The fist beneath his hand clutched at the white cotton sheet, the body he blanketed still shuddering in tandem with his own in the aftermath of soul-shattering passion. He stroked his fingers over the taut tendons and heated flesh, coaxing them into releasing the fabric so that he could mesh their fingers together.
Napoleon wasn't often like this, surrendered and pliant, but Illya cherished these moments when they were offered. The weight of responsibility, a past filled with shadows, a future uncertain at best—these were the things they cast away in these stolen times, these moments of pure, sensual pleasure overlaid with their own unique combination of playfully serious competition and hard won, enduring love.
It'd been swift and violent, this particular encounter. An unavoidably lengthy absence had honed their need for each other into a razor's edge that had played out in strength against strength, muscle against muscle, bruising flesh against blood-flushed skin. It'd been wrestling match, tender reunion, and implacable seduction all rolled into one, with Illya ultimately subduing a willing yet still fighting Napoleon against the cabin wall.
He felt more than heard Napoleon groan beneath him, signaling that recovery was at hand. As gentle now as he'd been rough earlier, Illya carefully withdrew, alert to any sign of discomfort from Napoleon. He wasn't too concerned—they played these games often and well—but he'd learned long ago to never take anything for granted. When all he felt beneath him was a lazy flex of muscle, he slid to Napoleon's side, shifting their hands so that they remained entwined.
He waited patiently and was eventually rewarded when Napoleon lifted his head from his feather pillow, turning Illya's way with a rueful smile.
"My, my, my," he murmured, eyes fluttering closed, "weren't you the inventive one this evening."
"I'd gladly take the credit," Illya smiled back, cupping Napoleon's cheek with his palm, "but I admit I found you to be particularly inspiring."
Napoleon's smile widened, though his eyes remained shut. "Don't be so modest. If I didn't know better, I'd think you've been taking lessons."
"Without you? Hardly." Illya trickled his fingers through Napoleon's hair, caressing the hint of grey at his temples before edging the soft curve of his ear with his fingertip. "In fact, I have much more to share with you. Once you are able, of course."
Napoleon chuckled and rolled onto his side until they faced each other, and Illya found himself the subject of Napoleon's sated, amused gaze. "Even after all these years, you still find ways to surprise me."
"Which is exactly how I prefer it. Can't have you getting bored."
Napoleon's laughter was quietly mocking. "Ten years or fifty, I very much doubt that will ever happen." He closed his eyes again on a quickly hidden wince and Illya frowned. He'd been so eager to reconnect with Napoleon emotionally after temporarily slaking their carnal needs that he'd neglected to see to the more practical side of a prolonged bout of intensely physical, demandingly intimate sex.
He knew better than to inquire if Napoleon was hurt. Napoleon's body was as familiar to him as his own—he knew every expression of the sharply handsome face and could read his mood across a crowded room or a field of mud. Their years as partners and then as lovers had embedded Napoleon so deeply within Illya's every bone and breath that the care and protection of the man at his side was imprinted on his soul. Some days that meant lying to keep him safe or killing to keep him alive, but on this cold December night, it meant a warm, wet cloth and a cup of brandy-laced tea.
It was the place where they'd first become lovers over a decade ago, this snug, two-room cabin tucked in a fold of the Sierra Nevada foothills. Back then it had served as a source of refuge after a particularly nasty encounter with THRUSH had left Illya injured and unable to travel. Napoleon had cared for him—for them both—by foraging for food and hauling water from a thankfully clean well, but infection had set in and for a few tense days, things had looked dire. Eventually Illya's stubborn nature and Napoleon's determined efforts had won through, but at the cost of the carefully constructed masks they'd both been wearing without knowing it. Midnight confessions had turned into a brief but profoundly tender encounter that had left both men in no doubt of the supreme importance they held in each other's life.
With little discussion and even less fuss, they'd carried on after their return to the world that had awaited them outside their mountain idyll. There were no confrontations about fidelity, no promises of rosy futures, and yet it was accepted that there was a commitment beyond the professional partnership and the meticulously concealed liaisons they shared when time allowed. In the early years, Illya had no proof that Napoleon was faithful and had required none, nor had he offered any of his own. But by the time they'd celebrated their fifth anniversary at the now refurbished and properly plumbed cabin, Illya knew that Napoleon Solo, the legendary U.N.C.L.E. Lothario, the suave, unflappable, worldly wise agent, belonged to him alone. He knew it as surely as he knew that Napoleon had no reason to doubt Illya's steadfast devotion. Their vows remained unsaid, their hopes unvoiced, but in no way did they feel that their bond was anything less than permanent.
When Illya returned to the bedroom with two mugs of hot tea, he found Napoleon sitting up in bed, supported by his pillow. The bed had been reorganized, one corner turned back invitingly for Illya. He took in the welcome sight of a pajama-clad Napoleon glancing over a sheaf of papers, reading glasses perched on the edge of his nose. Both papers and glasses were set aside as Illya climbed onto the bed, the mug of tea accepted from him with a grateful smile.
