"Napoleon, wake up."
Napoleon twisted on the narrow cot, swallowing against the pain in his throat to fight the nausea rising up from his belly. He'd rather sink back into unconsciousness than give in to the realization that he'd just hallucinated the voice of his partner.
"Really, Napoleon. I've come all this way to see you, the least you can do is greet me properly."
Napoleon yanked the threadbare blanket closer to his neck and shifted his body toward the damp wall. It was the first voice he'd heard in hours, but as fever raged through his body, he harbored deep suspicions of its reality, especially since it sounded like someone who couldn't possibly be there. Of that he was certain, yet the basis for that certainty was beyond his capacity to recall.
"I'm not speaking to apparitions today." He coughed and scrubbed his nose with the blanket's edge. "Now go away. I was having a very nice dream and you aren't in it."
That wasn't entirely true, but he wasn't about to confess anything to the phantom. In fact, he'd been passing the time fantasizing about a crackling fire, some Miles Davis on the record player, a snifter of brandy, and the company of a good friend. After all, wasn't that what the Christmas season was all about, spending time with the one you—Napoleon's thoughts scattered as the voice continued.
"That is a pity, since I have the means to remove you from this place and have you sipping schnapps by a fire in less than three hours."
The image was so close to Napoleon's own imaginings that he nearly laughed, but the implication of rescue, even from someone he considered to be a figment of his fevered imagination, was enough to rouse Napoleon's interest. He turned over on the cot and forced his eyes open to stare blearily at the shadow lingering on the far side of the cell bars.
"You're not really here," he said peevishly. He fought to recall why his partner couldn't be there with him now. "You're in Austria. With Katya. Or was it Karen?"
"Katarina." The shadow moved, accompanied by soft clanking noises before the cell door swung open. "Sorry to disappoint you. But now that I'm here, you may as well come back with me. These accommodations aren't up to your usual standards."
Napoleon lifted the blanket over his head, abruptly tired of listening to a hallucination. The few words he'd uttered had tired him and he wanted to nothing more than to sleep, to regain the strength he'd need for his mission—if indeed there was still a mission to complete.
But the shadow had other ideas. The blanket was peeled away from Napoleon's face and a cool palm placed against his forehead. He murmured his appreciation as comforting fingers traced lightly over his stubbled cheek, stroking against his jaw, convincing him that his new companion wasn't real; the Illya he knew wasn't known for his tender touch, at least not where Napoleon was concerned. The abandoned Katarina might know differently.
"Are you ambulatory?" said the Illya-shadow. "I'm not going to carry you, you know."
Napoleon sighed. That was more Kuryakin-like. He unstuck his gummy eyes once more and gave in to the reality that Illya was there with him. And since Illya was there, that meant his mission had failed and all Napoleon had to show for the last three days spent undercover was a nasty head cold.
He pushed aside the hands that lingered against his heated skin and struggled to sit up, Illya moving behind him to give him support as he swung his legs to the floor. Before he could ask, an opened canteen was placed in his hands and he drank gingerly, afraid of setting off a coughing fit. As the tinny liquid coursed over his raw throat, he noticed that Illya's movements had a carefully controlled urgency in them.
"Why are you here?" he asked, his breath showing in white puffs in the frigid air. His surroundings were beginning to make sense again as he recalled being tossed into the cell after his last meeting with the militia's leaders. He turned his head just enough to confirm that no light showed through the barred window set high in the brick wall; the only light in the room bled over from the hallway, a dull, yellowish throb that strengthened and waned with sickening regularity. Yes, it was coming back, the opportunity to infiltrate a home-grown militia with THRUSH sympathies, a brief window that Napoleon had been reluctant to use to U.N.C.L.E.'s advantage—that slight memory added to his confusion. It was a perfect opportunity—why had he balked at taking it?
Illya had stepped out of the cell and now returned with a large black duffel bag. "What does it look like? I'm rescuing you."
"I wasn't aware I needed to be rescued." He muffled a cough with his elbow. "What about the mission?"
