Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A/N 2: Here's one of my Lucas/Vyeta all-time favourite videos made by the wonderful Spikesbint. Not only does it share the same title, it goes perfectly with the plot of this tale.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7x3HsNkn-WM

PRO LOGUE

Monday November 3 rd , 2008

He's been on English soil for a week. He's supposed to be finally back home after his hellish eight-year imprisonment in Lubyanka and yet, that sense of belonging that is expected from a member of Her Majesty's Service returned to his homeland isn't there. How could it be when Harry- his mentor and the man he cares for like a second father- has revoked his temporary clearance at work, the one place where he'd always known who he was before his forced exile? How could he feel back home when everyone but Malcolm is a stranger to him on The Grid and when he is still a dead man to the one person who's filled his thoughts for eight years? Elizaveta Starkova. Vyeta. His wife; the one he'd lost even before boarding the plane to Moscow on that ill-fated mission a lifetime ago.

He remembers what he had and what he lost, and dreams of getting it back.

She's well and happy. He hasn't been able to think of anything else since Harry's cryptic reply in the bathroom at Thames House; a pregnant silence that has done nothing but robbed him of sleep- the one he's supposed to be catching up on during his leave of absence while the MI5 psychiatrist, his superiors and his physical prove he's fit for active service again.

He's spent most of the day cleaning the flat MI5 got him in the south-west of the capital and unpacking what little he has in this world, mostly novels and poetry books Malcolm kept for him in his attic. Lucas has developed an obsession with order and cleanliness, an unconscious and irrepressible urge to remove all physical trace and memory of the acrid and fetid odours which assailed his nostrils for eight years; an anal compulsion that provides him with a false sense of control over his own life.

The floors are gleaming and all surfaces are spotless clean, and the up-to-this-morning nude white walls now house a framed reproduction of Blake's Ancient of Days; his belief in God has never deserted him... well... almost never. He wonders what his father, the Methodist minister, would have thought of him if he'd been told Lucas tried to hang himself in Lubyanka and that he'd have succeeded if his torturer hadn't found him in time.

He sets his empty cup down on the saucer and finishes off the last macaroon the officious landlady gave him as a housewarming gift. It's the only food he's had today. Even though he's aware his malnourished body needs more than doughnuts and Danish pastries to fill up and regain its healthy status, his dietary habits have taken a second place amongst his priorities since the minute he was declared officially on leave.

There's only one thought occupying his mind- seeing Vyeta again and facing whatever Harry's left unsaid.

ST JOHN'S GARDENS- LONDON- 4 p.m.

The beginning of winter is less than a month away, but it's making its presence known as he inconspicuously shadows Elizaveta at a quiet pace; the late autumn wind cold against his angular features. Although he knows the greyish blue dress shirt he's wearing under the open long overcoat Adam got him isn't warm enough, he needs to feel the cold breeze on his skin to remember he's alive... and free... or as free as he can be considering the circumstances.

He stops at a safe distance and observes her as she pauses to check the time on her wrist watch before she looks to her right, her body posture revealing she's here to meet somebody. He wonders who that someone is and if he should be jealous, if his rival's hands have felt the silk of her black hair, now tied in a ponytail, slip through his fingers, if he's seen her brown eyes turn to melting chocolate the way they used to when they made love before Russia. Eight years ago. A lifetime ago.

She takes a few steps forward and her face breaks into a loving smile as a pair of young legs rush to meet her halfway and both people hug each other tight.

Lucas can feel the blood pounding fast in his ears and his eyes starting to burn with unshed tears while he struggles to swallow the big lump in his throat on witnessing the scene.

He wonders if Harry knew. Of course, he did. He had to; it would be unlike him to be in the dark when it comes to the private lives of his people and those close to them. And even though Lucas subconsciously begrudges him for not having secured his release sooner, he knows his mentor well enough to interpret his silence as a thoughtful attempt to spare his protegé the pain- if only for a short while- of knowing Vyeta has moved on completely.

The thought of his boss seems to have conjured him up after forty-eight hours of silence. Lucas takes his ringing mobile out of his pocket and, taking a deep breath to school his troubled emotions, answers the call keeping his eyes fixed on the receding backs of his wife and her companion.

"Harry?"

"How are things doing, Lucas?"

"Adjusting."

"Give it time. Things will eventually fall into place."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"… Have you talked to her yet?"

"No. I wanted to, but it wasn't the right time or place."

"I know you're officially on leave, but would you mind coming on to The Grid, Lucas? I need you to brief us about Kachimov."

"I'll be there in two minutes," he replies after a brief pause, disconnecting the call and slowly turning back the way he came.

Maybe he's clutching at straws. but a new thought is taking shape in his mind. Maybe things aren't as lost as he's deemed them to be after all.

Dum Spiro Spero. While I breathe I hope.

CHAPTER 1

Tuesday November 4 th , 2008

Elizaveta is sitting on the narrow bed, raking its occupant's hair with loving fingers as he lies peacefully asleep, blissfully unaware of the inner turmoil Vyeta's mind has been in since Arkady Kachimov surprised her outside the art gallery where she works.

The moment she saw the FSB head of operations in London turn up at the gallery she knew either something momentous had happened or was about to. Her heart galloped and her hands started sweating; she wondered how Lucas had been able to live and breathe in a world full of secrets, lies and betrayal, a world inhabited by cold, heartless and unscrupulous men such as Kachimov and sadistic, manipulative monsters such as his tormentors at Lubyanka.

She leans forward and presses a soft kiss on the boy's brow, tears gleaming in her eyes as she stands up and walks to the bedroom door where Anatoly's standing.

"It was time to let him go. I know it was a hard decision to make, Vyeta, but Nick is a good man. You did the right thing."

Yes, Nick is a good man. He loves her. He's safe, caring, has a nine-to-five job in a law firm and is a good provider. He's the kind of husband any parent would wish for their daughter, but she doesn't love him, at least, not the way she's supposed to love a husband, not the way she loves...loved... Lucas.

Leaving the door slightly ajar, Vyeta and Anatoly walk down the corridor to the living-room, where a cosy fire's burning to mitigate the cold of the late autumn evening.

A log crackles in the fireplace as her father takes a seat in his favourite armchair and Elizaveta shifts her gaze from the bluish flame to her left hand. The perfect one-carat diamond set in an eighteen-carat platinum band sparkles and the memory of the plain gold wedding ring Lucas slid on her finger reminds her of all the love, hope and dreams he offered her when he chose her above all others.

Love, however, hadn't been enough to forgive the lies and, what still hurts her the most, his lack of trust in her. Love has brought her nothing but unbearable pain and, for that reason, it wasn't a factor in her decision to accept Nick's marriage proposal after almost eight years of hoping Lucas was still alive somewhere.

Only her father's gentle but inflexible prodding convinced her it was time to move on and have her family lawyer begin her divorce proceedings, a decision that would come to haunt her a few months later when a sealed anonymous envelope turned up at her doorstep and the agony increased twofold on viewing its contents.

An ever-present sense of guilt robs her of sleep. Guilt for letting others convince her to do what in her heart she felt wasn't right. Guilt for becoming the very thing she accused Lucas of being- a liar, a keeper of secrets. She's been keeping the truth from two of the most important people in her life on the same grounds her husband used to hide his real identity from her, to protect a loved one.

"When are you going to set a date?" asks Anatoly, observing his daughter's pale visage.

Just like Nick, her father has been putting pressure on her to tie the knot- after all, a little over a year has gone by since she was declared officially free. She's young still. It is high time she started to live again!

Vyeta sighs. How can she tell her father that Lucas is indeed alive and that she's been praying for his release for a year? How can she confess the truth- that she judged him wrong, that yes, he lied to her but not in the way she'd assumed? How she wishes she could find forgiveness in her heart for the way they parted knowing now the truth and what came after their goodbye!

She shivers at the thought of all the indignities she knows he must have suffered at Lubyanka and feels her gut clench for she's aware she's privy only to the tip of the iceberg.

How to set a date after what she learnt this morning? Lucas has known too many betrayals in the last eight years to add one more. He deserves better, and she wouldn't be able to face either him or their son if she were to take this step without sorting things out between them first.

"Papa, it's too early to make plans. A wedding's not something that one can rush into, especially when there's a child to think about."

"Nick loves Ioann as if he were his own son."

"But he is not."

"Vyeta, doch'ka," he remonstrates,"don't hide behind Ioann (John=God is gracious). We both know what all this is about. In spite of all the years that have gone by, you haven't been able to forget Lucas. And those damn anonymous phone calls have done nothing but make matters worse. I hate to see what this false hope is doing to you. If only there had been a farewell…"

Oh, but there was one, Papa- one I wish I could erase!

She can still recall every moment of that morning as if it were only yesterday; every wretched minute and the painful look in the unforgettable blue-grey eyes of her husband are etched on her memory. She can't remember how many times she's replayed the scene in her mind, his words and the hurt in his voice ring in her ears even now.

"There's no need for you to see me off at the gate," he told her, closing the passenger door and throwing the garment bag over his shoulder.

They were in the airport's car park surrounded by people rushing to and fro, escaping from the freezing cold. The first snowflakes of the year started to fall as she stood next to the driver's door, looking at her husband over the roof of her car and struggling to keep the tears at bay. She adjusted her overcoat and pulled up the collar of her red jumper both to seek some warmth and to prevent herself from doing what her heart was urging her to do- to get lost in her husband's arms and beg him not to leave.

Lucas' eyes reflected his worry as he observed her fidgeting, incapable of meeting his searching glance. After months of awkward silences and half-truths he knew something wasn't right. Understanding seemed to have dawned on him, maybe too late.

"Golubushka, you know I have to go on this trip. It's important for my career. I'm the only one at the office who's proficient in Russian and if I manage to solve this mess, there's a fair chance I'll get a big promotion," he explained. "We'll talk when I come back," he promised, tilting up her chin with his right hand to be able to look into her chocolate eyes.

"It's too late, Lucas. It's been too late for a while now. There are things that I just can't become reconciled to," she told him tightly, seeing him flinch as if she'd slashed him with a knife.

"It didn't seem that way last night," he croaked, stroking her cheek.

Last night, when they'd made love.

Although they might not be able to communicate with words, they never had trouble in the confines of their bedroom. Lucas was both a passionate and tender lover, and she'd never yearned for another man's caresses and kisses the way she longed for her husband's.

Lucas was her first and only lover and even now that she's promised in marriage to Nick, she can't imagine her fiancé will ever make her feel the way Lucas did with just a look, a brush of his fingers or a morning kiss.

There in the car park, standing close to each other, feeling the magnetic pull of his eyes and the warmth of his beautiful hands through her woollen overcoat, Vyeta uttered the words she'd never thought she'd say to him.

