"Really, Napoleon," Illya muttered, "why can't you find a nice girl who doesn't want to kill you. Or me. Or both of us, for that matter."
Carefully shifting the heavy weight in his arms, Illya allowed himself the momentary relief of wiping a sticky mixture of sweat and blood out of his eyes. He shouldn't have been perspiring—the night air pouring over them through the ragged remains of the bedroom wall was sharp with coming snow. It was the poison, no doubt—slow-acting, painless and cruel, it gave him enough time to realize he was dying and not enough time to do anything about it.
Not that it mattered—discomfort was the least of his concerns. His once pristine jacket, black and severe as befitted a trusted manservant, now lay across Napoleon's chest in an effort to calm his frantic shivers, leaving Illya only a crimson-stained shirt and torn pants as a shield from elements that should have been safely outside a room that no longer existed.
"Not...not my style." The words were said softly, roughly, the effort behind them obvious. Illya immediately held the shivering form tighter, both delighted and disturbed that Napoleon had regained consciousness. "Prefer—mmm—prefer 'em feisty."
"Oh?" he replied, infusing his tone with as much skepticism as he could summon while trying to ignore the sharp worry that cut through him at the sound of Napoleon's thready voice. "Shall we make a list of all the women who've tried to kill us over the years? Feisty isn't exactly the term I'd choose. Homicidal, maybe. Maniacal, quite probably. Sadistic—well, the ones I've met, anyway—"
"Wasn't...wasn't talking about wo-women."
Illya twitched a drooping jacket sleeve closer to Napoleon's side, contributing what could only be illusory warmth. Darkness had already fallen when the first bomb had exploded, collapsing the entire wing of the estate where Napoleon had been ensconced as the elderly but randy owner. A young woman of impeccable THRUSH lineage had been 'invited' to the large home outside of Salzburg on the pretext of offering a very lonely, very rich man the pleasure of her company. What UNCLE had intended was a carefully planned melodrama to extract what they believed to be important information concerning a new THRUSH offensive; what the young lady had planned was the elimination of UNCLE's two senior agents by virtue of several well-placed bombs served with a little poison on the side.
Score one for the proponents of world domination.
Feeling the tremors lessen, Illya placed his palm against Napoleon's forehead, more for the reassurance it offered them both than fear of any fever. He had no idea how severe Napoleon's injuries were—his broken ribs were easily diagnosed but internal bleeding was almost assured. There'd been no wound that he'd found that had bled more than it should, relieving him of the terrifying prospect of blood loss, but he was almost positive Napoleon had sustained a concussion. His ignorance and helplessness ate away at him, but outwardly he tried to maintain an air of detachment; Napoleon would not appreciate any maudlin show of concern—a word that scarcely began to describe the maelstrom of emotions that churned inside Illya as he surreptitiously rested his cheek against Napoleon's overly cool brow.
It had taken Illya almost two hours to dig his way to into the remnants of the suite where Napoleon had been buried. Hampered by a toxin that weighed heavy on weakening muscles, he was unable to see anything beyond the small scope of light carved out by a flashlight clenched between aching teeth. He'd had to claw inch by inch through the rubble until both hands were shredded and bloody, his only thought to reach the man who now lay dying in his arms.
He'd found Napoleon tossed like a broken toy beneath a jagged hole where mullioned windows once offered an expansive view of sculptured grounds and craggy mountain peaks. Those first few minutes after finding Napoleon were the worst of Illya's life as he sought proof that his partner still lived. The flashlight had long since died and been discarded, leaving Illya only the shifting light of a waning January moon to search out and tend the most obvious of Napoleon's injuries. Almost blind, he'd been able to discern a faint pulse beneath the dirt and debris and had spent a precious moment relearning to breathe before trying to build a sanctuary out of the destruction that surrounded them.
Unfortunately, the THRUSH bombs had been unusually efficient. Nothing had remained salvageable, not even a towel from the opulent bathroom that had once adjoined the bedroom suite. Illya had spent as much time as he dared searching for anything to help their survival, but the strain of remaining upright cost him; it had taken almost the last reserves of his strength to find Napoleon again and pull him into his arms, his only hope that the rescue that was surely coming would reach them in time.
"You're not going to flirt with me now, are you?" Illya forced a smile into his voice as he let his fingers trickle through the cap of artificially gray hair tucked beneath his chin. How often he'd longed to feel this texture against his palm, to smooth away that one lock of hair that softened Napoleon's sharp features with a boyish, vulnerable accent. It was rather unfair—he'd spent years hiding behind a mask of friendly indifference, letting his imagination serve as his only consolation as he watched his partner charm every woman he'd ever met—and then go on to seduce most of them, as well. Now it would seem the one time he had Napoleon where he wanted him—in an all-encompassing embrace—he'd hardly live long enough to enjoy it.
"Why?" came the faint but amused reply. "Is now a bad time? Got a bus to catch?"
Illya's fingers stilled, then continued their soothing caress. "Considering neither of us is in any shape to act impulsively, it is as good a time as any. Feel free to give it your best attempt."
"Spoilsport." The single word was accompanied by a stifled moan as Napoleon tried to ease his torn body into a more comfortable position between Illya's outstretched legs. Illya let him move, arms quivering with the repressed desire to smooth away the resultant discomfort. As Napoleon resettled, he cradled him close, wishing he could impart his own body's unnatural heat into the shivering frame he held.
"Nonsense. You are bored, so you try to pass the time the way you always do, only this time there's no female within several miles of us, now that Miss Jaeger has left us so—er—precipitously."
"Illya—cough—I'm crushed. Uh, literally and figuratively, apparently." He paused and Illya could feel Napoleon's mood shift as easily as he could feel the strain in the strong body he held. "Now, listen to m-me, I need to t-tell—"
"You're a little bruised, yes," Illya cut in brusquely, desperate to keep the conversation on a light note, "but it obviously hasn't affected your willingness to flirt with a warm body."
He expected a tart response, something regarding his lack of qualifications, but none was forthcoming. Napoleon remained so quiet that Illya feared he'd slipped back into unconsciousness, but when cold fingers sought out his hand where it lay tucked against Napoleon's hip, he stiffened. Even without seeing Napoleon's face, he knew what was coming.
"I'm not talking about flirting, Illya. I want to tell you—"
"Not now." He squeezed the fingers that clung tenaciously to his. He had to stem the words before they were said, for he would accept no farewells, no parting words from this man. "You need to rest, Napoleon."
"No." Illya felt the small but stubborn roll of Napoleon's head against his shoulder. "You c-can't stay here any longer. That third b-bomb she mentioned—"
"Hasn't exploded and probably won't."
"—is p-probably somewhere in this p-pile of rubble. You have to g-get out of here."
"We have no proof that there is a third bomb and besides, it could have exploded simultaneously with one of the others. Another possibility is that it could have been damaged—"
"All right, all right, you've made your p-point. What about Rosencrantz and G-Guildenstern—did they m-make it out okay?"
