"Mr. Kuryakin! I say, Mr. Kuryakin, aren't you coming to the party?"
Illya set his soldering iron aside with a muffled sigh. He'd hoped to steal more time away in his lab in order to finish his current project, but the gruff and mildly annoyed tone of Mr. Waverly had intruded on his plan. He set aside the thick, black-rimmed glasses he used to protect his eyes and turned to face his boss, keeping his expression as bland as possible, given the sight awaiting him.
If Illya had forgotten that Mr. Waverly nurtured a strong sense of family regarding his vast and disparate U.N.C.L.E. operatives, the vision filling the doorway to the lab served as a pointed reminder. It was Christmas Eve, and Mr. Waverly had declared that all agents not currently on assignment be present at his traditional holiday fête. To that end, Mr. Waverly had eschewed his usual attire of tweedy suits and well-shined shoes in favor of an ill-fitting, brightly colored outfit, resulting in his resemblance to nothing so much as an overworked and disgruntled elf. If Illya had been unsure of the costume's intent, the silver-spangled shoes with toes that ended in glorious curls confirmed his suspicions.
There was nothing merry in the saturnine visage that frowned at him. Beneath the too-small green felt hat pulled down snugly above bushy eyebrows, Mr. Waverly had pinned on a stern look normally used to intimidate heads of state and cranky grandchildren.
All thoughts of contriving a believable excuse fled beneath the weight of that disapproving stare. Manfully refraining from casting a longing look at his unfinished creation, Illya began stripping off his lab coat.
"Of course," he said with a brief but hopefully enthusiastic smile. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."
"Good." The craggy features lightened almost imperceptibly as Mr. Waverly turned to leave. He paused to speak over his shoulder. "And please do not fail to wear the tie. Mrs. Waverly will be quite crushed if I must tell her that her gifts weren't appreciated."
Alone again in his lab, Illya reached for the tie he'd started the day wearing and pulled disconsolately at the knot. Each year, all of the senior agents received a festive and garish gift from Mr. Waverly's better half. In the past, the list had included various baked goods made from ingredients of dubious origin, a Santa Claus constructed of balloons and papier-mâché and other lovingly handcrafted decorations that could be stuffed into a box and placed on a high shelf to be conveniently forgotten when moving apartments.
This year, the gift was of a more visual nature, namely a necktie with the hand-painted image of a reindeer sporting a small red light where a reindeer's nose would normally be found. It had been waiting inside a innocent-looking white box perched on a lab stool when Illya had arrived that morning. After opening the box and surveying the contents, a quick reconnaissance to Napoleon's office had revealed a similar gift sitting on his desk. One quick peek assured him that Napoleon's gift was at least as hideous as his own, so he'd returned to his work and buried the innocuous white box amidst computer printouts and large, yellow notepads covered in hand-written notes.
The box retrieved, Illya put on the tie with the air of a man being asked to give beyond the scope of his normal duties, then quickly straightened his counters and doused any remaining flames still burning beneath bubbling beakers. He'd been very close to completing his project, so it was with real regret that he flipped the light switch and made his way to the commissary. His hope was that one circuit around the room, one cup of eggnog and one obligatory kiss with any of several secretaries beneath the abundance of mistletoe that always seemed to accompany these parties would sooth Mr. Waverly's stringent attendance requirements. With any luck, he could accomplish his goals and be back in his lab by midnight.
Staring into the once stark and efficiently maintained cafeteria, Illya admitted that the transformation from monochromatic food hall to gaudy holiday pleasure palace was astounding. The fluorescent lights had been turned off in favor of desk lamps, candles and a multitude of Christmas lights strung across the ceiling. In the middle of the room was a large Christmas tree, still in the process of being decorated under the watchful eye of Mr. Waverly himself. Tables had been pushed aside to form an impromptu dance floor, now currently filled with too many bodies writhing to a decidedly non-traditional beat. The platform normally used for the lunch buffet had been turned into a well-stocked and well-attended bar, while the large opening separating the cafeteria from the kitchen was piled with trays of festive, indigestible food.
In summation, it looked to be one of Headquarter's more sedate holiday get-togethers. Illya took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and plunged into the crowd.
Twenty minutes later, Illya was glad he'd left his weapon locked in a drawer in his office. The crush of people had made it nearly impossible for him to reach his goal, namely the platters of food that had beckoned him from across the room. By the time he'd finally reached his goal, he'd been teased, pinched and bussed by many of his usually professional co-workers, and not even the strongest version of his most glacial glare was of any use as a deterrent. April, resplendent in a red velvet mini dress trimmed in white fur, had come to his rescue, being particularly useful in dissuading some of Illya's more persistent admirers. She finally succeeded in escorting him to a small patch of uninhabited linoleum near a plate of canapés, leaving him with a soft kiss on his cheek and a few whispered words that concluded in a particularly naughty joke.
