Rated: NC-17

Dinner was lovely, and three glasses of wine on top of the vodka have given the world a soft, pleasant edge. At least I tell myself it is the alcohol. Otherwise I would have to acknowledge that it is the sight of Napasha hanging his shirts beside mine as if they belonged together. Impossible, because then I would have to acknowledge my greatest hope. The wild mad dream that somehow in this strange world perhaps they do. Great hopes, I have long learned, lead to greater loss.

I am sorting through our bags and dropping the dirty clothes into the bathroom hamper when he turns to me. "Twenty six years?" He says it in a voice of wonderment. "Do you really believe that Mark..?"

"In a six bedroom house, only one has been regularly used,"I answer. "And there is at least two weeks of dirty laundry in the main bathroom hamper."

"Yes, but...twenty six  years." He sits down on the bed. "Who would ever have thought it?"

"Why not?" I ask. "We are here."

"I was always pretty sure we were ... unique."

"And now?"

He pats the mattress, and I go over to sit beside him. "I still do," he says. " No matter what, I refuse to believe that anyone ever loved anyone the way I love you."

"Right answer."

"I thought so." He laughs, pulling me over for a brisk kiss.

I lean in and lengthen it just a bit before pulling back. Soon enough, but I have business first. "What do you make of that Demitri Grustov bit?"

"Clumsy. Very clumsy." Napasha leans his chin on his hand.

"That is what I thought. If Mark wanted us to know about an active ring in the area, why did he not just tell us? If David wished to put Grustov in contact with me, why did he not do so when you were not there?"

Napasha nodded. "So what are you going to do?"

"I believe I will have lunch tomorrow.... in the language department."

"Smooth." His voice is rich with amused approval. "Very smooth."

We move together for a deeper kiss. I taste a touch of scotch on his lips, over the richer taster that is Napoleon.

His lips leave mine and head south as he eases me back to the wide bed.

Clicking off the lamp as I fall, I reach for his broad shoulders. I cherish the flex of his back beneath my hands, the smooth warmth of his arms, the curls beneath them. He brushes his cheek against my chest, teasing my nipples with his evening beard.

I feel myself grow hard as he fills and lengthens against my leg.

His hands claim my ass, pulling me still tighter against him. "Why do I want you so? It hasn't been that long."

I pull him up as I open my thighs for him. "Ignore time. However long, it is always too long."

I feel his fingers at my opening, slick and hot. Teasing me. Preparing me. "Now!," I demand, and in one long stroke he comes into me. This is bliss. This warmth. This union. This song that reaches my heart from every nerve.

He rocks against me, his belly stroking my cock with every thrust. His hand claims by balls, warm and gentle as his thumb strokes the base in counterpoint to his deeper thrusts.  I rise against him, impatient to finish what I can not bear to end. Soon, too soon, I feel him gush within me as I abandon myself to my own pleasure.

Weak limbed, boneless, I sprawl back on to the pillows.  Napasha lays in my arms, still but not asleep. Not tucked close as I wish him to be.

"Trouble?" I whisper.

"Just thinking." He reaches out to pull me to his chest. "I have never before made love to you without a lock on the door."

Chapter Twenty-Nine: New World in the Morning

Rated: PG

Napoleon has gone down before me, and I do not spot him  as I enter the hall.

"Good morning," David calls to me. "Breakfast is almost ready. Why don't you have a seat?"

I look from the barren dining room to the bustling kitchen. No table in there. Where are we eating?

Mark is squeezing oranges, and when the pitcher is full he heads out the sliding glass doors. Is this  a picnic? I follow him into the back yard. Interesting. Here in the back yard the British formality gives way to wildflowers and fruit trees. A shaded table is set on the brick patio overlooking the pool. Very pleasant in the morning warmth.

Napoleon is already seated at the table, nibbling on grapes. He pours a cup of coffee and sets it at my place. Judging from the aroma, this brew is excellent.

"Ready?" David asks, bringing out plates of something golden, swimming in a red sauce. He puts them at each place, along with platters of bacon and crisp pork rinds. At my uncertain look, he smiles. "Fried cornmeal mush with raspberry salsa."

"Try it," Mark encourages, taking his seat. "It tastes better then it sounds."

Napoleon takes a bite. "Wonderful."

I test a bit. Napasha is right. It is delicious. Richer than pancakes. Fresher than syrup. I look at the laden table. "Do you always eat like this?"

