"Perfect."
The word is muttered more as an imprecation than a happy summation of the scene before me.
Let's see—dark-paneled study, well-built fire, soft music in the background. I'm dressed for the mood in a pair of pajamas the color a good ruby port—imported, preferably from the west side of the Rio Douro. The couch is angled towards the fire's warmth and on a nearby table is a presentation of caviar in its ice-encrusted server, the mother-of-pearl spoons glistening in the low light. Next to that is a decanter of vodka, also on ice, as are the two slim glasses that complete the set.
I love this room—because he loves this room. I can speak five languages and can read three pretty well; he speaks eight fluently and is working on equaling that in reading comprehension. Because of that, this room is awash in books of many tongues, atlases of countries long gone—many of which we visited before they were conquered or led into something else. The room was also soundproof, allowing us to block out the worst of the Manhattan traffic and listen to our music with uninterrupted pleasure.
So when I look around this little den, I see the results of many travels and I see the comfort which the word 'home' now offers me so effortlessly.
But best of all, I see a beloved head of hair still so blond that I'm blinded when I look at him in strong sunlight. Even now, the firelight strokes his hair with lovers' fingers, causing my own hand to twitch in anticipation.
Unfortunately, there's a little hurdle I must overcome before I have that pleasure.
"Still at it, Illya?"
"Mmm, hmm."
At that unencouraging response, I step forward and see for myself that he is still enraptured by a heavy tome that says, rather pontifically, "Tax Code of the Internal Revenue Service of the United States of America".
I sigh and come around the couch to see that he is sprawled over most of it. I lift the various body parts in my way until I'm comfortable in my seat—with those warm body parts now draped over me. The vodka is at my elbow, so I pour us both a generous amount and hold out one glass to him. It's taken with a languid hand that pauses to turn a page before reaching for the glass. At least he's out of that damnable black suit and is looking comfortable in a white undershirt and flannel pajama bottoms.
One bare, bony foot is resting on my thigh, so I take the bottom of my chilled glass and run it along the vulnerable arch.
The foot jerks and I look up with a smile into outraged blue eyes that are just a breath short of laughing.
"Again, Napoleon. Explain again how I became an American citizen only to take what one UNCLE pays me to give it to another one of your so-called uncles. Show me in this—this brick you call tax code why for years I received money back from this uncle every year because I'd given him too much."
"Well, okay, there's this thing call income tax—"
"Yes! And please explain why I invest what my uncles give me and I make a profit and now I must turn around and give them more money on the profit I made."
His eyes are openly laughing now and it's with some difficulty that he's keeping his mouth, soft in the worst of circumstances, from revealing his true intent.
My own mouth twitches but I won't give in. I take a full sip of the vodka, letting it slide down my throat before I respond.
"That," I intone, "is the capital gains tax. It would seem, mon ami, that you are too good at investing and Uncle Sam wants to share in your good fortune."
"Hrmph," he mutters, setting the book on the floor. "That sounds very much like communism. Share and share alike. If I have plenty I must share everything with my neighbor." He tosses off the vodka and hands me the glass. I take it from him and set both his and mine aside, then grab his hand.
He's expecting the move and he comes easily, sliding his legs beneath him until he is curled in my arms like an impudent cat who knew where he wanted to be all along.
"Not everything," I breathe against his temple, watching the fine hair flutter at the light touch. "Some things aren't meant to be shared."
I pull back to see his blue eyes darken as his smile fades away, replaced with the love that resides there for me.
"You are right, Napoleon," he murmurs against my lips. "Some things are not. Therefore I will keep my profits and your Uncle Sam will go without." He kisses me hard and then leans back in my embrace, his fingers beginning to work loose the buttons of my pajamas.
I still those fingers by bringing them to my mouth for an intimate caress. "I'll miss you," I say regretfully.
Blond brows draw together in a frown. "Miss me?"
I set his hand back to their task and nod. "Yes, I'm afraid tax evasion is a crime punishable by fine or prison or both. With your—er—checkered past, I'm afraid they'd lock you up and throw away the key. Besides, need I remind you that if everyone didn't pay their taxes, you and I would be out of a job?"
"Hmm." Strong hands finish the job and are busy peeling away the silk from my chest. "Then I will pay," he says magnanimously, "for although I still think it unfair, I do not wish to deprive the world of its two oldest—hmm, most experienced—espionage agents."
I nod approvingly. "Very unselfish of you."
"I thought so."
Soon after, both shirts are gone and April fifteenth—and everything else, for that matter—is forgotten and it's just another day we've been given to be together. Before things get too interesting I do give a passing thought to how my Illya still manages to surprise me after all these years. His uncanny ability to play the stock market is just one more fascinating detail about him that I tuck away—along with my resolve to check his tax return every year from now on.
For Aithine, who sees me through the darkest days of April by sendng me sunshine *g*.
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