As Illya bit into a cracker covered with some unidentifiable cheese product, he swept the room with a resigned glance. In years past, he'd quite enjoyed these parties and was often put in charge of the record player that was hooked up to the paging system. Of course, the most important component, the one that made the difference between annoying duty and true pleasure, was the absence or presence of Napoleon.
This year, he was not in attendance and Illya was determined not to have good time. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the need for these gatherings, but he appreciated them more with Napoleon's outrageous commentary pitched for his ears only. It would seem that Napoleon, jet-setting, sophisticated Number One, had a direct line to the office gossip.
There'd be no such enjoyment for Illya at this party because his partner had been assigned to an embassy party across town. No doubt he was currently sipping vintage champagne and fending off the advances of beautiful women without so much as wrinkling the sleeve of his impeccably cut dinner jacket. And there were few things in this life that Illya appreciated more than Napoleon Solo dressed in a tuxedo. Aesthetically speaking, of course.
Spying a plate of fruit near the end of the counter, Illya began edging toward it. The sound level in the room was rising along with his appetite and so believing that he'd done his duty, he resolved to take a plate of food back to the lab where he could continue his project in peace. After stacking as many delicacies as he could on a hastily emptied platter, he hid the lot behind an empty punch bowl and once again surveyed the room. He reasoned that he deserved a little man-made inspiration if he was to finish his work by his self-imposed deadline.
Considering the make-up of the party guests, it was disconcertingly easy to appropriate a bottle of champagne from the crowded bar, but when Illya went back to retrieve his dinner, it was gone.
"Looking for something?"
His first reaction to hearing Napoleon's voice was the same as it'd been since one memorable Christmas in a small and now non-existent nation behind the Iron Curtain, an almost painful stab of joy that caught him just beneath his ribcage. He'd always lost his breath a bit when he was reunited with his partner, but when he peeked around a tall potted plant to find Napoleon picking through the offerings of Illya's plate, his expression revealed nothing except mild annoyance at having his dinner stolen.
"You're back early," he said. He placed the champagne bottle beneath his arm and held out his hands. Napoleon plucked off a stuffed olive and popped it in his mouth before handing over the plate.
"I'd say I'm right on time." He added a pointed look at the bottle in the crook of Illya's arm. "Planning a private party?"
"Yes. In my laboratory, if you must know. Some of us still have work to do." He glanced over Napoleon's tuxedo, noticing that the onyx cuff links that had started the night decorating his wrists were nowhere to be seen. Gone too was the silk tie that had once had set off the brilliant white linen of his shirt so dramatically. "It would seem your mission was accomplished."
Napoleon nodded and held up his hand to demonstrate the uncharacteristic floppiness of his cuff. "I'd say that the new ambassador's office is well and truly bugged. And you were right—that new fabric is stronger than any rope we've used before and it still made a damn fine bow."
Illya inclined his head. "We aim to please. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going back to work."
Napoleon stepped out from behind the plant and scanned the room. "Think I'll stick around for half an hour or so. Find some mistletoe, maybe kiss a pretty girl."
"They're all pretty to you, my friend."
Twenty-five minutes later, the now empty plate was perched amidst the detritus of Illya's laboratory. The purloined and unopened bottle of champagne sat chilling in a bowl of ice borrowed from the kitchen, along with two plastic flutes from the party. He was just starting to loosen the latest evidence of Mrs. Waverly's affection when the door to the lab swung open. He looked up to see Napoleon leaning in the doorway, hands comfortably ensconced in his trouser pockets.
"Hello, Napoleon. Did you find many pretty girls?"
Napoleon shrugged. "Oh, dozens of them."
"Did you kiss them all?"
Napoleon straightened and stepped into the room, nudging the door closed with his foot. "As many as I could, of course."
Illya wiped his hands on a towel, then tossed it aside as Napoleon advanced toward him. "I admire your dedication. No doubt Mr. Waverly was pleased."
"Mr. Waverly was too busy to notice." Napoleon tugged at the thin end of the reindeer tie and slowly stripped it off Illya's neck. "He was organizing dueling conga lines between Sections Five and Seven when I left."
Illya smiled as Napoleon's hands came to rest on his hips, pulling him close. "And you declined to participate? I'm shocked."
Napoleon's breath brushed against his ear. "Well, someone had to make sure our phony surveillance tape was running, didn't they? I disabled the sound, as well. Nosy people, these U.N.C.L.E. folk."