"Hell no," Mark answers, snatching up a strip of bacon. "David's just putting on the dog.  He keeps me on granola."

"Mark," David begins.

"It's the truth!" Mark insists in a tone of outraged innocence. "The last time I ordered fried pork chops, you sulked for days."

"Good health is a matter of personal responsibility."

"It's my blood pressure."

"But *you* are mine," David snaps back smugly. " I am far to young to be widowed. Besides, I'd look terrible in black."

"Do you know?" I said, looking over at Napasha. "I have had the same thought recently."

David laughs.

Napoleon looks thoughtful.

"So," Mark asks as he picks up a last bit of bacon. " What would you two like to do today?"

"I thought I might go over to the campus," I answer. "I could check out the facilities, and perhaps meet with Professor  Grustov. If you think he will be in?"

"Very likely. Almost everyone keeps Saturday office hours. You could ride in with me, if you like," David offers. " I have some paperwork to finish."

"I think I should find a car." Napoleon adds. "California is supposed to be impossible without one. Then I need to set up an appointment with my broker. I can't find half my stocks in the listings." He shrugs. "Thirty years is a long time to ignore matters."

Mark clears the plates.  "You best be off then."

David stands. "Conference with Nachiem. You likely won't see me till well after lunch."

Mark smiles at David. "Don't let her spoil your appetite." And then, without any warning, Mark leans over and kisses him. On the lips.

I look at Napoleon.

He looks at me.

I  gather my courage, nod, and .... I feel his lips brush my forehead.

"Good luck, Illyusha."

"Take care, Napasha."

****************************

The campus is larger then I had expected. Acres of modern architecture set on well-groomed grass. Not just classrooms, but restaurants, shops, charming picnic spots. Quite a thriving little community. David points out the major landmarks on our way in. I ask him to drop me at the administration building. That should be a good place to find a map.

I am right. The young lady at the first desk hands me a thick guide and marks the directions to Professor Grustov's office in the Language Arts building.

Even on a Saturday the grounds are busy. Somewhat from classes, more so from the  social life that forms anywhere you gather a few thousand of the twenty-something. Still, other then a few  intrepid skate boarders, I pass unimpeded.

I smile at the cluster of casually clad students seated on the grass around an older woman. A seminar class, I suppose. At least, several of the young people have open books. Although given that they also have radios and snacks, I doubt their attention is totally focused on the subject matter. I remember such images from my Cambridge days, although back then I never had the spare time to join such frivolities. Now, perhaps? It might be very pleasant to learn that way.

Or perhaps to teach? Not the sciences, of course. Mine is not a field for the undisciplined. And I have more to learn there then to teach. But perhaps language? If this Grustov can serve in two departments? I will read over the catalog closely, and see if they are lacking any languages where I am fluent.

The building is open, and I head up to the faculty floor. Several offices are empty, but when I come to Grustov's the door is open and a young lady is busily sorting papers.

"Professor Grustov?" I ask.

She waves me towards the far door. It is unlocked, so I open it and look inside. A heavy-set man in his fifties is sitting at a book-covered desk. "Professor Grustov?"

He glances up from his papers. "Yes?"

"Illya Kuryakin."

"Who does not need any language classes at all."

I ignore the challenge. "I'm a friend of Mark Slate."

"Your pardon, I thought you might be greetings from home. Your accent, you know." He shrugs. "You have a very military bearing."

"That too." I pass him the most Russian of my ID's.

"Sorry. Not interested. My secretary will show you out."

"My apologies. You really are retired." I look over his wall of diplomas, and my eyes are caught by his thirty years certificate. Meritorious service with highest honors.

He follows my glance.

I shrug. "Not too often I've seen one of these."

"Give it another fifteen  years or so."

"Actually, I believe I have one now." I hesitate, then add. "In theory."

"Medical?" Grustov questions, giving me an accessing look.

I smile back blandly. Not a bad assumption if he chooses to make it.

"Sorry, but you look a bit young to have put in twenty years."

"As you say." I agree. "I just flew in from St. Petersburg, where they ..... 'retired' me, I believe was the phrase used.  I find myself at a bit of a loose end. David Martinez suggested you might have some ideas as to how I might ... occupy my time?"

"Well then," Grustov says, opening a file drawer. "Would you care for a drink?" He pulls out the familiar blue-labelled bottle and fills two glasses.

