He slipped in beside me some time after midnight; I awoke several hours later to the muddled scents of toothpaste and the triple-milled soap he picked up in Lisbon whenever he was there, one of his many little indulgences that never failed to fascinate me. I sat up and turned on my bedside lamp with a smile on my face, relaxed as I can never be when he's off on a mission without me. Before reaching for my book, I took a moment for an indulgence of my own, and that was to watch him while he slept. He was on his stomach with his face turned toward me, mouth slightly open as long, pale lashes fluttered in the wake of what I prayed were pleasant dreams.
I knew I was going to be awake for a while; insomnia and I had been friends for many years. It worked out well because Illya could sleep inside a coil of rope with nothing more than an oily rag for a blanket, which allowed me to read in bed without disturbing him. After so many years of living without him, I had no intention of wasting time in another room when I could be near him instead. It was still that fresh for me, still that wondrous—and it'd been four years.
Four years since Illya had pinned me to the ground and kissed me on the slope of some unnamed mountain in a country that didn't exist anymore, both of us muddy and bloody and exhausted and exhilarated to still be alive. Four years since he'd scolded me for loving him and not having the courage to tell him, four years of him loudly denying my accusations that he'd done the exact same thing.
It was an argument I was planning on winning at least once in the next forty years.
But tonight it seemed he wasn't content to sleep while I read. Before I'd even turned the first page, he stirred beside me, one hand creeping out from beneath his pillowed head to bat me softly on my hip.
"Hello," he murmured, eyes still shut. "What time is it?"
"Welcome home. It's not quite four, so go back to sleep."
I received a sleepy grunt in response but instead of turning away he arched upward, rubbing his face in his pillow before twisting into an upright position. Setting my book aside, I helped him rearrange the covers and pillows to his liking until he had his legs curled beneath him and he was facing me, blond hair sticking up in every direction as he blinked away the haze of slumber. This was not routine; usually I'd be up first and have the coffee percolating long before he'd roll out of our bed. The troubled look he wore now alerted me that there was something serious he wanted to discuss, serious enough for him to forgo some well-earned sleep after the long flight from London.
Although I was completely sure of him and what we had together, I was equally aware that life outside our door often has a way of intruding when it's least wanted. Some of my fear must've shown on my face, because Illya frowned and moved closer, running his hand down my arm to slip his hand into mine.
His next words were entirely unexpected.
"Napoleon, do you keep secrets from me?"
I learned long ago when a glib answer was warranted, even expected; this was not one of those times. I canted my body closer to his and tucked the blanket more snugly around our legs.
"Yes," I said quietly. "I suppose I do."
"Why?"
This nocturnal conversation was only growing more strange. Typical Kuryakin, he wasn't asking what secrets I had, only why I kept them a secret at all.
I scratched my nose as I considered his question. "So I don't hurt you, I think. Not those kind of secrets," I added swiftly at his frown deepened. "Secrets about the kind of man I've been, the things I've seen and done."
He nodded, seemingly content with my answer. "If I asked you about past lovers, would you tell me about them?"
That made me laugh outright, earning me a humorous, lazy blue gleam in return. "Well, it'd be pretty stupid of me not to, considering you've already met several of them. Frankly, they never seemed to impress you very much."
"I'm surprised you noticed."
I tightened my fingers around his. "You weren't exactly subtle."
His expression turned decidedly smug. "I suppose not."
"However," I continued, "I can't think of anything I'd withhold from you for any other reason."
"You sound very confident. Would you ask the same in return?"
I didn't reply at once. Neither of us were in a position to pass judgment on the other, nor did I feel threatened by his own romantic past. There was some natural curiosity, but I would never attempt to satisfy that curiosity at the risk of forcing him to relive unpleasant memories.
"Cher, I have no doubt that you have nasty things in your past, just like I do. We've both lived violent lives, but that doesn't change what we are to each other, does it?"
"Of course not."
"Then I have no need to hear your secrets unless you wish to share them with me."
"You are sentimental."
"I am." I smiled, completely at ease with his assessment. He smiled back but his demeanor remained solemn. "Is there something specific on your mind?"
He was silent for a long time, his eyes focused on some distant horizon. Long before friendship had turned to love, I'd enjoyed simply looking at him, the fine-grained skin, the changeable eyes that could turn wintry or sunny without notice, the mobile mouth that betrayed his deeper feelings. I knew every inch of the lithe body beside me, now clothed in a stretched-out, cloud-soft tee shirt and sensible cotton boxers, but none of these things would have held my attention if not for the integrity and beauty of the man inside.
He returned to the present with a silent sigh. "I would like to take you somewhere. Will you go?"
Intrigued, I pretended to consider his offer. "That's an interesting proposal. What's in it for me?"
His grin was sly, yet still tinged with some sadness I couldn't touch. "Not much. Will you come?"
I leaned forward and pressed my mouth to his in a brief caress.
"When do we leave?"