"Lucas…" she began to say, trying to muster the courage to look him in the face."I want… I want a divorce."

"What?" he choked, visibly swallowing the lump in his throat after a few moments of frozen silence.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, lowering her eyes to focus them on something less distracting than his Adam's apple.

"Vyeta, look at me," he urged her with a hint of desperation in his voice. "You don't mean that," he added shakily.

"This isn't a decision I`ve made overnight or one I've taken lightly, Lucas. I've only asked you to be honest with me… "

"I just need time, Vyeta," he replied, trying to take her hand in his before she snatched it away and crossed her arms protectively in front of her.

"I can't do this anymore," she shook her head.

"I have to be on that plane in five minutes. I should be back in a couple of weeks. Please, sladkij," he urged her.

"I've given you too many chances to open up to me. Trust is the basis of a marriage and it's clear we've both lost it along the way. You don't trust me enough to tell me the truth and I can no longer live with someone who lies to me on a daily basis."

"I've never lied to you about what matters. I love you, Vyeta."

"Sometimes love is not enough," she whispered, looking into his pain-stricken blue-grey eyes for the last time before stepping back to unlock her car and sitting behind its wheel like an automaton. She wasn't aware of fastening her seatbelt or firing the engine, but she did see Lucas in the rear-view mirror, the winter wind dishevelling his dark hair and the cold giving his usually pale complexion a red tinge.

Haunted by the look of misty sadness in his eyes as she left him behind, Vyeta parked her car in front of their block of flats, unaware of the constant flow of tears rolling down her cheeks.

She blinks several times to chase away the memory and looks out of the bay window of her father's house seized by a sudden wish to cry once again.

She misses what she used to have with Lucas- passion, hope, dreams of raising a happy family… the illusion of growing old together.

"Nick won't wait for you eternally," says the man who tried to drive her away from Lucas, the son-in-law he's never considered good enough for his daughter.

"I know," she states quietly, straightening a picture frame of Ioann on the mantelpiece.

"Excuse me, sir," Anatoly's maid butts in, entering the living room after announcing her presence with a discreet knock.

"Yes, Stella?" asks Vyeta's father, noticing the middle-aged woman's unusual discomfiture.

"Sir, there's… there's a gentleman in the hall… he says he wishes to speak to Ms. Elizaveta."

"Now?" groans Anatoly, checking the time. " It's already past nine."

Through the door Stella's left ajar, Elizaveta spies a profile reflected in the corridor's mirror, and her heart starts pounding in her chest.

"It's all right," replies Vyeta. " Show the gentleman to the study, Stella. Tell him I'll be with him in a couple of minutes."

"Who did he say he was?" frowns Vyeta's father, looking at his maid.

"He…"

"He's a colleague from the gallery," interrupts Vyeta. "I forgot I'd told him to come over to discuss a few last-minute details for next week's exhibition. It might take us some time, Papa, so don't wait me up."

"You shouldn't bring work home," he remonstrates.

"The pot calling the kettle black," she replies with a shaky smile.

Once she makes sure her father's out of the way, Vyeta approaches the oak door behind which her visitor's waiting for her, checks her appearance in the looking glass hanging to the right and, taking a deep breath, turns the doorknob.

He's standing in front of the well-stocked bookcase, leafing through a leather-bound volume of eighteenth century English poetry, when she steps quietly into the study. He seems not to have noticed her but appearances are many a time deceptive as she's learnt only too well; Lucas can't have survived this long as a spy if anyone can sneak up on him this easily.

Vyeta takes advantage of his facing the other way to observe him at leisure.

He's a lot thinner and clearly in need of a few hearty meals to fill up the long blue overcoat he's wearing despite the crackling fire blazing in the room. His black hair's crying for a haircut; the old Lucas would have never let it brush the starched collar of his dress shirt and yet, she's never felt a stronger urge to rake her fingers through those tresses than she does now.

It's a strange feeling but, for once, she feels like the protector rather than like the one in need of sheltering. Maybe the fact she's given birth to a baby since she saw him last is the reason behind this sudden urge to mother him even when being in the same room still makes her all shivery and his musky vanilla scent brings back memories that tinge her cheeks a delightful red.

Soon the need to touch him, to make sure he's alive and breathing after this eight-year nightmare, overpowers the insecurity and nervousness which seized her the minute she realized who it was that had turned up at her father's doorstep unannounced.

"Lucas," she whispers haltingly.

After everything he's been through and survived, it's funny a wisp of a woman can make him feel so insecure. He'd never felt more of a coward than the moment she stepped into the room and he stood rooted to the spot, gripping the book in his hands as if it were an anchor, looking at the printed page in front of him with feigned concentration.

He wonders if she can hear the wild beating of his heart across the room, if she knows how much he's dreamt of this moment or how hard it's been to keep his distance since his return when the thought of seeing her face again was the one thing that helped him put up with the hell that was Lubyanka.

He closes his eyes and savours the way his name sounds coming from her mouth, waits a moment longer until she calls him again and an almost imperceptible disturbance in the air around tells him she's but a couple of steps away, close enough for her soft perfume of lilacs to reach his nose and transport him to a cosy bed & breakfast in the Lake District where he made a woman of her on their wedding night.

Through the veil of unshed tears, he stares at his wife until she takes a hesitant step forward and grabs his hands. He lowers his eyes to contemplate their intertwined fingers and feels his hands shake.

"Vyeta..."

She raises her head on hearing his voice for the first time and looks up into his glassy blue grey orbs as the tears she's been withholding since she crossed the threshold finally roll down her cheeks.

Lucas envelops her in his arms and hugs her to him with all his being. She's warm, soft and no longer a vision conjured by his mind. After so long she's back where she belongs and smells like the young girl he fell in love with fifteen years ago and has yearned to hold again since boarding that wretched flight to Russia.

She stands on tiptoe and he dips his nose in her glossy black hair, which she's wearing down, and whispers her name repeatedly. Vyeta feels his long-fingered hands stroke her back with tender urgency as if he needed to ascertain she is flesh and blood.

Lucas, the man she fell madly in love with and married despite her father's opposition is back home and Vyeta's bursting with joy... until her eyes fall on her engagement ring and she remembers Lucas is also the man she intended to divorce eight years ago... the husband she's had declared officially dead.

Feeling the strong beat of his heart against her breast, she wonders if he can feel her heart start to break.

Chapter Text

A/N 2: Here's one of my Lucas/Vyeta all-time favourite videos made by the wonderful Spikesbint. Not only does it share the same title, it goes perfectly with the plot of this tale.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7x3HsNkn-WM

Tuesday November 4th, 2008

Lucas buries his nose in his wife’s soft, perfumed hair and revels in the feel of her petite frame pressed close to him.

He reads hope, denial, love and guilt when she lets herself be wrapped in his arms. It’s too soon to start analysing and dissecting all the emotions which are transpiring between them; he wants to savour this reunion after being denied for so long.

“I know you must be asking yourself lots of questions,” he says quietly, swallowing the big lump in his throat before tucking a wisp of her hair behind her ear and wiping two tears off her cheeks with his thumbs. “My visit to Russia turned out to be a lot longer than I’d expected,” he smiles wryly, gripping her hand more tightly as if he were afraid she’d fly away.

“I never gave up hoping even when everybody said...”

“It was time to move on,” he completes her thought, looking at the engagement ring he'd seen sparkle in the park, before releasing her hand and stretching out an arm to grab one of the gilded frames lying on the baby piano. “May I?” he asks, seeing the fleeting look of angst in her eyes.

“Of course,” she murmurs shakily after a brief pause.

“People say having a child changes one’s outlook on life,” he says softly, tracing the infant’s features with loving fingers.

“It does...” she replies emotionally. “Lucas...”

“I saw you yesterday... in the park. He’s a beautiful child...” he interrupts her, setting the frame down to pick up the photo of the boy as a toddler.

“He’s my world. I don’t know what I would have done without him...”

“What’s his name?”

“Ioann.”

John. God is gracious.

“He has your dimples when he smiles.”

“That’s what papa says.”

“How’s Anatoly these days?”

“He’s been good to us...”

“You’re his daughter and Ioann’s a Starkov. I wouldn’t have expected any different.”

“Lucas... there’s something I have to tell you.”

“I’ve missed and lost many things since I boarded that plane bound for Russia, but my powers of observation aren’t amongst them, Vyeta.”

“Papa wanted him to be baptised as a Starkov alone... but it wouldn’t have been right.”

“I’ve heard Tom’s his godfather.”

Lucas had introduced her to Tom Quinn early in their marriage, and the former spy was the first person she went to when Arkady Kachimov turned up at her doorstep with news of her husband. She’d always trusted Lucas’ old friend, and he ended up being instrumental in her learning about Lucas’ real identity and job. To this day, she thanks God for putting both Tom and his American wife, former CIA agent Christine Dale, in her way. They were the only two people in the world who could understand what she was going through; the only ones she could talk to without having to resort to lies or subterfuge.

“He’s been a fabulous friend. “

“Has he?” he cocks a questioning eyebrow.

“He and his wife, Christine,” she adds quickly. “You’ll like her. They make a great couple.”

Tom Quinn. His best friend since university. The man who pushed him to apply for a job with MI5. The agent who got the promotion Lucas had been first in line for, the coveted promotion which undermined Lucas’ life with Vyeta and almost cost him his life.

Lucas feels a sudden envy towards Tom, wishes he’d had the courage to do what his friend did before losing it all. Harry still appears to begrudge his former Section chief and yet Lucas can’t help but admire the integrity shown by his son’s godfather.

The fact that Vyeta’s cultivated Tom’s friendship makes Lucas wonder how much of the truth she’s aware of and if his best friend felt the need to come clean with her. In any case, Lucas isn’t naïve enough to believe Kachimov’s approached her out of interest in Art. It also makes him wonder if Harry's suspicions are right.

She must already know the real reason behind her husband’s late nights at the office, the unexplained cuts and bruises in his body and an absence of eight years that can’t be explained as a business trip gone wrong.

“Vyeta...” he begins as she busies herself with the picture frames on top of the piano.

“Would you like to see him?” she cuts him off, unwilling to start dragging up the past the first night. “He’s gone to bed earlier than usual today. This afternoon’s football game wore him out,” she adds quietly.

“I’d love to,” he replies a few heartbeats later, struggling to ignore the sparkling diamond that adorns her ring finger.

Nothing, neither Anatoly Starkov nor a divorce or a man named Nicholas Sark is going to stop him from fighting to keep his family together now that he’s back home at last.

Friday November 7th, 2008

Three days later Lucas turns up at his father-in-law’s home in Belgravia; this time announced.