Illya winced—two local agents had been assigned to them for this mission and neither he nor Napoleon could ever remember their names. Napoleon had taken Illya to the premier of the play at the Old Vic in London some years earlier and they'd used the names ever since as their own personal shorthand for operatives assigned to them on a temporary basis.
"I never thought I'd actually have to say this, but—"
Napoleon sighed, then coughed weakly. "No, then don't say it. D-damn it, this has been a d-disaster from start to f-finish."
Illya grunted in agreement as he slipped lower beneath Napoleon's weight. The roof was gone, giving him a splendid view of the few stars that could been seen through a thin veil of clouds. Though his body was growing steadily more frail, his mind remained clear and focused, recalling with perfect lucidity how he'd found the two men slumped together over the sabotaged communications station in the pantry. It was as he'd bolted from the pantry in a desperate bid to make it to Napoleon's side that he'd been hit with a brightly tufted, perfectly placed dart in his carotid artery. Yanking it out with a savage curse, he'd caught a glimpse of a girlish smile and a flash of blue evening dress before a wave of dizziness overcame him, driving him to his knees.
Then came the explosions.
"You should leave at d-dawn, then." Napoleon's voice sounded slightly stronger, Illya thought approvingly. "When you c-can see b-better, right? Head for the road—I think I s-saw a chimney off to the left about five m-miles south of here. They'll have a—"
"Can you see the stars, Napoleon?" Illya spoke quietly, his eyes fixed on the milky night sky but his vision curved inward with growing regret.
Napoleon turned slightly, dutifully glancing upward into the indifferent night. "Yes, I c-can see them. Why?"
Illya's free hand slid up beneath the jacket to rest on the cold fabric above Napoleon's heart. His own heart was slowing down now, unable to keep up with the energy his dying body was expending.
"If I had to choose my last sight on this earth, stars are not such a bad idea." He did not add that his first choice was a pair of intelligent hazel eyes set in a face he knew better—loved more—than any he'd ever seen before.
He felt Napoleon stiffen on top of him, followed by an unmistakable recoil of pain. He murmured soothing noises as Napoleon breathed through it, wishing he had more strength left in his arms to convey the comfort he wanted to give.
"It's n-not like you—" Napoleon paused for an uncharacteristically shaky breath. "—not like you to g-give up so easily, t-tovarisch. Someone s-somewhere knows we're in t-trouble."
"True," Illya agreed absently. It really wasn't so bad, he realized—he had Napoleon in his arms, the fingers of one hand entwined with his, the other brushing small caresses in between the buttons of Napoleon's silk shirt. If this had been fifty years or so into the future, he'd have been content to let his time pay out this way—but now all he felt was a drowsy resentment for a future he'd never see.
They remained silent for a while until Illya noted with alarm that Napoleon's breathing was sounding more harsh with each minute that passed. The shivers had returned as well, some of them so strong they resembled small convulsions. With the meager strength left to him, Illya curled as much of his body around Napoleon's as he could, trying to impart the last of his own heat.
"Illya." His name, always pronounced with precision when spoken by Napoleon, now resembled nothing so much as a sigh. "Illya, listen t-to me. In my d-desk in New York, there's a b-box—"
"No, Napoleon." Illya whispered. "Tell me later—or better yet, show me when we get back."
"No, Illya," echoed the patient response. "No t-time for that now. In that b-box is a k-key to a house in C-California—Carmel. The house—" Napoleon stopped, gripped by a spasm that seemed endless to Illya. His arms could no longer hold Napoleon close, so instead he braced himself against a pile of rubble and twisted his body so that Napoleon's head rested against his abdomen. By the time Napoleon had recovered from his seizure, he was nestled within the curve of Illya's body, their heads close, eyes meeting as the clouds parted just enough for the moonlight to spill through.
"Illya, I hate t-to mention this, b-but I can't f-feel my legs."
"You're cold—"
He was stopped by two trembling fingers placed over his mouth. "It's not the c-cold, Illyusha. You know b-better than that. There isn't much t-time and I need to t-tell you about our h-house."
Illya smiled against Napoleon's fingers, then slowly reached up to remove them. He retained the hand in his, weakly chafing the cold flesh with his thumb as he caught up to what Napoleon had just said.
"'Our' house, Napoleon? Since when did we—"
"Since last year. B-bought it as an investment and it just s-seemed natural to p-put your name on the mortgage as well."
Raising an eyebrow, Illya considered that briefly. "Without my signature? That would require forgery, Napoleon."
"And a very g-good one, I might add," Napoleon agreed, then frowned as he grasped Illya's caressing hand. "Why are you s-so hot?"
Illya licked dry lips, his eyes falling beneath Napoleon's intense gaze. "There'll be no going for help in the morning, I'm afraid. A parting shot from our not so friendly guest, a slow but efficient paralytic." He looked up again, a rueful smile twisting his mouth. "So the fact that you have burdened me with capitalistic debt without my knowledge would seem to be a wise investment on your part, considering you are the beneficiary of my pension plan."
His hand was released and he couldn't prevent it from flopping down on the debris-strewn marble floor. He looked at it with interest, his analytical brain trying to calculate when the poison would have the same effects on his respiratory system.
"Well, what d-do you know," Napoleon murmured conversationally, "sometimes it really d-does p-pay to b-be sneaky." Illya looked up in time to see a grimace travel across Napoleon's moonlit face as he levered his body forward, dislodging the jacket down to his hips.
"What are you doing?"
Napoleon settled against him with a grunt, their mouths only centimeters apart.
"I want to t-talk to you and you w-were t-too far away."
"Oh. Did you really buy a house in California?"
"I d-did."
"Did you really put my name on the mortgage?"
"Illya, there is no m-mortgage. I p-paid cash."
"Oh."
"B-but you are listed as p-part owner. That way I'd always b-be sure you knew."
"Knew what? Napoleon, what are you saying? You know I can't understand you when you—wait a moment. What did you call me?"
"You heard."
"Why?"
An amused puff of air batted against his nose. "B-because I b-bought a house f-for us in C-California." Napoleon paused, gathering his breath. "B-because you're my p-partner."
The odd emphasis on the last word sent Illya's pulse racing higher—there was a world of mutual ownership in that word, a dangerous, deceiving word that could mean so much—or nothing at all.
"Yes, I—" Whatever Napoleon intended to say was lost as another spasm of pain rocked through him. Illya focused every last ounce of power left in his failing muscles and raised his hand once more, cupping it around Napoleon's head and drawing him near until their cheeks were pressed together.
"Il mio amore, shhh," he whispered, unaware of both the sentiment and the language.
"C-Catching, isn't it," Napoleon gasped against his mouth. "All this love t-talk."
