"Hi."
"Hi there."
Napoleon smiled as he closed the door. He leaned against it, enjoying the sight of his lover reclining on the couch, legs casually crossed on the floor in front of him, one arm thrown across the back and the other resting comfortably on the armrest.
"You're late."
"Yes, well, I had to stop by the jeweler's on the way home."
Illya's eyebrow quirked questioningly.
"Your ring."
"Ah, yes. Terribly inconsiderate of that young woman to smash it up. As if beating my wedding ring to bits and making threats about what she was going to do to my 'wife' would make me give up state secrets."
"Illya, I'm crushed."
"I shouldn't be too judgmental, mister 'almost a bigamist.'"
"Hmm, yes, I suppose I haven't much room to argue, do I? I have to say, I'm awfully glad you showed up with the car when you did. It was to the point where I'd've had to have told the truth and started explaining how I'm already married, just not legally."
"As if there is a difference."
"Oh, I quite agree, there isn't a difference, but how does one explain it? I've never been able to quite figure that out, after all this time."
"One would hope that one would learn to pull his feet in all the way under the bed when hiding so one doesn't have to explain."
"Well, you deal with it next time, mister 'longshoreman.'"
"That was amusing, wasn't it? Me, doing that sort of thing. I'm surprised they hired me; I nearly asked 'Which union?' when I was interviewed."
Napoleon's smile grew as Illya tilted his head to observe his dark-haired lover. He moved towards the other man, responding to the barely suppressed grin and the sidelong glance Illya had thrown at the space next to him on the couch.
Napoleon loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, coming to a stop next to Illya's feet. "Mind if I join you?"
"Be my guest."
"I think you've got it backwards, Illya, this is my apartment."
"Oh yes, so it is."
They looked at each other for a moment before Illya broke the silence.
"Is this a new T.H.R.U.S.H. interrogation technique, staring at a victim until he cracks?"
"Ah, but you never know what you might get out of a little bird that decides to sing just because the sound of its own voice is preferable to silence."
A small but devilish grin flashed over Illya's face. "You like to sing, don't you, Napoleon?" Illya patted the cushion next to him. "But only for me, da?"
"Da." Napoleon carefully removed his suit jacket and laid it across the arm of the nearby club chair. He began undoing his right cufflink as he lowered himself onto the couch, fitting his leg under the hand that Illya lifted briefly from where it had come to rest on the cushion.
"We'll never have a problem with silence with you around, lyubovnik," Illya said, smiling openly now.
"Hmmm? Oh, quite right. You, on the other hand, can be positively Sphinx-like at times. Or at least extremely taciturn."
Illya grasped the arm being held up in front of him. "Simply because I choose to restrict my conversational gambits to someone with a commensurate intelligence does not mean I am anti-social. It merely means I enjoy productive conversation."
"'How are you doing?' 'Pooped!' is what you consider productive conversation?"
Illya's smile disappeared. "That was under extenuating circumstances."
"Yes, it was, wasn't it?" Napoleon said softly, looking at the blond head bent over his sleeve and pretending to be completely involved in the removal of his cufflink. "What did the doctor say when you got to the infirmary?"
"That I should not have scars from Miss Diketon's 'games.'"
Napoleon gently raised a hand to brush over his lover's fine hair. "Oh, lyubovnik, why is it always this way? I wish—"
A soft sigh escaped Illya. "I know, Napoleon."
A moment of silence passed.
"Illya?"
"Yes, Napoleon?"
"What else is wrong?"
"You mean besides the fact that I ache all over from being tortured yet again?" Illya would not meet his eyes; he'd tossed off the comment while watching his fingers stroke a rough pattern on Napoleon's arm.
"Illya."
Napoleon flinched as Illya's head snapped up and the fierce blue glare raked over his face. "Napoleon, I watched you die!"
"What?!"
"That boat! The boat you were piloting to get to the island. I was watching through the telescope at the exact moment Strago ordered his goons to blow it up with their sound barrier device. I saw the explosion and I was helpless—there was not a thing I could do. No daring last minute rescue, no miraculous fluke of fate showing us the entrance to a hidden tunnel, no discontented T.H.R.U.S.H. operatives willing to give aid. There was nothing I could do to save you."
"Illya, I—"
Illya shook his head roughly, cutting Napoleon off. "And then I nearly killed you myself when you captured us in the bushes. If I'd been even a moment faster with my gun, you would be dead now. And it would be my fault."
"But you didn't shoot me."
"Only because I thought that maybe I wouldn't do this anymore if you—" Illya looked away.
"If I...?"
