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Marko Ramius has been waiting in the parking lot for four hours by the time Commander Mancuso finally emerges from behind the gate. He had expected to wait for some time after the Dallas had come back into port, had brought a book and a thermos of tea and had settled in to read while Bart finished up his paperwork. Still, by all rights, he should have left some time ago, gone to buy some lunch or an afternoon paper, and then returned to the lot, but he had stayed as he was, making up a grocery list in his head, planning out the two weeks they will spend together, for all that time.
At long last, Bart comes towards the truck with his pack over one shoulder and a frown upon his face. The American looks exhausted, as he always does after a long deployment, and Marko knows he probably can’t wait to take a long, hot shower and to lie down in a real bed. With the coming blizzard, they will probably have to settle for some motel along the interstate, the best they can do in the stormy weather. He hears the American struggle to open the door, before he finally pulls it open, grimacing as he steps up into the cab and climbs into the passenger seat. Only then does Marko see the bandage about his right wrist, swelling the sleeve of his coat.
“You are injured.” He says, as Bart twists around to tug down the seatbelt, and to settle his pack on the floor.
“Got it in one, Russkie.” The American sighs. “One of my sailors fell halfway down the ladder, in a squall, and left it all bruised up. Medic took a look at it, ran some x-rays. Said I should be fine once the swelling goes down.”
“You are sure?” Marko asks him, and Bart shrugs.
“More or less. We don’t heal up the way we used to.” He stretches his neck, turns his head from side to side. “Was a long sailing. Seems like they get longer, every year.”
“I’m sorry for that.”
“You were right to leave the game, while you still could.” Bart sighs. “It’s a hell of war we’re fighting.”
“Well, we are not at war anymore.” Marko tells him. “At least, not on our better days.” He adds, and Bart offers him a small, sad smile.
———-
It had taken him some time to become accustomed to Americans, and American life, and in some ways, it is still an ongoing process. The first few weeks, during their debriefing in Virginia, he had felt keenly the exhaustion of long days of English, felt unnerved by the agency men, by being surrounded by the CIA. Bart Mancuso had brought him some comfort, then, because conversations with him could be largely technical, or largely silent, because the American captain also seemed to dislike the feeling of constant surveillance. He could see it in the way his dark eyes would fill with alarm, or annoyance, when an agent other than Jack would enter the room, the way the tension would take over his body, when he knew he was under surveillance. He had appreciated Bart’s solidity, Bart’s solidarity, as a sailor and a commander, a person who could understand him without his having to say a word.
They become friends, or something like it, sipping tea in the evenings after dinner, telling stories or saying nothing at all. It is not like with Jack, who tells him his whole life story, who shows him a picture of his daughter, of his family, who reveres him for his age and experience. When he feels inclined, Bart will roll his eyes at him, will smile, will chuckle at him, albeit rarely. Theirs is a relation between equals, and offers a respite from having to lead and guide his men, even now that they are ashore. The difference in their nationality, their long years of enmity, seem entirely irrelevant: they are sailors and captains and submariners, and he thinks he understands the man down to the marrow of his bones.
It is a surprise, then, to be surprised, on the morning that the other man leaves, to return to the Dallas. In the kitchen of the big old house, Bart embraces him, loose and warm and easy, and it is a shock, though not an unpleasant one, to feel the strong arms about his waist, to scent the light, fresh smell of his aftershave. The quick goodbye afterwards leaves a faint ache, somewhere in his chest, as he knows that he will lose his one friend here, and likely never see him again.
Only when Jack comes in, talking about something or other, does he find himself returning to where he is, to the work that must be done. He has not come here to make friends, he reminds himself, has not crossed oceans and broken faith just to be here with Jack Ryan, with Bart Mancuso. But he is here, all the same, and he hopes they will both remain a part of his new life.
———
They do have to stop at a motel, because even in his truck, even with the chains on the tires, it isn’t a wise idea to keep driving through the snow and the ice. They’re handed a set of keys to a cold, drafty room, and he can tell Bart’s mood has turned sour because he asks to shower first, because he’d hardly said anything to him, in the last hour or so in the car, before he’d told Marko we should pull over. The American lies down in the bed, after his shower, and shuts his eyes, and where there should be calm, should be serenity, upon his face, is only tightness, discomfort, pain. Marko wishes he could help him, but does not know what to offer, and goes into the shower instead, bathes himself in the scalding hot water.
