Napoleon wondered if he would survive touching that mop of golden silk, since the furious blue eyes beneath the overlong strands were promising some creative retribution in his near future.
"Amateurs!"
Napoleon winced as he sucked a droplet of blood from the tip of his finger after prying it off a barb of rusted wire that he'd tried to free from Illya's tangled hair. "Them or us?"
"Yes!" was the withering reply.
Fishing his handkerchief out his breast pocket, Napoleon spared an annoyed glance for his partner. "I said I was sorry. I'm not the one who suggested we have coffee with our pie."
"You are the one who wanted pie in the first place! 'Come, Illya, we will stop at this little place I know where they have this so wonderful apple pie.'"
"And was the pie not everything I promised? You had two pieces." Changing tactics, Napoleon bestowed on Illya a look of exaggerated entreaty, hoping it would lighten the mood. The glare he received in return wasn't encouraging, so he returned his attention to blotting the many small crimson dots from his fingers and palms. "Admit it, the coffee was good, too."
Illya remained unconvinced. "If I'd known our little snack would be result in you being strung up by your wrists and me strapped to a hay bale with barbed wire, I would have insisted on the Waldorf."
"Frankly, so would I. How was I to know my favorite roadside coffee shop had been taken over by THRUSH? And that they'd recognize us and drug our coffee?"
"You are in charge of the largest intelligence community in the world, Napoleon. This certainly doesn't reflect well on you."
Stifling a sigh, Napoleon had to admit that Illya was right. This day should have been special, a beginning to celebrate and some day, if they were lucky, an anniversary to treasure. While Napoleon had been immensely flattered—and amused—that Illya's idea of a romantic idyll was a suite at the Waldorf and room service, he'd wanted to get them out of the city, to temporarily slip loose from the constraints that bound them to their responsibilities.
Now it was going to be memorable for all the wrong reasons.
He slid closer to the stack of hay bales that held Illya upright, leaning across Illya's outstretched legs and supporting his weight on his hand beside Illya's knee.
"Hey, I promised to show you a good time." He eased toward Illya until their noses briefly touched. "Aren't you having a good time?"
He was rewarded by a slight thaw in the crossed blue eyes.
"I've had worse," Illya conceded, the crease at the corner of his mouth deepening in unwilling amusement. "Under other circumstances, this could almost be enjoyable. In a purely professional manner, you understand."
Napoleon feigned shock. "Agent Kuryakin, are you telling me all those times you were tied up in the line of duty, you actually enjoyed it?"
"When you've been tied up as many times as I have, you learn to appreciate ingenuity." Illya's glance flickered past Napoleon. "Our friend is waking up."
Napoleon glanced over his shoulder, confirming Illya's observation. The THRUSH agent that had stayed behind to guard them had been subdued by a well-aimed kick but once Napoleon freed himself from the ropes that held him suspended from the rafters, he'd been more concerned with Illya's situation than ensuring the guard remained completely incapacitated. He laid where he'd fallen at Illya's feet, but as Napoleon watched, hands the size of hams clenched and slackened, signaling the guard's return to consciousness.
"Can't have that. I'll get him—where's my cane?"
"There, by the tractor."
Rising painfully, Napoleon hobbled to the tractor and picked up his shattered cane. There was less than two thirds of it left intact, but the part Napoleon needed was still attached. He approached the moaning THRUSH operative, giving him an assessing look before taking a slow practice swing off an imaginary tee.
"Napoleon, do get on with it. That pie has been a happy memory for a while and it's nearly dinner time."
Napoleon held up an admonitory finger. "Patience, my young friend. I've spent years perfecting this swing for the U.S. Open, you know."
"Then hurry up and impress me. My nose itches."
Napoleon stepped forward and took aim, striking the guard behind the ear with the beak of the elegant silver eagle crook. There was a soft woof as he landed, sending a flurry of hay into the air.
Napoleon set the cane aside and dusted off his hands before lowering himself to Illya's side once more. The barbed wire had been wrapped around Illya's neck and torso, his hands pinned upward against the bale with tight loops. The sports coat he'd started the day with had been removed and the once white shirt was spotted with pinpricks of blood only slightly brighter than the smears of rust from the barbed wire. There was a bruise on the side of Illya's mouth and another near his eye, but, like Napoleon, he was relatively unharmed. The drug that had been planted in their coffee had been quick to act and quick to recede, a fact Napoleon tucked away for consideration at a later time.