"You know?" I say, taking a sip and appreciating the familiar burn down my throat. "You are the first man this week to offer me Russian vodka. I was beginning to think we stopped making the stuff."

He raises his glass. "That is the bosses for you. They have gotten puritanical in my old age."

Chapter Thirty: Both Sides Now

Rated: R (The boys try something new in bed.)

I take a cab home. Napoleon is waiting when I arrive.

"How did lunch go?"

I shrug. "Grustov gave me vodka, bought me lunch, quizzed me on my Chinese, and then offered me a job - in the language lab."

"So it's a total waste."

"It was good vodka."

"Any chance it was a contact?"

"Anything is possible, but..... I am almost ready to believe these people are telling the truth." A thought so preposterous as to bring a smile to my lips. Which reminds me of another preposterous thought. "Oh, and Napasha? The ex-spies club meets on Monday nights at the Faculty Club. We now have a standing invitation."

I wait until he stops laughing before I add, "How was your day?"

Somehow that question was even funnier. So it is a bit before he tells me. "I got together with a stock broker at the company April told me was handling things. Seems she was telling the truth abut our salaries. Remember that stock fund, the direct deposit thing I talked you  into? Well, she kept up the deposits. Our entire salaries.  Which, between regular investments, and some long term growth .... and a little luck." He pulls out a thick sheaf of papers and hands them to me.  "I don't think money's going to be a problem any time soon. Even at these prices."

I read over the first page.  "Very impressive."

"I'm not authorized to discuss your account, so I told him you'd be by to talk later."

I take a much closer look at the figures. I start to add them, then give up. "Perhaps, if he gives me equally good news - I will forgive you for talking me into becoming a disgusting capitalist." I look again at the letterhead. Apparently there is a direct line for information. Excellent. That will save a drive.

I dial it. The young lady who answers asks for my social security number, then my mothers maiden name. Strange questions, but after I answer them she does get the man on the line.

Napoleon excuses himself, heading for the kitchen.

"Mr. Chalmers? This is Illya Kuryakin. Mr. Solo spoke with you earlier today?"

That was all that was required to set the man off on a flurry of numbers. I try to take notes, but soon give it up. Between dividends and reinvestment and share-averaged returns? Nothing he says makes sense to me anyway.

"Very interesting," I  insert when he finally runs out of breath. " Do you think you could mail that to me?"

My question inspires another volley of verbiage, but in the end he agrees. Good. It would have to be clearer on paper. Although... I look at the final number I had been given.

Napoleon steps back carrying a plate of sandwiches and two glasses of wine.

"How did it go?" he asks, handing me a glass.

"Apparently Russians are now even more disgusting capitalists."

"What?"

"When you *insisted* that I join you in that retirement scheme, the man asked where I wanted to invest. I naturally directed the company to support Soviet Heavy Industry," I explain.

"Very patriotic."

"I thought so."

"And the result?"

I hand him my scribbled figures.

"Very nice." Napasha raises his glass. " Smart, blond, and now rich. I always knew I had good taste."

I look again at the impossible numbers. "Napasha, either the world has gone mad, or I have."

"Probably us." When I look up, he chuckles. "You have to admit, it is the more logical choice."

"Yes."

"Do you mind?"

I look again at what I had written. "No."

********************

This is Mark's night to make dinner.  Apparently that means steaks on the barbecue. I once again have salad duty, while Napoleon is deputized to choose a wine.

Mark has fired up the garden heaters. We are eating outside again. Interesting. The restaurant where Grustov took me was outdoors as well. Californians seem have developed some strange aversion to buildings, although they build enough.

The sunset is turning pink as I finish setting the table. A breeze is swaying the fruit trees , but it is warm and  pleasant. Only enough to carry the scent of roses from the front yard. Two hummingbirds flit around the feeder on the back fence. No wonder the people here live outdoors. With this weather, who would not?

I have just set out the glasses  when David comes in. "Dinner ready?" he asks, dropping into his chair with a  sigh of mock exhaustion. "Great, I'm starved."

"I told you  not to let Nachiem ruin your appetite," Mark answers as he slips the steaks on a platter, and we all sit.

"Napoleon, I see you found a car." David comments, taking a deep swallow of wine.

"BMW Convertible. It will do for now." Napasha spears a steak and passes the platter to David. "The rental place delivered it around noon. I wanted a Porsche, but apparently none were available." He tries for a look of long-suffering as picks up his wine. "Oh well. Once Illya is settled, I suppose I should buy one."