Illya set the duffel on the floor beside the cot, then knelt in front of Napoleon. Clad entirely in black, even his blond hair was obscured by a thick knit cap snugged tightly against his ears. Black camouflage paint covered the pale skin of his face, sharply contrasted by the white hands that were reaching for the buttons of Napoleon's filthy shirt.
"Your mission has been aborted by circumstances even beyond Mr. Waverly's control."
"Oh?" Napoleon obeyed Illya's insistent tug and lifted his arms to allow the shirt to be pulled off his shoulders. "What happened?"
Illya handed him a thick black sweater. "Here, put this on." Illya dove back into the duffel, pulling out dark woolen trousers and a pair of sturdy walking boots. "There's been an attempted coup. The resistance leader you were impersonating has escaped the country."
"My goodness." Napoleon pulled the sweater on over his head, immediately appreciating its warmth. "Take one little nap and the whole world goes crazy."
"Amazing, isn't it, how we can't get along without you. Lift your foot."
Napoleon blinked down at his feet, watching bemusedly as Illya stripped off his ill-fitting and thin-soled shoes and replaced them with woolen socks.
"Oh, that's nice," he murmured happily, wriggling his toes.
Illya stood up and held out his hand. "Trousers, Napoleon."
"What? Oh." Napoleon took Illya's hand and levered himself up, unprepared for the wave of dizziness that swept through him. He started to fall backward but was swiftly bolstered by a steadying forearm that he clutched until the moment passed. He indicated his readiness with a jerky nod and Illya stepped away to let Napoleon exchange the worn cotton pants for the trousers. He sat down and managed the boots without further assistance, then watched as Illya retrieved a small jar from one of the duffel's pockets.
"I have gloves for your hands but you'll need this for your face. Hold still."
The black paint was applied with swift, economical strokes as Napoleon told himself to again ignore the suggestion of tenderness in Illya's touch. He was so tired and now he knew that he'd failed in his mission, all he wanted to do was get home.
"It wasn't your fault." Illya spoke so calmly that at first Napoleon believed he spoken his self-pitying words aloud. "The intelligence was faulty and the situation changed before we could extract you." Illya recapped the jar and threw it back in the bag. "Now we must stop at the infirmary before we leave."
"Infirmary?" Napoleon tried to insert an inflection of outrage in his hoarse voice. "For a little cold?"
Illya picked up the bag with one hand and curved his fingers around Napoleon's arm with the other, guiding him to his feet.
"You don't have a cold. You are having a reaction to the truth serum they gave you."
Napoleon planted his feet, forcing Illya to stop as well. "And so we're going to waltz right into the infirmary and ask for an aspirin?"
A flash of white teeth was Napoleon's only indication of Illya's amusement. "Not exactly. The compound has been deserted for hours. There's no one here except you and I."
"You mean they left me here to die?"
Illya tilted his head "I doubt it. More likely they'd wait for the government to hang you. Much neater that way."
Napoleon began to muster an indignant reply but a wave of coughing stopped the words in his throat. He doubled over, his lungs ablaze and his entire body wracked by the spasm. It wasn't until the fit began to pass that he realized that he was sagging in Illya's arms, the Russian's wiry strength supporting him effortlessly.
"Thanks," he muttered as Illya released him, too enervated to summon a pithy remark. He watched through streaming eyes as Illya picked up the bag he'd dropped and retook Napoleon's arm.
"We must move quickly. We've received reports that the army is going to move in and destroy this facility within days, if not hours. With any luck, we'll be on our way to Prague long before they arrive."
Napoleon waved off Illya's helping hand and straightened his back. "Then the sooner we get on with it, the sooner I get that schnapps you promised me."
Sitting on a gurney inside the infirmary, a windowless, sterile room deep within the compound, Napoleon watched as Illya rifled through drawers and cabinets. Although his head was clearing, he remained confused about the chain of events that had brought Illya to this tiny Balkan country because one thing was certain: Illya wasn't supposed to be here.
