Yes, this is familiar. Seems like I spend half my life in places like this. Coming or going. Train yard, bus station, airport—it's all the same. Looking for someone, chasing a bad guy, even hiding from someone a couple of times, much to my chagrin. I've been beaten up, shot at, drugged, kissed, dumped in a luggage cart but never have I felt what I feel here, on this train station platform.
Gut-wrenching, immobilizing terror.
It's cold. My hands are incased in tight leather gloves and I'm wearing a thick wool coat but I'm so damn cold. I wish I could go inside but for some reason I have to stay here, tucked between two train cars on a side rail. The morning sun is slanting across the tracks but there's no warmth. The trains are keeping the station platform in shadow.
And it's so quiet. The checkpoint, about a hundred feet in front of me, is proceeding slowly, so slowly, and for some reason I need them to hurry. The guards are checking everyone's papers thoroughly and that makes me nervous. I'm not fluent in German but I can pick out a word here and there, mostly from the men in uniform. Something about them causes a frisson of fear down my back and I huddle deeper next to the dark metal of the boxcar.
I'm looking for someone now, I know that, someone important to me. Everyone is speaking low, the crowd moving in sullen lines, not making eye contact. Mostly businessmen, trying to earn a living in these dark times, pinch-faced women clutching their pocketbooks, young people handing out flyers.
Wait a minute—something is sickeningly familiar here. There's an oppressive tension in the air, the kind I haven't felt since Korea. It's a miasma that hangs over the station, thick and malodorous like the smoke from the engines. The people look sad, worn out.
Afraid.
There. Sun glinting off gold rimmed glasses as the young man passes in front of me. Is that him? Of course it is. That slim form is a welcome sight, one I always take pleasure in. He doesn't notice me, his gaze fixed on the line of soldiers poised on the platform.
Illya. My Illya.
I want to call out to him, get his attention, but my hands stay frozen at my side. Trying again, I move enough to pull the brown fedora lower over my eyes and finally get my feet to step out, thrusting my hands in my pockets but still keeping close to the train. In front of me and to the right stands a dark-haired man in a brown leather coat, watching the people pass by.
Instinctively, I know the dark-haired man is a threat. I reach under my overcoat for my weapon but to my horror it's gone. Oh God—how did that happen?
I see Illya again, but just from the back now. The tips of his blond hair are resting on the collar of his blue suit. He's doing that little walk of his when he's trying to be inconspicuous—head forward, eyes down.
Of course, I can always pick him out.
He's getting closer to the checkpoint. My stomach tightens. No, I don't want him going there. I want to move, to shout at him, tell him it’s dangerous but my legs won't budge again. My heart is beginning to hammer in my chest and my mouth is dry with burgeoning terror.
Now he's stopped. Good. I will him to turn around, come over to me where he should be, at my side. Instead he's moving closer to one of the trains, pretending to go through some papers but keeping the dark-haired man within his line of sight.
The dark-haired man is moving. He's been watching everyone and now it seems he's recognized somebody in the line waiting to get past the checkpoint. He's starting to move towards them, his hand raised—
Oh, God! No, Illya, don't! He's—he's thrown himself at the man, they're falling to the ground. I've got to help him, get to him, the others are coming—
Gunshot.
My God, please no—no, Illya's getting to his feet. Yes! Run towards me, it's safe here! My heart is pounding and I can't breathe and I'm sweating—hurry please God hurry!
Illya is fast, he's running so hard—he's close now, he sees me but he doesn't stop and his eyes are wide and sad as they meet mine—wait! what's happening—there, the soldier is shouting and I can't hear him oh sweet Jesus everyone is hitting the ground he's telling them to get down he's raising his gun Illya you know German you know what he's saying just a little further and you'll be safe with me run faster please God run faster—
Gunshot.
"No! God!"
I jerk up in bed, the sheets and blankets tossed as I fight the deadly panic that drenches me in sweat. My eyes are glued shut because I just have to concentrate on breathing right now, focus on letting my surroundings begin to soothe me.