It was almost a month before we had the opportunity to travel to Amsterdam. In that time, Illya's mood was surprisingly relaxed, as if a weight had been lifted from his heart. Sensing that he'd reveal his mystery in his own good time, I kept my questions to myself and waited, knowing that as devious as Illya could be, he'd never lead me into something that would hurt me.
What I didn't expect was to find myself walking beside him on a windswept lane, the cold wind biting into my skin and making the bright yellow daffodils that lined the road huddle against each other. They were the one spot of color in the cemetery, the early spring sky as gray as the rough gravel beneath our feet.
Her grave was modest, a slightly raised rectangle bordered by a low brick border. It was part of another, larger walled area where the rest of her family was buried. Some of the headstones dated back to the eighteenth century, but after a quick glance at them I gave all my attention to my companion. Drawing my coat closer to my body, I watched as he placed a bouquet of white tulips at the base of the stone beneath the inscription.
On the plane from New York he'd told me her name—Annelies De Graff—and that they'd known each other when they were both students. It had been passionate and dramatic as only young love can be, he'd said with a small smile, knowing I'd also understand the implication that the entire affair had been brief. They'd parted as brokenhearted lovers and Illya had moved on to the world that awaited him, while Annelies had gone home to the village she'd been born in.
Many years had gone by before he'd made his way back to the Netherlands and on an uncharacteristically emotional impulse, he'd tried to find his former lover, more from nostalgia than a need to reconnect with her. He hadn't even expected to actually contact her; as we'd held hands beneath the scratchy blanket provided by the airline, he'd confessed that he'd wanted to discover she'd found someone who'd made her happy. It was such a rare moment of vulnerability that it stole my breath away, for unlike me, Illya Kuryakin could never be accused of being sentimental.
That first visit had been almost ten years ago, and he'd found so much more than he'd bargained for.
Stepping beside him, I laid my own offering of red tulips beside his and watched as he ungloved his hand to brush away some of the dirt that had accumulated on the stone's raised lettering. After a quiet moment accompanied only by birdsong, we rose to our feet and moved to the next grave in the row. This one was much smaller, the headstone topped with a delicately carved angel. Illya went down to his knees and I joined him, pressing close for his comfort and for mine.
"I keep hoping the pain will ease a little." He glanced at me, then down at the stone marker. A lump rose in my throat as I looked at the headstone; it was as simple as her mother's, containing only the name Liesbeth and the dates that marked the beginning and end of the four weeks that she'd lived. "But only a little, you understand."
"You couldn't know," I said uselessly, though he nodded as if he agreed. Together we laid our identical clusters of pale pink tulips side by side on her grave, the tender curve of their petals lending a soft edge to the austere granite and damp, dark soil.
Wishing to give Illya some privacy, I stepped backward toward the edge of the plot. He hesitated only a moment before joining me as he dusted the dirt from his gloves. Without a word we turned together and began to make our way back down the path. Our years together, first as partners, then friends, then finally lovers, had made platitudes between us unnecessary.
As we closed the wrought iron gate of the cemetery's entrance, I paused and laid my hand on Illya's arm.
"Why now?" I asked. "After all these years, why did you want to tell me now? Were you that unsure of me?"
He glared at me and I smothered a smile. "Of course not."
"Then why?"
He shrugged. "As you pointed out, I have no wish to cause you pain in any way. I didn't think it would serve any purpose."
"What changed your mind?"
He lifted his eyes to the leaden sky, carefully considering his next words. "I could no longer bear coming alone. I needed you."
It was a simple statement from a complicated man, but it stole the teeth from the sharpening wind and suffused me with an ethereal warmth. I was so caught up in the bittersweet pleasure of the moment that I almost missed his next softly spoken words.
"Will you return with me again?"
"Of course," I said. "Are you sure you want me to?"
"You make it easier," he replied, and I knew there was so much more being said.
"I have no secrets that I would not share with you, regardless of the cost," I reminded him gently. "But it is no secret that I love you, that I've loved you for a very long time, and that I'll spend the rest of my life with you, if you'll have me."
He tilted his head, overlong hair brushing the thick collar of his wool coat. There was a telltale shine to his eyes as he looked me up and down.
"I'm afraid there is no escape for you, Napoleon," he declared with a touch of his usual arrogant charm, and I knew that I'd served my purpose for being there. We shared one more glance before resuming the long walk to the car, Illya eventually breaking the comfortable silence with his declared hope of finding good cheese and superior beer at the nearest tavern.
Neither of us had perfect pasts, and Illya's trust in me wasn't something I'd ever take for granted. His bravery had made me realize that there were hard truths in my own past that I could reveal without hesitation. No doubt some day I would need to, because the life I'd chosen concealed nightmares behind every memory.
Until that day arrived, all of my secrets and lies, memories and mysteries, would stay safely locked away. In the meantime, I had Illya, and he had me, and that was perfect enough for the day.
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