Although Vyeta has already talked with Anatoly to prepare the ground for their meeting, Lucas knows it won’t be an easy reunion, especially when the older man’s got his hopes pinned on her marriage to an affluent lawyer. Unlike Lucas, who's the son of a simple Methodist minister with no connections, Nicholas has the right background to be considered worthy of Anatoly’s only daughter.

Stella opens the door to him with a warm smile and a “Good evening, Mr North. It's good to have you back home.” before showing him to the drawing room.

On hearing the front door bell ring, Vyeta rushes through her grooming and curses her superior at the gallery for having detained her on her way out. She should have been ready for her outing sooner to cushion Lucas from her father's predictable animosity. Even though Anatoly grudgingly promised to her, after a full-blown argument, that he's going to be civil to his son-in-law for his grandson's sake and hers, she knows the longer both men are left alone in a room the more risks there are of an explosion of tempers. Lucas used to be the one who lasted longer in control of himself, but that was before; this man who's gone to hell and back she's yet to get reacquainted with.

“I've been back home several times in these past years. I still have good friends there. They offered my family help to track you down. You were nowhere to be found. It was clear to me then you were either dead or didn't want to be located. Seeing you standing here has finally provided me with the answer I've been looking for,” she hears her father say coldly as she approaches the drawing room.

“This might be hard to believe or understand, Anatoly, but if I'd been able to call or contact Vyeta, I would have done it. However, it was physically impossible.”

“Physically impossible? “

Vyeta comes to a stop a few steps away from the door standing ajar, curious to find out what argument Lucas is going to use to justify his absence to her father.

She hasn't given Anatoly any explanations, despite his insistent prodding, because she knows what it's like to feel one's no longer in control of one's life. Her husband's owed this moment; he should have the choice of deciding the way he wants to come back after having been stripped off the power to chart his own life for eight long years.

“Soon after my arrival in Moscow I was assaulted as I was leaving a business meeting. They beat me up, stole everything I had on me and left me for dead on the side of a deserted road. A couple of farmers found me in a ditch and took me in.”

“That was seven and a half years ago, Lucas. What kept you from coming back when you'd pulled through?” asks the older man with barely disguise ire in his voice. “Do you have any idea what hell you put my daughter through? Not only did she have to handle your abandonment she had to deal with a difficult pregnancy on her own. If I hadn't decided it was time to leave France and had the foresight of taking that taxi to your flat after hearing Vyeta's voice on the phone, you would have had neither a wife nor a son to come back to.”

“Papa, that's enough,” snaps Vyeta tensely, barging into the room and looking at her father with clear censure in her eyes.

Lucas can sense Anatoly's simmering rage crackling in the air and an equally powerful feeling of impotence and self-loath bubbling within himself for having put his career and his duty to his country first when his wife and his marriage needed him the most. Not for the first time he wishes he'd known Vyeta was with child, perhaps he'd have acted differently, perhaps he'd have told her the truth then... and perhaps he'd have ended up losing both of them for good.

It's no use pondering on what ifs. He needs to focus on the here and now if he's ever to get the chance of knowing and hugging the son whose journey into this world he missed, if he's ever to shed the ghosts he's brought with him from Russia and dispel the doubts Harry's chat has planted in his mind.

“It's all right, Vyeta. I too would begrudge my son-in-law if I were in your father's shoes,” he says in a calm voice. “You see, Anatoly, I was held back against my will... “

“What? You were kidnapped? Imprisoned?” frowns his father-in-law.

“I've been imprisoned in my mind for a very long time... Amnesia,” replies Lucas, looking at Vyeta out of the corner of his eye to gauge her reaction.

“Amnesia?” echoes Anatoly, studying Lucas with a speculative eye. “Did you know this, doch’ka?”

Vyeta looks down at her feet before raising her eyes to meet Lucas' and nods slowly.

“Why did you keep it from me? Why did you let me...?” starts her father.

“Would it have made any difference? “ she cuts him off. “I've let you take the reins of my life for far too long. I thank you for being there when I needed you, Papa, but it's time Ioann and I moved out.”

“Vyeta, doch’ka....”

“Stella's already helping us pack. I'm sorry, Papa. I won't change my mind.“

“You turn up after eight years, having miraculously regained your memories and in less than three days you've got her wrapped round your little finger once again. What have you told her this time to have her turn her back on her family?” he glares at the younger man.

“Please, Lucas, don't,” she stays her ex-husband, placing a hand on the sleeve of his jacket. “I don't want to fight with you over this, Papa. When are you going to understand it's never been a competition to see which of you would get me? I'll always be your daughter, but you have no right to ask me to choose between you or to dictate what I should do with my life.”

“Are you moving in... with him?” asks Anatoly gruffly, ignoring his son-in-law's grim expression.

“With all due respect, sir. I don't think your daughter has made up her mind about anything yet. And, in any case, it's a question that concerns only she and I. Now, if you'll excuse us, we've got a dinner reservation,” replies Lucas in a no-nonsense tone which puts an end to the unsavoury confrontation.

“I'm sorry about that,” says Vyeta quietly when Lucas puts the key in the ignition of his car. “I should have known better. I could have taken a taxi to the restaurant or agree to meet elsewhere.”

“Our paths had to cross sooner or later. And this was bound to happen no matter how much you might have wished to put it off. Your father's never made a secret of his dislike for me, and I don't see how that would have changed after my eight-year-long inexplicable absence. I expected this, Vyeta, and to a great extent I deserved it.”

“That's not true... You had no say in the decision to stay away for so long. You said so yourself. ”

“I volunteered for the job; it was my choice, my responsibility. If I'd known that you were pregnant... At the airport... did you know? When you told me you wanted a divorce... were you already aware you were with child?”

“No,” she replies quietly.

“You know I had no amnesia, don't you, Vyeta?”

A sudden silence descends over them, one pregnant with questions he doesn't dare to ask and whose answers she wishes she could put off for as long as she can.

“Vyeta?” he prods gently.

“I just... just wish to pretend for one night that...” she swallows, making a desperate effort to keep the tears at bay. “Could we... please, Lucas?”

He wishes he had the strength left in him to say no, to demand an answer from her and put an end to this agonising wait but one look at her convinces him they both need this respite, a refuge from the wounds and the cruel hand of fate.

All of a sudden he feels the need to go back to innocent times when he still felt having a normal life separate from work- a loving wife and a family to come to at the end of the day- was possible; his little cocoon of safety and quietude amidst the chaos and craziness of the real world.

“I don’t feel like dining in a stuffy French restaurant after all. Do you? How about some fish and chips?” he suggests, seeing her smile and start to relax.

“I’d like that a lot,” she replies, fastening her seat belt.

Monday November 10th, 2008

It's three o'clock in the morning and the moon bathes the king-sized bed where only one body lies asleep.

A slight sheen of perspiration gleams on her brow and neck as the fingers of her right hand grip the headboard and a soft moan escapes through her lips. She's dreaming about a pair of blue-grey eyes charged with passion and tenderness and broad shoulders that block the moonshine when he covers her with his lean and shapely body.

“Lucas...” she moans, yearning for the moment their bodies become one and she can feel whole again. But that moment doesn't arrive, and the mouth that has been hovering over her lips taunting her with a kiss she's been denied for eight long years makes a detour and whispers a word in her ear which feels like a dagger in her heart- “Traitor.”

Her own uncontrollably loud sobs wake her up all of a sudden, and she sits up in bed, breathless and disoriented. Through the veil of tears she looks around the bedroom and realises she's no longer in the room that has been hers since she was born but in the bed she's occupied since she got married; only this time she's woken up alone and there's not even a head dent or a trace of vanilla on the pillow next to hers.

A dream. It was only a dream.

She wraps he arms around her bended knees, rocking to and fro, trying to get her breath back.

Lucas isn't a dream any more. He's alive and she saw him, talked to him and touched him two nights ago. And alone in the bed where he gave her their child she yearns for the caresses of his hands and the feel of his lips on her mouth and her skin.

She misses him more now than ever before and can barely control the urge to pick up the phone and call him, to give in to what she's read in his eyes. She knows that he's probably lying awake haunted my memories of his imprisonment and that a simple call would have him ringing at her door in fifteen minutes; that's how long it'd take him to drive to their home. But it'd be a mistake.

Fresh tears well up in her eyes, tears of relief because he's alive and back home. And she can't remember ever feeling this happy, not since their son's birth when she believed Ioann was the only piece of her husband she'd ever be allowed to have and hold in the years to come.

And yet, the experience is bittersweet. She remembers what it felt like to be held in Lucas' arms once more, to look into the blue-grey eyes she'd missed so much and knows she loves him still. And that realisation fills her with unbearable anguish because she knows what this means. Lucas might want to pick things up where they left them before he took that fateful flight; however, Vyeta doubts she'll ever have the strength necessary to survive loving him the way he needs to be loved, especially now after the hell he's gone through.

Chapter Text

Tuesday November 11th, 2008

The next day, following an early morning debrief at Thames House - which has left him feeling demoralized and betrayed anew- he drives aimlessly for a couple of hours in an attempt to get back the flimsy control he’s had over his emotions ever since his release. 

Although today’s session has been the hardest, he knows there’s still a long way ahead of him. They don’t trust him; Harry might have chuckled when Lucas joked in the car he’d promised Arkady to spy for the FSB, and yet the younger agent is acutely aware of the ever-present suspicion whenever he's summoned to The Grid to continue with his debrief.

Even though Lucas knows it's standard procedure to be given the third degree and common sense to suspect an agent's true allegiances after an eight-year imprisonment in a Russian interrogation camp, he can't help but experience an overwhelming feeling of utter despair and renewed loss on sensing his old mentor's waning faith in him. He tells himself he's being childish and petty, and yet the green-eyed monster still stings after showing its head on The Grid when he witnessed the easy camaraderie and implicit trust between Harry and the newly-appointed section chief, Ros Myers.

Rehashing some of the worst moments of his incarceration has turned Lucas into a quivering mass. He managed to keep up the façade and not crumble in front of the Head of Section D and his Ice Queen, a fact which makes him infinitely thankful for small mercies since breaking down on The Grid would have been the ultimate denigration. 

And now, sitting in silence in the marshlands of Tilbury, an echo of the barren and bleak landscape of his haunted soul, he relinquishes the tenuous control he's retained over his emotions by letting go of his grief in a silent scream, which finds its voice in the cry of a solitary grebe. 

One day we'll go bird-watching together by the Tilbury Water Tower, Oleg Darshavin's promise rings in his ears.