"All right, let's see if there's any slack yet."
Illya wrinkled his nose.
"Oh, sorry. Here, allow me." Napoleon gave the dirt-smudged nose a gentle scratch. "Better? Okay, see if you can lean forward at all."
Illya's glare deepened once more before fading into determined acceptance. "All right."
Napoleon's rested his hand on Illya's thigh as he watched Illya incline his head a bare inch. Even in the dim light of a dirt-crusted oil lamp left behind by their captors, he could see the barbs begin to slice the skin beneath Illya's Adam's apple.
"That's enough," he said quickly, knowing his stubborn Russian would try everything short of beheading himself to get loose. "We're going to have to try something else."
"Your sure there's nothing here to cut the wire?"
Napoleon glanced around the crumbling barn. "Surprisingly, no. This group didn't strike me as the thorough kind. Maybe there's something I overlooked." He patted Illya's leg as he prepared to rise his feet. "Don't go anywhere."
"How are your hands?"
Hearing the concern in Illya's voice, Napoleon paused and held up his arms, revealing reddened bands around each wrist. "Still in working order."
"And your hip?"
Napoleon shifted forward onto one knee, suppressing a wince as pain lanced down his leg. "It'll do. Damn shame about my cane, though."
"I'll get you another one." Illya clenched his hands in frustration. "We should have checked with the local office before we left."
"And told them what?" Napoleon responded with some asperity. "That the head of Policy and Operations was spiriting off the head of Communications and Security and oh, by the way, could they check and see if there are any newly hatched THRUSH agents in rural Connecticut who may recognize them on sight, drug their coffee and throw them into a barn?"
"Yes, well, you may have a point." Illya's mouth twitched and Napoleon felt an answering smile tug at his lips.
All things considered, it could've been worse.
Their three captors possessed the legendary THRUSH tendency for dramatics. In a typical example of overkill, they'd bound Napoleon's wrist and ankles and had strung him from a large hook dangling from the barn's rafters. As soon as two of them left to rendezvous with their superiors, Napoleon had been able to subdue the remaining guard and free himself but Illya had been another matter. The ends of the wire appeared to be tucked deeply between the bales and Napoleon had cut his hands repeatedly, trying to gain enough slack for Illya to slip loose.
It wasn't much different from any of a hundred predicaments they'd found themselves in before, except this time they weren't getting paid to put themselves in harm's way. The promise of a new chapter in their lives coupled with time away from the adrenaline-heightened awareness of field work had made them complacent. Whoever these THRUSH operatives were, they needed to be dealt with, and had Napoleon not had other plans for the weekend, he'd have enjoyed learning more about THRUSH's latest efforts in this remote area of New England.
Now his only goal was to release Illya, get them both cleaned up, mended where required, and turn the whole matter over to the local office.
"You and your romantic trip to the country."
Napoleon smiled at the soft grumble. "This isn't my fault," he said patiently. He saw that one of the barbs was perilously close to breaking through the skin of Illya's neck and he extended his hand, noticing with detached interest as more drops of blood welled from the tips of his fingers. "You know I had some very different plans for this weekend."
"I will assume that being captured by THRUSH was not part of them."
"If we were on company time, I'd say it was a distinct possibility, but this time, THRUSH most definitely was not invited."
"That is a relief. While I have always admired your dedication to your work, this would be taking things a bit far."
"Next time, I promise to make sure we are in a THRUSH-free zone, if there is such a thing."
"Next time? Napoleon, we haven't even had a this time. And by the way, you are bleeding on my shirt."
"So are you."
"Yes, a little. You are bleeding more."
"Only what we can see, my friend, and that's not much in this light. Until we get you unfettered, I'm afraid I can't assess the damage."
"Unfettered?" Illya hissed. "Napoleon, you never cease to amaze me with your ability to—" he broke off with a choked sound and Napoleon flinched.
"That's enough of that," he said with forced cheerfulness. "I'd suggest holding still until I get you free."
"And how do you suppose to do that?"
"Unless I find something to cut that wire, there's only one way I know."