When he emerges, he finds Bart still awake, lying on his back and looking up at the ceiling. He slips into bed beside him, the inexpensive sheets chafing and scratching against his skin, and speaks to him, in a low voice. “Is there anything I can do?” He asks him, and the American turns his head, and looks over at him, through his large, dark eyes. He can see the agony within them, see Bart’s fear that the rest of his life will be nothing but pain and powerlessness, decay and degeneration, and he cannot tell him it will not be so, cannot make promises the other man’s body cannot keep.
He shifts over in the bed, and wraps an arm around Bart’s waist, clutching him close and pressing a kiss to his cheek. He recalls how much comfort it had given him, the first time Bart had held him, in that kitchen, how lovely it had been to feel as if he fit within someone’s arms. “I will take care of you.” He tells him, offers him the only promise he can make, and kisses his forehead.
———-
He had been living in Connecticut for three months when he had received the telephone call from Bart Mancuso. It had come to him at his apartment near New London one evening, after he had returned from his daily swim at the YMCA, and he had been pleased to hear from the American officer, had been pleased to hear his voice once more. He had forgotten its low growl, the soothing way his tone never rises, never heats, no matter how strong his emotion.
One of the Americans he works with, Captain Miller, is volatile, prone to anger at his subordinates, and always forcing Marko to step in and stop his abusive shouting. It will be nice to see Bart, calm and steady and certain of himself, nice to settle into their old rapport, if that will be possible.
He finds himself inviting the American officer over to his apartment for dinner, although he is a mediocre cook, although they could certainly have a better meal at a restaurant. But he wants the privacy of his apartment, wants to ask him a hundred questions about confidential and non-confidential matters, wants not to feel observed and judged, only if for a night. Bart accepts readily, and he looks forward to it for the next few days, smiles to himself while thinking of the talk they’ll have, the food he will prepare for him. The American commander knocks at his door, at the appointed time, and hands over a bottle of scotch, offers a tentative smile.
Marko serves dinner, and the American tells stories from the past few months at sea, of Jonesy’s preternatural talent and his crew’s carousing in port at Pearl. Marko tells tales of his own, of the last time he had sailed into Havana, and it is as it was before, between them, calm and light and easy. In some ways it is better, his English more practiced, more certain, Bart less tense, less on edge, without the agency men around, more generous with his rare smiles, his quiet laughter.
They sit on the couch, sipping at scotch, and half-listening to the radio, while they talk on. And all of his questions have suddenly gone out of his head, as he sits there, enjoying this chat with a good friend, the only friend he has in this new country. Jack calls from London, of course, and his men call, when they can, but everyone has their own lives to live, and little time for a lonely old man. So it’s nice to have him here, kind of him to take the time.
“How do you like it?” Bart asks him. “Living in the states. And here in Connecticut.”
“I…” He does not wish to complain, but the concern in the American’s eyes is genuine, and his expression, although it changes little, is soft and questioning. “This winter seems to be going on forever, and the weather is always the same. Dull and gray and slush, rather than snow, and…I don’t enjoy city life, or traffic, and…I find it unpleasant. It is proximate, but…that is its one virtue.”
“I’m sorry.” Bart says. “Know it’s not what you bargained for.”
“That’s all right.” He says, quietly. “I should not have agreed to aid in the dismantling of the October. I do appreciate being a part of the process, being consulted and compensated for my knowledge, my assistance, but…it does not feel like freedom, when I cannot choose where I live, and I dislike the men I work with, or one of them, at least.”
“You should tell Jack.”
“Perhaps.” Marko frowns. “I do not wish to be a bother. And I know he has other matters to deal with. It will be better once I move up to Portsmouth. At least, I hope it will be.”
“I’m sorry.” Bart says, and reaches out to cover his knee, the warmth seeping through the denim of his blue jeans. “The American dream isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be, take it from me.”
“I had already suspected that.” He says, as Bart’s thumb traces gentle circles against his thigh.
“I’ve been thinking about you…worrying about you, since we came ashore.” The American says, quietly. “I thought it would be hard for you, while you were grieving, and at this age, to make all these adjustments. I thought that it might change you, break you…and I’d liked you the way you were, before.” He looks up into Bart’s eyes, and can see the fondness, the yearning, glimmering within those deep, dark eyes.
