Page 112 of Skotos
He bustled over with the enthusiasm of a man reuniting with family, embracing us both with wine-scented enthusiasm and rapid commentary on how thin we’d gotten, how tired we looked, and how Rome clearly hadn’t treated us properly.
“Sit, sit!” he commanded, gesturing to our usual table beneath the café’s striped awning. “I will bring you wine and food, and you will tell me nothing about your travels because I know you cannot.”
“It was just a vacation,” Will said, earning a stern reproach and head shake for his effort.
Within minutes we were settled with a bottle of Burgundy and plates of Henri’s magnificentcoq au vin, the chicken so tender it fell apart at the touch of a fork, the sauce rich enough to make grown men weep with joy.
“This,” Will said around a mouthful of perfectly braised vegetables, “is why civilization was invented.”
“For French cooking?” I shoved a forkful into my mouth.
“For sitting at a café in Paris with good wine and someone you love, watching the world go bywithout anyone trying to stab you with ceremonial daggers.”
I laughed, feeling tension I hadn’t realized I was carrying begin to ease from my shoulders. “That’s a surprisingly specific definition of civilization.”
“I’m a surprisingly specific man.”
We lingered over dinner as the evening deepened, watching couples walk hand in hand along the cobblestones and listening to the distant sound of an accordion drifting from somewhere deeper in the quarter. Our conversation wandered from the sublime to the ridiculous: Will’s theories about why French bread was superior to all other bread, my observation that Henri had been wearing the same apron for at least three years, the way the lamplight made the wine in our glasses look like liquid rubies, and so on.
For the first time in weeks, we weren’t analyzing threats or planning operations or wondering who might be watching us from the shadows. We were just two men enjoying each other’s company on a perfect Parisian evening.
“I’d almost forgotten what this felt like,” Will said quietly, swirling the last of his wine.
“What?”
“Being normal. Beingus.” He met my eyes across the small table. “In Rome, we were always performing. We were agents, professionals, men with a secret mission. Here—”
“Here we’re just Thomas and Will.”
“Exactly.” He smirked with his glass almost to his lips. “Although I would say, ‘Will and Thomas.’ It has a better cadence.”
“For what? A waltz?”
Will laughed. “I love a good waltz. Makes me think of a certain Baroness we know.”
I shook my head. “Wonder what she’s up to.”
“Probably deconstructing the Soviet Empire single-handedly.”
I snorted, nearly spewing wine across the table.
The check arrived with Henri’s usual theatrical protests about payment. “My friends do not pay for food; they pay for my company, which is priceless!”
We eventually negotiated our way to leaving enough francs to cover both the meal and Henri’s wounded dignity. The man was a master of reverse-psychology—a battle he rarely lost.
Our walk home was leisurely, our steps naturally synchronized after years of moving together through friendly streets and hostile territory alike. Will’s hand brushed mine as we walked, a casual touch that sent warmth spreading through my chest. I let my fingers graze his, gently stroking his skin. His warmth, his touch, they were everything. They gave my heart music and light. His warmth was the art that filled my soul.
“Thank you,” I said as we turned onto our street.
“For what?”
“For getting us out of Rome, for making Manakin send us home.” I paused under a streetlamp, studying his face in the golden light. “You were right. I wasn’t ready to let it go.”
“You never are.” He reached up and brushed a curl of rebellious hair off my forehead and then cupped my cheek. “It’s one of the things I love about you—and one of the things that terrifies me.” Then he stepped closer, close enough that I could smell his aftershave mixed with wine and the night air. “But sometimes walking away is the bravest thing you can do.”
“Is that what we did? Walk away?”
“We lived to fight another day,” he said simply. “That’s victory enough for me.”