"No, Napoleon. Already, your hands—"
This time when Napoleon reached for Illya, he didn't hesitate, resting his bloodstained palm on Illya's cheek. "It's my hands or your throat."
Their eyes met, and the smell of blood and rotting hay that lay thick in the warm air faded away. What Napoleon revealed in his own gaze he could only guess, but what he saw in Illya's expression reminded him of how they'd gotten into this predicament in the first place.
It'd been Illya who'd first put voice to the undercurrents that had been flowing between the two agents long before their retirement from the field. For Napoleon, the change of status had been involuntary but necessary after he'd been one step too slow during an affair in São Paolo. He'd saved the lives of his fellow agents that day but lost most of his right hip in the process. On his first day back after a lengthy recuperation, Mr. Waverly had given him a brief, all-encompassing glance before informing him that his services were now required full time in the highest echelons of U.N.C.L.E and that his clearance would be raised accordingly. Then he'd been handed a thick set of files and a key to his new office, items he'd had to juggle with the slender ebony cane Illya had given him upon his release from the hospital.
A practical man, Napoleon turned to his new work with the same attitude that had made him U.N.C.L.E.'s best agent. His only regret was being separated from his longtime partner, someone he'd come to care for beyond what was considered acceptable. Duty had led them both around the world many times, sometimes together, many times apart, but always sharing the unspoken truth of a friendship that had managed to transcend all real and imaginary borders.
Illya had remained a field agent for another year, reporting directly to Napoleon as Waverly relinquished more and more of his authority. The fact that they had to work harder to maintain the personal side of their relationship had only enhanced it; when Illya was in New York, they were almost inseparable, dining together, attending the theater, or simply strolling through Central Park on a temperate day. Illya remained Napoleon's most trusted confidant, and when the day came that Section Five needed a new leader, Napoleon had asked Illya.
It was after Illya had assumed his new duties that what had started as friendship forged from a working partnership began to strengthen into something Napoleon was hesitant to name. There was no one else whose company he enjoyed more, but that wasn't new. Nor was his appreciation of Illya Kuryakin in a strictly aesthetic sense, but he kept that appreciation to the same level as an admired a piece of fine art—permitted to look, forbidden to touch.
Napoleon had considered himself content with his life—he had female companionship if he wanted it, he had meaningful and important work, and he had Illya beside him again. New roles, but their working relationship was better than ever, and if Napoleon sometimes wished that they could share something beyond an already close friendship, he kept it to himself.
Things may have gone on that way indefinitely, until a recent late evening when Illya had sauntered into his office, the neck of a decanter clenched in one hand and two crystal tumblers resting in the palm of the other. Napoleon had set his reading glasses aside and leaned back in this chair, enjoying the view of Illya leaning indolently against the door frame as he poured a generous amount into each glass. There was nothing provocative in Illya's attire—black trousers, an olive green sweater over a gray shirt—but Napoleon knew all about the lithe form beneath the casual clothing. He'd trusted it, protected it and coveted it for so long that his awareness of Illya was as subtle as breathing—and as necessary.
"Are we celebrating something?"
"No." Illya entered the room and set the bottle on Napoleon's desk, offering one of the glasses to Napoleon.
"All right." Napoleon took the tumbler and gave its contents an appreciative sniff. "Are we fortifying ourselves against severe disappointment?"
"Possibly."
Napoleon took a sip and grimaced as the scotch bathed the back of his throat. "Hmm. Must be something important—you've appropriated one of my better bottles."
Illya slid his hip onto the smooth surface of Napoleon's desk, looking down on him with an unreadable expression. "If you object, then you shouldn't leave your liquor cabinet unlocked."
"I don't."
"Oh, so that explains the tricky catch. I thought it was merely stuck."
"Of course you did." Napoleon took another drink and set the glass aside. Illya's movements had been fluid and relaxed, giving him no reason to suspect something dire. "Don't take me wrong, you know you're welcome here anytime, but you look like a man with something on his mind. Care to tell me what it is?"
Illya rose and slumped into the chair across from Napoleon. As he propped his feet up on the corner of the desk, he spoke in tones of doleful confession.
"I no longer enjoy the company of women, Napoleon."