Napoleon's remarks about a Tyrolean beauty laying claim to Illya's attention had been a way of trying to jog his memory regarding his partner; he knew he should've known why Illya hadn't been on this mission and the omission frustrated him. He got no hint from Illya, who was searching the premises with his usual ruthless enthusiasm, and so relegated to puzzle to the back of his mind.
"Mr. Waverly must've been annoyed that he had to send you after me," he said lightly as Illya searched for something to break open a locked cabinet.
"He certainly would be," Illya replied. Shielding his eyes, he broke through the cabinet's glass pane with his elbow. "If he knew I was here."
Napoleon stared at him. "I'm sorry, my ears must be clogged. Care to repeat that?"
Illya didn't pause as he rummaged through the contents on the cabinet shelf. "There wasn't time to get permission from New York, so I made the arrangements myself. I'm sure Mr. Waverly will applaud my ingenuity once he gets over—ah, there it is." He pulled out a small vial. "According to my local contact, this should have you feeling better soon. If it weren't for the side effects, I'd give it to you now."
"Side effects? I can't imagine feeling worse than I do now, so you may as well—"
"Not that kind of side effect. In order to clear your system of the serum, the dosage includes a strong opiate. Take it now and you'll be out six to eight hours, but most of the disorientation should be gone when you awake. Since I already told you I wasn't going to carry you, we'll have to wait until you have a nice, warm bed to sleep it off in."
"Then lead on, my boy. I've had quite enough of—"
He stopped abruptly when the lights went out. Napoleon tensed, unable to see or hear anything except his own harsh breathing until a soft rustle caught his attention. A beam of light broke through the darkness, briefly resting on him before canting downward.
"Someone's cut the power," Illya said. "We have to move out."
Illya set his flashlight on a table, allowing the beam to bounce off the ceiling and give them enough light to complete their preparations. Out of the large duffel came a black coat for Napoleon, gloves stuffed in one pocket and a knit cap like Illya's in the other. He pulled them on as Illya gathered various items from the infirmary shelves and tucked them into the duffel bag. He gave the bag's ties one swift pull before shoving his arms through the straps and settling it on his back.
"Ready?"
Napoleon ignored the trembling in his limbs and nodded. "What's the plan?"
Illya grabbed the flashlight and pointed it toward the door. "I have a truck hidden in a valley approximately five miles from here. My contact will meet us and get us across the border unnoticed. Hopefully unnoticed, that is."
"Five miles, you say?"
"Approximately."
"And you won't carry me?"
"Not this time."
"Well, since I haven't had a better offer lately, I guess it'll have to do."
"No truck?"
"It's gone."
"It's starting to snow."
"Yes, I noticed."
"And we're all in black."
"Yes, I'd noticed that, too."
"And the sun is up."
"So it is."
"I think this rescue is going rather well, don't you?"
"Swimmingly. How do you feel?"
"Well, my legs are like cooked noodles, my head is about to explode and my chest is on fire. Other than that, I'm feeling pretty chirpy."
"Chirpy. I see. Chirpy enough to walk forty miles to the border?"
"Hmm, no. So you do have a Plan B, right?"
Illya joined Napoleon where he rested on a fallen log, sitting close enough for their shoulders to touch. Stripping off one glove, he pressed the back of his hand to Napoleon's forehead. "I'm working on that. Shelter is our priority now, but—"
A sharp crack caught their attention. They dove to the ground, huddling near the log for its dubious protection. Illya pulled out his gun and held it close to his chest, looking at Napoleon who shook his head indicating he had no idea where the sound had come from.
"Ahoj!"
Both men froze.
"Ahoj! Russian friend! Allo!"
Illya holstered his gun and rose to his feet, a twitch of his fingers telling Napoleon to stay low.
"Karel?"
"Ano! Is me, Karel!"
Napoleon raised his head enough to peer over the rim of the log. In the thickening snowfall he could make out the figure of three men, all dressed in rough clothing and each bearing a large-bore rifle.