The psychiatrist at Trig would have a field day if she saw her patient now. He might be over 1,700 miles away from Moscow; however, he's still a prisoner in a Russian cell, clinging to life only thanks to the memory of Elizaveta and the prospect of a walk with his torturer in the marshes of Lushanka between sessions. 

Raising his gaze to the leaden sky, the moisture from his tears hanging from his long eyelashes, he wonders if there's still a part of the old Lucas alive somewhere, that side of him which made Vyeta fall in love with him. Things wouldn't look so hopelessly dismal then.

Clenching his fists with impotence, he fights to stop the images of his walks with Darshavin from interfering with his happy memories of bird-watching in The Thames Estuary with his father, the minister, during his childhood holidays. There's so little left in him that isn't tainted that Lucas prays to God it will be enough not to be stripped off the only blessing which has kept him sane this eight years- his wife... and the unexpected gift of the life they created together.

It's stopped raining, and the last sunrays are beginning to filter through the dissipating clouds when Lucas parks the rented car in front of a block of flats in the Docklands; six hours after the crippling emotional upheaval he's barely managed to control by sheer force of will.

Leaning against the car with his arms crossed, both to keep the cold at bay and to make sure his protective armour is still in one piece, he surreptitiously scans the street out of habit and feels warm for the first time that day on seeing the welcoming smile spread across Tom Quinn's face.

Lucas grasps the hand Tom extends and then finds his still malnourished body wrapped in a warm brotherly hug, which puts a suspiciously misty veil over his eyes.

“You thought you'd finally got rid of my ugly hooter,” he chuckles in an attempt to disguise his discomfiture when Quinn steps back and gives him an assessing once-over.

“I'm so glad you're back,” replies the former Section Chief with a sincere smile.

“Yeah, you know, I was beginning to miss London's fish and chips and my five o'clock tea.” 

“Do you still have a sweet tooth? Christine's hopeless at cooking, but she's a mean baker.”

“You know me too well. I've been stuffing myself with macaroons and doughnuts since I got back. A definite improvement over the usual stale bread or the occasional mouldy cheese they used to serve at Lushanka.”

“Well, you're welcome to partake of our table anytime you like. I've become quite the expert with my pots and pans.” 

“It certainly shows,” replies the lanky agent, shooting a smirk at Tom's thicker waist. “Married life suits you,” he adds with a barely disguised trace of wistfulness in his voice.

“Have you seen her? “ asks Tom after a brief lull in their conversation.

Lucas slips his hands in the pockets of his jeans and, bowing his head, nods. 

With a comforting hand on his shoulder, Tom steers Lucas towards the front entrance of the refurbished building. “Shall I show you the flat? If you approve, you can move in whenever you feel like it. There are no bugs... or officious old ladies reporting back.”

“A pity. I rather liked her macaroons,” he sighs with a lopsided smile. 

“I remember they were good but not as good as Christine's,” interjects Tom proudly.

“I'm glad you were wise enough to leave before this machine we both chose to jump onto chewed you up and spat you out. “ 

“It isn't too late for you either.” 

“What do you know about Nicholas Sark?” asks Lucas as they enter the building.

“He's a good-looking guy in his mid-forties. Never been married. Has no known vices. Extremely well-connected in the financial district; several sharks in The City would kill to have his portfolio of clients. And... he seems to be genuinely in love with Elizaveta,” replies Tom as the lift doors slide close.”Unfortunately, for him, his feelings are unrequited,” he smirks.

The car stops on the second floor and the searing anguish which left Lucas' stomach in knots during today's debrief diminishes somewhat. Vyeta doesn't love Stark. Relief washes over him and his legs become shaky as if he'd been running a marathon and arrived at the finishing line hanging by a thread. The possibility of losing the woman he loves has been haunting him from the very moment he boarded that fateful plane to Moscow, and the threat has become even more ominous since his return. Tom's words give him hope and put colour back on the barren canvas of a prospective life without Vyeta for, deep in his heart, Lucas knows that he'd do anything to see her happy, including giving her up if she loved Stark. 

Feeling his tense muscles uncoil, he steps out of the lift and follows Tom up the corridor to the door of the vacant flat for sale.

Crossing the threshold, they walk into a spacious living-room with floor-to-ceiling windows that provide a stunning view of The Thames and London's skyline. It's a far cry from the one-bedroom flat MI-5's assigned to him, and definitely not the kind of dwelling the old Lucas would have gone for. However, he's suffered the crippling asphyxia of close and confined spaces for far too long and yearns for the light and air that this flat offers in plenty. 

The sun's already set when Tom joins him on the balcony overlooking the river, having finished the guided tour of the premises and discussed the arrangements for Lucas' move.

Tom sees his best friend leaning on the railing in a world all of his own, his eyes completely focused on an old sepia photograph he's pulled out of his wallet. Seeing its worn and creased edges, Tom wonders how many times during captivity Lucas clung to that picture of blissful conjugal happiness and traced his wife's smiling face with loving fingers.

“Losing you and almost dying giving birth to your son changed her. Neither of you is the same; not after everything you've both been through. I don't know what happened between you before you left for Russia- it's none of my business- but I love you both like family and all I want is for you to have what I thought would never be mine after Ellie. If you asked me, it's Anatoly the one who's more enthusiastic about this marriage; you must have already guessed Sark's an associate of his. Fight for her Lucas. Not everything's lost. Not yet.”

Lucas drives from the Docklands to Belgravia, eager to see Elizaveta and Ioann again and feel the soothing balm of their closeness. 

He clenches his fists and takes a deep breath; it won't do for one of his prison flashbacks to haunt him now of all times. He doesn't want Vyeta to see him like that. Trying to find courage and hope in Tom's words, he locks the car and walks to the house. 

Neither Elizaveta nor he are who they used to be when they said their last goodbye at the airport, but Vyeta's still the only woman Lucas wants to wake up next to every morning. 

“Good evening, sir. Please, come in. She’s expecting you,” says the housekeeper with a welcoming smile as she opens the door wide for Lucas to step inside.

He hasn't thought of anything other than his reunion with Vyeta since Friday. At night he lies awake on the floor and stares at the ceiling of his MI5 flat, reliving the first two weeks of his resurrection; for that's what this is, a rebirth. Ever since his release, he’s felt suspended between the past and the present, pondering on how best to approach his ex-wife, agonising over how she'll react to his wish to give their marriage a second chance.

Although he's back in England, it doesn't feel like home, not without Harry's trust or Vyeta by his side. Not having the former hurts, but the prospect of losing his most cherished bond with the Lucas he used to be before he lost all trace of innocence fills his heart with a choking sense of desolation.
At least now he doesn't feel like a stalker, lurking in the shadows for a glimpse of her and their son or phoning her only to chicken out at the last minute when he hears her voice.

Coming to a stop a few steps away from the library, he waits for Stella to announce him and takes advantage of his superior height to spy into the room for a glimpse of the only woman he's ever loved. 

Vyeta is sitting on the sofa opposite the fireplace, seemingly absorbed by the winter landscape outdoors as the first snowflakes begin to fall. She's actually staring with blind eyes, lost in memories of happier days when she was a young bride in love, full of dreams and ideals and stubbornly determined to stand up for her choices even if it meant alienating herself from the most important man in her life until Lucas.

She hates this weak woman inhabiting her body, who can't find the strength to take the reins of her own life again. She can hardly recognise this frightened creature who's taken over her rebellious spirit and is terrified of leaving the safe cocoon both Anatoly and Nicholas have spun around her. And yet, she can't remember ever feeling more alive than now, glancing at her watch every other minute with a pounding heart, dreading and yearning to see Lucas once again. 

Eight o'clock is just five minutes away. Vyeta's sure he won't keep her waiting today. He never used to be late early in their marriage but things changed when his career became his all-consuming priority.

And then the wait is over when Stella knocks on the door and finally shows him into the room.

Standing in the doorway tall, gaunt and alive, he steals Vyeta's breath away and makes her heart skip a few beats. He's never had to do anything but just be in her vicinity for her heart to go haywire. From the first moment she set her eyes on him with his piercing blue-grey eyes, his jet black hair and that shy smile of his, he's sent her senses reeling. She knew the minute their eyes met for the first time all those years ago that there would be no other.

“Lucas.” Vyeta leaves her seat and, crossing the distance between them, stands on tiptoe to kiss him softly on both cheeks.

His father-in-law's welcome is almost as cold as the wind that used to blow across the marshes of Lushanka.

“Anatoly,” nods Lucas gravely before turning his blue-grey eyes to Vyeta.

His gaze on her feels like a warm caress as it roams her face with sweet longing. Then he smiles that heart-melting smile she's been dreaming of for eight years and Vyeta lowers her gaze in a desperate attempt to resist its call.

“Papa, would you leave us, please?”

Anatoly Starkov glares at his son-in-law, clearly begrudging Lucas for trespassing on his territory and daring to claim what the older man still considers to be his property.

For a minute Lucas doubts her request will be granted, but exchanging a silent look with his daughter, Starkov reluctantly steps out of the room.

Vyeta's finally alone with her husband. Her ex-husband, who's been dead for eight years. His experience in Russia has changed him. The Lucas she fell in love with had a dark and mysterious side to him which is still there, but different in a way she cannot fathom. And yet, at the core, he's the same man she married, the man who ended up shutting her out of his life without even realising he'd left her behind.

There's so much she needs to say to him. Nevertheless, she knows her words would mostly hurt him, and he's been inflicted enough pain to last him a lifetime and more. She's only seen pictures of the way his body and soul were defiled in that hellhole and can't help but feel partly responsible for that. If she'd fought for their marriage harder, been vocal about her feelings instead of simmering with misery in silence; if she'd been honest with him about her frequent bouts of melancholy caused by the doubts that were haunting her and created a real opening for him to trust her with the truth about his job, maybe things would have turned out differently. Maybe he wouldn't have plunged into a nightmare to prove himself worthy. Or maybe he would have made the same decisions... It's no use dwelling on what-ifs. And still, she can't stop feeling guilty. 

Lucas studies Vyeta with tender eyes. She looks so fragile and vulnerable, almost as ghostly pale as he does when he faces the mirror. He yearns to kiss her mouth and put some colour back in her cheeks, see the man she fell in love with reflected in those beloved eyes that seem to be determined to avoid his.

Although they may be different people now, time and distance have done nothing except strengthen his love for her. He aches to take her in his arms and show her how much he loves her. However, her silent reticence and his fear of overwhelming her with his neediness curve his urge.

Standing in front of the French doors, he stares at the snow falling in an attempt to collect himself. 

“I'm so sorry, Vyeta. I swear I didn’t realise how miserable I’d made you.”

“I believe you. But that doesn't change the fact you lied to me.”