If Illya had said he was singing soprano at the Met that night, Napoleon couldn't have been more shocked. The blunt statement was in direct contrast to what Napoleon knew about the famously straightforward Kuryakin charm—it was as fleeting as it was fatal. His lovers could neither resist him nor change him, thus ensuring liaisons of exceptional brevity.
Napoleon chose his tone carefully, making sure to remove any note of hope. "Any particular reason?"
Illya didn't move. "You, of course."
The breath caught in Napoleon's chest, burning more sharply than the expensive scotch now residing in his belly.
"That's quite an indictment. I don't recall doing anything to deserve it, though."
Illya exhaled loudly, the sound equal parts scorn and amusement.
"Don't you? Then you haven't been paying attention. That's not like you."
There was challenge in Illya's words, but within them was woven a thread of uncertainty. As surprised as he was by Illya's sudden confession, Napoleon recognized and applauded the courage it had taken the other man to speak out. But it was still a conversation filled with pitfalls; Napoleon may have yearned to add a new dimension to an already intimate relationship, but he was also acutely aware that the wrong word could send them spinning away from each other, that same deep friendship destroyed by pride, good intentions, or both.
"Maybe I have noticed," he said. "But maybe I wanted to be sure first."
"Sure of yourself?" Illya replied incredulously.
"Sure of you."
He was the recipient of another scornful glance. "An easy answer, but I won't hold it against you."
Napoleon inclined his head. "Thank you."
To buy time, he rose from his chair and captured the decanter, refilling his glass before shifting Illya's legs aside to lean against his desk. He filled Illya's silently offered glass before setting the bottle aside, letting the strangely comfortable moment stretch as if the road of their unlikely friendship had led naturally to this night.
"So now that we've come to the conclusion your current state is all my fault, is there anything I can do to alleviate the situation?"
"Yes. I think we should see each other. Socially."
A wave of heat slid down Napoleon's spine—there was only one meaning to that word as far as he was concerned. He gave the lean body beside him a considering look, from the tips of the scuffed loafers perched on the desk beside him, along the straight line of the long legs, past the slouched and slender torso and into amused eyes that stared back steadily, taking his inspection in stride.
"I thought we were already doing that. Just last night, we had dinner at—"
"No, not like that. I was thinking of something more intimate."
"Hmm, I see. Well, that can be tricky. You're my subordinate."
"And you are my superior."
"I can send you into harm's way at a moment's notice."
"I can fill your office with a gas that will make you cluck like a chicken."
"I didn't mean that as a threat."
"Neither did I. I assumed we were discussing the consequences of infidelity."
Napoleon fought hard against a smile. Illya was flirting with him, the wide mouth stern but the blue gaze alight with mischief and warmth. It wasn't the first time, not by many years, but tonight there was a serious edge to it that those years had lacked.
"What I meant," Napoleon went on with a severe frown belied by the lilt in his voice, "is that whatever may happen between us personally can't ever influence the job."
Illya considered this. "It hasn't before."
"We weren't lovers before."
Illya shrugged and sipped his drink. "A technicality." Swinging his legs to the floor, Illya set his glass on the desk. "However, my toleration of infidelity is not."
They both stood up, standing close but not touching, assessing each other. The atmosphere shifted as flirting gave way to the unsettling reality of carefully guarded emotions about to be revealed. Illya's quietly vehement insistence on monogamy was another shock to Napoleon and it made him wary. It wasn't an unwelcome demand—in fact, Napoleon had every intention of making this change permanent, if he had any say in the matter—but he was troubled that Illya would doubt him so easily.
"What makes you think," Napoleon said quietly, "that a man with my reputation is ready to settle down?"
"Ah, yes, that famous reputation," Illya said, almost to himself. "You forget how well I know you, Napoleon. You use your reputation as shield, a ruse to keep people from getting too close." Illya smiled, his expression tinged with regret. "I've watched your love affairs as well, of course. All those lethal but beautiful women, the sweet girls with their crushes—not to mention the handsome, dangerous men—they've come and gone, and none have touched your heart."
"And now?" Napoleon whispered. The image of Illya observing him, cataloging his affairs, gaging his readiness to seek permanence with the one person closer to him than anyone—it was simultaneously humbling and infuriating. To know that what he'd longed for had been within his reach and he'd been ignorant—the ramifications whirled through his thoughts and he almost missed Illya's next gently spoken words.