Illya didn't answer him. His heart clenched in his chest, expanding and contracting beneath the burden of a truth revealed far too late—a truth that he now realized was shared by them both. Unexpectedly, absurdly, an old song crept into his mind as Napoleon's dark head bent close to his, their lips touching with each breath they shared.
"'Give me a kiss before you leave me.'" He spoke the words quickly, teasingly, knowing that Napoleon would recognize the lyrics. Clouded eyes lifted to meet his, a tender smile warring with fathomless sorrow as Napoleon shook his head.
"L-Louis Armstrong? At a t-time like this?"
Illya flexed a finger, allowing a tiny caress to Napoleon's grimy cheek. "You would prefer The Beatles? Madame Butterfly? How about the Star-Spangled Banner?"
"Good p-point. Um, let's see—cough—think the n-next line—'my imagination will f-feed my hungry heart—" Horrified, Illya watched the dark eyes drift shut as Napoleon's body began to grow slack against him.
"Napoleon- "
"'Leave me—cough,—leave me one—one thing— Illya, I'm s-sorry, always hate—hate t-to l-leave a g-good p-party early— "
"Hush, Napoleon, I'm here—'— leave me one thing, before we part—a kiss to build a dream on...'" With the last of his strength, Illya pressed his mouth to Napoleon's, unsurprised to taste fresh blood in the kiss. Napoleon returned the pressure with a broken sigh, the sound reverberating in Illya's lax mouth as he felt Napoleon slip away.
It wouldn't take long now, he knew. Napoleon still breathed in shallow gasps beside him, but without medical help soon, he'd never reawaken. His own condition was no better, but whatever poison had been used on him was not one to grant an easy death. With calm acceptance, he felt his lungs begin to seize and finally the great heat that had consumed him began to ebb away. With Napoleon's blood still warm on his lip, he looked up at the stars, so cold, so distant—and smiled.
When I'm alone with my fancies, I'll be with you, weaving romances, making believe they're true.
Confused dreams—is one allowed to dream when they're dead? There was someone yelling and he wished they'd be quiet so that he could get on with dying, but soon even that was taken away. There were patches of dark filled with loneliness and regret, but then he noticed that the heat had returned—not the internal conflagration that had burned him up from within, but a soothing, soft warmth that enveloped him from without. Strands of sound, undistinguishable and therefore unimportant, drifted around him, but he was too comfortable to try and discern their meaning. The bands around his chest eased, then grew taut again before relaxing completely, allowing fresh, pine-scented air back into his lungs.
He was sure that he never opened his eyes, yet faces and images passed before him—Napoleon, of course, whole and handsome, a mocking smile quirking smooth lips; women, some recognized, some not—many framed in swaths of crisp white linen; and Mr. Waverly, sternly scolding, dressed head to toe in traditional Tyrolean garb, right down to the short pants that revealed knobby knees encased in lederhosen.
It was disturbing but also strangely appropriate; only one important thing permeated his hazy musings, one completely formed thought that he stubbornly clung to when his body demanded sweet oblivion.
"Napoleon?"
Illya opened the door slowly, a mask of polite concern firmly in place. The stark hospital room was flooded with buttery sunlight that made a lie of the drifts of snow that pressed up against the window, courtesy of an early February snowstorm that had delayed his return to Salzburg by almost two days. He'd been dreading this moment since he'd received his orders from Mr. Waverly—orders that had been perfectly understandable and yet had filled him with unease. The doctors had finally deemed Napoleon well enough to fly home to the States to finish his recovery and Illya had been instructed to accompany him, something they'd had to do for each other on a somewhat regular basis.
But this time would be like no other in their combined past—because they hadn't counted on the fact that they were going to live when they'd last said goodbye.
Illya had spent the days since his release pursuing and finally apprehending the ambitious Miss Jaeger; consequently, his communications with Napoleon had been intermittent and his visits non-existent. The poison he'd received had been a lethal dose; while it had caused a fair amount of pain and some damage to his lungs, an antidote had been discovered by UNCLE scientists almost immediately and flown to Austria before the harm had been irreparable. Once administered, he'd recovered quickly and had been released a week after he and Napoleon had been found by agents in Salzburg that had been alerted by a communiqué that never came.
Napoleon had fared better than expected—the old Solo luck still held, Illya thought with a touch of aggravated admiration. Even combined with exposure, his internal injuries had been tended to in time and so the doctors had been cautiously optimistic—when they'd discussed his condition with Illya at all. He was never allowed to visit Napoleon's hospital room, but that was ultimately irrelevant—Illya had not bothered to wait for official approval. The first night after the toxin had been completely leached from his body, he'd appropriated a set of orderly's clothing and waited until the midnight shift to slip into the darkened room where Napoleon lay recovering from his injuries.
Not once during his nocturnal visits did Napoleon awaken, but conversation was not his goal as he stood hour after hour next to Napoleon's bed. The one chair in the room was on the other side of a small table and bolted to the floor, much too far away to serve his purpose. The timing had to be precise as well—he knew from an evening's reconnaissance that his room was checked fifteen minutes before his partner's—but as the hospital staff were scrupulous in the timing of their rounds, allowing him stolen minutes deep in the heart of each night before he'd been deemed recovered and sent off after the annoying Miss Jaeger.
In those quiet, dark moments, with Napoleon breathing easily in restful sleep, he'd relived and regretted those final seconds between them a hundred times, wishing the words had been left unsaid and the emotions behind them unrevealed. And yet—some fragile, barely acknowledged hope still existed inside him that once they were together again, some remnant of those feelings would remain. For too long, Illya had felt love resting in his bones like a deep bruise, a familiar ache that never completely went away. To lose that small connection because of a few ill-timed words would be hard to bear—and so he stood watch through the nights like a fair-haired gargoyle, hoping not only for his partner's quick recovery, but a little bit of selective amnesia as well.
It was only on his last night by Napoleon's side that he admitted to himself that a step had been irrevocably taken, at least for him. Napoleon may choose to laugh off the incident or worse, ignore it—but for him, there could be no denial of what he held so deeply inside. With that in mind, he'd accomplished his mission and then laid two sets of widely disparate plans, leaving it to Napoleon to decide which one would set their future.
As he glanced around the empty, sunlit room on the morning of Napoleon's release, Illya thought back to those nights. In some ways, they now seemed surreal and indulgent, a useless attempt to atone for too many things. Setting down the two suitcases he'd carried with him from New York, he walked to the window and stood looking out, wondering what his reception would be from Napoleon.
The false warmth of the sun through the pebbled windows bore down on him, heating his black wool jacket until he slipped it off and tossed it on the bed. Rolling his shoulders against the stiff leather of a new holster that had yet to find its place against his pale blue shirt, he idly wished the upcoming encounter was already past. Finally, like a man awaiting judgment, he sat in the chair he'd ignored during his nighttime visits and prepared to wait for his partner.
Fifteen minutes later, the door opened and Napoleon strolled in, the collar of his dark brown robe turned up like an old, beloved trench coat. Hands tucked in its pockets, he was deep in conversation with one of the doctors and it was only that man's startled reaction to seeing Illya that made Napoleon turn his way.