The nightmare is embedded deeply behind my eyes and I'm shaking. Only one thing can right my world, can fight back the horror I just lived. Eyes still clenched tight I extend a trembling hand towards the right side of the bed. I know once I touch his warm skin I'll be ok, I'll know it was a dream and it will be safe to open my eyes.
My fingertips encounter only cool air and I lean to the right, panic beginning to rise again because there is no sleep-soft body next to me.
I pull in a shaky lungful of air and hold it, finally turning and opening my eyes, praying my touch was off target and he'd be there, blinking sleepily at me and taking my hand, whispering words of comfort and love.
But he's not there. I've rumpled all the bedclothes but his pillow is untouched, looking strangely marble-hard in the faint light filtering in from the street. It's late, my mind registers, the street lamp is on. It was afternoon when I lay down. A soft April afternoon that I ignored because it's beauty was too painful.
Reality and nightmare begin to seep into each other and my heart rate begins to slow. The fear is being replaced by a bewildering loneliness. My head still isn't too clear and I can feel the confusion growing.
Where is he?
Remembrance filters in. The long flight home after the disastrous mission. Three agents dead in an ambush and the gnawing guilty relief that my partner had remained in New York for this one after just coming off a grueling assignment in South Africa. Filing the reports at HQ, the grieving co-workers, the expressions of sorrow.
All I had wanted was to go home, because he was there, waiting. My first step in the door, breathing in the scent of our life, and I began to heal. Second step and I was encased in loving, understanding arms, blue eyes I cherished speaking consolation without words, offering solace without platitudes.
Seeing my weariness, I was led to our bedroom, undressed and tenderly placed between cool sheets smelling faintly of lilac. A callused hand brushed over my forehead before I was left alone. I thought I made an attempt to grasp that hand but too late; he was gone and I fell asleep.
And dreamed...
My breathing is steadier. The clamminess inside my palms is cooling and slick, so I wipe them on the sheet before bringing the backs of my hands to my eyes and rubbing. The absurdity of thinking he was never really here fades as I take in the book on his bedside table. The bookmark doesn’t seem to have moved since I left and I wonder why. Across the room, casually tossed on one of the stuffed chairs by the window, I see the cashmere yellow V-neck I bought him in Stockholm. I love him in that sweater, almost as much as I love taking it off of him. I smile slightly—he knows I love it and he was wearing it when I came home.
These everyday objects bring clarity to my mind. My heart is beating normally, the sweat is dried. The blanket and sheet have fallen away from my bare chest and the cool air makes me want to shiver. It's very quiet and now that I'm awake and calm all I want is to find him.
I push the bedclothes away and swing my legs over the side. On the nightstand rests a crystal beaker filled with fresh water, a matching cup inverted over the top. My now-steady hand reaches and pours a cup, the cool water serving to further clear the nightmare from my mind. A few swallows and I replace the glass—then a disturbing thought intrudes on my hard won composure.
What if he's not here? He could have gone to his own apartment just a few buildings away, the one he kept to satisfy appearances. Or God forbid he's been called out on a mission, one that included train yards...
I rise quickly from the bed, all thoughts other than finding him driven from my mind. My silk robe is hanging by the hook on the back of the door; I snatch it and hastily pull it on before turning the handle and stepping into the dark hallway.
Almost immediately I stop. At the far end of the hallway is our den. From where I stand I see two outstretched legs, crossed at the ankle, one bare foot swaying slightly. The light in the room is low, my guess the small lamp on the library table the only illumination.
I draw in a deep breath and my eyes drift shut.
He's here.
Slowly now I move down the hall until I'm just this side of the threshold, leaning against the doorsill. There, in the soft gold light, is Illya.
I smile, the relief washing over me. He's here, he's ok—so I take the opportunity to indulge myself.
He's in one of the deep wing back chairs, slouched bonelessly, eyes closed as he listens to music through the headphones. A small liqueur glass is on the table beside him. His arms are crossed loosely over his chest, head tilted slightly to one side and wearing only his faded blue terrycloth robe. He's just showered because his hair is damp and tousled, looking as though he's been running his hands through it instead of a comb.