Sparing a glance at the camera installed in the corner of the room, Illya's eyes drifted shut when he felt Napoleon's lips press a delicate kiss against his temple. He sensed an odd mood in his partner tonight, one that wasn't there when they'd parted company earlier that evening, and subdued his curiosity in favor of letting Napoleon dictate the course of the next few minutes. When Napoleon only continued to hold him close, allowing their cheeks to touch, he pulled back to look into Napoleon's eyes.
"What is wrong?"
Napoleon tilted his head, a small smile tilting up one corner of his mouth. "Wrong? Nothing's wrong. Why do you ask?"
Tightening his grip on Napoleon's waist, Illya scowled at him. "You see? You know I am well aware you are unsettled and yet you lie to me, confirming my suspicion."
Eyes narrowing, Napoleon slid his hands upward until they cradled Illya's ribcage, the broad palms spreading warmth where they pressed against Illya's pale blue cotton shirt. He stepped Illya backward until his shoulders butted gently against the wall. "Have I ever told you how irritating you can be?"
"Constantly. In fact, just the other day when I pointed out that we needed a longer counterfeit surveillance tape—" The rest of his answer was lost in Napoleon's kiss, no longer a tentative touch but a tenderly mounted assault. Long familiar with the feel of Napoleon's mouth on his, Illya gave himself up to what he considered to be an unrivaled pleasure. Despite his position against the wall, Illya was at no disadvantage. He gave as good as he got, and judging from the satisfied sighs coming from deep in Napoleon's chest, it was very good, indeed.
"I only kissed one girl," Napoleon eventually murmured against Illya's mouth. "It was Mrs. Sweeny from the accounting department."
"Still trying to get her to approve your travel expenses?"
"Are you accusing me of an ulterior motive?"
"Mrs. Sweeny is one year away from retirement and has thirteen grandchildren."
"Fourteen, and my expenses have been cleared."
"It must have been some kiss. You certainly have unique powers of persuasion."
"What I have," Napoleon said on a sigh, "is a problem."
"Yes, I've seen your tie. It is uglier than mine, so I won't trade you."
Napoleon's soft grunt of laughter rocked them both. "We'll discuss your predilection for snooping in my office later. Right now, we have something else to talk about."
Stealing one last kiss, Napoleon pulled off his dinner jacket and draped it on the coat rack near the door. He dug his fingers into one of the pockets and pulled out a piece of white paper.
"This was slipped into my pocket as I left the embassy." He handed the paper to Illya. "By the Ambassador's housekeeper."
Illya unfolded the paper and read its contents. He looked up at Napoleon with a shrug. "This is not uncommon. This Viktor person must go through the proper channels. Why is the housekeeper contacting you on his behalf?"
"If he could defect through proper channels, he wouldn't have needed us. And the housekeeper, Mrs. Phelps, is apparently Viktor's mother-in-law."
One blond eyebrow rose in question. "Us, you say? I wasn't invited to the party."
"I see." Napoleon glanced at his watch, then favored Illya with a mischievous grin. "According to my calculations, we have forty-five more seconds of tape. That should be enough time to remind you of the for better, for worse clause in our contract."
Forty-six seconds later, Illya tucked in his shirt and reconsidered his position. "The American government will need a specific reason to allow the defection of someone so inconsequential. Does Mrs. Phelps offer any excuse? Perhaps the bodyguard has a state secret or two to share?"
"I've spoken very little with Viktor himself. He is definitely of the seen, not heard variety of employee, but generally seems to be a decent chap. Mrs. Phelps, however, is a confiding soul, and when she found me in the Ambassador's office alone, I had to do some fancy footwork to distract her. It wasn't hard—the dear woman was upset enough."
"I see. Well, is Viktor being persecuted? Is his family being threatened?"
"Viktor has no family back home. Unfortunately for him, the Ambassador's party is leaving on Christmas evening and he wants to stay."
"Napoleon, I don't think—"
Napoleon took Illya's hand, turning his body to shield the motion from the camera. "His wife is having their first baby and she's due any moment, and she is an American, apparently something Viktor has failed to share with his embassy."
"That she is pregnant? Or an American?"
"That she exists at all. Mrs. Phelps thought it was very romantic, up until the Ambassador was recalled. Now Viktor has no choice but to go with him."
"It is a difficult situation, certainly. However, I do not see how we can help this young man in so short a time frame."
Napoleon tugged at his lower lip with his teeth, resembling a recalcitrant but repentant schoolboy about to make a confession. Illya knew what was coming, and knew he'd capitulate, yet he never tired of making Napoleon earn it. While he waited for the pitch, he picked up the champagne bottle and began tearing off the foil seal.