"Where is my truck?" asked Illya bluntly.
The man in the middle shrugged. "Is gone. We bring back later, take you to border, just like I promise."
"Bring it back now."
One of the men raised his rifle, no doubt reacting to the edge in Illya's voice. Karel gestured at him and said something too low for Napoleon to hear, but he was relieved to see the rifle grudgingly lowered.
"Soldiers come," Karel said. "We take wives and children to caves in hills, bring back truck later."
Napoleon rose unsteadily to his feet and stood next to Illya. "How long?" he asked.
"One day, maybe two."
"Unacceptable," Illya said firmly. He pulled out his weapon and let it dangle against the side of his leg. "My friend is ill and needs medical attention."
Three rifle barrels were raised in unison.
"Now, now," soothed Napoleon. "We're all gentlemen here. We can wait if there's shelter nearby."
He felt Illya stiffen beside him but didn't spare him a glance. They both knew that Napoleon's strength was nearly depleted and with or without the antidote was near collapse.
Karel nodded. "Not far from here, a farm. You stay, we come for you." He gestured for them to move closer. "Come, I show you. We make nice."
Napoleon turned to Illya, unsurprised to find Illya frowning back at him. "Don't look at me that way. A day or two won't matter, so let's let them take care of their families."
Illya sighed. "Our altruistic tendencies will be the death of us someday, you know."
Napoleon's grin was unrepentant. "Maybe so, but not today. In the meantime, let's enjoy your friend's hospitality and get out of this weather."
The farmhouse was one large room that served as kitchen, bath and bedroom. Its most distinguishing feature as far as Napoleon was concerned was the ancient stone fireplace that covered the entire back wall. The hearth was cold when they arrived but the three local men, now assured the use of the truck, turned their efforts to being attentive hosts. At Illya's direction one of them started a fire and stacked more wood on the stone hearth while another began unpacking the rucksacks all three men had carried on their backs. Karel, indicating the farm belonged to his father-in-law, told Illya to make free with anything he found. Given carte blanche, Illya made sure Napoleon was comfortably situated in an ancient rocker, a knitted quilt tucked high around his shoulders, before systematically rummaging through every corner of the room.
His body ached from the shivers that now continually wracked his body but Napoleon was content to watch the preparations go on around him while at the same time careful to avoid Illya's worried glances. They were both relieved when Karel announced he and his men were leaving after supplying them with enough wood, water and food to last at least a week.
Napoleon gave them a half-hearted wave as they left, his body drooping with exhaustion. He was wondering if he should try for the bed when a hand landed on his shoulder, jostling him back to awareness. He looked up to see Karel peering down at him, a concerned expression in his eyes.
"Sorry about truck," Karel mumbled. He dropped a dirt-encrusted bottle into Napoleon's lap. "Veselé Vánoce."
The three men left and as Illya turned from bolting the door behind them, Napoleon rose to his feet and held out the bottle. "Any idea what this is?"
Illya took the bottle and brushed away some of the dirt. "No, but we can find out later. In the meantime, I've heated some water so you may clean up. Here." He handed Napoleon a thin scrap of cloth and a sliver of soap. "You can wash off the camouflage in the sink there while I cut up some sausages and bread. You'll need something to eat before you take the medicine. Oh, and the outhouse is to your left out the back door. Do you need help?"
Napoleon was affronted. "Not since I was two, thank you very much." Stiff-limbed but determined, he walked to the sink where a basin of hot water sat next to the pump. "By the way, what did Karel say before he left? Apparently I need to brush up on my Slavic languages—I didn't catch it."
Illya turned away from stoking the fire, giving Napoleon a small smile. "He was wishing you a merry Christmas, Napoleon. It's Christmas Eve."