Illya threw himself off the couch, eluding Napoleon's hand, and stalked away, but he seemed to lose steam in the middle of the room. He ran a hand through his shaggy blond hair, resting his other hand on his hip, his back to Napoleon.
"I wouldn't—I mean—" Illya let out a frustrated sigh. "I wouldn't have just let them kill me if you hadn't managed to survive that blast. I've lived through worse without you and I could again."
Illya turned back to face his partner, raising his ice blue eyes to meet Napoleon's brown eyes and continued in a soft voice.
"I just don't want to."
The lost and hurt look on Illya's face wrenched Napoleon's heart—he had never seen his lover so open about his pain. They usually avoided this topic like the plague.
Napoleon rose from the couch and moved towards his friend. "Illya—"
"No, Napoleon, I know what you are going to say—you are going to say this is part of the life we have chosen and that either of us could be killed at any time. I know that, we both know that! I—"
"Shhh." Napoleon covered Illya's mouth with gentle fingers, causing Illya to glance down and then back up through the blond fringe covering his eyes. He reminded Napoleon of a caged tiger—the pale blond hair as distinctive as a Siberian tiger's fur, showing the cat's movements as it paces a cage in the dark, eager to be free, only temporarily accepting captivity.
Napoleon brushed the hair back off Illya's high forehead. "Oh, my Illyushka," he whispered, "that's not what I was going to say at all, but yes, we both know it's true, we could die tomorrow."
Illya's eyes closed as he ever-so-slightly leaned into Napoleon's hand where it cupped his cheek, the pain still visible on his face.
Napoleon moved even closer, brushing his mouth briefly across Illya's and enfolding his lover with strong arms. Illya's head fell forward onto Napoleon's shoulder as Napoleon turned his head to whisper in Illya's ear.
"Lyubovnik, I am so sorry you had to see that. But I can't promise you never will again—any more than you can. I do promise you this, though." Napoleon leaned back enough so that he could reach Illya's left hand, bringing it up to rest on his chest and leaving it there to fish in his pants pocket for Illya's ring.
"I promise the same thing I promised you three years ago: to love and treasure you for the rest of my life." Napoleon slowly slid the simple gold band back into place and then brought Illya's palm up to his lips. A slight grin lit up Napoleon's face as his left hand moved down to cup Illya's buttock. "I also promise to watch your back—and your backside—until we both drop dead of old age."
Napoleon looked down to see that a small smile had appeared on Illya's face, half-hidden by his shoulder. Illya was gazing at their hands as they lay entwined together and clasped to Napoleon's chest.
"I love you, too, Polya," Illya replied. "I will forever, even when you get old and have white hair and age spots," he continued, lifting his head and moving his mouth even with Napoleon's, watching his lover through heavy-lidded eyes.
"Age spots! The very idea." Napoleon hrrumphed but couldn't quite control the smile that appeared as he felt Illya's melancholy lift somewhat. He closed the short distance between their mouths, claiming Illya's in an open-mouthed kiss, thrusting his tongue in briefly before leaning back to smile as he loosed Illya's hand and threaded his fingers through his lover's fine blond hair. Napoleon tugged playfully on the handful he held. "Just be sure to keep this. Otherwise, I'm terribly sorry, but I'd simply have to leave you."
"Ah, yes, bad for your image, I suppose," Illya growled, taking a firm grasp on his lover and maneuvering him back towards the couch. Illya smiled down as Napoleon was abruptly seated again with Illya's hands planted to either side of his head on the back of the couch.
"Yes, mustn't ruin the image," Napoleon murmured as he moved his hands to Illya's waist, stroking up underneath Illya's suit coat until his right hand came in contact with Illya's shoulder holster. "Time to get rid of this, I think."
Napoleon ran his hands the rest of the way up Illya's chest, curving them over his lover's broad shoulders as Illya moved forward to straddle Napoleon's thighs. Illya let the coat drop to the floor behind him as Napoleon started unbuckling the shoulder holster. He shrugged it off and leaned over as Napoleon anchored him by the waist to set the gun and holster on the floor. Strong hands ran along Illya's sides again as he straightened up.
Napoleon smiled and wrapped his arms securely around Illya's waist, drawing Illya up to his knees. Illya rested his hands on Napoleon's shoulders, the intent look from earlier making a reappearance as he searched Napoleon's face before leaning down to claim Napoleon's mouth. Napoleon's eyes drifted shut as Illya kissed him, as he felt Illya's hands tug off his already loosened tie and stroke his skin through the triangle of open shirt at his neck, before releasing his mouth.
