The Anniversary Affair
Lucinda Price yawned. She turned to check the clock, sighed, then leaned over and blew out the candles. The acrid thread of smoke wrinkled her nose. She cleared the table, carried away the silver and stacked the crystal back into the hutch. The exotic repast she had prepared was wrapped up and returned to the fridge to be transformed into left-overs
Lucinda was sleepy, and her blue babydoll nightie left her shivering in the dark apartment. She had donned the teasing peignoir on purpose, presuming she would be quickly warmed by her expected visitor. That was five hours and …23 minutes ago. She slipped the silk over her head and tossed it across a chair. Lucinda squirmed into her long-sleeve, floor-length button-up flannel gown. Lucy referred to it as A Birthday Gift from Grandma Price; Illya christened it "the garment that left everything to the imagination." But it kept her warm—and Illya was gifted with plenty of imagination.
She creamed off the artfully applied makeup and washed her skin with clear lilac soap. Then she unpinned the upswept coiffure, shook out the curls and brushed a hundred strokes.
Lucinda slid across the sheets and curled onto his side of the bed, her arms embracing his pillow, her eyelids lowering as her anticipation had. She breathed in his scent. Oh, well. It would have to suffice until the original took its place.
She was barely aware of his key in the lock. The door whispered open. Kuryakin crept past the empty table, the crammed bookcase, the plump loveseat. The refrigerator light was enough for him to locate the vodka and he swigged from the bottle to avoid the possibility of any noise, or leaving any glass to rinse out.
He undressed in the living room, layering his clothes over the back of the loveseat. Illya stepped lightly under the bedroom arch. Lucy had replaced the white nightlight with a blue bulb, which outlined them both in a moonlight glaze. He stood watching her, counting her light breaths and smiling silently in the shadows.
"Five hours and…47 minutes late…" she murmured. "There better be some broken bones…"
"Sorry to disappoint," his breath warmed her throat. The tip of his tongue skated along the ridge of her ear... "Lu-cy…" he hummed along her cheek.. . "Lu—sha…" his lips sucked the hollow of her throat..."Luzija…"
"Scootch in…" Lucy invited, moving over to her own side. She released custody of his pillow which had been substituting in her arms. "Missed you." She folded herself against him. He embraced flannel instead of skin.
"Hmm-hmm… Granny's gift?" he pretended to pout in disappointment
"That's just the wrapping; your present's inside," she teased.
Kuryakin cradled her. "So…How many years?"
"Four." Lucy snuggled under his chin.
"And how many hours do I owe you?"
"Counting tonight, about eleven years' worth. I'm keeping track. And I fully intend to collect," she warned.
"I certainly hope so. I am good for it," he reassured her. Suddenly Illya had to bite his tongue to keep from yelping. "Good God, Woman! I've lived in the USSR nearly half my life—HOW do you get your feet so COLD?"
Lucy snatched her feet away and grabbed her fluffy bed socks from the stand. "If you had been here—oh, say five hours and 59 minutes ago—we'd both be warm by now," she challenged lightly.
"I was delayed taking out a lab in Chile," he grumbled.
"But not delayed in taking out the garbage, I trust."
Dead silence. Then with a mighty sigh, he slid one leg out from under the blankets and had elbowed himself to a half-prone position when Lucy reached over to draw him back
"Priorities, Mr. Kuryakin," she assured him. "Some things can wait til morning." The rumbling of his stomach chastised her.
Lucy dropped a kiss on his head as she rolled over him and padded to the kitchen before he could stop her. "Just a jiffy—" she called back. She spread peanut butter on saltine crackers (crumbs-in-the-sheets-be-damned) and set a mug of warm milk on a tray.
He was nodding forward as she set the snack across his lap.
Kuryakin nuzzled his thanks against her shoulder. Lucy nibbled a cracker and he offered her a sip of his milk. They cocooned in the blankets and tangled asleep. He was home; he was whole. It was her favorite gift.
Come Monday morning, her co-workers in cryptography would cajole her for "details" about their anniversary. "C'mon, Lu-SIN-da, spill!" Like every year, Lucinda would cast down her eyes, a blush would travel across her cheek, and she'd murmur "Oh, just what you'd expect…" and hide her smile behind a file. The girls would titter and moan and clutch at their hearts. The cadre of code breakers had pretty healthy imaginations, too.