"It is time to lay down that shield, Napoleon. You won't need it anymore."
So, it wasn't doubt that had Illya demanding more of Napoleon—it was a plea thinly veiled in protective arrogance, asking Napoleon to set aside the façade of international playboy and be more of himself than he'd ever dared before. Illya was asking for—no, demanding—nothing less than the true Napoleon Solo.
It was as though a great weight he'd forgotten he carried was lifted from Napoleon's shoulders. To stop living with expectations, to find a place of rest with someone who accepted him, flaws and all—it left him speechless. He stared at Illya, gratitude, confusion and mouth-drying desire blinding him to Illya's shifting expressions until suddenly, without warning, the warmth drained from Illya's eyes, leaving them cold and grey.
"Unless I am too late."
Napoleon realized Illya was withdrawing in the wake of his own unresponsiveness. He reached out swiftly, wrapping his fingers around Illya's wrist when Illya would have moved away.
"No," he said sharply. Illya froze, his expression guarded.
"No," Napoleon repeated more softly. "Your timing is impeccable, as always. Furthermore, I accept your terms."
He released him, relieved to see the shine returning to Illya's gaze.
"I'm not asking for your surrender."
"Of course you are. I'd expect nothing less from you. But I warn you—" Napoleon lowered his voice to a predatory rumble, "—I expect the same in return."
Illya's eyes widened and then narrowed at the sensual command.
"Very well." He picked up one of the glasses and tilted it in Napoleon's direction before downing its contents. "I leave for Brussels at midnight."
Napoleon nodded. "Yes, the symposium."
"I'm due back on Friday."
"Right."
"Will you still be here?"
It wasn't the nonsensical question it resembled and they both knew it.
"I will be," Napoleon said slowly, "wherever you want me to be."
Illya nodded as if he'd expected nothing less, but the soft set of his mouth betrayed his pleasure at Napoleon's response. "Good. I will speak to my superior about some time off."
"See that you do," Napoleon replied crisply. He balanced one hand on the desk to accommodate his stiffening hip as he returned to his chair, picking up his glasses and pointing them in Illya's direction. "And no padding your expense account."
He grinned as Illya muttered something that sounded like "cheap bastard" in Russian as the door closed behind him. He glanced at his watch, surprised to see that only moments had passed since his entire life had changed. So many years, he thought with sadness, so many times he could've said or done something to get them this far.
He rejected that line of thought almost immediately. To have acted on their feelings any sooner would have courted heartbreak of unimaginable proportions. Too often they'd faced death and too many times Napoleon had experienced the wrenching pain of believing Illya had been killed in the line of duty. Illya must have reached the same conclusion, only he'd dealt with it in typical Kuryakin fashion, coming forward when the time was right and challenging Napoleon to agree with his line of thought.
A low laugh escaped Napoleon as he realized he'd capitulated without a second thought. Illya had never questioned Napoleon's leadership in the field—at least not in any meaningful way—but realigning the landscape of their personal relationship meant accepting an equality Napoleon was eager to explore.
Over the intervening days, he'd planned and rejected several ideas for a weekend that now held so much promise; Illya, when consulted by communicator, had suggested the Waldorf with a pointed reference to its renowned culinary expertise. In the end, Napoleon had opted for a country excursion, away from curious eyes and familiar surroundings. He'd planned each detail, from a small but luxurious cabin to the restaurants in the nearby town to a side trip to a quaint café he'd remembered from previous visits.
Enter THRUSH and their annoying habit of being exactly where they weren't wanted and now Napoleon and Illya were still hours away from their destination, stuck in the midst of a burgeoning THRUSH presence.
It was not an auspicious beginning—but Napoleon was nothing if not determined.
"All righty," he said with a bright smile, withdrawing his hand. Seeing that he'd left a wide smear of blood on Illya's cheek, he found his handkerchief and moistened it with his tongue before wiping it away, grinning at Illya's obvious annoyance. "That's better. Now you're almost presentable."
"Lovely. All dressed up and nowhere to go."
"I'm going to remedy that." Once more, Napoleon rose to his feet, taking a moment to gain his balance when his leg threatened to give way.
"Where are you going?"