Napoleon opened his eyes to see Illya looking down at him again. "What are you looking for, my Illyushka? I have promised to do my very best to stay alive and in one piece."
Illya shook his head, a brief jerk as he reached down to grab Napoleon's left hand. Napoleon watched intently as Illya brought his hand up to his mouth and placed a soft kiss on the signet Napoleon wore as a pinky ring.
"I promise, too, lyubovnik," Illya whispered.
"I know you do, Illya."
Illya held Napoleon's gaze a little while longer before leaning down to brush a soft kiss over Napoleon's lips. Napoleon strained to deepen the kiss but Illya forced him against the sofa back with a strong push.
Napoleon's head fell back on the couch as Illya bent to kiss the skin visible through the open collar of his shirt. Nimble fingers quickly unbuttoned the rest and gentle kisses drew a line down Napoleon's chest, his undershirt trapping small spots of moisture from Illya's mouth. Gentle hands parted the oxford shirt further as Illya drew them back up his lover's lean and muscled torso. A quick gasp of breath escaped Napoleon as Illya palmed his nipples, their sensitive points teased through the soft undershirt by the calluses on Illya's hands.
Napoleon felt those same clever hands replaced by Illya's rather agile tongue as his belt was unbuckled and his pants were opened. Then he moaned in loss as all contact with Illya's body was removed.
"Lift your hips, Polya."
Napoleon complied and smiled as his trousers and briefs were quickly whisked away. He lifted his head from the back of the couch to feast on the sight of Illya removing everything but his white dress shirt and black socks, which had fallen down around his ankles, and grabbing a battered tube from the pocket of his pants before tossing them on the growing pile of discarded clothing.
Illya's shirt hung open, framing his lithe body as he moved to straddle his lover's lap again, smiling as Napoleon's hands clasped his waist underneath the shirt as Illya settled in.
He rocked forward slightly, that devilish grin Napoleon so dearly loved appearing at the brief touch of their erections. Napoleon tried to repeat the contact by pushing his hips up, but Illya's muscular thighs helds him firmly in place.
Napoleon watched in fascination as Illya grabbed one of the hands at his waist and slowly brought it up to his mouth. Napoleon released the deep breath he'd been holding as he felt the moist warmth surround first one, then two of his fingers, tickling the digits with his talented tongue.
Illya repeated the gesture with Napoleon's other hand, thoroughly bathing his middle finger. He removed it from his mouth with an audible pop, his breathing becoming ragged as he pulled Napoleon's arms back around his waist and shifted forward again, pressing Napoleon into the cushions.
Napoleon caught his breath at the vision in his lap: Illya with his head thrown back, chest heaving as Napoleon's hands slowly made their way down Illya's buttocks.
"Polya! Damn it!" Illya's hand clenched hard on Napoleon's shoulders as he pressed back into Napoleon's hands.
A husky chuckle worked its way out from deep in Napoleon's chest as he looked up at his lover's quivering body. "Tsk, tsk, such language!"
"Napoleon!"
"Yes, love?"
"If you don't—" Illya leaned down to rest his forehead on Napoleon's, closing his eyes as he tried to catch his breath.
"If I don't what? Do this?"
"Ah!" Illya's back arched as Napoleon's finger slid slowly inside his body. "Yes, that will do nicely for a start."
"So glad I could oblige your lordship."
A big grin spread across Illya's face as he lifted himself up and then back down on Napoleon's finger. "Thank you, Jeeves, that will be all for now."
"Oh, well, in that case..." Napoleon started to slowly remove his finger.
"Napoleon!"
Napoleon just smiled and worked another finger inside his lover. He fumbled on the cushion next to him, trying to find the tube Illya had tossed there earlier.
"Give me your hand, Illyushka."
Illya's hand drifted from its resting place on Napoleon's shoulder to dangle in the air as the teasing smile on his face grew devilish.
"You are so literal, my love."
"Really, Napoleon, say what you mean. You're the one who grew up speaking this crazy language. How am I to know what you actually meant to say?"
"Oh ho! So that's the way you're gonna be, hunh? Well, here's what I want: you, spread, now. How's that for succinct, Illya?"
A long, low growl was the only audible response as Illya leaned in to ravish Napoleon's mouth, his tongue sweeping in deeply as his hand sought Napoleon's, taking the tube from him and unscrewing the cap. Illya leaned back, releasing Napoleon's mouth with a smack. He squeezed the tube's contents onto long fingers before moving them down between their bodies to wrap his hand around Napoleon's straining erection.