"Have I ever mentioned how much I appreciate your many and varied skills?" Napoleon held out the two champagne flutes for Illya to fill. " Especially how sneaky and imaginative you are? And how close we are to the cryptology lab and how Sam and Elliott are currently doing the limbo at Mr. Waverly's party?"
Shaking his head, Illya removed the cork with a perfectly executed twist of his wrist. "You can't possibly be suggesting that we manufacture a secret that this Viktor can use in order to defect within the next twenty-four hours?"
"I have one more appearance to make at the embassy for tomorrow's farewell dinner. There will be an American diplomat there who owes me a favor. If we time it just right, we can slip Viktor a state secret or two, point him in the direction of my friend and be on our way to our own holiday by midnight."
"And you have promised me a week by the sea." Illya filled the glasses and set the bottle aside. Napoleon handed one to Illya and they touched the plastic edges together in a quick salute. Two swallows were followed by two nearly identical expressions of distaste, gleaming blue meeting sparkling hazel in wry agreement over the sorry quality of the wine.
Napoleon finished his champagne in two gulps. "So I did," he agreed brightly. "You might even see the ocean, if you're nice."
"I am always nice. Now, get your gift from Mrs. Waverly and meet me in the cryptology lab."
Illya exited the bathroom, one towel around his hips as he used another to rub his wet hair. He paused at the doorway, leaning against it as he surveyed his partner, who lay stretched out on the turn-downed bed. Hands tucked behind his head and elbows flat on his pillow, Napoleon was naked, save for a pair of black wool socks and Mrs. Waverly's tie, precisely knotted with its tip resting just above his belly button.
"I told you that your tie was uglier than mine." Illya tossed away the damp towels and climbed onto the bed beside Napoleon, rolling on to his side and propping his head on his hand. "In contrast, I rather like my reindeer, even though he has a cold."
Napoleon's eyes remained closed, but a smile teased at his lips. "A shiny red nose does not necessarily signify a head cold."
''Hmm. Perhaps he drinks too much."
"That is one explanation."
Illya tapped the knot in Napoleon's tie. "At least it is recognizable as a member of the animal family. I have no idea what your fuzzy green fellow is supposed to be."
"My guess is that Mrs. Waverly has been watching holiday cartoons with her grandchildren."
"I fear for the future of democracy if this is what American children are forced to endure." Illya marched his fingers down the length of Napoleon's tie, stopping at its lowest edge to tickle the skin beneath. "But this tie does serve as an excellent compass. Were you afraid that I'd forgotten my way?"
A deep quiver beneath his fingertips betrayed Napoleon's growing interest in Illya's explorations. As he watched, Napoleon peeled open one eye and squinted at him.
"I have no reason to doubt your excellent navigational skills, having enjoyed them often enough in the past."
Illya flattened his palm against the firm surface of Napoleon's belly. "Well, before I continue this particular journey, I'm afraid I have bad news."
Both eyes now open, Napoleon uncurled one arm to run his hand over Illya's head, coming to rest against the curve of his skull, his fingers buried in the thick blond hair.
"Still no luck?"
"I found no state secrets worth defecting for. U.N.C.L.E. may be aware that next Ambassador is under the thumb of THRUSH, but the country itself is quite boring and has little to offer. There is a radical element among the populace that causes the occasional riot, but so far they have been handled by the government. Regardless, I believe I have a backup plan."
Napoleon smiled. "I love your backup plans. What do you have in mind?"
"A simple assassination attempt will do nicely. If Viktor gives his life for his country and dies a hero, then we can supply him with a new identity. Much easier than bothering all those nice people at the State Department."
Napoleon considered the idea as he stroked the skin of Illya's neck above the thin gold chain. "Simple, elegant, and easily done. I like it."
"Mmm," Illya murmured. His eyes drifted shut as Napoleon's hand traveled forward, floating over his collar bone and downward to cup his ribcage. He felt himself being gently guided forward and his lips curved in a smile.
"You're already planning your disguise, aren't you?" Napoleon whispered. "You are shameless."
Illya lifted one eyebrow as his own hand began making a fresh foray into new territory. "I am a professional. If my profession occasionally requires me to don a separate persona, I am willing to oblige."
Napoleon grabbed the offending tie and quickly slipped the knot free. Instead of tossing it aside, he threw it around Illya's neck and pulled gently until they shared a tender kiss.
"Oblige me now?" he said against Illya's mouth. Illya gathered Napoleon in his arms and rolled backward, bringing Napoleon on top of him. As Napoleon began mapping the vulnerable area at the base of his throat, Illya reached up and switched off the light.
"The things I do for my job," he sighed.