Some odd emotion ran through the dark eyes before Napoleon smiled blandly and turned back to the doctor with an outstretched hand. They shook and the doctor left, closing the door behind him and leaving Illya and Napoleon alone—and awake—for the first time in two weeks.
"Was it something I said?" Illya rose and tossed aside the periodical he'd been reading as Napoleon came near. Without hesitation, he looked Napoleon straight in the eye—and was gratified to see only well-worn amusement there.
"I think it was your choice of accessory," Napoleon replied with a tilt of his head toward the gun nestled beneath Illya's arm.
Illya glanced down as if surprised to find it there. "That's odd—I heard these were the rage in Paris." He glanced up at Napoleon apologetically. "I liked it so much I brought one for you, too."
"Very thoughtful of you." Napoleon rocked back on his heels, waving one hand to indicate the high-ceilinged, sterile room. "So I believe you've come to take me away from all this?"
Illya nodded as he reached for his jacket, the slight weight bearing down one of the pockets sending a frisson of anticipation through his veins. He pulled it on and settled the collar against his neck, aware that Napoleon was observing him rather more closely than he'd like. He gestured toward the suitcases.
"You may regard me as your sherpa for the duration. By the way, I'm disappointed in you."
"Why? Because I survived?"
Illya's breath hitched in throat—Napoleon's tone was as smooth as ever, but there was an uncommon rhythm to it, warning him that his prayer for forgetfulness had not been answered.
He paused as if considering it, then shrugged. "Of course not—although I see you malingered long enough for me to do all the work again. No, I'm disappointed because none of the Sisters have decided to leave Holy Orders for you. You're slipping."
That drew a genuine laugh from Napoleon as he sat on the crisply made bed, hitching one leg higher on the coverlet with a small wince.
"Sorry to let you down, but I'd have to say it's just as well."
Illya leaned back against the low window sill in a boneless slouch and crossed his arms over his chest. "Really? Why?"
It was Napoleon's turn to shrug. "Didn't seem sporting, considering."
Illya arched an eyebrow, suppressing the desire to dip into his jacket pocket and finger the objects hidden there.
"Considering?"
Napoleon didn't answer immediately. Illya met his gaze calmly, although inwardly he wondered if he were suffering a relapse. His heart, that treacherous organ, was thumping hard inside his chest as he awaited Napoleon's next words. They were not at all what he expected as Napoleon neatly voiced their situation with an accompanying grin that was awash in self-deprecation.
"Things were a lot easier when we thought we were dying, weren't they."
Illya stared at him, entirely unprepared for this prosaic summation of the past few weeks. While he knew Napoleon was no coward, he'd expected some kind of misdirection during their first conversation, forcing Illya to broach the matter himself. Now, with Napoleon smiling at him easily from his hospital bed, he felt his emotional center of gravity shift into an unknown orbit. Napoleon was waiting for an answer—but had given him no clue as to what direction he expected Illya to take. With a shadow of an answering smile, he nodded in agreement.
"Yes. Definitely much messier this way. However," he paused and frowned, giving in to the compulsion to put his hand in his jacket pocket, "I think I can simplify things considerably."
The smile disappeared from Napoleon's face as if it had never existed. "Oh? How?"
Illya swallowed, troubled by the sudden chill in his partner's tone. As he ran a fingertip across the ragged edge of the small piece of metal in his hand, he briefly entertained the idea of backing away from his statement, but knew immediately it was a futile idea—he'd gone as far as he could go alone.
Straightening, he removed his hand from his pocket and silently held it out palm up, a small leather strap with an attached key revealed in the curve of his fingers.
Napoleon rose stiffly, one hand pressed to still tender ribs. He approached Illya with a frown as he looked down at the key—then recognition lit his eyes with an appreciative gleam.
"You've been a busy boy, haven't you?" Thankfully, there was no recrimination in his voice. His gaze when he met Illya's eyes again was warm and speculative, giving Illya courage that he'd made the right choice. He allowed one corner of his mouth to turn upwards in agreement before handing the key to Napoleon.
"You have two weeks of recuperation ahead of you, you know. Manhattan has all the comforts of home as well as myriad forms of entertainment. On the other hand—"
"On the other hand, Carmel has fresh air, beaches and a world class golf course."
"Yes, well, all true." Illya rubbed a hand across his jaw, looking up at Napoleon through his lashes. "California does have something else to recommend it."
Raising an eyebrow, Napoleon tossed the key in the air and caught it with his other hand.
"And that would be?" he asked innocently, confirming Illya's suspicion that Napoleon already knew the answer to his question. Their glances caught and held and as they stared into each others' eyes, the understanding between them that had served them so well as partners blossomed into something else, something infinitely more rare and almost painful in its simplicity.
So it was with complete confidence that Illya prepared to reply to Napoleon's question. As the key was tossed once more, he snatched it from the air and replaced it in his pocket with a small grin.
"That would be me."
"Are you sure we're in the right place?"
With an air of aggrieved patience, Napoleon unfolded the real estate agent's directions one more time.
"Yes, Illya, according to these notes, that road there," he pointed to a muddy track that led off the one lane road they'd been following for several miles, "leads to, and I quote, 'a lovely beachfront home full of charm and serenity'. Sounds just like what the doctor ordered, right?"
Deciding to hold his tongue until he'd seen the house, Illya put the car into gear and pulled onto the narrow road. This was the last leg of the long journey that had begun in Austria; even with the use of a private UNCLE jet, the trip had been grueling for them both. Napoleon never complained, but taking one look at his gray face when they'd deplaned at San Francisco International, Illya had booked two rooms at the St. Francis and had promptly ensconced Napoleon there while he went off to commandeer a vehicle from the local office's motor pool.
Dinner that night was a revelation for Illya; they'd ordered room service and had it delivered to Napoleon's suite, something they did regularly as business colleagues. On this night, with both of them tired and so many unresolved issues between them, Illya had expected some degree of awkwardness that never appeared. Napoleon, although exhausted and in pain, had taken time to draw Illya out, not using his considerable charm but only genuine, obviously affectionate interest—and Illya knew the
difference. In turn, Illya had encouraged Napoleon reminisce about periods in his life that Illya knew little or nothing about. Later, as Illya lay in his bed alone three floors away from Napoleon, he realized they were making a transition, that their terrified half-confessions on that alpine hillside had led them not to immediate physical intimacy, but to the more demanding intimacy of their souls.
Despite the unexpected pleasure he'd found in the evening, a tiny nugget of misgiving edged into his consciousness at the oddest times, like now as he maneuvered down the road with both hands grimly attached to the steering wheel. Three minutes of bouncing accompanied by Napoleon's stifled groans had him almost turning the car around, if he thought he could manage it—but just as he was contemplating a retreat in reverse, they turned a corner and saw the house. He drove up close to the steps that lead to the small front porch and killed the engine.