Napoleon's breath hitched slightly at the touch of the cool gel and his free hand flew up to grab Illya's upper arm. A sharply-inhaled but quickly suppressed hiss from Illya froze him in place. "I'm sorry, lyubovnik. Are you—"
"Yes, I'm fine. Just move your hand further down and I will be fine."
Napoleon immediately released his grasp on the injured appendage and wrapped his arm around Illya's waist, burying his face in Illya's sweaty chest. "Oh, Illya, I'm so sorry."
"Napoleon, it is not as if I've never been injured before." A gentle hand reached up to smooth down the dark, mussed hair.
"I know that, Illya, it's just—"
"Shhhhh." Illya reached down to place a soft kiss on Napoleon's lips. "I'm ok."
Napoleon leaned back to search the blue eyes that revealed some of the pain the stubborn Russian would never acknowledge. "Damn it, Illya, stop being so—so—stoic! It's ok to hurt. It's ok to show pain here. There's no one here to see it but me! How many times do I have to tell you that?"
A slight flush colored the pale cheeks. "I am...sorry, Napoleon, I do not mean to shut you out, it is just—"
Napoleon sighed and smiled wistfully. "It's all right, Illya."
"No, Napoleon, you do not realize how hard it is to open everything up after—sometimes I forget. I do not do it on purpose."
"Don't apologize, lyubovnik, I know."
Illya smiled, that tiny little smile Napoleon knew was just for him. "Yes, you really do."
Napoleon's smile turned seductive, his eyes dropping from Illya's to focus on swollen lips. "Now, what do you say about getting back to a more, ah, pleasurable past time?"
"Like this, you mean?" Illya lifted himself off of Napoleon's fingers, grasped his lover's throbbing erection and guided it into himself.
"Strangely enough, you read my mind," Napoleon gasped as he was slowly enclosed in the tightness of Illya's body.
"As usual."
A small chuff of laughter escaped Napoleon as his head fell back on the couch again. "Yes, as usual."
"Not that your mind is that hard to read." Illya moved up slowly, causing Napoleon to inhale sharply. "I have no idea why we do not end up captured more often."
"It's only easily readable by you, Illya. I'll have you know that—aaahh!—most people find me inscrutable."
A snort told him exactly what Illya thought of that comment. "Of course, Napoleon, I can't imagine why I'd ever thought otherwise."
"Come here, you." Napoleon reached up and grabbed handfuls of his lover's open shirt, bringing Illya's mouth down to be plundered.
"Mmmummph..."
Napoleon ended the kiss after a few moments, letting his head fall back. "What was that? I don't think you said what you meant, Illya. How am I to know—ow! Foul play, you sneaky Russian!"
Illya dropped a conciliatory kiss on abused neck muscle as he resumed riding his lover. "Oh, really, Napoleon. One would think I had sucked you dry of blood like Dracula the way you are carrying on."
"Hmmph." Napoleon ran his hands up underneath Illya's shirt again, gently brushing his fingers along sensitive ribcage, delighting in the friction on his cock caused by Illya's squirming as he tried to avoid being tickled.
"Napoleon!" The name came out in a long groan. "Stop, or it will be too late!"
"Somehow, I think it already is, lyubovnik," Napoleon replied as he grasped Illya's waist firmly and began trying to control their movements, reaching for the completion that seemed to be just beyond his grasp. Their breath was coming in gasps; Napoleon's nearly stopped completely as he felt his lover begin to come. Illya's muscles were squeezing his shaft so tightly he felt as if they'd be fused together forever. Which, of course, was all right with Napoleon, but he was less concerned with "forever" at the moment than he was with the "right now" as he felt himself flood his lover's body.
A hot, sweaty lump of Russian misnamed the Ice Prince by some of their co-workers slumped forward on Napoleon's chest, straining to fill his lungs.
"Ooof! Illya," Napoleon gasped, "for someone as—slight as you are, you weigh a ton."
"It is a good thing—you love me for—my mind and not my body then—isn't it, Napoleon?"
Napoleon could feel Illya's heart pounding furiously against his chest. He raised his hand to stroke his lover's back gently, enjoying the feel of the sweat-soaked material covering sinewy muscles.
"Yes, it is," Napoleon replied, smiling as he dropped a light kiss on the crown of Illya's head. "Very good, indeed."
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixèd mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
As with everything else I write, for my truly priceless friend Veronica, who teaches me sports metaphors (and gets me to use them!) in spite of myself *g* and who tells me things like "No, no! That's not what he's trying to hide!" and "He's getting too snarky!" and then proceeds to straighten me (and our favorite spies) out. :) And who hasn't killed me yet for sending her a couple of paragraphs at a time over a long couple of weeks instead of all at once. *eg*
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