And he is suddenly aware of the heat of the man’s hand on his knee, of the desire in his pink and parted lips, in the faint flush in his cheeks. It had not previously occurred to him that this American could have any designs on his virtue. And he feels a faint prick of disappointment, of betrayal, that stirs in his stomach and settles in his chest.
He had hoped to have a friend and not a lover in Bart Mancuso, someone to trust and to confide in, not someone to caress. He had felt no romantic interest in him, in all of the period of their acquaintance, and does not seek physical intimacy as other men do, as younger men do, not anymore. Still, as the Americans are so fond of saying, you’ve gotta take what you can get.
And he intends to.
Because he has noticed that Bart is tall and lean and lithe, has observed his athletic grace, his skill with his hands. Because he can imagine he is skilled, experienced, in the art of making love with other men. Because Marko can almost feel it, as they are sitting here, the American’s callused hands caressing his face, running over his body, stroking along his prick. Because he has yet to receive a better proposition, and he feels himself stirring, feels himself recalling his younger days and youthful lovers, the things they used to do together when he was once young and beautiful. A flood of fond memories return, making his cheeks flush and his pulse begin to race with it, with the promise of pleasure to come.
“At least you’re looking good.” Bart says, and it is a line if he has ever heard one, not that he minds flattery. “Shoulder’s healing up, and you must be working out some.” He says, and Marko smiles, because he has been swimming and jogging, has been applying his many frustrations to weightlifting and exercise. He had not expected anyone to notice, nor to remark upon it. “But then, I always thought you looked good.”
And that notion does thrill Marko, the idea that alone in his bunk, every night since Virginia, Bart has shut his eyes and thought about him, worried about him, longed for him. He is hardly immune to the warmth of a man’s attention, and enjoys the regard of this good man, this equal in sailing prowess, and in blind, foolish courage. Saying all this, telling him all this, after so short an acquaintance, is nearly as brave as boarding Red October.
“I thought you would have forgotten me.” He tells him, honestly. He had not thought this American would care very much, after their parting, whether he lived or died.
“I don’t know how I could forget Red October.” The American says. “Or you.” He says, with a gentle tremor in his tone, a touch of fear, of anxiety. And Marko had already known that he was going to allow this man into his bed, but hearing that uncertainty, that vulnerability, utterly undoes him. “You’re unforgettable.” The American confesses, and every bit of admiration is in his eyes now, every bit of misery and hope and longing.
And Marko wonders how he has been suffering, how these months of doubt and uncertainty, of only friendly letters and a single phone call, how the passage of time must have made him doubt his feelings, and himself. And Marko is glad that he can summon feelings for him, that he can feel desire thrumming in his veins, because he would hate to disappoint him, would hate to shatter every fragile hope he has. But the silence stretches between them, and Bart starts to withdraw, before Marko lowers a hand to cover the hand that rests against his knee, before he lets their fingers intertwine, their rough, old hands entangle.
“It has been a very long time.” He says, while tugging the American gently forward, while raising his other hand to Bart’s face. He thumbs over the scar along his cheek, looks deeply into those dark eyes. He is handsome, he thinks, as he leans forward and kisses him, first on the cheek and then on the lips, very softly. When he withdraws, the American seeks his lips once more, deepening the kiss and moving closer to him, pressing himself up against him. Soon the younger man is straddling his lap, tugging at the buttons of his collar, cupping him through his jeans, and he loves it, feeling alive again and wanted, feeling eager hands all over his aging body. He’s worth keeping, he thinks, as Bart kisses him again and again, tender and desperate and wondrous, I shall certainly try.
———-
The next morning, he helps Bart shave, before they leave the lousy motel. His lover is lucky, only has to use a razor every few days, or once a week, to keep his skin smooth, his face un-bearded, but it had chafed against his cheek last night, the faint, harsh growth of gray stubble. He helps him as he can, using the straight razor, while they can hear some couple in the next room, copulating loudly, early on this winter morning. Bart is trying not to laugh, not to change his expression, at the sounds of love, at the groaning and moaning, all too audible through the the thin walls.
“They probably had to listen to us last night.” The American says, while Marko is smoothing a hand along his jaw, testing his skill with the razor. “Guess turnabout is fair play.”
“I suppose so.” Marko says, and, satisfied, smooths some aftershave over his skin. “We could not have expected better from a place like this, I suppose.”