A profound silence filled the car as they observed their new property through the car windshield. It was Illya who finally spoke, his voice filled with the conviction of a new convert.
"I want my money back."
Napoleon gave him a slanted glance. "You didn't pay anything."
"Fine. Then I want your money back."
His answer was a light, back-handed slap against his shoulder. "C'mon, where's your sense of adventure?"
"It's wondering what the dinner special is at Top of the Mark," he grumbled, but nonetheless followed Napoleon out of the car and up the dilapidated steps to the front door. Illya had retained the key and now offered it to Napoleon with a slight bow, which was acknowledged with a courtly nod. The key was inserted into a lock which stuck immediately, but the door gave way with a little judicious kick from a loafer-clad foot. Illya allowed Napoleon to precede him inside, only to have his progress halted by virtue of running into a broad back. Napoleon had taken three steps inside and come to a complete halt, and as Illya came around to his side, he could see why.
What had been described as a roomy, two bedroom cottage, completely furnished, turned out to be a bit of an exaggeration. They stood in a large room that ran the length of the front of the house, with windows on all sides and a large stone fireplace to the right. What had once been a dining room off the open kitchen had been made into a bedroom, with a double bed and nightstands complete with lamps and lampshades made of broadly stitched faux rawhide. There was a large paint-by-numbers elk picture above the fireplace, a couch sitting flush on the floor and a small dinette tucked beneath a window that looked out onto a grove of pines trees. On it were stacked several jigsaw puzzles boxes held together with rubber bands as well as Scrabble and Yahtzee.
"I can see the serenity, but the charm eludes me," Illya murmured, disappointed for Napoleon's sake.
"Oh, it's not so bad," Napoleon replied, sounding more like he was trying to convince himself. "Let's see if we have power. It's a little cold in here."
"We should," Illya said as he wandered into the kitchen. "Your realtor promised he'd stop by and check the water heater, as well as the wood supply."
The light above him came on, revealing cracked, yellowed linoleum and counters warped by the damp ocean climate. He opened the refrigerator and was encouraged to feel a draft of cold air sweep across his face. A small, scarred, two-burner stove sat next to it and a quick review of the drawers revealed mismatched utensils as well as towels, pots, pans and even a corkscrew.
"Bathroom looks okay," Napoleon said, coming out of the small hall that led to that very room. "Towels are there—they look fairly new, too. Clean, anyway." He clapped his hands together in growing enthusiasm. "Let's unload the car."
As Illya followed Napoleon out the door, he was reminded of the description of this less than advertised property.
"Napoleon," he said as he carefully descended the porch steps, mindful of the rotting wooden slats, "where is the other bedroom?"
"Hmm?" Napoleon's head was in the trunk of the car as he rummaged inside.
"Two bedrooms. That was what the advertisement said."
"Oh, that. Here." He handed Illya the two suitcases and grabbed a bag of groceries for himself. "It's just beyond the bathroom—I thought it was the closet, at first, but there's a single bed and a nightstand in there."
"I'm think I'm going to discuss the term 'bait and switch' with this realtor of yours," Illya mumbled.
In response, Napoleon flashed him a grin before moving stiffly back toward the house. Despite his restored good humor, Illya could tell he was tiring again and decided to say nothing more about the situation. After all, it was what he'd planned—time alone with Napoleon. If he had to sleep on a damp cot in a musty room in a house that was one step above abandoned, then so be it. It was what one did when one was—involved.
Dinner was quiet and companionable, notable only for the mild argument over who washed and who dried; Illya finally carried the day with the irrefutable truth that Napoleon was asleep on his feet and he'd have plenty of chances later to pull his weight. As he watched his partner shuffle off to the bathroom, Illya again felt the tug of two realities. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine this was just another mission, like their one foray into suburban America that had raised more than a few eyebrows back at the home office. As he returned to drying the dishes, his heart sank—unless he did something, he was afraid this vacation together would be as routine—as emotionless—as that assignment had been.
They hadn't discussed sleeping arrangements, but Illya had taken for granted that Napoleon would take the larger bed, only because he was still uncomfortable from his injuries. They'd made the bed earlier with sheets that were clean if a little threadbare, and it was with an odd mixture of satisfaction and frustration that Illya watched Napoleon crawl between them and fall asleep almost immediately. Although it was early, Illya was drawn to his own bed as the effects of long travel and emotional pressure began to tell on him as well. As he let sleep claim him, he drifted on a cloud of disquiet, wondering if he'd misread the situation entirely.
He didn't know what woke him—the cot was either surprisingly comfortable or he was more tired than he'd thought. As much as he'd grumbled about their spartan accommodations, the scent of the as unseen ocean had slipped deep inside him, relaxing and calming his body even as his mind raced on. He awoke without a start, instantly aware of where he was and just as instantly alert to every sound. The cabin—he refused to call it a house—was fresh with cool night air, so he pulled a white tee shirt on over his shorts and ventured into the living area, pausing by Napoleon's bedside to make sure he was sleeping peacefully before venturing to the low-slung couch in front of the fireplace. He heard unfamiliar sounds in the surrounding pine forest but as he arranged his bare legs beneath him on the worn cushions, he assigned them no importance, trusting his inherent skills to guard against possible intruders.
Although this strange patch of emotional middle ground wasn't what he'd had in mind for this trip, the terrors of that frigid night not so long ago were a sharp reminder that what he did have wasn't to be taken lightly. As he stared into the depths of the barren fireplace, he began to prepare himself for yet another path, a path somewhere between his closest held desire and one of vast loneliness—that of trusted friend, partner, a confidant.
How depressing.
He was just growing sleepy enough to think about seeking his bed again when a soft sound of distress brushed against his ears. He stood up from the couch in time to watch what was a mere outline of Napoleon sit up in bed, running a hand over his sleep-mussed hair.
"Illya?" Napoleon's voice, though drowsy, was perfectly clear. "What are you doing over there? Come on back to bed."
Illya froze, wondering if he'd heard correctly. But even in the near blackness of the room, he could see Napoleon tossing back the covers invitingly, as if Illya had just risen from his side. Before he could react, Napoleon had laid back down and curled on his side away from the center of the bed, leaving Illya the daunting choice of returning to his own cold room or spending the rest of the night in a purgatory even Dante would find intimidating. Being who he was, there was no question of his choice; after all, Hell was nothing more than a concept of the bourgeoisie—or so he'd been told.
Now, he wasn't so sure.
Heaving a sigh shaded with desperate humor, Illya lay down beside Napoleon, careful not to jostle the sleeping man. Attempting to relax, he pulled up the covers and crossed his arms over his chest with an air of grim determination, even as he felt his body pulled toward Napoleon's warmth.
"Just once," he growled softly to an uncaring ceiling, "just once, I'd like to share a bed with you when we're both awake at the same time."
"Illya."