Illya shifted his hips, wishing the doctor would show up and knowing from previous experience that his wait could be lengthy. It was a busy night for U.N.C.L.E. Medical personnel, since the holidays always signified an upswing in THRUSH activity. None of Illya's co-workers who were also receiving treatment for various complaints seemed to have life-threatening injuries, except one agent coming from a party who insisted his head was going to explode in the morning unless he received treatment for an oncoming savage hangover tonight.
Illya observed the comings and goings in the hospital ward from his seat atop a thinly padded gurney. He received a few odd looks as people attempted to see beyond the disguise he still wore and ascertain the identity of the agent sitting so forlornly in a corner of the room. He was too tired to satisfy their curiosity, but it was the gratifying weariness resulting from a job well done.
Scratching gingerly at his chest, Illya recalled the events of the evening with satisfaction. Despite a distinct lack of preparation, Napoleon had managed his part of the plan perfectly. It had been his responsibility to relay the scheme to Viktor, as well as supply him with the appropriate accoutrements for faking a violent death, something not easily done when Viktor was required to be at the Ambassador's side nearly twenty hours out of every day.
But Napoleon was nothing if not innovative, and Illya had received his signal to proceed just as the farewell dinner was commencing. It gave Illya enough time to finish his own preparations, so that by the time the Ambassador and his entourage had arrived at the airport for their private flight home, almost all the pieces were in place.
Relying on innocents to play their part correctly was something Illya never banked on, and given all the unknowns involved in the operation, Illya had reservations about relying on the father-to-be's ability to act his part convincingly. Still, he had more at stake than any of them, and when the time came to die for the glory of his country, Viktor had been surprisingly effective.
Napoleon had supplied a description of Viktor, so Illya knew that the large young man towering protectively over the Ambassador was his mark. Wearing a particularly memorable disguise that Napoleon had described as a cross between Lenin and Kate Smith, Illya had come out from behind a hanger and had stormed the Ambassador's party, waving a weapon and shouting indeterminate threats. Viktor had followed Napoleon's instructions and had placed himself between Illya and the Ambassador. Simultaneously firing his gun and transmitting the signal to explode the blood packets beneath Viktor's jacket, Illya had been gratified to see Viktor fall immediately to the ground.
There had been one more detail that had required some delicate timing. Aside from Viktor, the Ambassador's party had included two security guards. One was already absent, thanks to a nasty pill that Napoleon had dropped in his coffee that had temporarily disabled him. The unwitting participation of the remaining guard was Illya's main concern, since in order for there to be no messy loose ends, Illya had to effectively die at the scene.
He need not have worried. The guard had fired before Illya had made his move back toward the hanger, allowing him to activate his own blood packets and die a glorious death that Napoleon would have appreciated, had he been there.
After that, the confusion had helped the U.N.C.L.E. agents posing as police officers clear the scene and spirit away both "bodies". The Ambassador had been encouraged to leave the country immediately, for his safety, with promises ringing in his ears that a full investigation would be conducted.
The hospital gurney was getting less comfortable the longer Illya waited. He'd nearly declined to seek any medical aid at all, but some of the blood on his shirt was actually his, and he didn't want to delay his own holiday by having Napoleon drag him back to the infirmary if he was found to be in less than perfect health. It was Napoleon's continued absence from his side that was the most troubling, and given that Napoleon only had to reunite husband and wife, Illya was becoming worried.
He had just removed the temporary dressing from his arm and was about to stitch his own wound when Napoleon entered the ward, a small duffel bag in his grip. Aside from a quick glance, Napoleon ignored Illya as he sauntered between the beds, greeting agents, asking after their families, chiding them for getting hurt on Christmas and thus avoiding their in-laws. Illya was content to wait, the indefinable sense of serenity found in Napoleon's presence settling inside him.
Upon reaching Illya's gurney, Napoleon tossed the duffel onto a metal chair, then turned to grab a handful of the privacy curtain, flinging it around them. Before Illya could utter a word, Napoleon leaned toward him and kissed him, very briefly, very hard, a touch of reconnection and affection that melted Illya's aches and soothed his bruises.
"Took you long enough," Illya complained, once his mouth was free.
"Things haven't gone exactly as planned, but everything is under control." Napoleon picked up Illya's bloodied jacket, letting it dangle from his fingers. "Tell me why I'm finding you here in the infirmary instead of at the office."
Illya shrugged, then winced. "The usual. I must work on improving the charges we place inside the packets. Or the blood capsules themselves. Perhaps if I—"
"Show me, please."