"Unless April can find yours." Mark scoops up some salad. "Corr, that thing would be a classic. What did you have? Six thousand miles?"

"I don't remember. I was never home to drive it."

I help myself to a baked potato. "I told  you private cars were a waste."

"Get used to it, Kuryakin." David laughs as I hand him the platter. "If you live in sunny California, you'll both need one."

Mark lifts his glass and adds,"At least one."

One each? Well, that is a thought. Not exactly a pleasant thought, but if extra driving is the price for such a life? I have paid more for less. "How was your day?" I ask David.

"Hellish. Head of the department somehow learned that you were visiting with Grustov, and she wants you to speak to her class."

"What?" I pause with my fork halfway to my mouth. " I am not an economist."

"Neither is she."

"David!"

"Mark, the woman drives a Yugo!"

I hesitate, but.. Mark is a friend. A *brother*. If I cannot ask him, what trust is there? "That is the second time I have heard that. What is wrong with driving a Yugo?"

"Nothing. It's a political thing."

"With her" David snorts. "Everything is!"

"What do you expect?" Mark's voice takes on a tone of forced tolerance. "She's a registered communist - and  they haven't been having it so easy lately. You could show a little compassion."

I look at them both. "What has that to do with her economics class about which I know nothing?"

"She's just hoping you'll show up and bitch about how  California sucks." When Mark gives him another look, David subsides, but grumbles. "That's what all her guests do."

"How would I know if California 'sucks', as you so elegantly put it?" I ask. "I have only been here one day." I check my watch and add, "Not even that."

David grins. "No problem. When you teach economics - everything sucks."

"One of the advantages of Political Science," Mark agrees. "For us, everything is wonderful - at least for 51% of the time."

"Except in Florida."

"That was an exception."

"That was a disaster."

Mark takes a drink. "Not for people looking for jobs in the  polling industry."

"True," David agrees, reaching for his glass. He turns to me. "Plans for tomorrow?"

"I think I will spend it in the library," I answer.

"Good idea," Mark says. "I'll sign you in for my department so you can check out reference books. Faculty privileges."

*****************

After dinner, we sit by the fire sipping brandy. Soft jazz is playing over the garden speakers. Mark and David are debating some incomprehensible political point about some poet I have never heard of. There is a slight wind, but it is only cool enough to make the heat of the fireplace as welcome as the flickering light.

I look up at the hazy stars and consider my day. My very busy day. My very strange busy day.

"Napasha." I raise my glass. "I am rethinking my opinion.  We are sane. It is the entire planet that is crazy."

*****************

Warm, showered, and bonelessly comfortable, I relax against the pillows. Half asleep, unworried, my glasses lying on top of my pistol on the nightstand. The window is open, and a stray zephyr carries the scent of roses.

Napasha lifts the sheet and slides in beside me. He smells so good. Orange blossoms and wood smoke mingle somehow still in his hair. He feels so warm, a constant sun, a light and life to my soul. And tonight?  He is again with me tonight.

I roll over, flinging my arm across his chest. He strokes my hair, and his lips press the soft flesh above my ear with infinite tenderness.

Suddenly, I have the beautiful moment of realization that we will, perhaps, do this every night for the rest of our lives. That we will go to bed at night and wake in the morning and live every day without madness or lies or fear.

"Napasha?" I whisper.

"Yes, my Illyusha?" he murmurs, his breath teasing the short hair at my nape.   "What is it?"

I press my face into the soft curls of his chest, feeling them catch in the fluttering of my lashes.

"What do you want, Illya?" he asks again.

I feel the blush rise, flaming in my cheeks as the words die unspoken.

"Illyusha?"

I lay a kiss in the hollow of his throat. "Could we...?" I start, then the words fail me.

"Anything you want," Napasha whispers, brushing the fallen bangs from my forehead. "Anything."

I clutch his shoulder, reveling in the strong play of muscle, the known strength of arms built by hour after hour of effort. The deep power of his chest.

"Could we...?" My breath catches as his tongue passes tenderly over the crest of my ear.

"Anything, lyubovnick"

I take a shuddering breath. "Do you think we could.... sleep?"

"Yes." Napasha chuckles gently as he pulls me closer. "We can."

END CHAPTER THIRTY

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