My heart constricts and I swallow. Even before we became lovers I was certainly aware of his beauty but only as a connoisseur. But now that we share a life I'm constantly blindsided by it and this is one of those times. Hard on the heels of my nightmare he looks young and vulnerable to my eyes, even as I dismiss the notion out of hand. Illya can take care of himself, as he constantly reminds me—and usually in a pretty annoyed tone of voice.
But now as I watch him, lost in his music and unaware of my proximity, I let all the protective feelings I keep to myself well up. Unbidden, the horror of my dream intrudes and I unwillingly witness again the impact of the bullets, hear the dull thud as they strike him in the back, the flailing of his limbs as he falls forward. I see defeat—and farewell—in his eyes before they glaze over, the vibrant blue fading in death.
My breath catches and I squeeze my eyes shut to try and block out the vision. It doesn't work and suddenly I know I've got to banish its hold for good. I open my eyes.
Then his head raises and those incredible eyes lift to meet mine.
"Napoleon, you're awake—!" he begins with obvious pleasure, then stops as he searches my face. The welcoming smile fades and he uncrosses his legs and plants his bare feet as if to get up, pulling off the headphones and laying them on the table beside the chair.
One quick shake of my head and he stops, a questioning frown marring his forehead. I push away from the doorsill and walk slowly towards him, my eyes locked on his. Reaching him I part his legs and kneel between them, my forearms resting on his thighs, my hands settling lightly on his hips.
He's looking at me, head cocked to one side, the hint of a smile playing around his mouth. He places his hands on my shoulders and leans in, lightly brushing his lips against mine. The sweetness of it makes me dizzy and I pull back with another shake of my head.
Confused, he leans back and frowns down at me. Coming faintly from the headphones still attached to the stereo I hear strings playing a melancholy refrain.
"Polya?" he whispers, and I reach up and brush his mouth with my fingers. My eyes are drawn to his lips as I caress him there. He's watching me, even as he opens his mouth to lap gently at my fingers. I don't want him anywhere near the nightmare. I'll never tell him what I dreamt. But right now I have to assuage the pain it inflicted on me.
I slide my hand around to the nape of his neck and lean in, my other hand going to the tie at his waist. I place my lips close to his ear, first breathing deeply the clean scent of him before whispering.
"...need you."
He nods his understanding and so I bury my nose in the curve of his neck, pulling his sash and sliding my hands up to grasp the lapels of the robe. He's caught some of my mood and is quiescent under my hands—no doubt he thinks I'm upset over the recent mission. He leans back and I push the robe off, revealing his golden smooth skin. With a graceful move he extracts his arms, letting the robe fall in folds around his waist before returning his hands to my shoulders.
I feel the heavy warmth growing between my legs and I stand up, taking his wrists and pulling him to his feet as well. The blue terrycloth falls away and I draw him close, my arms going around him. I want to pull his head to my shoulder but his hands come between us and quickly my own robe is removed. I retake him in my arms and he turns his head up for a kiss. This time I oblige, and our lips meet, gentle and affirming.
There's usually a lot of laughter when we make love—which has been an incredible, beautiful surprise. The first time I took him to bed I somehow knew that under that cool exterior lived a passionate, tender man and I was right. What I didn't expect was the playfulness. If I hadn't already been head over heels that first time would have done me in.
But right now, with the phantasm so hauntingly close, I can't stop the feeling of urgency that sweeps through me, as if he will disappear if I don't touch every part of him with my lips and my hands.
I urge him down on the thick rug in front of the unlit fireplace. My unusual silence and intensity have aroused him and as I begin to make love to him he struggles not to respond in kind. Even as his hands are reaching to pull me closer I clasp his wrists and pin them to the floor near his shoulders, aligning my body between his parted legs.
He begins to push against me and I release his wrists to press his hips down, then slide my hands under his thighs and pull them up until his knees bend naturally.