“No, we couldn’t’ve.” Bart agrees. “I’m sorry we’re stuck in this rathole. Only whores and bedbugs around here.”
“And which are we?” Marko asks, while moving in to press the American up against the sink, wrapping his arms around him. It’s always like this, the first few hours, the first few days, after Bart’s come ashore. Like sailors on shore leave, they’re both ravenous.
“Baby…” The younger man sighs, resisting. His wrist must hurt, his hand must hurt, with his morning dose still taking effect, but Marko wants him anyway. They had meant to leave early, had meant to pack their bags and go, but now he’s hardening in his boxers, his hips up against his lover’s. “Whores.” Bart decides, finally, and raises his good hand to cup the back of Marko’s neck, pulls him in for a long and bruising kiss.
———-
That morning after, the first morning after they had been together, he had gone into his kitchen in the Connecticut apartment, had left his own bed and bedroom and allowed the guilt, the panic, to course through his body. What had he done? What had he done?
It had been pleasurable, of course, more than pleasurable, with Bart willing and eager, with the gestures, the motions, coming back to him, through the haze of time. He had savored his eager kisses, enjoyed the exploration of his body, adored the feeling of taking him to bed and finding their release. The American had been more than good to him, more than generous.
But now he feared what would come next. He knew how Americans spoke about men with this preference, and he knew his own experience was distant, and incomplete. He did not know what more Bart would want of him, in private or in public, did not know how much he could offer him, of his body, his reputation, his love.
He had rarely thought of sex, of tenderness, since her passing, and only when it had intruded upon his psyche. There had been offers from men, from women, after her passing-he had been a powerful man and more than one person had sought to tame him, claim him, for their own. He had been too caught up in his grief, in his work, to give any thought to any of them, had been repulsed by their eagerness, their striving, to grasp for what they wanted.
She was still on his mind, still at the center of his thoughts. What she would have done and what she would have said and how she would have looked, in all of these strange, new situations, in the memories he clings to, of the world he’s left behind.
The kettle boils, and he turns to make the tea, does not hear him come into the room, only sees him after his focus has broken, after a long moment. Bart is wearing his clothes, a t-shirt that hangs on his narrower shoulders, boxers that barely stay up upon his slim hips. There’s concern in his eyes, as he stands there, not coming closer, looking ravaged and lovely with the love bites at his collarbone.
“Are you okay?” The American asks, and he doesn’t know how to answer that. They know each other and they don’t. They could help each other and they could hurt each other. This could be forever, and this could be one night’s mistake.
“I don’t know.” Marko admits. “I…don’t know what you want. If I can give it to you.”
“I…” Bart nods, and takes this in, trying to think of some answer, some assurance, and not knowing how to give it. “Right now, all I want is some tea. And…to get back into bed. Because you keep this place fucking freezing.”
Marko chuckles, and goes to remove to mugs from the cabinets, then pours them each a cup of tea. “Very well.” Bart comes over and wraps his arms around his waist, rests his head against his shoulder, while they wait for the tea to steep.
And he remembers learning English, and all of the words, all of the expressions that he never thought he would use, all of the words he has wished, in this new life, that he could more easily remember. His accent is good, is clear and understandable, but some words escape him, take too long to come to him, and he tries to recall all of the strange, unfamiliar words which he had never thought he would use. Lover is the first that comes to mind, as Bart kisses the back of his neck, runs a hand along his side, then touch, kiss, beloved. He had loved her as he had learned foreign languages, applied every word to her, to them, and not ever dreamed of this, of using these strange, lovely words with another person. And yet here he is. Here they are.
“May we spend this weekend…fucking?” Marko asks him, not certain of his usage, although certain of its vulgarity, and Bart chuckles, the feel of it vibrating through his ribcage.
“Of course, honey.” The American says, as his arms settle back around his waist. “We can do whatever you want.”
———-
They leave the motel later that morning, and drive up the interstate towards Maine, and home. They stop, for old time’s sake, at their favorite diner in Portsmouth, a place where they had shared many meals together. His second apartment had been nearby, during the year he’d spent living in Portsmouth, after leaving Connecticut, to scrap the Red October at a dry dock.
He had liked New Hampshire more, with his more agreeable colleagues, with Bart’s leaves to look forward to, and so his memories of this place are more than fond. So many morning afters, they had come to this diner, while he could still feel the soreness of his muscles, the warmth of his embrace…
“Penny for your thoughts?” Bart asks, an old joke between them now, as Marko had not understood the meaning of this expression, had needed the American to explain it to him, and had thought his explanation almost comically insufficient.