It was the voice of his dreams—soft, seductive, rife with promises of dark delight. He smiled into his pillow, sure he was dreaming but happy for the experience regardless.
"Illya, I'm not going to ask again."
That was odd—in his fantasy, that sultry voice didn't put it quite that way, although it was fairly close. Pushing his face deeper into the pillow, Illya tried to recapture the moment, afraid he was about to wake up and lose the dream entirely.
"All right, if that's the way you're going to be."
No, no, that wasn't at all what was supposed to come next—neither was the violent stripping of the bedclothes off his body, followed immediately by a cold blast of air on his exposed skin.
Illya sat up with a yelp, half inclined to reach for the nearest rawhide lamp and use it as a weapon. He relaxed when all he beheld in the way of an assailant was a beaming Napoleon, already dressed in dungarees and a thick sweater the same shade as the coffee he offered in ready apology.
"Sorry about the wake up call. Here—drink this." He handed the cup over to his almost mollified partner, who took a deep drink before eyeing Napoleon with a doleful expression.
"You look very chipper. This does not bode well for me. What are you up to?"
Napoleon retrieved his own cup and perched on the edge of the bed, his eyes bright with something Illya refused to name. "Let's get out of here and find that ocean."
Illya drank again before replying dourly, "Go west. When you find a large body of smelly, salty water—that is the ocean."
Napoleon winked at him as he grabbed his bare foot, giving it a jiggle before getting up. "That's the spirit. Meet me outside in ten minutes."
He was ready in eleven—the delay only caused by the sixty seconds he'd spent staring at his toes and wondering if he was going to survive Napoleon's affectionate—and so far platonic—attentions. Napoleon was leaning against the car and recapping the communicator pen as Illya came down the porch steps to join him.
"Our uncle sends his regards," Napoleon said as he dropped the communicator into his pocket. "The world remains intact and does not currently require us, so we may proceed with our recuperations as planned. Thus sayeth Mr. Waverly, at any rate." He clapped Illya on the shoulder. "C'mon. I think I found a way down to the water."
"Down to the water?" Illya echoed uneasily—but followed nonetheless.
Down was definitely an apt description; the barely discernible trail that Napoleon had discovered wove through the thick pines and dense underbrush before emerging into the open air and plunging straight down a rocky outcropping to the beach below. After an ungainly but controlled sideways slide, they landed on a loose shale bed that curved away to the south before ending in an impassible escarpment. It was a private beach, Napoleon had informed him smugly, to which Illya had replied he could see why—to visit it risked a broken leg at the very least.
But it was beautiful, he had to admit. This early in the morning, there was a distinctive sweetness to the air, a brightness to the cold blue sky that quickened his blood. He could tell Napoleon felt the same as they walked the small beach side by side, silent and comfortable with it. Somewhere beyond their line of sight was enough of a breakwater to gentle the waves, creating a quiet semi-circle of water and sand closely ringed by pines and Monterey cypress. Illya knew there were other homes nestled back in the woods, but they were well-hidden, completing the illusion of privacy.
When Napoleon paused and began toeing off his shoes, Illya looked at him doubtfully.
"What are you doing?"
Napoleon tossed his shoes well away from the water's edge before kneeling down on one knee to roll up the hems of his pants. "Isn't obvious?"
Regarding him through narrowed eyes, Illya made his assessment. "You look as though you are about to frolic in the sea water."
"Why, Illya, one would think you didn't approve of frolicking." Napoleon then did promptly that, dashing into the cold water and then backing out quickly, making sure to send a small torrent of water Illya's way on his retreat.
"UNCLE agents do not frolic," Illya replied frostily, bearing the droplets of water on his face with resigned stoicism, although he knew the gleam in his eyes betrayed him. "Neither do they revel, carouse, caper or cavort."
Napoleon kicked another wave of muddy froth in Illya's direction. "We're not UNCLE agents here, you know. We're—" He shrugged and grinned, apparently as unprepared as Illya to put a name to what they'd become.
Yes, what are we? Illya mused as he found a conveniently placed pile of driftwood to balance against as he stripped off his shoes and socks. The answer wasn't easily found as he turned up his pant legs and approached the waves with exaggerated caution. He knew he was playing the fool for Napoleon as much as Napoleon did, putting up a front of irascibility that was as transparent as glass. But it felt different here somehow—and then he realized what that difference was almost immediately. The normal give and take of their relationship was still there, only now it was softer, smoothed out by their circumstances—and it was nothing less than flirting.
That thought touched off a shiver of anticipation as Illya got close enough to the water's edge to dip a reluctant toe, aware that Napoleon was rolling his eyes at his lack of enthusiasm. He was about to turn and remind him of all the dangers inherent in the ocean when Napoleon tackled him from behind, sending them both careening into the low-breaking waves with an impressive splash.
Illya knew he should have seen it coming—Napoleon was in an irresistible mood, laughing as he rolled them deeper into the water and getting them both soaked. Illya put up a show of struggle, pushing back just hard enough to guide them the other way and onto the sand. There was a gentle battle for supremacy that Illya won by simply going slack beneath Napoleon, bringing their bodies into close contact just beyond the reach of the icy water.
The playfulness that had gotten them that far ceased abruptly when stormy blue eyes suddenly locked with speculative hazel. Napoleon's fingers were clasped loosely around Illya's wrists, pinning them above his head in an easy grip as the water and sand melded them together from the chest down, creating an intimacy immediately full of ramifications. They could both see it in the gaze of the other—hunger, fear, wariness—even amusement that they'd taken so long to reach what now seemed to be an inevitable conclusion.
Biting his lip against an escaping grin, Illya chose a reproachful tone. "You are supposed to be resting, not wrestling. I realize you often get the two confused."
Napoleon leaned in close as if to steal a kiss but settled for stroking his nose against Illya's. "Guess that's why I keep you around, then. To keep me on the—uh, straight and narrow."
One fair eyebrow lifted in mock disgust. "That was terrible, Napoleon. Whatever has gotten into you?"
"You," Napoleon breathed against his ear. "About a thousand years ago."
A deliberately wicked shift of slim hips wrung a gasp from Illya, drawing Napoleon's gaze to his mouth. Patches of sand decorated Napoleon's face and hair, even his eyelashes, some of it spilling onto Illya's cheeks as Napoleon leaned forward to brush his lips against the side of that mouth, causing a gasp of a different kind. Illya's eyes drifted shut as Napoleon's lips played against his sun-warmed skin, discovering its texture between incoherent murmurs. A slight twitch of his wrists and he was released to run his hands through damp hair as Napoleon continued his sensuous journey along his jaw, dusting off the sand he found there with the ball of his thumb before mouthing the fair skin.
It was so close to perfect that it took a few moments for him to realize that there was an uncomfortable counterpoint to the heady web of seduction Napoleon was weaving.
"Napo—oh, yes, that's very nice—mmm, Napoleon, we have to move."