His eyes go wide and now he sees all of my need. I watch those eyes darken with understanding and matching passion and I flow up his body and take his mouth. The desire and necessity now have us both moaning as I delve deeper and deeper, my tongue a welcome intruder. His hands are digging into my shoulders now and we're rocking but it's not enough. I make love to his mouth, his nipples, his neck, once again carefully pinning his wrists to the floor.
Panting, I draw back and reach blindly for my robe, finding it and reaching into the deep pocket to find what I need. He has thrown a forearm across his eyes and he's palming one of his nipples with the other, his chest slick and heaving, the pale light glinting dully off the wedding band I recently placed on his finger. Seeing him like this, knees bent and legs parted, his body throbbing with need, the ugliness of the dream is receding. It can't stand against the love I have for this man.
With gentle, persuasive fingers I prepare him, loving him wordlessly as I soothe and caress. He's running his fingers through the hair at my temple as I bend over him, his soft whimpers and the faint music the only sound in the room. When neither of us can wait any longer I position us, then I impale him slowly, face to face, our eyes locked as we restart our rhythm. I wrap my hand around him and he's unbelievably hot within the circle of my stroking fingers as I move us higher. He's still letting me lead, letting me decide the pace, knowing that I'll take care of him, that his pleasure is my ultimate reward.
His legs wrap around me and the change in the angle of my thrusts has deepened the delicate moans to a growl deep in his throat. The sound inflames me as much as it always does and any control I was clinging to is lost.
I move faster when I see and feel the changes in him. I'm already at the point where I want to explode inside this velvet heat but I grit my teeth and hold back, waiting so that like in all things, we can be together. When his eyes slam shut and his back arches I plunge hard, my hand like a vise around him. With a cry very like a sob he comes, his release pouring over my hand and chest. I feel the shudders that start in deep inside him race down his body and vibrate around me—and then I too am lost. As I pump myself inside him I feel a cleansing tear course down each cheek.
Sometime later I rouse, not surprised to find myself enfolded in strong arms. There is no sound; even the record player has gone silent. Brushing my temple with his lips, Illya reaches past me and snags my robe, pulling it over my shoulders then tugging at me until I blanket him. We lay like that for a while; for my part I am content simply to hold him.
Finally, he moves to stretch and I lift myself, curling a leg beneath me and offering an arm so he can sit up. When we are both upright he tucks himself around me, curving his arm under mine and resting his head on my shoulder, his face turned away. I press a kiss to the back of his head and he responds with one to my collarbone. His bare back is warm beneath my fingers as I trace over the thin scars left by another mission, a time before he was mine. My imagination suggests where the bullet wounds would have struck and I falter, feeling the horror begin to reassert itself.
I must make some small sound of distress because he is instantly turned in my arms, a frown forming between his eyes. He reaches a slender hand up to my cheek and cups it.
"Do you wish to talk about it?"
I just shake my head, brushing a kiss against his palm. He nods understandingly and tucks my head into the crook of his neck, barely rocking us. We sit like that for a while; even now, awake and held in his arms, my thoughts are tinged with a lingering sadness. In one stress-induced dream my worst fear is played out before my eyes. Yes, I've always known that fear but I've never let myself imagine just how agonizing it would be.
I try to push my face closer to his warm neck but he pulls back, pressing his forehead to mine as he sighs. His warm breath drifts across my lips and I begin to relax again.
"We don't have much time, Polya. I have to be at the train station quite early, you know."
With those softly spoken words, the darkness crashes in again.
For he being dead, with him is beauty slain,
And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again.
In case you weren't aware of the genesis of this piece, I was inspired by the movie The Great Escape, starring Steve McQueen, James Garner—and a very handsome young Scottish actor named David McCallum. (If you haven't seen it, you really should—it's marvelous.) Black Chaos Comes Again is taken from the scene where DMc's character is ::sniff:: gunned down as he saves the two masterminds of the escape (Aithine, insert pithy comment here: "What a waste! The Big X wasn't worth it, Eric!"). It's a terrifying scene as everyone hits the ground except for the fleeing Eric Ashley-Pitt. From there it was an easy jump to Napoleon witnessing this horrible tragedy—and so the story was born.
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