“I was just thinking…all of the memories that we have, of this place.”
Bart nods, and almost smiles, while stirring some milk into his tea. “You decided on Maine here. After our Portland trip.”
“I did.” Marko recalls. “Do you regret it?”
“I regret that it’s a five hour drive from port to Portland.” Bart shrugs. “But whatever makes you happy.”
“When you retire, we shall consider other sites of residence.” Marko offers. “I know that you dislike the cold.”
“I-“ The American starts, and then breaks off. “It doesn’t matter. Wherever you are is fine.”
Marko shakes his head, knowing the way that Bart loathes snow and ice and frigid weather, knowing that he bears it only for him, only for a few weeks, every few months. “Nothing need be permanent.” He assures him. “Oh, I had not shown you…” He reaches for his wallet, takes out a picture of Evgeny, his wife, and their infant son. “I have a namesake. In Chicago.”
“Is that so?” Bart asks, while accepting the photographs into his hands. “Well I’ll be damned.”
“I did ask him not to.” Marko confesses. “But it was a very kind gesture.”
“Have you met the kid?”
“I will be flying out to see them all next month.”
“That’s nice.” Bart says. “Spring in Chicago.”
“It will be nice to see them, and Yuri.”
“I don’t think it’s ever nice to see Yuri.”
“All the same…” Marko says, while the server brings over their plates. After a moment, Bart lets him slice up his omelette, after he’s struggled to eat it by himself.
They eat in silence, finding themselves hungry after the morning’s activities, and it is a long time before he speaks again.
“You know, I…” Marko starts, while looking out of the window, at the white snow all around. “I did not expect to make new memories, when I came here.” He says, quietly. “I had expected, largely, to live within the past.”
“That doesn’t sound much like living.”
“I suppose it doesn’t.” Marko concedes. “But then, I did not expect to cultivate anything more than acquaintances. Or to stay in contact with the men. I expected them to forget me, and to move on, and to find it too difficult to…form connections.”
“Lucky you, I threw myself at you.” Bart says. “God, I must’ve been gone on you, to show up like that.”
“I am very lucky…” Marko says, and lets his knee bump against Bart’s beneath the table, lets the press of his leg warm the other man within the drafty diner. “That you were so fond of me. That you still are.” Bart lets his good hand come down, to clasp his, beneath the table, and squeezes his, firmly and fiercely.
———-
“I’m not the first man you’ve ever been with.” Bart had said, as they’d lain there together, the first morning after. Marko had been letting his head rest against the man’s chest, had his fingers trace idly over the scars and muscles of his torso, when he had spoken.
“No.” He concedes. “Before my marriage, I had…many lovers.”
“Did you?”
“At the academy, it was…commonplace. Young men, using each other, taking their pleasure. And I adored it. Women had not noticed me, and…we were all so beautiful then. Even I was beautiful.”
“You still are.”
“No.” Marko says, his cheeks flushing with heat. “This brings it all back. You bring it all back. Those days of my youth, reckless and heedless. When we dreamed of glory, before we were married, before this endless war took…so many lives, so many futures.”
“Not ours.”
“No.” Marko concedes. “Not ours. We have endured.” He takes the younger man’s hand, feels the calluses and scars, the roughness and the tenderness. “It has been difficult.”
“Course it has. Living always is.”
“I wasn’t sure I wanted to live, you know. After she died, after Borodin…I used to think that I should have joined her. That his life had more promise than mine, in this new life.”
“That’s bullshit.” Bart says. “He and his two wives and his RV and his rabbits, they could’ve all been very happy, or they could’ve made him miserable. You’ll never know.”
“I will never know many things.” Marko says. “What the rest of our lives could have been. That safety, that comfort, of knowing I would always be cared for.”
“That’s bullshit too.” Bart tells him, as he raises their clasped hands to his face. “I don’t care what happens between us. I’m always going to care about you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re you.” The American shrugs, not able to find a better answer. “Because you didn’t throw me out on my ass, or punch me in the nose, or kick me to the curb this morning.”
“That is a rather low standard for your affection.”
“Maybe.” Bart says. “But it’s happened before, a hundred times. And this time, I’m…glad it didn’t.”
Marko nods. “I may refuse you some things. I…may not know how to…share myself with her, and with you.”