Napoleon let Illya fuss over him, making sure he ate well and took in enough water to rehydrate before ordering him to strip down to shorts and undershirt and climb beneath the quilt that lay across the straw-filled mattress. Uncorking the bottle left by Karel, Illya gave the contents a sniff before moistening a piece of cloth with the liquid. A quick brush across the skin of Napoleon's inner arm and the needle was expertly inserted before Napoleon could complain about the waste of questionably good alcohol. The last thing he remembered was Illya pointing out there was enough left for a Christmas toast before oblivion had overtaken him.
Now he awoke easily, keeping his eyes shut as he let his senses raise his awareness of his surroundings. A quick assessment of his physical state told him that the aches and shivers were gone, leaving both muscles and mind filled with a welcome lassitude. There was warmth and light from the fire, its aromatic scent underlaid with the pleasant smell of something cooking. He opened his eyes to see a long metal arm poised over the crackling wood, a heavy black kettle suspended from its hook. He could barely make out the windows on the far side of the room—they were nothing more than roughly drawn squares smudged in grays and whites as the outside panes filled with snow. There was no light other than the fire and Napoleon brought his gaze back to it, this time to focus on the figure that moved silently out of the shadows to kneel beside the stone hearth less than six feet away.
Napoleon almost called out to him but something in Illya's demeanor stopped him. The black duffel was pulled out from a corner, its ties loosened so Illya could rummage inside. As Napoleon watched, Illya pulled out several small items and set them on the the braided rug. His view of the items blocked by the duffel, Napoleon waited to see what Illya would do next, intrigued by the air of furtiveness in Illya's movements.
What he didn't expect to see was Illya reach for the hem of his black turtleneck and slowly roll it upward, finally pulling it over his head and leaving the fine blond hair in disarray. Not for long, though—Napoleon watched in amusement as Illya smoothed down the wayward strands with impatient hands. His back to Napoleon, Illya paused in whatever he was doing, head cocked as if listening to the wind that beat against the farmhouse's sturdy walls. After a moment he moved again, and Napoleon's eyes widened as he realized Illya was unbuckling the thin black belt of his trousers. At once embarrassed and fascinated, he had the fleeting wish he'd made his awakened state known to his partner, if only to spare himself from witnessing an act that was quickly becoming a sensual, if one-sided, encounter.
Illya's hands had moved to his waist, thumbs tucked against his skin to gingerly slide the material down his hips, stopping just above the swell of his buttocks. Napoleon swallowed, aware that his body reacting to the innocent yet wanton image of his half-naked partner. Part of him wished Illya would pull his clothes back on and relieve Napoleon of the sudden, bewildering urge he had to join him on the rug and explore the expanse of fire-warmed skin now displayed.
But another part of him was held rapt by what he saw, and, he admitted, not for the first time. Illya Kuryakin was his partner, best friend, most trusted confidant—all terms he felt comfortable in applying to their relationship. For years he'd drawn a mental line right there, not allowing his thoughts, his desires, to spin out into something else. Yet that invisible line had never stopped the wanting, the subliminal need to grasp for what was always just out of reach.
A soft ripping sound caught Napoleon's attention and he squinted against the firelight, trying to make out what Illya was doing. There was a flash of white and then a piece of what looked like fabric floated to the ground beside Illya's knee. Looking closer, Napoleon saw that only the edges of the material were white; in its center was a blossom of dark red.
It all came back to him in a tumbling flood of remembrance. Ambush in a Viennese alley, the swift, upward flight of a poisoned blade, the frantic attempt to stop the flow of blood. Days spent searching for the man who'd betrayed them; nights half-asleep in a metal chair, jerking awake to the sound of every cough or moan. A plump, motherly nurse named Katarina who supplied Napoleon with tea and Linzer cookies while he waited. The unalloyed joy when confused blue eyes had blinked up at him before admonishing him with a hoarsely irritated tone that he looked terrible. A nap stolen on an empty cot in a quiet corner, finally able to sleep, knowing that disaster had been averted once more.
