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He’d never expected to be in this position. Stuck in the Paris catacombs desperately listening to the ticking of his wristwatch, savoring every passing second like it was his last meal. Praying that one of their rivals wasn’t waiting for him in the dark, he felt someone grow closer, the metal tip of a pistol pressing against his chest. He held his hands up in silent surrender.
“Andrey? Is that you?” a deep, familiar voice asked.
He breathed out, finally able to lower his hands, “Yes and I’d kindly appreciate it if you’d point that away from me.”
Goncharov slid his pistol back into his holster and chuckled, “You know, you’re the only man I let order me around. If you were anyone else you’d be dead.”
“I know. You need me.” Who else would be able to smuggle you into Paris with such ease? He thought to himself.
“True. I do need you, Andrey. Right now.”
Andrey felt something move in his chest at the confession, something he longed to bury.
“Yes, sir?”
“Do you have a lighter?”
Andrey sobered at that. Of course, he did, he always kept one in his pocket just in case. Goncharov had many gifts, that was, after all, what made him so dangerous. Keeping track of a lighter was not one of them.
He listened to his boss fumble with his cigarette case for a moment before rolling his gloved thumb against the spark wheel. The small flame illuminated the deep creases etched into Goncharov’s face. He watched as the cigarette rested in the resolute line of Goncharov’s lips and couldn’t suppress the wave of envy he felt for the filter and tobacco leaves.
Goncharov met his gaze, and a small smile played at one corner of his mouth. Andrey felt heat rise to his cheeks. He quickly turned and held the lighter up looking at the skulls lining the walls and anywhere else that wasn’t his superior.
“Did you want to smoke too, Andrey?” There was something teasing in his tone, this wasn’t unfamiliar. What was unfamiliar was the generosity.
“Yes. Please, sir.” Perhaps a cigarette would help calm him.
Goncharov moved to stand in front of him and opened the silver cigarette case. Andrey gingerly took one and held it to his mouth. Another hand covered his own, loosening his grip on the lighter.
“Allow me.”
Andrey watched as the light danced between them. This was so strange. Goncharov had never done anything like this for him before. He let the end of his cigarette burn a little before taking a few puffs. To his horror, he coughed.
“I’m not used to this brand,” he lied.
The truth was that smoking reminded him of his boss, he hadn’t smoked at all in the past two months. When he walked alone along the canals in Moscow and saw the fishermen smoking together, their weathered forms huddled against the cold, sharing cigarettes and body heat, their faces lit orange from their matches contrasting with the blue of the evening, something stirred in him. Better to avoid that feeling. He looked to the ground and tried to inhale the stale air around him.
“Andrey. Look at me.”
He did. This was a mistake. The dark eyes of his superior looked pained.
“I’ve seen you, you know. How you look at Katya and me when we’re back home.” This, Andrey realized, was a challenge.
Defeated, he let the cigarette fall to the floor before stamping it out. “Guilty as charged." He held his hands up briefly in mimicry of their initial exchange.
Goncharov stepped closer and took a deep pull of his cigarette, before similarly disposing of it, he blew out a cloud of smoke entirely too close to Andrey’s face and entirely too familiar. “You would like to know what it’s like? To kiss Katya?”
Fear should have overwhelmed him.
“Not Katya, sir,” he heard himself say.
A well-worn, calloused hand rose to his cheek. “I see. Perhaps we shall have to sate your curiosity.”
“Yes, sir.”
Goncharov’s lips pressed lightly against his. One of the most wanted men in Europe, the hands that had killed so many gently holding him. Caressing him. Making him feel safe. He opened his mouth a little, moaning at the sensation of Goncharov’s tongue on his. He felt something coil in his core. From the way Goncharov’s usually controlled body moved against him, he was feeling similarly. Andrey could taste everything he had ever wanted and everything they’d spoken about. In the evenings, in long taxi rides, in between hunting down their targets, Goncharov had confided in him about escaping to Italy, of running away from the violence his chosen profession required. Andrey daydreamed of being there with him. In their kiss he could taste the sun-soaked olives, the wine from their vineyard. He could see their house on a Tuscan hill.
Unfamiliar footsteps echoed against the calcium walls around them. Goncharov pulled away, breaking the spell.
“I told you I needed you, Andrey.”
“If you ever need a lighter I’m your man,” he whispered.
Goncharov smiled and quietly made for the other end of the passage, Andrey following close behind him.