Napoleon breathed in the steam from the tea with a contented hum. "Just the way I like it, a dash of tea in my nice, warm Hennessy."
Illya took an appreciative sip from his own mug. "We'll need to restock the next time we visit."
Napoleon frowned at him. "I thought we just did."
"That was the pied-à-terre in Marseilles, last June, remember? And it was Poire William, not cognac."
"Ah." Napoleon's expression was happily reminiscent. "Of course. That's where I taught you—"
"Exactly, yes," Illya said hastily, his own recollection of Napoleon's "lesson" sending a shallow ripple of desire through his body. Erotic one-upmanship was a favorite pastime and the mere memory of silk gloves or a cup of warm oil was enough to make him search for distraction in another sip of the strongly spiked tea.
The cabin was by no means their only hideaway. Along with the apartment in France, they had a condominium in Montreal, a small house near Rio De Janeiro, and the penthouse flat of a discreet building in Singapore. None of these residences were opulent or even memorable to anyone viewing them from the outside, but each interior was filled with eclectic mementos from their travels and vivid memories of their stolen time together. These homes were their private reward for a hard and violent life, the only places where they could share themselves wholly and without fear of discovery, but this little cabin in the woods would always be their favorite and where they chose to celebrate Christmas whenever circumstances allowed.
Beside him, Napoleon stretched his legs out on the bed, wiggling his bare toes with disarming abandon. "The only thing that would make this perfect," he mused, "would be something decadently chocolate."
"We can't be short of perfect, can we?" Illya slipped his hand into the pocket of his dressing gown and pulled out a small box wrapped in gold tissue paper. "Here," he added, handing it to a visibly delighted Napoleon, "these should do nicely."
"All for me?" Napoleon began carefully deconstructing the delicate wrapping. "You're too good to me."
"No, I'm not." Illya's tone was deceptively flat, a sharp contrast to the gleam in his eyes. "You must learn to share."
Napoleon favored him with a squinty, one-eyed glare that Illya ignored. Once the box was unwrapped and the blue velvet lid removed to reveal the precisely chosen contents, Napoleon extended the box to Illya, as they'd both known he would. It was one of many private ceremonies they shared, as lovely and well-worn as any shared between couples in a devoted relationship, yet since their private time together was so limited, it remained fresh and enjoyable. It was as much a part of their time together as Illya's insistence on doing the cooking and their lighthearted but shrewd arguments over what constituted a real word when they played Scrabble. It was also as domestic and normal as they could manage, given the amount of high-powered weaponry, state of the art communications systems, and complicated security networks that now protected this and all of their deceptively simple retreats.
"Have you seen the new recruits?" Illya asked, licking a spot of melted chocolate from his palm. "They don't look very promising to me."
"Oh? Why not?"
Illya wrinkled his nose. "They're all very—polite. Very well educated, obviously intelligent, eager as puppies, yet I haven't seen anything to suggest they have the kind of instincts that will keep them alive in the field."
"That could be a problem," Napoleon agreed. He set aside the box and stretched his arms over his head before continuing. "But is it instinct or experience and training that will save them in a tough spot?"
"Hmm, perhaps you are right, maybe it is too early to tell. First impressions can be inaccurate, to say the least."
Napoleon reached over and tugged a thick lock of hair that curled at Illya's nape. "Do you remember your first impression of me?" he inquired with a smile.
Illya batted his hand away and placed his now empty mug on the nightstand. He stood up and removed his dressing gown before snuggling down beneath the sheet and blanket. "Of course, and that is exactly my point. My first impression of you was not favorable."
"Really?" One eyebrow arched in polite disbelief, Napoleon drained his own mug and set it aside. Turning off the lamp, he scooted down until he was also beneath the covers, the diffuse light from the living room fireplace painting his features in orange and gold. "I find that hard to believe."
Illya slid his hand beneath the covers until he found Napoleon's, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Of course you do. And yet, it is the truth."
"Interesting. I thought our first meeting went rather well."
"Ah, but I'm not referring to our first official meeting, Napoleon. I knew who you were long before we were ever formally introduced."
He could tell Napoleon was intrigued, but instead of continuing, he pretended to doze off, only to stifle a laugh when Napoleon reached over and tickled his ribs. He opened his eyes to find Napoleon glaring at him, his stern expression in complete contrast to the warm palm that he was stroking over Illya's hip.
"Well?" Napoleon demanded. "Tell me why your first impression of me was so negative."
"Let me see. Do you remember a certain gentleman from Leningrad, who, upon deciding that he had an unquenchable love for American baseball, decided to defect, taking with him with a series of blueprints from the nuclear research facility where he worked?"