Then the call had come, orders to move quickly to take advantage of Napoleon's resemblance to a man wanted as a criminal in his own country, but considered an ally to the west. It wasn't the first time he'd been ordered to duty when personal concerns had been uppermost in his thoughts—and that's why leaving Illya's bedside had proved to be so hard this time. He didn't know how many chances they had left—chances to support, to comfort, to care without thought to the emotions that lay beyond a partner's professional interest.
Illya pushed the duffel bag aside and the items he'd placed on the rug were now visible—a small pair of scissors, a roll of gauze and another of tape, no doubt gleaned from his search through the infirmary. Quickly and efficiently, he cut the gauze into a wide square and set it aside, then reached for the tape. He unraveled a length more slowly, probably in deference to a partner Illya believed still to be asleep. As he turned his head to locate the scissors, Napoleon could see beads of sweat on the broad brow, drops that Illya wiped away with a brush of his forearm. He was obviously struggling with the task of taping the gauze to the wound, needing at least one more hand to hold the gauze steady in order to apply the tape.
Illya was still concentrated on his task as Napoleon swung his legs over the edge of the bed and rose to his feet, grateful that the effects of the truth serum had dissipated. In two steps he was on the rug beside Illya, whose head remained bent as he tried to attach another strip of tape to his abdomen.
"Hey." Napoleon placed his hand on Illya's bare arm. "Let me help with that."
Illya jumped, losing his balance and tipping sideways. Napoleon slid his arm across Illya's shoulders and steadied him until he regained his balance.
"Go back to bed, Napoleon." Illya turned away from him to gather the scattered medical supplies. "I can manage."
"Yes, I can see that." Napoleon grabbed Illya's wrist with one hand and relieved him of the scissors with the other. "But here I am, so let me make myself useful."
Heaving a sigh of resignation, Illya shifted so that Napoleon had access to the wound. A ragged strip of tape crossed the gauze at one corner, nearly missing the wound completely.
"Tsk, tsk." Napoleon carefully peeled away the tape and gauze. "Such sloppy work."
He looked up and smiled at Illya, whose own thunderous frown melted into a reluctant grin in the wake of Napoleon's gentle teasing. Having attained Illya's cooperation, he tossed away the clumsy first attempt before pausing to take a good look at the wound. The assassin's blade had missed any internal organs, landing low on Illya's side and slicing outward. By itself the wound, though deep, hadn't been life-threatening, but the poison had done its work, leading to Napoleon's worry-filled nights.
Now the wound looked well on its way to healing, all but the last three inches still neatly stitched. Just above the jutting curve of pelvic bone the wound had reopened, the edges now an angry red. As Napoleon watched, a line of blood welled up and spilled over. Before the blood could run down Illya's hip, Napoleon picked up the discarded gauze and stopped the flow just before it reached the edge of Illya's trousers.
"I don't suppose you grabbed any antiseptic while you were tossing the infirmary, did you?"
Illya snorted. "The nearest thing to antiseptic we have is in the bottle left by Karel."
"All right." Napoleon took Illya's hand and pressed it against the gauze that covered the wound. "Don't go anywhere."
Napoleon retrieved the bottle and two thick mugs from the sink, setting them on the rug beside the duffel. He dampened another piece of gauze and pressed it to the wound, wincing in sympathy as Illya hissed through his teeth. He gave the tape and scissors to Illya, who cut even lengths and handed them off to Napoleon as he worked to attach the gauze.
It wasn't just their proximity to the fire that brought sweat to Napoleon's brow as he bent to his task. With every adjustment of the gauze, his fingers or knuckles brushed against the soft-downed skin of Illya's abdomen. He didn't dare look higher or lower than the area he was attending; if he raised his eyes only slightly, he'd see the gold medallion Illya always wore resting squarely on his breastbone, right between two pale, flat nipples. A glance lower was even worse—he could just see where the fine hairs began to turn coarse before disappearing beneath the bunched up folds of cotton and wool.
If he thought that watching from afar was difficult, this was infinitely worse.
"There." Napoleon rocked back on his heels and admired his handiwork, suppressing a thankful sigh. "That should hold you for a while."