"To the source of the problem." He found the outermost strand of the barbed wire, a twisted rope that trailed away from Illya's wrist and disappeared between two hay bales. Looking at the stack of bales from behind, Napoleon couldn't see any protrusion of wire, leading him to the conclusion that the ends were tucked into the stacked hay bales, their weight keeping the wires firmly in place.
"I think I've got it. These bales are definitely the problem."
"What do you suggest?"
"Well," Napoleon put his shoulder to the topmost bale and gave it an exploratory shove. "We either find a very hungry cow, or I put this forty-year-old body to the test and move them myself."
"Please be careful. I have specific plans for that body and I'd rather you didn't damage it."
Delighted laughter briefly robbed Napoleon of his strength and he leaned his forehead against the scratchy bale. "Heaven help me," he muttered.
"Invoking a deity isn't moving that hay, Napoleon."
"I'd forgotten how bossy you get when you're hungry. Just hang on a minute—these aren't as light as they look, you know."
Once he'd toppled one of the bales and exposed where the ends of the barbed wire had been plunged into the hay, it was only minutes before he'd carefully unwound the wire from Illya's body and Illya was standing beside him, brushing straw from his backside.
"So, now that we are free, what would you like to do next?"
Napoleon scratched his ear. "Well, since we were both unconscious when we arrived, we have no idea where we actually are. We could try and wake up our thug from central casting over there, but something tells me he wasn't hired for his quick thinking."
"We could threaten to torture him," Illya said with a touch of eagerness.
Napoleon gave him a consoling pat on the shoulder. "That would take too long. Let's get him tied up and then we can—"
He broke off and held up his hand, sharing a glance with Illya that confirmed that he too heard the sound of tires on gravel.
"Never mind," Napoleon continued with a grin. He went to the barn door and eased it open an inch to peek outside. "We're in luck—there's only four of them."
"Two against four?" Illya made a fist and rubbed it into his other palm, answering Napoleon's grin with a predatory smile of his own. "I take it all back. This is the best time I've ever had on a first date."
The phone on the nightstand rang just as Napoleon was finishing the morning paper. He set aside his reading glasses and reached for it, a cool flow of silk caressing his bare skin as the duvet slid downward to pool around his hips.
"Solo. Yes, go ahead." He listened, nodding occasionally, finally breaking in to a wide smile. "Excellent. I'll pass that on. Yes, Tuesday at the earliest."
Napoleon thanked the caller and hung up the phone, his attention caught by a dish of fresh fruit resting on a silver tray near the foot of the bed. It was beyond his reach and being too comfortably situated in a nest of down pillows, he tugged at the duvet until it revealed his bare feet. Maneuvering carefully, he hooked a toe into the handle of the tray and slowly bent his good leg to draw it near.
He hadn't noticed the cessation of sound coming from the bathroom and looked up in surprise when he heard sharp applause. Illya stood at the bathroom door, leaning against it as he crossed his arms over his damp and naked chest. A white towel rode low on lean hips, the loose knot that rested on the arch of a well-defined pelvic bone in imminent danger of coming apart.
Napoleon bent forward in a slight bow as Illya crossed the room to sit beside him on the bed. He reached for a slice of kiwi but his hand was intercepted and held tightly as his mouth was captured in a fierce kiss. Fruit forgotten, Napoleon cradled Illya's waist between his palms and eased him closer, losing himself in the sweet luxury of unhindered love.
The four THRUSH operatives that had returned to the barn had been no match for two highly motivated U.N.C.L.E. agents. The element of surprise and the desire to regain the purpose of the weekend ensured their success and within hours of freeing themselves, they arrived back at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters and were taken directly to the medical facilities. Not even the deepest cut sustained by either of them required so much as a single stitch and after tetanus boosters had been administered, they were free to go.
And go they did, six blocks to the Waldorf Astoria and thirty floors upward, to a discreet but lavish suite that met even Illya's exacting standards. A few calls later, they were supplied with sundries, clothing and a well-stocked food cart and after ushering out the waiter with a ridiculous tip, Napoleon and Illya were finally, blissfully alone.
Awkwardness may have set in if the two men didn't know each other so perfectly. Separately they each prowled the suite, examining lamps and looking under tables, testing drawers and twitching aside draperies. It was a ritual honed over many years and many missions, usually culminating in an argument over who got the bed nearest the window.