“You can say no anytime you like.” Bart tells him. “And I’ll try not to ask you for anything you can’t give.”
“Very well.” Marko consents, and the American smiles, leans in to kiss at his neck, to run his hands along his sides. “What would you like now?”
“To suck you off.”
“Well that…” Marko says, as the memories come flooding back, as the warmth of his touch makes heat spark within his belly. “Yes.” He says, and captures Bart’s lips, takes Bart’s wandering hands. “Yes. Yes.”
———-
Their cottage is an hour or so from Portland, along the Maine coast, and near a marina where they’re thinking of storing a boat. They aren’t far from Jack’s summer place, and he has visited the family before, met precocious Sally and brilliant Caroline, and gone fishing with his old friend. It is hard to remember those bright summer days, however, as he is shoveling snow from the driveway, Bart unable to help him. He is relieved when he finally comes inside and hears the radio playing, notes the rich scent of home cooking in the air.
“Made chicken lemon soup.” Bart says, while stirring some rice in a pot on the stovetop, accepting a kiss on the cheek. “Thought it would be warm. And that you’d like it.”
“Thank you. It smells lovely.”
“Didn’t require too much cutting, or dicing.” Bart says. “I’ll need your help to make anything more…elaborate.”
“You don’t have to.”
“When I’m not here, all you have is oatmeal and borscht.” Bart scolds. “I’ll leave you with leftovers, damn my wrist.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.” His American says, stubborn as ever, unwilling as ever to acknowledge his limitations. Marko knows better than to argue with him when he gets like this, because he is the same way. He does not know how he managed to find his equal in obstinacy, is sure that if there are heavens above, Natalia is looking down and laughing.
“All right.” Marko concedes, pulling him close and kissing at his neck.
“Your hands are cold.” The American protests, although he doesn’t shy away. “Go warm yourself up. Take a hot shower. Then I’ll come in.”
“Will you?” He asks, while Bart slips from his grasp, eludes his frigid touch.
“Well I’ll thank you for shoveling somehow, old man.”
———-
He had decided to live in Maine after a weeklong trip to Portland, taken with Bart. He had liked the landscape, craggy cliffs and rocky beaches, had liked the nearby town, with theaters and restaurants and things to see. It is a trip he always recalls fondly, including one, long rainy day they had spent, wandering around town, and ending with a meal at a fine, French restaurant.
He had noticed, all that day, that Bart had been different with him. He’d been more quick to laugh, quick to smile, had even stolen a kiss on the cheek inside a quaint bookshop, as they had been talking together. His American was always discretion itself, and he hadn’t known why he’d been so warm, so wonderful, even taking his hand as they’d watched a movie Bart had no interest in, a foreign film at a little hole-in-the-wall theater. And the dinner, fine though not too refined, with a full-bodied red wine, is wonderful too.
“You have been different today.” Marlo tells him. “I don’t understand why.”
“No reason.” Bart shrugs, but he will not let him evade the question, offers him a frowning, skeptical look. “It’s not important. Just that you remembered, this morning.”
“I…” Marko traces back throughout the long day, tries to recall what he could be talking about. “Oh. Yes. I did. But…I did not arrange a dinner for us. I only noticed, on the calendar, over breakfast that it was…that it had been two years since…that it was our anniversary.”
Just the word, he can see, makes Bart burst with it, makes it hard for the American to even look at him, with all the joy that floods his chest. “Like I said, it’s not important.” The younger man says. “It’s just nice that…you’ve never regretted us.”
“No.” Marko concedes. “I have not.”
“And that’s just nice.” Bart says, as if it’s nothing, as if it doesn’t matter. “That we’re on the same page. That we both think things are good. Because…I want a lot more years.”
“You can have them.” Marko offers, as if there is anyone else who seeks his time, his caresses. “I-cannot offer you what I gave her, the best years of my life.”
“That doesn’t matter.” The American tells him. “Nothing matters but that we don’t waste the time we have.”
“Well, I do not intend to waste them.”
———-
He takes a long, hot shower and then slips into his black silk bathrobe, comes into the bedroom to find Bart sitting in the bed, fussing with his bandage, until he looks up. “I remember when I bought you that.” He says, and shakes his head, smiles at his own foolishness. “A housewarming gift, when you bought the cottage.”