“I never lied.”

“Did you tell me what you were?”

“You used to love who I was,” he replies with haunted eyes.”I thought of you. All that time. Eight years.I thought of nothing but you.”

She swallows the lump in her throat and looks down at her tightly clasped hands.

“Vyeta, what do I have to do to convince you that I’ve changed? That my career's no longer my primary focus?”

He could tell her that he has a small fortune now- eight years of back payments have seen to that- that he can afford the lifestyle she's always been used to and he's never been able to give her with a government salary. But he holds back. Social position and money have never been important to Vyeta- she wouldn't have chosen him as a husband if they were- and he won't insult her or their marriage by bringing them up, no matter his occasional bouts of inadequacy as a working-class Cumbrian boy married to a Russian upper-middle class girl.

“Do you remember the first time we talked to each other?” he asks, clinging to a treasured memory of a time when nothing else mattered except how much they loved each other.

Misty chocolate eyes meet his, belying her desperate attempt to remain distant.

“Chekhov's Summer Festival,” he adds, filling in the silence. “I fell in love with you then, Vyeta. It's always been you and nobody else.”

She closes her eyes to fight back the tears and then looks past him to the window ledge now covered by a thick layer of snow. 

She yearns to drown in his eyes and melt away, wishes she were strong enough to give him what he needs so desperately and hates herself for the words she's about to utter, for her incapacity to be the woman he needs her to be to help him mend. 

“Lucas…I’m so sorry for everything you've been through... so very sorry. And I thank God every day for bringing you back home.”

“But?” he eggs her on quietly, bracing himself for her answer. 

“Love wasn’t enough then, Lucas. How can it possibly be enough now?” 

“Vyeta, sladkayaj...”

“I'm sorry... I can't do this again. I just can't.”

Shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his jeans, he tries to fight off the overwhelming feeling of helplessness which has suddenly seized him. Her rejection on top of the suspicion of his colleagues and mentor is something he doubts he's equipped to handle when his grip on the reins of his life is so weak. 

He can't lose her. Finding his way back to her is what's kept him alive and sane for eight years and he refuses to believe there are only ashes left. He just has to find the way to make her see what he sees when he looks at her- the other half of a whole, a reflection of his own crippling fear of breaking his chains and living again. 

TBC

Chapter Text

Lucas can hear the logs crackling in the fireplace, but they could be just dying embers so cold does he feel after hearing Vyeta's rejection. And yet, there's something in the growing pallor of her profile as she gazes unseeingly at the heavy snowfall that tells him he is not the only one in the room who's fighting against powerful demons.

She loves him still; despite not being who they were eight years ago, his instincts and the uncanny ability to read people have survived that hellish nightmare unscathed. Even though it would break his heart, he'd step aside if she were truly over him and in love with Sark. But Lucas isn't convinced what she has with the businessman is as meaningful as she wants to make him believe.

“Are you happy? Does he make you happy?”

“Happiness isn't getting what we want,” she replies softly, touching her fingers to the misty glass, “It's appreciating what we have. So, yes. I'm happy.”

“And what exactly is it that you have with Nicholas?”

He can see her reflection in the glass and recognise the truth she's tried unsuccessfully to crush with sheer force of will.

“Do you love him?” he asks quietly, wondering if she'd dare to use the words.

“I…I care for Nick,” she replies in a breaking voice.

“Do you love him?” he repeats, using the silky tone he resorted to when interrogating a suspect he knew was about to confess the truth with a slight nudge.

Her answer isn't verbalised, but seeing her eyes close speaks just as loud. Lucas exhales in relief and relaxes his hands, which he now realises were in a tight grip. At a time when everything seems to be crumbling down all around him, Lucas feels suddenly blessed at being spared the crushing feeling of having the woman he loves tell him a blatant lie in the face. It's a beginning and one he refuses to have tainted by the poisonous seeds Harry and the Ice Queen of Section D planted during his debriefing. He isn't naïve enough to believe the FSB didn't approach his wife during his incarceration. In fact, he's well aware they kept tabs on her; Kachimov himself dangled surveillance photos of her as bait in front of Lucas' eyes more than once in an attempt to break him. And yet Lucas is willing to give Vyeta the benefit of the doubt, hopeful she'll open up to him when the time is right.

Standing behind her, so close he can smell the perfume of lilacs he used to conjure up in his cell when he was lying naked and cold, shaking after a particularly vicious session of torture, Lucas aches to touch her, yearns for her to ask him to do so. Her siren call is a potent one for someone who is starved for a human touch other than the one meant to hurt and debase; he raises his hand and brushes his fingers along her throat in a gossamer caress.

“Lucas...” she stifles a sob.

He runs his hand along her arm, envelopes her smaller hand in his and then laces his fingers with hers.

Vyeta trembles under the tender assault of his tentative caresses, which seem to vanish the slim barrier of her clothes on their wake.

His long fingers now entwined with hers bring back memories of their last night together, the bittersweet night they created the beautiful baby boy who helped her pull herself out of the abyss that had threatened to swallow her whole.

Her heart races with the recollection of their passionate and slightly desperate lovemaking the moment he presses their clasped hands against his heart, willing her to feel he is just as affected by her closeness as she is.

“Vyeta—” he murmurs, locking his scorching gaze with hers.

She feels the still strong magnetic pull that she's always been incapable of resisting and knows she's once again tottering at the edge of the precipice. In a last desperate attempt to keep her resolve, she touches his lips with trembling fingers to stop him from covering her mouth with his and, unlocking her eyes from the mesmerising blue of his gaze, she struggles to say what she knows needs to be said.

“Vyetachka—”

“I prayed... prayed every day for you to come back home; for Him to shelter you... I felt so guilty. I couldn't stop replaying the last conversation we had, wondering if … . if I had known what was waiting there for you... All these years I've wondered if it weren't my parting words that pushed you into their clutches...”

“You can't take the blame for something you had no control over. I knew what the odds were when I took up the mission; the wheels were already in motion when I boarded that plane, sladkaya.”

“But you can't know if the extra burden I placed on your shoulders didn't make you more vulnerable.”

Although Lucas wishes he could refute her arguments and assuage her fears, he knows there's more than a grain of truth in what she's saying. Even though he's always been good at compartmentalising and keeping a cool head, he's never been an unfeeling automaton.

“I'd lost you long before you disappeared in Russia. If only I'd been able to make you understand

how much I missed being an important part of your life, how much I wanted you back.”

“I should have known better than to take you... us... for granted. But I'm no longer the person you were ready to divorce eight years ago.”

“Neither am I,” she replies in a quivering voice, feeling the hot prickle of tears on spying the prison tattoos he takes pains to cover by pulling down his sleeves in a self-conscious move.“I really don’t know who I am anymore,” she adds in a defeated tone that drives Lucas to take a few steps forward in an attempt to close the distance between them.

“You're my world. The moment I met you I knew... it was you I needed in my life. And you still are.”

“What you needed was to prove your dead father you were someone he could be proud of. It’s what you lived for, Lucas. And in the end I felt completely excluded.”

“I'm aware of that now. I've had eight years to go over every single decision I've taken in my life, trying to figure out how we ended up having that conversation in the airport car park.”

“So have I,” she utters in a broken voice. “It was just the two of us then,” she adds after a brief pause. “Now there's another person that would get hurt in the process. Ioann's only a child, Lucas. I know how much you want to prove yourself to the service, but is it really worth it?”

“I won't make the same mistakes twice. I don't know what will happen when my sessions at Trig finish, but there's one thing I do know; I love you and you're fooling yourself if you believe Sark is the man you love.”

“He's a good man.”

“And what does that make me,Vyeta?”

“I can't say the words you want to hear,” she replies forlornly, lowering her gaze.

“And what about Ioann? What about our son?”

“Our baby is a blessing, and I won't deny you sharing in it. I'd never keep you from him! He needs his father.”

“And I need you; both of you,” he bursts out, tilting her head with firm but gentle fingers and seeing the misty longing in her chocolate eyes. “Vyeta,” he murmurs, laying his forehead against hers and finally succumbing to the call of her sweet breath, claiming the mouth he's kissed every night in dreams for the past eight years.

Her sweet taste and her passionate response leave him breathless. For once, he welcomes the feel of drowning for it is nothing like the nightmares that haunt him every night or the water-boarding flashbacks that cripple him on his waking hours.

“Sladkaya,” he sighs, lifting his head and meeting her chocolate eyes glazed with desire. On a ragged breath, he draws her tighter into his embrace, and feels the chill in his bones that has been his constant companion for so many years start to melt.

She's just as affected as he is, judging by the short and shallow pants which reach his ears as he presses a trail of soft kisses on the white column of her palpitating neck. Like a seasoned mapper he navigates charted territories, wondering if the places he once knew have changed with the passing seasons and demand little adjustments. Although it's been a long while, it feels it was only yesterday when he discovered the secret spot on her neck. His lips grace it with a whispering caress and he smiles; it is still there.

“Vyeta?”

Lucas stiffens when the unknown male voice unexpectedly threatens to shatter their fragile cocoon. He feels the woman he loves start to pull away and tightens his hold on her, experiencing a pang of pain on seeing her face blush with the shadow of embarrassment.

“Nicholas,” she acknowledges the older man meekly, stepping out of Lucas’ arms on shaky legs.

The spook sizes up his rival in one long, assessing look. He can see why Starkov is set on having the middle-aged man as a son-in-law- he fits the bill to a tee in a way Lucas never will .

Turning back to Vyeta, the spy’s eyes lock with hers in a silent message- “Please, tell me this isn’t the man you want to spend the rest of your life with.”

“Is everything all right?”

“I don’t believe we’ve met. Lucas North,” he says coldly, extending his hand, “Vyeta’s husband.”

“Nicholas Sark,” replies the trespasser, ignoring Lucas’s hand, “Vyeta's fiancé.”

“Fiancé?” asks Lucas with a tight smile and a shake of his head.

“Please…” starts Vyeta, moving to stand between them.

“It’s all right, Angel moy,” Lucas reassures her, ignoring the stockbroker's slight. “I'm not about to cause a scene. We're all grown-ups, aren't we?” he cocks an eyebrow, meeting Nicholas' eyes.“I'm sure you two have a lot to discuss,” he adds, curbing his primal instinct to defend his territory; it'd not help his cause to deepen her distress and have her tighten her resolve to resist his entreaties.

“This isn’t over. We’re not over,” he says softly, holding her delicate hands in his and pressing a long, soft kiss on her brow.

Markham Gallery- West End

Friday November 14 ^h , 2008

“Have you sent out the invitations yet, Jenny?” Vyeta asks absently.

“Yes, they're in the post,” replies her assistant.