Without hesitation, Illya parted his crimson-stained shirt, revealing two purple welts surrounding angry red burns. To outsiders, it sounded like an arrogant command, but they'd long ago passed the point of hiding injuries and downplaying hurts. Aside from precious time it could cost them in the field, they each claimed the peremptory right of lovers, a right that neither of them hesitated to employ when necessary. Had their positions been reversed, Illya doubted that he would have been as polite.
"I see what you mean." Napoleon pointed to the ragged cut slicing through Illya's forearm. "And this?"
"That was from the fall. It was a lovely death, you would've been quite proud of it."
"Sorry I missed it." Napoleon grinned at him and pulled a small bottle out of his pocket. Seeing it, Illya raised an artificially bushy eyebrow.
"Are you sure you want to do that here?"
"I have to make you presentable." Napoleon picked up a roll of cotton from a nearby tray and tore off a piece, then set the bottle and cotton next to Illya's thigh. "We have an appointment."
"Oh? With whom?"
"It's a surprise. Hold still."
Napoleon ran the edge of his fingers along Illya's forehead, searching for the seam that held the wig secure. Finding it, he insinuated a fingernail beneath the seam and broke the seal. Once he'd loosened the thin rubber, he slid his fingers further beneath the wig and guided it backward, his hands stroking Illya's head in a thorough caress.
The movement brought them tantalizingly close, their mouths a mere inch apart. Napoleon lingered there, letting his breath warm Illya's lips until they parted. Illya spread his knees and Napoleon stepped between them, their only points of contact the light touch of Napoleon's fingers at the back of Illya's neck and the faint pressure where Illya's thighs pressed to Napoleon's hips. A lazy tendril of desire began to unwind deep inside Illya's belly, not something that required attention, just a long familiar quickening in his blood that was easily banked but rife with hazy promise.
The wig pulled clear, Napoleon tossed it away with a quick twist of his wrist, his hair brushing Illya's cheek as he turned his head. As he straightened, he trailed his tongue across Illya's earlobe before he began tugging at the gray tufts attached to Illya's eyebrows. Once they were removed, cotton was moistened with spirit gum remover and cooling liquid was swabbed lightly over reddened flesh.
The rustle and clang of the hospital ward just beyond the thin plastic curtain added to the gentle eroticism of Napoleon's seductive ministrations, since they both knew that at any moment, the curtain could be flung aside by a nurse or doctor. Illya kept his fingers clenched around the edge of the gurney, despite the overwhelming desire to feel Napoleon beneath his hands. He denied himself the pleasure of reciprocating because this was Napoleon's prerogative, to release his love after a mission. Along with being territorial about each other's well-being, they'd developed the ability to reaffirm their relationship in odd places, to snatch private moments in public venues. It had been deeply ingrained in them that the next mission could be their last, and it was another unspoken vow between them that there would be no wasted moments, no regrets for words left unsaid, no doubts about devotion requited.
Napoleon was just peeling the last of the spirit gum from Illya's chin when a heavy tread signified the doctor's approach. By the time the curtain was whisked aside, Napoleon was standing a decorous five feet away, his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the window sill.
The doctor, a thickset, overworked man with his bespectacled eyes focused on the clipboard in his hand, paused at the edge of the gurney and flipped one page over another.
"Ah, yes, Agent Kuryakin," he muttered, looking up. "Been a while, sir. Anything serious this time?"
"One scrape, two bruises. It was a slow day at the office."
"Uh huh, I see. You say a scrape and I usually find a bullet hole."
"Not this time." Illya held out his injured forearm. "You see? I've done more damage shaving."
The doctor peered at the wound over the edge of his glasses. "Then I'd suggest you switch to an electric razor, and quickly. That will require stitches."
"That's my cue." Napoleon pointed toward the duffel bag. "I brought a change of clothes for you. Oh, and a comb. I'll wait while you make yourself presentable."
Half an hour later, Illya emerged from hospital ward to find Napoleon draped over the receptionist's desk, flirting madly with the willing young woman seated behind it. Dressed in dark gray slacks, a sweater of forest green and a black sport coat, Illya had indeed used the provided comb and aside from a slight ache around his ribs and the nagging pull of stitches in his arm, he felt remarkably refreshed. As Napoleon looked up from his conversation and gave Illya a body-sweeping glance, the resultant glow in the dark eyes made Illya wish they had a moment's privacy.
But Napoleon had already said his farewell to the receptionist and was approaching Illya with a grin on his face. Illya turned toward the infirmary's front door and was surprised when Napoleon linked his arm through his and swung him around, back toward the hospital ward.
Illya stopped in his tracks. "Where are you taking me? I thought you said you had a surprise."
Napoleon tugged at his arm, forcing him to move. "I do. And it's back there."