“I remember.” Marko says, and grins. “You were so embarrassed to give it to me. This and the flowers you had brought.”
“I almost tossed it, at Portland station.” Bart confesses. “I thought you’d never want to wear something like that.” He sits down on the edge of the bed, and lets the younger man trace a hand along the silk and lace, along the soft, smooth fabric. It’s a glorified bathrobe, really, but he would have given anything to buy her something like it, a little, lacy negligee. “You look so good in it.”
“Why do you think I kept it?” Marko asks him, as he straddles him, although his knees cannot long hold this position, and they both know it. “It makes me feel entirely desirable, even when you are not with me.”
“It makes you think of me?”
“It does.” Marko says, and kisses him softly. “But then, everything does. Every memory I have of this country is shaded through with you. Being with you, or…thinking of you. What you’d do, what you’d say…or when something happens, how I will tell you the story.” And he feels something die, something spark with pain, at the back of his mind, because once he had always thought of her, in this strange place, and now he no longer does. He is losing, even, the image of what she looked like, the sound of her voice. “You will miss our next anniversary…” He says, and doesn’t know why he says it, because it makes Bart frown, makes his lover feel unhappy.
“I’ll be back in May or June. That’s the best time in Maine. Lobster and blueberries. Swimming and sailing.”
“We can skinny-dip again.”
“Not if the ocean hasn’t warmed up yet.” Bart says, and chuckles, while raising a hand to his hair. He seems on the edge of saying something, but holds it in, holds it back, and just smiles up at him. “Makes even you seem small, when it’s too cold in the water.”
“Oh, shut up.” Marko says, before tumbling into the bed, falling eagerly into his arms.
———-
He had told Jack about them, on his last trip down to the man’s summer house. It had been last August, warm days and brisk nights, and long days of casting reels out into the water, off the dock. They’d talked in English and Russian, about the end of Red October, about the fates of his men, about conditions in the North Atlantic. It had been comfortable, as it always was, trusting, as it was oddly simple to be, with someone who had saved his life, someone who knew him so well.
“So you like Maine, so far?” He asks, and Marko nods. He had moved up after the work on the October had been done, had found the house and started to fix it up, before Bart’s next visit.
“Yes, I do. But then, I’ve come in spring and summer. Not in winter.”
“They can be rough.” Jack agrees. “Bart hates the cold, doesn’t he?”
“He does.”
“Maybe he’ll only visit come summers, then.”
“No.” Marko shakes his head. “He is coming on his next leave, in November or December.”
Jack chuckles. “You must offer him pretty good scotch, if he keeps coming up to you. Or good conversation, or something, I don’t know. I’ve never been a sailor.”
“No.” Marko smiles, recalling Jack’s confusion, aboard Red October. “No, you never were that.”
“Gee, thanks.” The analyst says, and sips at his beer, looks out over the water. “I’m glad you’ve got a friend in him. He’s a good man. I mean I know he’s…not typical, in every way, but…he’s a solid guy.”
“He is.” Marko says. “I am very lucky to have him.”
Jack looks over at him, and tries to read him, through his penetrating gaze. Only because they know each other, only because they have one another’s measure, does he deduce the truth, from these words, from this look. “You’re lovers.”
“We are.” Marko offers. “I don’t know how it happened.”
“The usual way, I’d guess.”
“It has been two years.” The old captain sighs. “I never expected to be with anyone again.”
“That’s love.” Jack says, and smiles. “It’ll get you when you don’t expect it.”
“Something like that.” Marko says, the word love sitting uncomfortably in his throat, never voiced to Bart, always left unspoken.
“Like I said…” Jack starts. “He’s a good guy. And I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”
“He does.” Marko says, his cheeks flushing with heat. “We have many years of combined experience.”
“Oh, have you?” Jack laughs. “I’m sure you could tell some stories.”
“I could.” Marko rolls his eyes, but allows a smile. “Some of them include men in your files.”
“Do they really?”
———-
They have dinner, the chicken lemon soup, while Bart talks on about other meals he’ll make for him, Italian dishes whose names he never recalls, and borscht and beef stroganoff, from strange, American recipes.
“Did she ever cook for you?” The younger man asks. He avoids questions about her, usually, but Marko finds it strange, finds it nice, that this one does not pain him, after all this time.
“She would try. It was not a talent of hers.”
“Really?”