“Any news about the catalogues?”

“Oh! They've just arrived. Mr Donaldson will be very pleased with the result. I'll fetch them for you.”

It's at moments such as these, when the world around her seems to be crumbling down, that Vyeta thanks her lucky star for guiding Jennifer to her doorstep. Today of all days she needs her efficient aid and unfailing resourcefulness to get her through the day without a blunder.

Sitting at her desk, she looks at the scribbled note in her trembling hands and replays the conversation that has deprived her of sleep for the last couple of nights.

“I don't understand.”

“There's every reason for people who were once... together, who have not seen each other for so long occasionally to catch up. Drink coffee. You love Russia, don't you?”

“Yes, but...”

“Eight years, Vyeta. MI-5 never helped him. Harry Pearce? He let his star protégé rot in a damp and cold cell. Lucas owes these people nothing He gave them all those years of solitude and darkness. In comparison, this... little bit of information.. is nothing.”

“Here they are.” Jenny breezes back into the office with a smile in her voice, which falters on noticing the growing pallor of her boss' face as Vyeta struggles to keep her mind off Kachimov's unsettling visit two mornings ago.

“Thanks,” she replies slightly breathless.

“Is everything OK?”

“Just a little dizzy. I had a poor night's sleep. Would you be so kind as to fetch me a cuppa?”

“Sure,” Jenny smiles, turning around only to bump into a tall and handsome stranger. “ S... sorry. Can I help you?” she stammers, blushing.

“Thanks, but I've already found what I was looking for.”

Vyeta freezes on hearing the deep chocolatey baritone that has always managed to turn her into a quivering mass.

“Hi!” he adds softly, noticing his wife's discomfiture and eerie paleness while she makes a great show of tidying up her desk. “Are you ready?”

“Ready?” she blinks.

“Lunch? You do get a break, don't you?”

“Of course, she does!” exclaims her assistant, waking up from her trance and smiling conspiratorially behind his back. “Go! He's hOOOt!,“ she mouths for Vyeta's benefit.

It seems it was only yesterday Elizaveta had the same reaction on meeting Lucas for the first time. She can still recall the blushing cheeks and the butterflies in her stomach as she struggled to overcome her sudden speechlessness. To this day she wonders how she plucked up the courage to hand him one of the flyers she was distributing for the Summer Chekhov Festival without melting into a puddle.

Snapping her thoughts back to the present, she does her very best to school the tell-tale signs that would reveal he's lost none of his power to rattle her.

“I thought you were spending the rest of the day with Ioann,” she manages to articulate, concern etched in her face.

“I got dumped for a new Playstation game,” he chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest.

“What?!”

“We ran into Christine and her kid at the zoo, and I didn't have the heart to say no when our son asked for permission to accept the play date.”

“You should have stood your ground. It was suppose to be your day together. And Christine didn't say anything? She should have known better. I'll call her and tell her to bring him over,” she fumes, picking up her mobile and searching through her contacts.

“Don't,” he stops her, pushing away from the door and walking across the office to her desk.

“But...”

“He's just a boy, Vyeta.”

There's no need for him to utter the words. Mixed with his yearn to preserve their child's innocence, there's a sense of bleak despair and inadequacy written in the depth of his haunted eyes.

“He's a sweet boy. You've done a wonderful job with him, sladkij.”

Lucas knows how much it'd cost him to shed the mandatory ever-present mask of a man in his trade if it weren't Vyeta the one in the room. For once he welcomes the relief of not having to lie; for there's no doubt in his mind that she's aware of how overwhelming his role as a father is proving to be.

He loves the boy and wishes to have with him the kind of bond he yearned to enjoy with his own father growing up, before Lucas' decision to join the army following his eldest brother's death on the front created a chasm between them that fate prevented them from bridging. However, he can't help but wonder if he'll manage to surmount all his personal hang-ups in order to succeed.

“The day they put him in my arms was the happiest and the most frightening of my life. Being responsible for the life and welfare of such a tiny and defenceless person... Well, it can be scary like hell. Nobody's born a parent, Lucas.”

“Thanks,” he replies awkwardly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “So,” he smiles shyly,” what about lunch, then?”

“I...”

“Just lunch, Vyeta. No pressure. I didn't mean to frighten you the other evening. Sometimes I have to remind myself it's also been eight years for you.”

“You didn't frighten me, Lucas,” she assures him, wondering if he can see through her; she's always been such a lousy liar.

If only things were simpler. Sharing a meal or an impromptu picnic in a park was one of her most cherished memories from the early days of their marriage, but today's invitation has the potential to become something else entirely now that Kachimov's decided to call in the favour she asked of him a year ago.

“I'll get my trench coat.”

His luminous smile on hearing her capitulation makes her feel like crying all of a sudden.

If only there were another way. He's given up so much to protect so many.

She'll stop by the church on her way back to work and light a candle to the Virgin in the hope that Our Lady will grant Lucas and her a second miracle.

Waiting for her in the corridor, Lucas hears the not-so-subtle whispers of the female staff, who are casting sly and speculative glances his way while making a bad show of looking busy on seeing his lunch date emerge from the toilet.

With a pang he notices she looks even paler than when he arrived, and there's a suspicious gleam in her eyes that suggest she's been crying.

There's such a long road ahead; so many ghosts to put to rest. But he's determined to get his life back one step at a time.

TBC

Chapter Text

A quarter of an hour later Lucas parks his rented car in the underground garage of the property he hopes will soon become a home.

“I thought we were grabbing lunch,” frowns Vyeta. “Isn't this the building where Tom & Christine own a flat?”

“We are. And yes, it was.”

“Was?”

“Eight years of back payment. The flat's mine now,” he replies sheepishly before climbing out of the car and taking a basket from the boot.

He looks so young all of a sudden, so much like the Lucas of the early days in their courtship that she wishes they could turn the clock back and start anew.

Lost in memories of the tiny old flat they used to live in as a recently married couple,Vyeta walks towards the lift in silence.

It isn't until the doors glide open on the seventh floor that she's dragged back to the present; the vivid memory of the sweet christening of their first home still lingering in her mind.

Lucas walks down the long carpeted corridor, his heart beating a pounding tattoo, and stops in front of his newly acquired flat, hoping she doesn't notice the shaking of his hand as he inserts the key in the lock.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” he invites her in, suddenly assaulted by the memory of another flat, the one whose threshold she crossed in his arms as a happy new bride.

She stands hesitantly inside the door, as if she were wary of coming back into his life, so different from the young woman who defied her world to be with him.

His gaze seeks hers and in an instant he knows she's been reminded of their first home too. It's a far cry from the tiny bedsitter he managed to rent as a newlywed on his meagre civil servant budget; he remembers it used to be a miracle of sorts to make ends meet, but somehow she always found the way. This woman, who'd been born with a silver spoon in her mouth, created a haven for him to return to with her love and a creative resourcefulness that endeared her more to him and, at times, made him feel small and, yes, even undeserving.

Now he knows it was largely his sense of inadequacy and his desperate wish to provide for her and the family he was so eager to start with her that prompted him to run higher risks and work himself to exhaustion. Eight years away from her and endless hours of torture and introspection made him realise his foolish pride and battered self-esteem had eventually pushed them apart, when it should have been clear to him from the get-go that she had wanted just him.

“What you needed was to prove your dead father you were someone he could be proud of. It’s what you lived for, Lucas. And in the end I felt completely excluded.”

It's been a long while since he thought of his late eldest brother, John- his hero growing up and the son he strived to measure up to in their father's eyes. His sibling had served as an SAS until his death during a cover op the year Lucas decided to follow in Tom Quinn's footsteps and join MI-5.

“Do you think he'll feel comfortable here?” he asks hesitatingly when they step into the bedroom he expects will be Ioann's. “I don’t know what he likes. You could... I just don’t want to mess things up,” he adds in a voice that sounds small, even to his own ears.

His son. His precious son, whom he didn't see born. The baby boy he thought he would never father. Ioann. God was gracious indeed.

She swallows and tightens the hold on the coat folded over her arms as if it were a shield.

“You won't, Lucas.”

“I’ve missed so much…,” he manages, meeting her eyes with his, the memory of their last night together and its precious outcome reflected in them.

Her cheeks tint pink and she looks away, walking to the windows and staring out at The Thames in the hope that its silver cold waters can help her regain some control over her tangled emotions.

He can still recall the way she clung to him that night as they made love. Even though he was aware then that she was angry at him, there was desperation in her lovemaking as if she had known it was their last time, their goodbye.

A cold shiver runs up his spine as memories of his incarceration assail him. He struggles to chase them away and feels his skin start to get clammy. He can't have her see him like this, discover how deeply he's been damaged by his torturers. Although he's been celibate for eight years, his body and his soul were repeatedly defiled at Lubyanka. Some would say he was lucky; he escaped the looming threat of rape. But then, there are many ways in which a person's physical, psychological and spiritual integrity could be despoiled.

“You and Stark—are you...?” he swallows the big lump lodged in his throat.That question has hovered in his mind since the moment he learnt of the other man's existence.

Lovers. The word remains unuttered, but the long silence that follows is a pregnant one.

“No,” she says quietly, her ponytail swaying. “We’re not.”

He lets out a breath, closes his eyes and unclenches his fists. Relief washes over him. He's damaged and tainted; she deserves better than this haunted half man that has stormed back into her life, but he needs her to help him see there's still beauty in this wretched world. She's the air he needs to purge his soul and the touch he yearns for to cleanse his body and feel whole again.

He walks across the empty room and stands close to her at the window, watching the London skyline with unseeing eyes as he resists the urge to reach for her and taste her mouth again.

“You’ve been out of touch for a long time, Lucas,” she says carefully. “A lot has happened that you should know about.”

She feels sick with apprehension and guilt. How much should she tell him about what has transpired in the past year and a half?

She realizes she’s been woolgathering when Lucas bridges the gap between them and gently tilts up her chin. She wonders if he'll kiss her, She'd gladly melt into him now but knows it wouldn't be wise.

Lucas seems to be debating what to say or do next. The kiss doesn't come, and Vyeta feels relieved and disappointed at the same time.

“I gathered that much, and I’m guessing not all of it was good.” His voice is gentle; his demeanor concerned. “Tell me.”

Taking a deep breath to bolster her confidence, she starts with the basics.

“Someone approached me a little over a year ago. He told me you'd been arrested but you were alive. And that you could come home if I helped him.”

Arkady. It must have been him.

“Kachimov?”

She nods, pulling her folded jacket closer to her chest.

“And you said yes?” he adds in a tone that suggests more an assertion than a question. “You weren't FSB when we married. Why did you say yes? Why did you put yourself at risk?”