Illya allowed Napoleon to lead him through the infirmary doors and down the busy hallway, turning right into a less crowded area. A nurse dressed in a crisp white uniform came bustling through a door, ignoring them as she hurried away. It was through that door that Napoleon lead Illya with a little bow. Having no idea what he was going to see, Illya stepped over the threshold, meeting Napoleon's amused gaze with a distrusting scowl.
"I was hoping the surprise included dinner at Delmonico's," he said over his shoulder. He was about to expound on all the other possibilities when he finally perceived the reason for Napoleon's barely contained glee.
Standing nervously in front of a room partition was quite possibly the biggest human Illya had ever encountered. From the distance between them at the hanger, Viktor had seemed to dwarf the rest of the Ambassador's party but up close, Viktor was even larger than Illya had remembered. A shaved, bullet-shaped head with no discernible neck sat atop shoulders too wide to fit easily through any conventional door. Illya guessed that Viktor's height was in excess of seven feet, and as Viktor approached him, a hand the size of a beach ball extended his way, Illya concluded that Viktor was in his own league.
"Viktor, this is my partner, Illya Kuryakin. The man who made all this possible."
What all "this" was, Illya did not know. His hand had been swallowed up to the wrist by Viktor's grasp, and Illya had a momentary fear that it would be crushed. But Viktor's grip was surprisingly gentle, the up and down movement of the handshake rattling Illya's teeth only slightly. A sweet-natured grin revealed a charming gap between Viktor's teeth, a feature that did much to rob him of his threatening demeanor.
"Thank you very much," Viktor said in lightly accented English. "Was very nice of you to shoot me."
"My pleasure," Illya replied. He extracted his hand and discreetly flexed it. "You will be a hero in your country."
Viktor shrugged, dangerously straining the seams of his suit coat. "My country does not have soap opera. My country does not have French fries." His beefy face took on a fatuous expression. "My country does not have Debbie."
"Debbie?" Illya turned to Napoleon, who was bouncing on his toes.
"Debbie," Napoleon affirmed. With a gallant wave of his hand, he directed Illya around the partition, where a red-headed young woman was ensconced in a hospital bed, a swaddled and sleeping infant cradled in her arms.
"This is why I was late," Napoleon whispered in Illya's ear. "Debbie was already in labor when I picked her up, so I brought her here."
Debbie was as petite as Viktor was large, her body barely forming a crease in the bedclothes. She smiled shyly at Illya and turned the baby in her arms until he could see its face, which he was pleased to admire from a distance. As Illya watched, a tiny fist untangled itself from its blanket and punched the air, a gesture quickly followed by an ear-splitting wail.
Before they could retreat, Viktor barreled past Illya and Napoleon, a panicked look on his face. He stood at the side of the bed, hands flailing helplessly as he watched Debbie calmly soothe the child.
"Is okay?" he squeaked.
Debbie nodded. "Bob's fine, Viktor. Relax."
Illya stuck his elbow in Napoleon's ribs to gain his attention. "Bob?" he mouthed silently.
Napoleon spoke out of the side of his mouth. "Viktor wanted to name him after one of us, but Debbie seemed to think that using either of our names was liable to get Junior beat up at school."
Illya looked at Debbie with new respect. "I think this family will do quite well. Are their new identities in place?"
"They are. Our friend Viktor was a mechanic before he was recruited by his government, so we're going to send him to our office in Los Angeles to work in the motor pool as soon as they're ready."
Bob, temporarily silenced by his mother's attention, chose that moment to voice his opinion with a cry that was improbably louder than his first. Using the near psychic link that often saved them in the field, Illya and Napoleon turned as one and moved quickly toward the exit, calling out their farewells as they went.
Once outside the closed door, Napoleon clapped his hands together. "I don't know about you, but after that I feel ready to celebrate."
Illya slid his fingers beneath Napoleon's jacket lapel, ostensibly straightening it but applying enough pressure to turn it into a caress.
"Napoleon, you are very sentimental, did you know that?" He tempered his scolding tone with a brief smile. "A quality I happen to find quite attractive. Lucky for you."
"Lucky for me, indeed," Napoleon murmured, laugh crinkles deepening around his mouth. "Now," he continued briskly, "I have a car waiting, a hamper full of food in the trunk and a tankful of gas. Can I give you a lift?"
Illya considered the offer. "At the very least," he said seriously.
Watching the sun rise was one of Illya's secret pleasures. Wherever he found himself in the world, when circumstances and weather allowed, at dawn he could be found facing eastward. For many years a private indulgence, once he'd let Napoleon into his heart he'd found he wanted to share that simple joy with him as well. He'd never explained why he enjoyed it and Napoleon never asked, but on the few occasions when they'd watched the sun rise together, Illya's pleasure had increased almost beyond bearing.