“No. But then, there were such shortages, for some, and such plenty, for others. Some weeks, we would attend parties and eat well, and the next, go hungry on our own rations.” He shakes his head, frowning. “We shared such a hard life. With so many trials.”
“That doesn’t mean it wasn’t a good one.”
“No.” Marko says, although he is surprised by his lover’s defense of his wife, of their time together. He had thought Bart would be jealous of her, but he never has been, has never shown anything but respect for her fading memory. Jack was right. Bart is a very good man, who adores him. Perhaps he has never known how much, until this moment. “It was a long, full life together. And I remember her fondly.”
“That’s good.” The American says, and Marko knows he is wondering how it would be, if something happened to him, how Marko would remember. And the thought of losing him, this lover whom he has built his new life, and all is hopes around, is shattering. He rises from the table and takes away their bowls, offers Bart a quick kiss on the cheek before stepping away from him. The American smiles at the gesture, and seems to know what he has said without saying: I would miss you as much as I miss her.
———-
They drive back down to Connecticut, at the end of their two weeks together, with one day to spare, so that Bart’s wrist can be probed and prodded and examined thoroughly by medical professionals. It has improved, in this time, but will still take time to heal, and they offer him a stiffer splint for it, one that restricts his movements, even as he is trying, the next morning, to pull on the parts of his uniform. He resists Marko’s help, Marko’s distraction, and manages to button everything, zip everything, tie everything, before he sits back down on the bed and draws in a long, deep breath. It will be all right, Marko wants to promise, although he does not know if it will be.
“Can I ask you something?” Bart says, after a long moment, and Marko nods, coming down to sit beside him, and taking his hand within his own. “Babe, I…” The American leans into him, allows himself some weakness, and Marko wants to curl himself up around him, and never let him go. That the US Navy would probably object, that Bart would probably object, is of little importance. “Sometimes, when we’re in bed, or when we’re saying goodbye, it would be nice if…is it okay if I tell you I love you?”
And he is completely and utterly shocked by the question, because at their partings, Bart usually steals himself, usually readies himself to be away and apart from him, by closing off and shutting down, resisting any sweet words, any gentle caresses. It hurts him, every time, this way he has, of making it through, of getting by, until his last gesture, a long embrace or a quick kiss, a desperate, whispered word that reminds him how much it hurts Bart to leave. “Of course you can tell me.” He says, after a long moment, and though her ghost tugs at the back of his mind, though her fading memory aches within his chest, he knows it is the right thing to say. “Anytime you wish, Bart.”
“You don’t have to say it.” The American says. “I know you’re not there yet, and that’s okay. It doesn’t change anything. I just want you to know, to say it sometimes.”
“Bart, I…” He had given three decades of his life to one person, had lived for the sound of her laughter, the warmth of her gaze, the brightness of her smiles. She had been everything to him, everything he had lived for, and yet this man and his endless tenderness had come and filled the void, filled all of the emptiness where her memory, his past, should have left a hollow. “Our life together is…my great joy in this new world. I-love you very deeply, for all that you have done to-help me bury the past.”
“She’s always going to be there.” Bart says, reaching out and touching where his heart should be, beneath his sweater. “All the people you knew, all the people you loved, all the people who love you now, there’s…they’re always going to be there.”
“Well, you will now have pride of place.” Marko promises. “As well you should.”
Bart grins, as he tries squeezing Marko’s hand with his injured one. “Thanks, babe.” The American says, and the older man can see unshed tears glimmer in his dark eyes. “Thanks, love.” He says, as if still uncertain of it, before Marko raises their tangled hands to touch his face, and kisses him.
———-
They are in the parking lot again, and Bart steps down from the truck, pulls his pack over one shoulder, struggles with his wrist. And it’s déjà vu, an agony for Marko, to watch him leave, his injury still unhealed, his expression still unhappy. The Dallas calls, duty calls, and Bart knows his place in the world is at the helm of his ship. Yet there is one other place he belongs, and Marko steps down from the cab, comes to him, and takes him within his strong arms. Bart resists, at first, with a glance toward the sentry, but then gives in, and kisses his cheek, runs a hand over his shoulder.
“Goodbye, Marko.” The American says, quietly, as he tries to harden himself up again, tries to be strong. "My love."
"Goodbye, Bart." Marko tells him, quietly, while releasing him, feeling the tears form in his own eyes, at the use of these sweet, foreign words, ones he had thought he would never use. "My love, goodbye.”