“He showed me photographs of you in that place.”

A sudden sense of dread fills him at the thought of her bearing witness to the indignities he was submitted to even in the form of some security camera snapshots. Up to this moment, he's taken comfort in the assumption he was the only one to have to endure crippling flashbacks during the day and recurrent terrifying nightmares whenever sleep finally overtakes him.

“Your skin,” she says in a quivering voice.

The pain and barely concealed sympathy that lace those two words make him recoil and cross his arms tightly on his chest to cover the shackle and chain tattoed on the inside of his right wrist, which the raised cuff of his shirt has left visible.

“He came to see me at the gallery a couple of days ago. He wants me to be your... handler. He said... He said it would be easier on you if... you believed I had always worked for him.”

“Well, he's a very clever man, Elizaveta, but he's not a good man.”

“So now?”

“Whatever your reasons for working with Kachimov, you need to think about protecting Ioann now.”

“How?”

“We'll give Kachimov what he wants,” he tells her matter-of-factly.

“And what about your boss? Your job?”

“My friends want to throw you to the lions, so there's only one way to do this,” he states gravely.

Standing in the middle of the empty living-room, missing her petite body pressed against his and the arms she wrapped around his waist after he finished delineating his plan, Lucas waits for Vyeta to return from the bathroom, where she's taken refuge to regain her composure and fix her make-up.

He aches with want and wonders how long he´ll be able to control the insistent and compelling need to close the emotional and physical distance between them. He remembers the soft texture of her bare skin against his, the delicious little noises she used to make when he mapped out the contours and hidden corners of her body with his lips, before getting lost in her welcoming warmth. He misses being one with her; that feeling of completeness that transcends the physical. He yearns to be finally home.

Vyeta steps back into the spacious room and goes perfectly still when she sees his tall and achingly malnourished figure, cut against the bank of windows overlooking the river. Unconsciously, her eyes look their fill, busy taking him in, unaware she's also being observed.

The caress of her warm chocolate gaze, as intimate and arresting as the touch of her hands, warms the skin beneath his blue dress shirt and stirs his over-sensitive libido. It travels slowly past his thighs and lingers on the placard of his jeans before continuing upwards to meet the barely restrained passion burning in his eyes. Embarrassed, she swallows thickly and looks away.

It's been eight long years for both of them. Many were the sleepless nights she spent quietly crying while their baby fluttered and then kicked, longing for the warmth of Lucas' body spooning hers and his protectively possessive arm wrapped around her middle. The memory of their love kept him alive and sane in that hell hole he survived, and its living incarnation helped her pull through despite the bleakness of a life without her husband in it.

“Lucas,” she says. Just his name, a single word charged with conflicting emotions- regret, stubborn resolve, desire and, yes, abiding love.

He can see her struggle with a response and knows she needs more time to deal with the reality of his return. Pressuring her into making a decision about them now would be the surest way to losing her forever. It should be enough she is here with him; skittish she might be, but she isn't running away. That counts for something. It counts a lot, considering she asked him for a divorce before he flew to Russia eight years ago. Hence his decision to make the most of the time they have together until she comes to the conclusion that their marriage is worth a second chance.

“Sladkij,I don't need your answer right now. I'm just asking you to be open to the idea. You don't owe it to me or even to Ioann but to yourself to consider the possibility.”

“Spasibo,” she murmurs.

It's that simple “Thank you.” and the promise it entails that keeps him going when, after a brief silence, she asks him to pick up Ioann and drive them home.

TBC

Chapter Text

CLOS MAGGIORE- COVENT GARDEN
Friday November 14h, 2008

Later that evening Vyeta sits across the table from the man who's been nudged into her life by her father, trying to concentrate on Nicholas and failing miserably to drag her mind away from her pleasant afternoon with Lucas.

Having collected Ioann from Tom's, Lucas drove them back to her flat and spent a few hours talking about inane things, topics meant to make her feel safe. And it worked, until she felt suddenly too comfortable in his company and it didn't feel safe anymore. He made her feel too much, rendered her vulnerable to his unassuming charm, made her want to smile back at him, rake her fingers through his unusually long black hair and experience the magic of his kisses once again.

Despite the cosy nook and the intimate dinner à deux in one of the most romantic French restaurants in London, she can't stop thinking about Lucas’s imprisonment or forget both his determination to protect her and their son and his resolve to give their marriage a second chance.

She sips her wine and manufactures a quick smile nodding in agreement to whatever it is Nick has ordered as a starter for them both, hoping the carefully constructed façade doesn't crumble and betray her innermost thoughts; she isn't sure of anything anymore.

“You're unusually quiet tonight. Is anything the matter?”

“I’m sorry, I've got a lot on my mind,” she smiles apologetically. “I’m not very good company, I’m afraid.”

“This isn't about the new exhibition, is it? North’s return has unsettled you,” Nick says bluntly.

That was putting it mildly. Lucas' return and the rollercoaster of emotions she's been on since seeing him in the flesh once again have turned her world upside down.

“You are not alone, Vyeta. There's your father and me. If North's making you feel uncomfortable in any way... ”

“Nicholas,” she interrupts him kindly, “Lucas might have been declared dead by our legal system, but he's very much alive. He's been through a lot, and I just...” she swallows the lump in her throat, reaching for the glass of expensive white wine the sommelier's just poured. “He's my son's father,” she adds quietly.

“You still have feelings for him,” Nick concludes at the end of a pregnant pause.

“Pretending I don’t wouldn't be fair to either of you.”

“Does that mean you still love him?”

“I... we have a history together, Nick. That can't be erased overnight.”

Nicholas watches her face in the dimly lit restaurant, doing an admirable job to keep his emotions tightly concealed. Vyeta may not be in love with the man, but she's aware that her reticence to give him a straight answer has hurt him.

“Where does that leave us then, Vyeta?”

She looks down at the engagement ring on her hand before raising her teary eyes to meet his.

“You’re going back to him.”

“No,” she denies quickly, as much for her benefit as for his. “No. I'm… I’m not going back to Lucas. I'm moving on.”

“Then why this indecision where you and I are concerned?”

Vyeta isn't sure of many things, including the reason why she's come to this decision, but what she does understand is that to continue dating Nicholas would be a mistake for everybody involved.

She’s thought about everything Lucas said, about giving him and their marriage a chance. She's filled with doubts, afraid of replaying what happened to them, but still wondering if his job had really been the sole culprit of what went wrong with their marriage. Maybe she had unrealistic expectations back then. Although she’ll never know now, she's certain of what has to be done as far as Nicholas is concerned.

“Seeing Lucas again has complicated things in many ways. And yet, it’s also clarified some
things for me... The relationship that you and I have, Nick, is very special to me. You were there for me when I needed a friend. Never doubt my love for you.”

“But you're not in love with me the way I am with you. Not the way you're with your ex-husband.”

Vyeta curves her urge to correct him and say Lucas isn't her ex-husband, or late husband, but her husband. He's alive and they're still married in the eyes of God. However, she feels she's already inflicted enough pain for one night.

“I’m sorry, Nick. You deserve to have that love returned. I’m so sorry I can’t be the one to do that,” she tells him, holding his left hand gently and placing the diamond engagement ring on his palm before wrapping his fingers around it with a soft squeeze.

Slowly withdrawing his hand from hers, he lifts his glass to his lips and takes a moment to collect himself.

“So, shall we order the main course?” he asks after a moment.

Noble and impassive, seemingly unaffected by what's just transpired between them, she's letting her go without a fuss.

She knows it's utterly unfair to compare both men. Lucas is as noble as Nicholas, she's seen ample proof of that; and she knows the man she's been married to for twelve years can be just as impassive- it's a necessary tool in his trade. Yes, she doesn't doubt he would take a step aside if he thought she'd be happy with Nick, if he were convinced she was in love with the other man, but she isn't and Lucas knows it. Still, Lucas has always been passionate when it comes to matters of the heart.

Despite the way things had been between them before Lucas left on his ill-fated mission in Russia, the strength of her feelings for him had never been in question. Theirs wasn't a cold marriage and whatever foolish doubts she had once harboured of his seeking attention elsewhere when he spent more and more time away from home were put definitely to rest when she learnt the truth about his job. Nicholas deserves to have the kind of love she's known with Lucas and offering him less would be a betrayal on so many levels.

“The crab mousse was wonderful. As are you. Friends?” she asks, her voice laced with compassion and concern.

“Always,” he replies with warm eyes and a sad smile.

Vyeta tells herself she's done the right thing, and yet she can't help but feel anxious and ill-equipped to handle what lies ahead.

Saturday November 15th, 2008

Lucas is looking forward to moving into his luminous and airy new flat with its bank of windows overlooking The Thames. Eight years of living in a windowless cell have prompted in him a desperate yearning for open spaces; he finds his rooms in the terraced house MI-5 has given him stifling, and the prickling sense of being constantly watched is irrefutable evidence that he's back in England but still not back home. No matter how officious and charming the old lady just across the corridor appears to be, she's an ever-present reminder that the Service doesn't trust him yet.

Making sure his mobile is charged, he slips it into the pocket of his long overcoat, snags the keys to his transitory accommodation and opens the front door when his phone rings.

Harry.

After a quick, to-the-point discussion with the head of Section D, whose ramifications he hopes won't jeopardise the headway he's made with Vyeta, he buys a disposable phone on the way and ambles to Battersea Park to enjoy the open space and make the call he's been putting off since his arrival in London.

“Da. “

“Harry Pierce has called me onto the Grid. He wants to talk about you.”

“Well, pleased as I am to hear from you, Lucas, your standing orders are never to make direct contact with me.This is what handlers are for.”

“Well, I've yet to meet my handler, Arkady, and this is a one-use phone.”

“What will you tell him?”

“That you're a pussy cat. You need to watch your back. Harry's developed a particular animus for you.”

“He's jealous. He worries for your loyalty. He has to be, he's a spy. But still this need to worry, it wounds him. He wants to trust you, he yearns to trust you. And therefore in his heart, he has decided to trust you, whether he is aware of that fact, or not.”

“You've got to feel sorry for the poor bastard.”

“I promise I will try.”

“You know given the chance, he's gonna eat you alive.”

“No. Let us hope, if he ever gets the chance, he has a hearty appetite.There can be no more direct contact, Lucas. We don't see each other, we don't speak to each other again. This is the nature of your life now. You must live as though your friends are your enemies, your enemies are friends. I must ask you to do this for me. My operation will make contact very shortly.”

“Over and out, then.”

“Over and out.”