But this time there was only a king-sized bed draped in costly linens, heavy damask curtains at its four corners ensuring privacy and encouraging intimacy. They met up at the foot of that bed, both wearing expressions of longing tinged with wariness, each waiting for the other to make the move that would deliver the promise that still lay dormant between them. There was a moment of breathlessness, a swift, falling sensation that Napoleon savored before holding out his hand, palm up.
There was no hesitation, no fumbling. Illya joined their hands together and allowed himself to be gently pulled forward until he was encircled in Napoleon's arms. The difference in their heights was negligible and only made for a closer alignment of two bodies eager to complete the journey their hearts had begun. A slight incline of Napoleon's head, a welcoming tilt of Illya's mouth and they shared their first kiss, a kiss that fulfilled every expectation of their many years together.
It was far sweeter than any caress Napoleon could recall and all remembrances of previous lovers fled in the reality of Illya's arms. The generous mouth was firm and pliant, the deepening strokes of Illya's tongue against his own sending frissons of desire tumbling through his body. Strong hands tugged at fastenings as gentle exploration gave way to the more demanding need of skin touching skin. Clothing discarded, the bed provided a soft landing as they fell together, hands and lips moving in a quickening rhythm that drove them aloft on a thermal of pure pleasure. Murmured promises and soft laughter punctuated their first union until the urgency grew too great and words were no longer necessary.
Afterwards they'd laid with limbs entwined and lips still close for occasional kisses. No more words were required, no vows needed to define what they already knew to be true. Instead they made their vows with their bodies throughout the night, sometimes in wrestling matches where both proclaimed victory, sometimes in encounters of such wrenching tenderness that words would have only cheapened them. Rest finally came when dawn began to lighten the room, an intrusion swiftly dealt with by the simple expedience of drawing the drapes. A few hours sleep gave way to a simultaneous awakening and sheepish confessions that warm food and hot showers had become imperative.
It had been Illya's turn in the bath when Napoleon had taken his call, the subject of which he temporarily set aside when Illya had joined him on the bed and distracted him so effortlessly.
"Mmm, thank you," Napoleon murmured, his eyes drifting open as the kiss broke. "I have good news."
Illya shifted to a more comfortable position, one that brought him closer to the fruit. He popped a slice of peeled orange into his mouth and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
"Our blood tests came back. There is no evidence of any unpleasant side effects from the drug in our coffee. In fact, Dr. Phillips said we're both disgustingly healthy. I think he was rather disappointed."
"Dr. Phillips is a ghoul," Illya agreed. "I like him."
Napoleon rearranged the pillows, punching them until they resembled a shape he approved. Turning on his side, he gave Illya a considering look.
Illya reached for another piece of fruit. "You are staring at me. Why?"
"Just wondering," Napoleon replied with studied nonchalance.
"Yes?"
"Was this what you had in mind when you meant you wanted us to see each other socially?"
Illya glowered at him in mock offense. "It's a little late to ask, isn't it?"
Napoleon countered with a one-shouldered shrug. "I guess I was just wondering which part of this weekend you enjoyed more—the first half or the second." He held up his hand, forestalling Illya's reply. "Just for future reference, you understand. I'd just like to know if I need to invite THRUSH on our dates every once in a while."
Illya looked thoughtful. "Maybe on our anniversary, for old times' sake. Beyond that, I'd prefer any tying up to be done in the privacy of our own home."
The warmth of deepening contentment spread through Napoleon at the casual reference to a shared home; it was something he'd have brought up eventually and he was relieved the question had already been answered. He reached for Illya and drew him close, reveling in the freedom to touch and be touched in return. Living together was a goal for their future and in the meantime, they could be comfortable anywhere.
A dilapidated barn in Connecticut or a suite at the Waldorf—it didn't matter anymore. In fact, it never had.
The best is yet to come and babe, won't it be fine?
The best is yet to come, come the day you're mine
This story found its beginning in a prompt from Merlin Pendragon. In fact, it's the first line of the story. It probably isn't anything close to what she expected (or hoped for), so I apologize in advance *g*.
As usual, Aithine saved me from embarrassing myself, both with her always priceless beta services and her encyclopedic memory of pretty much everything. She's cool like that.
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