Events are moving in the world, and THRUSH senses our indecision. They've mounted an all-out offensive, testing our resolve, probing our weaknesses. You've seen the reports. Vietnam. the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia. The riots in Chicago, and the strikes in France."
He nodded, his expression grim.
"Agents are dying out there, Illyusha. Innocents are dying. It's up to the Section One heads to direct a unified response, but all they seem to be able to do is argue. God, how they argue! Everybody talks, but nobody listens, and in the end, nothing gets decided. Four days of endless, aimless babble, and the only thing they managed to agree upon was a tentative date for the next meeting."
"They have always been a fractious group. Powerful men seldom agree on anything easily."
"'Fractious.' That's one word for it, I suppose." He looked up, eyes red-rimmed with fatigue and too much alcohol. "I'm not cut out for this, Illyusha. I belong in the field with you, not in some ivory tower, issuing useless dictums and evaluating health plans."
"I daresay Mr. Waverly had a different view of the job," Illya remarked mildly.
"I didn't mean –!" Napoleon blushed to the roots of his hair. "Jesus, I don't know what's wrong with me."
"You have had a shock; we all have. There has been a death in the family, and we are grieving. But remember this – Waverly chose you to succeed him for a reason. He truly believed you were the best man for the job."
"That makes one of us."
"Two." He stroked the fleshy base of Napoleon's thumb. "Waverly was not infallible, but he was right about you. Of that, I am certain."
Napoleon stared down at their entwined fingers. "Christ, it's been an awful year."
Illya nodded. There were no words to express what had been lost.
"Maybe it's time I retired. Got out of the game, and did something else with my life."
Blue eyes widened in surprise. "Our lives. And don't be ridiculous. You are not some delicate hothouse flower, to wilt at the first challenge. You are a warrior. A survivor. The one who thinks outside the box."
"I'm just – so tired –"
Illya came to a decision. "You will feel better once you eat something. Go and have a shower while I sauté the prawns." He pulled his partner to his feet.
Napoleon smiled. "You think every problem can be solved with food and a hot shower."
"The simplest remedies are often the best. Now go, before I am tempted to join you. Supper will be waiting when you come out."
*/*/*/
By the time Napoleon emerged from the bathroom wrapped in one of Illya's old bathrobes, supper was on the table. The prawns sat, pink and plump on their bed of greens, beside glasses of Konzer Tälchen Riesling.
Illya glanced up. "Better?"
"Cleaner."
They sat down at Illya's rickety kitchen table. Illya watched his partner take a tentative bite, and then a larger one.
"Hey, this is good."
"You sound surprised."
"I shouldn't be, I suppose. You cook like a Michelin chef, speak enough languages to confound a UN translator, and you sew like a Paris designer. Moya blestyashchaya lyubov'.* What other talents are you hiding?"
"Perhaps I can show you later, if you are feeling up to it."
Napoleon smiled, and this time, the smile reached his eyes. "We really should get an apartment together, you know."
"It would be wonderful," Illya agreed, "someday. Alas, I do not think society is ready for our sort of love."
"I don't think I care."
They finished their meal, talking about normal things. The recent snowstorm, and the number of days until Spring. The latest album of ragas by Ravi Shankar. Illya's landlady's unfortunate attempt at a pickled beet casserole, its congealed remains awaiting covert disposal on trash day. Occasionally, their fingertips brushed against one another, a touch that sent chills up and down ]Illya's spine. Don Cherry's Eternal Rhythm played softly on the stereo.
At last, Napoleon pushed back from the table with a sigh of satisfaction. He reached for their empty plates. "Here, let me get those."
"No," Illya replied, and kissed him gently on the lips. "I'll take care of it. Go and snuggle under the covers – I'll be there in no time."
"But –"
"Let me do this for you, lubimy'i."
"I love the way you say that." Napoleon feathered a kiss on Illya's cheek. "Don't be too long." He disappeared into the bedroom.
As Illya ran the hot water in the sink, he heard the water running in the bathroom, the faint rustling of bedcovers, and the familiar squeak of the mattress as Napoleon climbed into his bed. He rolled up his sleeves, and slipped his arms into the soapy water.
*/*/*/
He left the dishes to dry on the rack, checked the security settings on the door alarm, and padded toward the bedroom. He shed his clothing, leaving it in a pile on the floor, and climbed into bed beside his partner.
Napoleon's eyes grew dark and sultry. "Now, then. About those hidden talents..."
Legs and arms tangled in the bedclothes as they positioned themselves; Illya kicked them to the floor with a huff of impatience. Their bodies moved together, mouths devouring one another in an urgent coupling fueled by healing love and devastating grief. Their soft cries turned to animal grunts of need. A final thrust and Napoleon came, shuddering, gasping Illya's name. Illya followed moments later, clutching Napoleon's buttocks as the waves of pleasure tumbled over him.
Napoleon kissed Illya's mouth, his neck, his chest. His body trembled with the aftershocks of their lovemaking. "Moya blestyashchaya lyubov'," he sighed.
"Shh. Sleep now."
He slept at last, head pillowed on Illya's chest, the soft, warm sound of his breath mingling with the hiss of the radiator, and the clanging of the pipes in the basement below. His face had relaxed in sleep; and a smile curled the corners of his lips. Illya lay awake until dawn, watching over him as the snow gently fell outside their bedroom window.
*/*/*/
*(my brilliant love)