VYETA'S FLAT

It's been eight years since he stood at the front door of this flat – their flat- one that holds so many bittersweet memories. He fidgets with the bunch of roses for Vyeta and the special gift he got Ioann from an antiquarian a couple of days ago and wishes the two phone calls hadn't marred the plans he had made for them to spend Saturday evening together.

Raising his arm to press the buzzer, he lets his hand hover and then knocks tentatively on the door. An old neighbour who had recognised him let him in and, although Lucas tells himself that it's his family and … his home... and that he still holds the deed of the flat, he's now second-guessing his barging on them unannounced.

The few seconds that elapse from the moment he knocks till the sound of the chain and the lock is heard stretch like endless minutes.

“Good afternoon,” he says, standing in the doorway with a sheepish smile.

“Hi,” answers Vyeta blushing, accepting a kiss on her cheek and taking the delicate bouquet he offers her.

She looks domestic and lovely, and he feels his heart start to melt when she lets him in while nervously touching the ribbon she haphazardly tied back her hair with to check it's still in place.

“You look beautiful,” he tells her softly, trying to hide how fast his heart has started to gallop on noticing she's no longer wearing the engagement ring on her left hand.

Don't get ahead of yourself, Lucas. Maybe she's just removed it to do the dishes after lunch.

“Hi,” he adds with a smile, seeing their son standing a few feet away.

“Hi,” the tall boy answers. looking curiously at the wood carved box Lucas is still holding.

“Oh!” he exclaims, suddenly realising his mooning over Vyeta has made him forget the present for his son. “This is for you.”

“What is it?” asks the boy shyly, darting a questioning look at his mother.

Vyeta shrugs and clears an end of the dining table, which they've been using to work on a school project, so that he can set the box down. “Go on. Open it and we'll find out.”

“Oh, wait! There's something you'll need to unlock it,” adds Lucas, slipping his hand into the watch pocket of his jeans and extracting a small key that he profers to his son.

Ioann's face breaks into a luminous smile on seeing the Russian handcarved chess set that is revealed as he lifts up the lid.

“Spasibo. Eto krasivo,” the usually quiet boy tells him visibly touched by the gift as he rushes to Lucas and wraps his young arms tightly around his father's waist.

“Pozhaluysta,” he murmurs hoarsely, holding his son close and meeting Vyeta's suspiciously bright eyes with his own veiled by tears.

“Can we play a match, Dad?”

“Sure,” laughs Lucas, surreptitiously drying his eyes. “I'll play black. Why don't you get everything ready? I need to have a word with your Mum first.”

“OK. Mum says you're as good a player as granddad, so it should be good practice for the tournament,” replies Ioann excitedly.

Vyeta steps into the kitchen and goes to the sink, where she proceeds to fill the kettle with cold water from the tap in an attempt to collect herself before facing Lucas again. The deeply emotional scene in the dining-room has left her rattled and torn; Ioann needs his father, whom he takes after so much in looks and character it used to be a source of comfort and bittersweet pain when she believed her husband dead.

She's told Nicholas she's ready to move on, but how is she supposed to go about it without making everyone involved miserable? Seeing the usually reserved and shy boy feeling so comfortable and trusting around Lucas, with whom he's managed to develop a strong and loving bond in such a short time, makes Vyeta question the wisdom of making a clean break and starting anew. Although she's promised Lucas he'll have unrestricted access to his son, deep in her heart she knows he wants and needs more; he needs her too. How can she hurt the two people who mean the most to her in the world? She hates these crippling and tangled emotions, the fear of the past repeating itself, of not being able to protect their son from heartbreak and, above all, of not being capable of helping Lucas put his nightmares behind and heal.

Lucas watches Vyeta plug in the electric kettle, fetch her favourite Twinnings blend and arrange the tea set on a tray. He knows the scene in the other room has unsettled her and that she clearly needs time to regroup, so he patiently waits for her to finish putting everything together to broach the subject he's been mulling over since early in the afternoon.

“That was a beautiful gift, Lucas. It must have cost you a good penny.”

“It was more than worth it to see him smile.”

“He'd love you even without expensive gifts, but it was very thoughtful of you. He'll treasure it just because it came from your hands.”

“I wish I'd been the one to teach him how to play.”

“I know,” she says softly.

Although he wants to reach for her, hold her and have her hold him, make him forget he still stands to lose everything that is precious to him, her posture communicates uncertainty on her part, so he shoves his shaky hands in his pockets.

“Is everything all right?” she asks anxiously, noticing there's something weighing heavily on his mind.

“Define everything,” he chuckles.

“I'm... Sorry, I shouldn't have said that. What I meant was...”

“It's OK, love. I know what you meant. Have your heard from Arkady since we spoke of him last?”

“No. Why?”

“He's probably going to contact you today. I want you to do what we agreed; tell him you've decided to accept being my handler.”

“There has to be another way.”

“We've already discussed this, Vyeta. It's the best way. And I don’t have a choice; I'm still on leave but...”

How many times has he said the words 'I have to go.' to her? He can see in her eyes that she's thinking the same thing.

He swears under his breath, rubbing his hand over his jaw before covering his mouth with it in a clear gesture of impotence.“I hate this. Something's come up... I...”

She keeps her distance, yet her eyes are full of concern and he can see in them that whatever there is between them is a long way from being resolved—and that gives him hope.

“You don’t need to explain.”

“Yes, I do. I need to make you understand, Vyeta. They need me. They're depending on me.”

“When is it going to stop? Haven't you already given them enough, Lucas? When is it ever going to be about what you need... what our family... needs?”

“Sladkij...”

“Dad? Are you coming?”

“Give us one more minute, Ioann! Vyeta...”

“Go,” she says, cutting into her husband's regrets, meeting his expressive blue-grey gaze with a look that tells him she may understand more than he’s given her credit for.

Submitting to the yearning he's been holding back since he set foot in the flat, he crosses the distance between them and folds her fiercely into his arms.

“Sorry, love. This isn't the way I wish things were right now. Don't give up on us yet, please,” he appeals against the silk of her hair, holding the back of her head. “I'll find the way. Think of the time we’ve lost and what we have to gain by seeing this through.”

Even though she wants to believe that he's changed, that his priorities have changed, the indisputable fact is that he's leaving again the way he used to before his ill-fated trip to Russia.

“Your father taught him well. He almost wiped the floor with me,” he tells Vyeta with a lopsided grin as he puts on his blue wool trench coat.

“If he plays as well as he does, it has nothing to do with my father.”

“What do you mean? I thought he said his grandfather had taught him.”

“Yes, that's true. It wasn't my father but yours who introduced him to the game.”

“My father?” he croaks.

“Yes. He loved you, Lucas. You should stop torturing yourself. We talked a lot in his final days. He was so proud of you. Getting to know his grandson and bonding with him was of great comfort to both your parents. Have you seen your Mum yet?”

“No,” he shakes his head, “she doesn't know I'm back yet.”

“What?! Why? Whose idea was it to keep her in the dark? Sir Harry bl**dy Pearce's?!” she explodes. “If I had known, I would have made the call myself.”

“It wasn't Harry's decision. He wanted to phone her or send someone to bring her to London. I asked him not to,” he explains in an even voice, his head bowed and his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans.

“But why, Lucas? She's your mother. You're all she's got left apart from her grandson now.”

“After everything that happened to my brother... I felt... I still feel ashamed of having put her through hell again.”

“She understands a lot more than you think,” she tells him soothingly, squeezing his left upper arm gently.

“I need more time,” he confesses hoarsely, locking his haunted eyes with hers.

“All right,” she concedes grudgingly. “I still think she should know, but if that's what you need... I only hope that Harry lives up to his word.”

“Thanks. He will.”

“I hope you're right because I don't trust him. I still can't understand what you need to prove to that man. He knew all the time where you were and let you rot in that hell hole for eight long years.”

“It wasn't like that. I knew what I was risking when I took up that mission. I was MI5 when we married, MI5 all those years in prison, and... “

“You're MI5 now,” she completes.

“Yes, I am,” he agrees, meeting her eyes with a fleeting look of desolation that tells her MI5 might end up being all he has left in the world if she doesn't give him and their marriage a second chance.

“There's more to you... and to life... than your job, Lucas. And if what you were looking for when you joined was some kind of atonement, you've more than paid for it.”

“I need to do this one thing, Vyeta,” he adds after a brief, pregnant silence.”And then... I promise everything will be different this time,” he swears earnestly, cupping her cheek before lowering his mouth to kiss her with tempered urgency.

With tenderness he lingers lovingly over her mouth, asking tentatively for admittance until she opens to him and he melts into her kiss.

Vyeta can't find it in her to push him away and is suddenly drowning in sensations. She's missed the feel of his hands, both gentle and possessive. She's missed the feel of his body pressed against hers, making her aware of how long it's been since either of them experienced the touch of a lover. She's missed his taste and the way he smells, that comforting and alluring fragrance of herbal soap and aftershave and that indefinable something that is only his. She's dizzy and aching, consumed by the need to feel his skin against hers with no barriers between them.

Lucas drags his mouth from hers reluctantly and tucks her head under his chin, stroking her silky long black hair, which has finally come loose.

“God, I've missed you. There’s nothing I’d rather do than stay and kiss you all over again,” he murmurs achingly,”but they're waiting for me, and I'm already running late, sladkij.”

Embarrassed and shaky, she lets him set her away.

“Here. Take it,” he tells her, pressing a key into her palm. “It’s to the flat in the Docklands. Could you work on it... make it feel like home?”

Stunned by the request, she only manages to stare from the key to his gaunt face in an attempt to process the implications.

Taking her silence for concession, he bids her goodbye and, with one last lingering look, turns to leave.

“Lucas.”

He stops, tightening his grip on the doorknob. Vyeta notices the tension coiled in his shoulders and back and has the unsettling feeling he's bracing himself for a blow.

When he turns back, he's wearing a self-assured smile, but those beautifully intense blue-grey eyes, which are capable of reflecting a world of emotions in their depths, are telling a completely different story. It's the naked vulnerability she perceives in his defensive stance and those sad eyes that stop her from listing all the reasons why she can’t work on his flat and telling him he shouldn’t read too much in that kiss.

“About Nicholas…”

A dead silence hangs in the air between them.

“I want you to know that it’s over.”

More silence ensues, but this time there's hope in his eyes and the slow smile that flickers across his face.

“It doesn’t change things between us,” she adds gently. “I...”

“Don’t think about what scares you, sladkij. Think about what we have and what we can continue to build. All that time. Eight years. I thought of nothing but you. And I know, despite everything, it's been the same for you. I may have lied about what I do for a living, but you know this much is true; I love you, Vyetachka.”

He kisses her again swiftly, this time on the cheek, bids her goodbye and walks out the door to put the wheels to their deliverance in motion.