Napoleon looked at him in confusion before his expression cleared. "Ah, yes. Piotr something or other. He'd only surrender if a bona fide representative from the New York Yankees was there at the consulate to hand him a lifetime's worth of season tickets for himself and his wife."
"And since we couldn't arrange for that on such short notice, you filled in."
"Because I was the only American they could find who had a passing knowledge of baseball." Napoleon rolled closer to Illya, his limbs folding naturally into place amongst Illya's hands and knees and feet until they were loosely knotted together in a familiar embrace. "But what does that have to do with you?"
"I was required for technical support. Some of the contacts called for agents who spoke fluent Russian and I was, shall we say, in the neighborhood. My assignment was to make sure that Piotr's wife made it to her liaison with a senior agent. You might say I drove the getaway car."
"Which still doesn't explain why you didn't immediately fall victim to my fatal charm, a notion I still find hard to believe."
"We passed in the hallway at the consulate, after all the excitement was over. You had a lovely young woman on each arm, both of them quite impressed with the tale of bravery you were sharing with them. Since I knew very well that you'd met with Piotr for exactly ten minutes before he and his wife were taken to the airport—"
"You assumed that I was bragging in order to, er—well, I probably was, come to think of it. The funny thing is that it almost always worked."
"Almost always? You mean there were times when your fabled charm and undeniable good looks failed you?"
"It didn't work with you, did it?"
Illya stared at him. "With me? What are you talking about?"
Napoleon's grin was smug. "Let's just say my first impression of you was a bit more positive."
"Really? Why?"
"It was probably six months after that mission and I was just walking into Mr. Waverly's office as you were walking out. I introduced myself, said something suitably witty, you looked me up and down and obviously found me lacking. And I remember thinking to myself that you were quite probably the most beautiful man I'd ever seen and though we didn't meet again for another two weeks, I never forgot about you."
Illya felt his cheeks grow warm. Neither of them was prone to fulsome compliments regarding the other—his own dry summation of Napoleon's attributes was an unending source of teasing between them. But the sincerity in Napoleon's voice was unmistakable, though Illya found it hard to give credence to Napoleon's opinion—back then, Illya knew himself to be an ill-dressed, rude young man who'd yet to find a niche in the U.N.C.L.E organization. Little did he know then that he would find that niche at Napoleon's side only a few months later.
"Well," he murmured, the stopped, unsure what to say. Their conversations rarely ventured into such sentimental territory and Illya felt wholly unable to express the feeling that Napoleon's words brought up inside. But words often failed him where Napoleon was concerned, and he was fairly convinced that no words existed that could express a fraction of the depth of emotion that existed between them.
"As long as you're already blushing," Napoleon continued softly, "I may as well add that I still think you're the most beautiful man I've ever met." He went on to add, with a pronounced twinkle in his eye, "Which certainly helps to make up for some of your less attractive qualities, as few as they are."
Illya scowled at him, even as his mouth curved upward in an affectionate smile. "Ever the romantic, aren't you?"
Napoleon shrugged. "Romance is overrated. I'd rather have you and a cup of tea here at the cabin than all the roses and moonlight the world can offer."
"It's just as well, because tomorrow you will be mending the fence while I prepare Christmas dinner. Hardly a romantic way to spend the day."
"Speak for yourself, Illya Nickovetch." Napoleon's eyes drifted shut. "Now, don't mind me, but after all the acrobatics and a cup of your special tea, I'm ready for a long winter's nap."
Illya gazed at Napoleon's sleep-relaxed face, unable to stop himself from reaching out to lightly caress his cheek with the back of his fingers. There was much about their time together that he cherished, not the least of which was the robust physical reconnection that often defined the first few moments of their arrival. The rough edge of their coupling was always surrounded by unspoken tenderness, the erotic ferocity that swelled between them supported by a foundation of complete trust that reached far beyond their physical need for each other.
Yet for all the adventurous sexual games, the quiet moments were what Illya enjoyed the most, the conversational fencing matches and the glances of shared amusement. Tomorrow he'd rule the kitchen like a power-mad monk while Napoleon amused himself with chores that really didn't need to be done before they'd sit down to an obscene amount of perfectly prepared food. After dinner, Napoleon would most likely coax Illya into bed for a few hours of play, set at a leisurely pace and filled with soft laughter and long periods of contented silence. The pattern was set after years of these meetings, these infrequent passages of time stolen away from a world that was all to ready to claim their attention—or their lives.
Illya curled forward until his forehead rested against Napoleon's, content to stay awake and guard his partner's slumber. Soon enough they'd be separated again, or sent together on another impossible task of Mr. Waverly's devising, but the future was never of any interest to Illya—all he cared about was the present. It didn't matter what Napoleon had hidden away for him in his suitcase—a rare book, a cashmere sweater, an antique set of dominoes—whatever it was, as beloved as it would become, nothing would ever mean more to him than what he'd been given ten years ago, in this tiny little cabin in the woods.
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