"I feel like a leaky tire," Illya grumbled. While he refastened his trousers Napoleon poured several ounces from Karel's bottle into each of the mugs and handed one to Illya.
"Let's hope you don't act like one," he said, inclining his head toward Illya's injury, "or this will be a waste of—whatever this is. Merry Christmas."
He held up his mug and Illya tapped it lightly with his own. "Merry Christmas, Napoleon."
Two sips later they wore identical grimaces.
"Well." Napoleon set his mug aside. "I hope that was supposed to be the local brew and not horse liniment."
"It's not so bad." Illya took another taste and choked slightly as he swallowed. "In small doses." He shifted around until he was cross-legged in front of the fire, the mug cupped between his two hands. Napoleon picked up the medical supplies and tossed them in the duffel before moving it aside. Reaching back, he snagged the quilt from the bed and dragged it over to the hearth. It hadn't gone unnoticed that Illya hadn't replaced his sweater and was still bare-chested. Since he could hardly demand that Illya put his turtleneck back on because it was too distracting for Napoleon's peace of mind, he instead offered to share the quilt to stave of the chill of the room behind them.
If he was looking for a way to put distance between himself and Illya, it backfired when Illya agreed and Napoleon found them side by side within the cocoon of the heavy quilt.
"You should go back to bed."
The blunt words surprised Napoleon, given that Illya had waited until they were cozy together before voicing any objections. He glanced at Illya's profile and noticed the set jaw and straight ahead gaze and wondered if the normally phlegmatic Russian had been embarrassed by the intimate service Napoleon had just performed for him.
He decided to change the subject. "I feel fine, so you can stop bossing me around. Speaking of bosses, you know you're due for a good tongue lashing when you get back home."
Illya shrugged, dislodging the quilt from one shoulder. "I've already received a taste of Mr. Waverly's displeasure. While you were sleeping, I made contact with our office in Budapest and they were under orders to patch me through immediately to New York. Mr. Waverly was quite—succinct—regarding our current circumstances."
Napoleon nodded sympathetically. He'd been on the receiving end of that stiff-jawed disapproval often enough to know exactly how Illya felt. "Well, if it makes any difference—thank you."
Illya glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "Apparently it doesn't, but you're welcome."
Napoleon stared at him, unsure of the course the conversation had taken. He slid his arm behind Illya and grabbed the fallen quilt, pulling it over Illya's bare shoulder. As he sat back, he was surprised to find Illya's hand gently cupping his chin. With the unquestionable strength of just thumb and forefinger, he was held perfectly still as Illya leaned forward and pressed his mouth to Napoleon's.
An utterly chaste kiss, yet Napoleon felt it resonate through every nerve ending. The contact lingered, the pressure slowly decreasing until Napoleon pushed back, trying to deepen the connection. He reached out blindly, his fingers skidding across warm, sandpapered skin, tracing a path along jaw and cheek until they were buried in the hair that curled beneath Illya's ear. A tilt of his head, the hush of Illya's sigh, and their lips parted, tongues touching lightly, tasting, savoring.
Napoleon was bewildered, exhilarated—and abandoned, when Illya pulled away. He lifted his gaze slowly, uncertain of what he would see. Before their eyes could meet, the pads of Illya's fingertips drifted lightly across his mouth, tenderly lingering on the lower lip.
"Honestly, Napoleon," Illya murmured, his voice husky and content. "Must I do all the work?"
Napoleon looked at him directly, a thrill running through him at the expression on Illya's face. He brushed away a lock of hair that had fallen onto Illya's forehead as the equilibrium he'd lost was again firm ground beneath his feet. This was his Illya, and he was beginning to understand that the truth in that statement was now rife with new meaning and the promise of a future he'd never dared hope for. Grasping the hand still caressing his mouth, he turned it to press a kiss to its palm.
"You are just full of surprises today, aren't you? Although I'd say going against orders, springing me out of the pokey and pulling your stitches was a great way to get my attention."