His response was a tiny negative shake of Napoleon's head. For a moment he was tempted to give in to whatever Napoleon had in mind, but within seconds he was forcibly reminded why they had to stop, however briefly. With a low rumble of regret, Illya captured Napoleon's traveling hand and brought it rest within the curve of his own throat.
"Napoleon—I hate to interrupt, but there is a very annoyed crab somewhere near my left buttock who would like us to move so that he may get his breakfast. Also, the tide is coming in."
Napoleon pulled back to stare down at him. Illya looked back blandly as he splashed his foot in a puddle that had grown alarmingly in the last few minutes, making his point all too clear. Lips twitching with suppressed amusement, Napoleon got to his feet and offered his hand to Illya.
What had seemed perfectly natural when prone now felt awkward and rather messy. They took turns attempting to brush off the accumulated sand but now their hands were brisk and efficient, so unlike the intimate play they were so recently engaged in. When Napoleon jerked his head in the direction of the house, Illya nodded and joined him, unsure of what would happen next and his spirits beginning to tumble.
After all, it wasn't the famous Solo charisma that had ensnared him long before his musical confession; if mutual seduction was all they'd wanted, they could have accomplished that years ago and been done with it. But as he followed Napoleon up the ragged trail, he thought back to the night in Austria, when so much was said with so few words. Had he even told Napoleon how he'd felt? Had Napoleon actually admitted to anything other than a penchant for cheap real estate?
And there it was—more obvious than the impressive nose on Mr. Waverly's face.
Determination squaring his shoulders, he entered the house behind Napoleon. The air inside was still crisp with morning and redolent of coffee, almost too cool to be comfortable. He waited until Napoleon turned to speak to him, taking a deep breath as he made his move.
"Napoleon, do you wish to go back to the St. Francis?"
The abrupt question drew Napoleon off guard and the ready smile in his eyes faded into confusion.
"Back to San Francisco? No—why? Do you?"
Illya sighed and shook his head. "No, I don't—because at the St. Francis, I couldn't do this."
Framing Napoleon's face between his hands, Illya kissed him. When Napoleon drew back in surprise, Illya followed, steadying them both as he fought to make his intent clear.
After that brief moment of hesitation, Napoleon returned the kiss passionately, drawing Illya within the tight circle of his arms. He was the first to open his mouth to an inquisitive tongue, a baritone growl of approval resonating from his chest and echoing in Illya's bones. The kisses lingered and broke over and over, resuming at different angles, yielding to shifting pressures. They tasted each other with abandon, biting playfully at tender lips until both mouths were swollen and rosy. When they finally paused, foreheads resting against each other, Illya closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath.
If there were ever a time for confession, this was it.
"You do realize that I'm in love with you, don't you?"
Illya's eyes flew open and he leaned back, astonished that the very words he'd meant to say had come out of Napoleon's reddened mouth.
"I—" he began, then stopped. Napoleon's expression was raw with vulnerability; Illya felt a moment of panic that resolved into a tidal wave of immeasurable affection, threatening to overcome his famous Slavic composure. As he watched the stark wanting in Napoleon's eyes deepen, the doubts that he'd carried disappeared and were replaced with a soaring reality that he'd never dared dream could be his.
"That is rather convenient, then," he murmured with a tap of his finger against the dimpled chin, "because the feeling is quite, quite mutual."
This time their kiss was achingly gentle, almost shy—very odd for two highly trained and rather well-used secret agents—but somehow also very right.
"Now what?" Napoleon eventually whispered against Illya's mouth as though afraid to be parted from it.
Illya shook his head. "Well, really, Napoleon if you have to ask—"
Without warning, Illya found himself being skillfully kissed at the same time he was being guided toward a very welcome destination. Hands fumbled at buttons and tugged at thick wool as kisses intermingled with soft laughter. A mischievous push, a judicious grab and they tumbled naked onto the unmade bed, rolling as they had before but with a much more comfortable result. This time, Illya made sure he was on top, aligning his bare legs between Napoleon's as he sought his mouth once more.
There was another quick battle for supremacy that Illya won by virtue of his superior position. When Napoleon tried once more to roll them over, Illya pinned his shoulders to the mattress with a well-placed forearm and raised an admonishing finger.
"You had your chance," he scolded as Napoleon raised his hips demandingly. "But you chose the wrong venue and now I am in control, yes?"
"Yes," Napoleon replied hoarsely. "For now."
A flush of heat ran through Illya's body at the predatory tone. This is how it would be between them—neither would surrender anything nor command anything beyond the devotion they already shared unquestioningly. He bowed his head until his lips rested against Napoleon's shoulder. "Yes," he whispered. "For now."
Illya had no doubts about Napoleon's prowess as a lover and had every intention of making him live up to his reputation—but since he'd held Napoleon in his arms when he'd believed they were dying, he felt he owed it to Napoleon to show him what it felt like to be alive—alive and beloved.
The skin beneath his lips was tantalizing, the taste of the ocean mingling with the Irish hand-milled soap that Napoleon insisted on traveling with, the same soap that Illya borrowed without ever asking. Spreading kisses across the broad chest, he slowly traversed downwards toward a dark nipple, there to lick and taste as Napoleon writhed and cursed and encouraged. Gentle fingers in his hair directed him toward the other and he gave it equal time, while his hands swept lower and lower down Napoleon's flanks. He heard a rough gasp before he was dragged upwards to meet Napoleon's mouth and as the heat in their kisses escalated, desire that had been held back for so long arced between them, saturating the air with such carnal electricity that Illya wondered why they weren't both singed. Fierce kisses were offered, then demanded, as Illya returned to using his hands on Napoleon's body, torturing him with expertly designed caresses.
Having met Napoleon's immediate need, Illya restarted his journey downward, tasting and comparing the silky textures of Napoleon's tawny skin. The medallion he wore around his neck landed low on Napoleon's abdomen, running like a small gold river into the juncture of his thighs as Illya used his tongue to stroke and torment. When he rocked back onto his calves and started to remove it, his wrist was caught in a violent grasp.
"No," Napoleon ground out between clenched white teeth. "Leave it on."
Leaning back until he sat flush against Napoleon's upper thighs, he slowly stroked the gold chain down to the medallion where it lay on his smooth chest. Napoleon, his eyes narrowing as they fixed on the long fingers, slid his hands up Illya's thighs to glide between them for a heart-stopping caress of his own. Illya tried and failed to bite back the resulting moan as he slouched forward, unwittingly using his entire body like a sensual fulcrum to send them higher as he captured Napoleon's hips between his knees. Letting the medallion and its chain pool at the base of Napoleon's throat, he claimed the firm mouth once more as the rhythm of their sweat-slickened bodies began to increase.