This morning, the day after Christmas, Illya crept out of bed and donned a black cotton robe. Napoleon was still deeply asleep, yet Illya had no need to see him in the darkened room to imagine how his lover looked as he dreamed. It was just as well that he couldn't see him, for a sleep-warmed and vulnerable Napoleon was irresistible, and Illya didn't want to disturb his well-earned rest.
It had been a night of epic indulgence, gastronomically and otherwise. Napoleon cultivated the appearance of a gourmand, but in truth was a man of much simpler tastes. It was Illya who liked to experiment with flavors and textures, and who, given the choice, was happy to splurge on outrageous treats, the more uncommon, the better. When Napoleon began unpacking the hamper, bags and boxes that would serve as their Christmas feast, Illya had at first been impressed, then immeasurably touched, and the expression of his appreciation had resulted in dinner being postponed.
The house that Napoleon had rented was a modest cottage that had charmed Illya immediately. One level, one bedroom, a bath and small kitchen, the most appealing feature had been a porch that faced the ocean. Regrettably, it was too cold to greet the day from that venue; even in the bleak gray of pre-dawn, Illya could see frost on the tips of long grass that crested the sand dunes leading to the water's edge.
It hardly mattered. Illya was happy to stand in front of one of the large windows, his weight comfortably balanced on his bare feet, arms hanging loosely at his side. The room was almost too cold, but he welcomed the chill, since it would make crawling back beneath the covers that much more rewarding.
It was going to be a glorious sunrise. As the sky brightened, Illya could see that the horizon was streaked with clouds, a perfect setting for a magnificent display. As always when alone with a sunrise, Illya deliberately relaxed his mind, letting his usually disciplined concentration float away. Having Napoleon nearby, even asleep, made it easier, for then he could also drop the cloak of vigilance that he wore like a second skin.
Even in such a quiescent state of mind, Illya was aware of a flicker in the window's reflection heralding Napoleon's approach. He did not move until strong arms enveloped him from behind, wrapping around his waist and drawing him snugly to Napoleon's bare chest. A warm mouth pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck and Illya closed his eyes, his body growing heavy beneath the weight of his contentment.
"I enjoyed yesterday," he murmured.
The arms around him tightened. "I know you did. So did I. It was nice to help someone simply for the sake of helping them. Always having the fate of the planet in the palm of your hand isn't all it's cracked up to be."
Illya smiled, tilting his head to rub his chilled nose on the warm skin of Napoleon's throat. "When you are old and gray and telling outrageous stories in the old spy's home, I'll remind you that you said that."
Napoleon shifted him closer. "When I am old and gray, I expect to be living on tropical island, where there are no phones, no communicator pens, and no evil masterminds trying to take over the world."
"Will I be there?" Illya inquired.
"Of course. Someone has to clean the hut—wait, look. There's your sunrise."
Illya turned, remaining in the circle of Napoleon's arms. They were silent for the duration of the dawn, until the purple and crimson sky faded to a crystalline lavender and the chill in the room seeped into their bones. With a tickle and a tease, Napoleon coaxed Illya back into the bedroom.
They'd made love again after dinner, but their need for each other was never quite satisfied. Now, in the early morning hush, with just the faint susurration of the waves to accompany them, Napoleon slipped his hands inside Illya's robe and guided the fabric off his shoulders to let it puddle on the hardwood floor. Light kisses and deft touches guided them back into bed, where Napoleon's playful aggression set the mood for a gentle loving that fit the languid mood of the morning. Illya welcomed Napoleon's tender invasion of his body, his nerves alight with soaring pleasure and his heart suffused with a feeling much more fierce than any mere emotion that could be explained in a word.
Later, with the damp skin of Napoleon's cheek pressing lightly to his breast and his soft, sleepy exhalations brushing his collar bone, Illya again found himself thinking of the previous day's adventures. It had felt good to help someone without the usual dire consequences that their line of work entailed. Napoleon had a compassionate nature that he could rarely indulge without endangering his mission, and the fact that he'd been able to do so meant more to Illya than his own participation. In a week, maybe less, if necessary, they would be back at work. More often than they liked, they worked separately, sometimes not even on the same assignment and that made the next six days even more valuable.
As sleep started to drag on his senses, Illya realized that although he'd accused Napoleon of being sentimental, he was guilty of the same weakness, especially where the man burrowing further into his embrace concerned. Christmas with all its odd and wonderful trappings would come and go every year, but Illya had been given Napoleon's love, and that was a gift he was looking forward to cherishing for the rest of their lives.
Written for the LJ MUNCLE community Down the Chimney 2007 Fic Exchange
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