One blond eyebrow rose in an arrogant arch, but Illya's mouth remained soft with amusement. "Only the jailbreak was scheduled. The omission to include Headquarters in my plans was an oversight, and pulling my stitches was simply my flair for the dramatic."
"An oversight, of course." Napoleon's chuckle found its reply in Illya's grin. "Well, now that you have my attention, what are you going to do with it?"
Illya shook his head. "Oh, no. As the senior member of this partnership, it is up to you to—"
Napoleon didn't let him finish. Exercising the speed, agility and cunning that made him the number one agent in Enforcement, he had Illya flat on his back, the quilt pillowing his head and another thick fold supporting his injured side. Once satisfied that Illya was comfortable, he slid between Illya's parted legs, kissing the velvety skin of belly and chest until their lips met once more. There was a moment of breathless anticipation as Napoleon balanced above him, looking down upon the beloved face gazing back at him with the trust he'd always known was his to command. Now that trust was tempered and enriched by the pure desire that turned friendship into something more—something that needed to be named before an irretrievable mistake was made. He shifted his body until he lay beside Illya on the quilt, pressed against his uninjured side.
"I do have one question," he said quietly. It was hard to put words to his concerns; Illya was stroking his arms, touching his face, looking for all the world like his dearest wish had just been granted. "Is all this just a Christmas miracle that will disappear when we get back to civilization? Or can I look forward to a few more holidays like this?"
Illya looped his arm around Napoleon's neck, his severe expression in contrast to the playful gesture. "Despite your arrogant assumption that I would risk my career as well as yours just to make love with you, this is in fact a proposal for a more permanent arrangement." His tone softened. "It's no use, you know. You gave yourself away when I was in the hospital. I've been injured before—we both have—but I've never seen you like that."
Napoleon bowed his head until his cheek rested on Illya's shoulder. "It was never my intention for you to know."
Soothing fingers played with the hair at the nape of his neck. "Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me. And although this wasn't exactly the seduction I'd hoped for, at least I knew that there was some chance you wouldn't shoot me on the spot if I tried." His voice dropped to a confiding whisper. "I would have carried you, you know."
Napoleon brushed an open-mouthed kiss against Illya's shoulder. "You amaze me sometimes, did you know that?"
"Only sometimes? I must work on my technique."
"Speaking of technique." Napoleon rubbed the back of his hand up and down the planes of Illya's ribcage, skimming the edges of the gauze. "I'd love to show you some of mine, but not until you get restitched."
Illya sighed. "It's just as well. By my calculations we have just enough time to eat the stew I made before we leave."
"Leave?" Napoleon echoed. "I thought Karel wasn't supposed to return until tomorrow."
Illya sat up, wincing slightly as he pressed his hand to his bandages. "That is correct. However, Mr. Waverly has dictated that the skies will open and allow a small plane to land in a field not far from here. We have been instructed to be prepared to board that plane or risk further displeasure and considering that I am already in disfavor, I thought it best to agree. We'll be in Paris by morning."
Napoleon was faintly disappointed, but rallied as a thought occurred to him. Wrapping his arms around Illya, he bore him back to the quilt's soft surface to take his mouth in a deep, treasuring kiss. As the kiss broke, he smiled down into Illya's laughing eyes and in turn laughed himself, thrown gloriously off balance by the extraordinary turn of events that had brought Illya into his arms.
"Christmas in Paris?" He brushed his nose against Illya's as laughter faded into exquisite tenderness. "I can't think of a better place to celebrate an anniversary."
Illya's reply was entirely non-verbal, so despite the threat of Mr. Waverly's disapproval, their reluctance to leave their cozy cabin made them nearly an hour late meeting the plane.
But Paris more than made up for it.
This was written for the 3rd Annual Down the Chimney secret agent Santa exchange on LiveJournal. My prompts were, if I remember correctly, fever, snow, revealed secrets, and some hurty/comforty stuff, too.
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