He'd wanted this forever—Napoleon beneath him, their bodies thrusting against each other, the taste of him in his mouth—but it was the love behind it that made it intoxicating. So intent was he on giving gratification that the sensation of broad hands coursing down the planes of his back to the tops of his legs was a shock, albeit one that was entirely welcome. When those capable hands slipped past the bony ridges of his hips and swept into the impossibly soft crevasse between his thighs, Illya redoubled his pace and soon had them both hurtling down into a well of pleasure so deep and powerful that they shook with its intensity. As the brightness behind their eyes faded and their muscles fell slack, they continued to exchange clumsy kisses, unwilling to let go of the moment or each other.
They dozed but did not sleep; while the proximity of a lover's body was nothing new to either of them, these circumstances were entirely unique and they didn't want to waste a moment. They caressed often; they touched at all times. Napoleon's favorite position seemed to include using Illya as a pillow—and Illya could not find fault with this arrangement. However, the rumbling of Illya's stomach soon brought other needs to the fore and they reluctantly rose from the bed, restarting their day in a world made new in the space of one unforgettable hour.
After breakfast, they explored their surroundings, finding without surprise that except for the beach, the rest of the property was unremarkable and in some places, unusable. Illya mused hours later—after they'd made love again after lunch—that they could've been ensconced at the Taj Mahal for all that it mattered; their interest in new territory had nothing to do with real estate and everything to do with discoveries of another kind.
Unsurprisingly, they found they were too exhausted to do much more than attempt to play Scrabble after dinner. Since they both cheated relentlessly, it was impossible to keep score, so they set it aside in favor of Yahtzee. That too was abandoned when they began to make side bets on every toss of the dice until they had no idea who was rolling for what. Tired, happy, and refusing to think beyond the dingy walls that sheltered them, they crawled into bed and onto each other, falling asleep almost in unison.
It was Illya who awoke first the next morning and he took advantage of it by indulging in a long, hot shower that turned his fair skin pink. As he dried off, he could hear Napoleon rustling in the kitchen and he grinned, reveling in the idea that they still had days ahead of them to enjoy this unprecedented freedom.
But as he tied a towel low around his bare hips, his grin faded—he could hear a one-sided conversation going on now and that could only mean one thing. Taking another towel to blot the water from his hair, he walked into the main portion of the house to see Napoleon sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at his pen communicator as if it were a snake.
"I take it we are being called back to active duty."
Napoleon nodded and set the communicator aside. "We are. It would seem your Miss Jaeger has escaped and is now kidnapping European nuclear physicists for unknown but undoubtedly nefarious purposes. Mr. Waverly requests that you stop her."
"Me? Personally?"
Napoleon smiled but it never reached his eyes. "You're on your own on this one—looks like I'm on my way to Kyoto. THRUSH has taken a keen interest in organized crime there and Mr. Waverly would like to know why."
"So," Illya said impassively, tossing the towel back toward the bathroom, "our vacation comes to an end."
Napoleon shrugged and stood up, reaching for and capturing a sturdy wrist to draw an unresisting Illya into his arms. "We knew it would," he whispered in a still-damp ear, "but it's okay, just as long as that's the only thing that ends this morning."
Illya allowed himself to rest against Napoleon briefly before retreating as far as strong arms would allow. He knew his eyes reflected his doubts—when had Napoleon failed to read him correctly? Certainly not now, as Napoleon pressed his brow to Illya's forehead and sighed.
"I suppose it goes without saying—" Napoleon began.
A disparaging sound was heard from the vicinity of Napoleon's left ear. "You're not going to tell me to be careful, are you?"
A soft laugh shifted the hair at his temple. "No, I value my head where it is, thank you. What I was not going to say was who—and what—we are here is no different than the outside world, Illyusha. Maybe we made it official in this house, but when we leave—well, we'll just take everything with us."
"You speak as though we won't return."
He could feel Napoleon's slight nod. "I'm going to sell this place. It served its purpose."
Illya tilted his head to look up into Napoleon's eyes. "Served its purpose?"
Napoleon smiled and dropped a kiss on the end of his nose. "Exactly. I put your name next to mine on this property in case something happened to me. I wanted us to have something together, some place you could go and, oh, I don't know—maybe think of me once in a while?" His smile faded and the changeful eyes turned solemn. "You asked me once why I did it. I did it so that you would know that you had been loved."
Illya swallowed and lowered his eyes so that Napoleon would not mistake the emotions shining there. "So what you're saying is—"
"That you track down the enterprising Miss Jaeger while I slog through the Kyoto slums in the name of all that Mr. Waverly calls holy—and then we meet back in New York."
"Your place or mine?" Illya murmured, beguiled despite himself. Napoleon made it sound so very logical, so easily attainable—it was hard not to give in. Napoleon's arms tightened around his bare waist, sending a sliver of untimely desire through his body.
"Both," Napoleon replied glibly.
"You make it sound so very easy." Illya had not meant to edge his words with reproof, but he realized that it was heard nonetheless when the arms that held him slackened. Bereft and angry and exhilarated all at once, he reached out and wrenched Napoleon back into his embrace, seeking his mouth in an attempt to atone for his disbelief. Napoleon's returning kiss contained a world of understanding and they clung together, knowing that their time together—in this place, anyway—had come to an end.
"Mr. Kuryakin, I have a message for you."
Illya looked up from his latest experiment to see one of the members of the secretarial pool—he could never remember their
names, either—standing in the laboratory doorway.
"Could you read it to me, please? I'm afraid my hands are occupied."
"Oh, sure," she replied eagerly. "It's from Mr. Solo. He called from the airport and asked that you meet him outside Del Floria's in half an hour. Oh, and he's bringing that Louis Armstrong record you wanted."
"Louis Arm— oh, right." Illya ducked his head. "Thank you, Miss—er—Miss—"
"Myers, Janie Myers. Hey, Mr. Kuryakin—" Illya looked up see the young lady twirling a lock of shiny black hair around a pink-tipped finger. "Um, is Mr. Solo seeing anyone right now?"
Illya frowned as he considered the question. "Do you mean—is he dating someone in particular?"
"Uh, yeah."
"You will have to ask him," he said repressively. Seeing her face fall, he relented. "But I have it on good authority that Mr. Solo does not believe in office romances—despite what you may have heard."
"Oh." Her momentary dismay passed and was replaced by a predatory gleam in her bright green eyes. "I don't suppose you—"
"I agree with Mr. Solo in this regard," he said kindly. "Best to keep these things separate from the workplace, don't you agree?"
Janie nodded dispiritedly but left without another word as Illya neatened his work space and exchanged his lab coat for a bottle-green sports jacket. A quick slide of his fingers through overlong hair and he closed up shop for the day, making haste to catch the elevator.
Later, someone would mention to his co-workers that he'd actually heard the normally enigmatic Russian agent whistling some old jazz tune as they rode the elevator together to the first floor.
No one believed him.
Give me a kiss to build a dream on
And my imagination
Will thrive upon that kiss
Sweetheart, I ask no more than this
A kiss to build a dream on
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