This story is an answer to The Valentine Gift Challenge. The prompt was a photo, Illya watching over something, and Napoleon looking at Illya...
He is looking at me.
We've been here for two hours. He doesn't move. He is keeping watch on the room, relentlessly. A statue, barely breathing.
I can feel it.
He's standing in his usual posture, firmly on his feet, his back straight, the nape of his neck slightly bent forward. Illya watching is a perfect mix of relaxation and attention. A lithe, powerful, patient, serene cat. Always. Waiting for the mouse. Er... the bird.
First, it tickled the small of my back. Then, it went up, brushing my spine. I felt it, the smallest of my vertebras felt it. Softer, smoother than fingers, barely perceptible, but insistent, merciless, unbearable. He is looking at me. I can't breathe.
Today, he isn't so serene. His sturdy shoulders are unusually tense, he is holding his useless binoculars tight. I can see his fingers. His knuckles are turning white. No, he isn't holding the binoculars. He is hanging on them. Why…? Does he know I am looking at him?
He is still looking at me. I feel his gaze, physically. It burns. I can't think. There are nineteen chairs in the room. Nineteen? That's illogical. Where is the twentieth?
Gold. Pure gold. It isn't a cliché. Illya's hair is really like gold. Damp, dusty, muddy, covered with whatever you can imagine, dishevelled, always well done, always enticing. This evening, it's shining, like a golden silk, appealing... Last time I was keeping vigil over him at the Medical, I dared. I knew he would be okay. He was soundly asleep. I dared. I did it.
It makes my hair stand on end. It's usually a metaphor, but I feel it, really. He is looking at me, relentlessly. His eyes are stroking my head, playing with my hair. It burns.
His forehead creases with concentration, under those golden, tempting locks. The strong lines of his nose, his clenched jaws, betray his will, his so strong will. His legendary stubbornness. He's an UNCLE agent, skilled, efficient. But I know. I know that those powerful lines can suddenly melt into a devastating smile. When he's eating, when he's asleep... and when... Am I deluding myself? When he is looking at me, unaware that I notice it.
He is staring at me. His eyes are drawing my face, like a sharp pencil. I know it. I feel them, running along my forehead, sketching my nose, my cheeks. Brushing my lips. It burns.
At the moment, as he is concentrating himself on the room, I hardly see them. But when he smiles, when he looks miserable, when he's mad at me, I could drown in two incredibly blue eyes. They are kind of a lethal weapon. Innocent, piercing, icy, burning...
He is looking, looking and looking again. So do I, sometimes. Often. But when I do, when I look at him, he is unaware of it. I don't want him to know. There are sixty-eight white tiles on the floor. I could feel his breath in my neck, on my cheeks. I could hear him whispering a chukle. I could feel his hand on my back.
Threatening, smiling, miserable, hungry, angry, sleepy... Illya can't hide them. His lips. Full, pouting, irresistible. Tempting.
Seventy-two. There are seventy-two white tiles on the floor, not sixty-eight. And no Thrush bird. Not the slightest feather. We are wasting time. It's no use. I won't turn to him. We'll have to go, soon, but I can't. I won't. He is so close. It... it burns.
It's no use. We're wasting time. I can't help getting closer. He knows. I am sure he knows. I can't help touching him. My fingers brush his back, slightly. He doesn't even blink, he doesn't even quiver. I can't stop, now. No way.
I feel a hand on my back, hesitating first, and now confident, sneaking around my waist, loosing my shirt, deftly . Not a gaze. A hand. Not a delusion. A reality. His hand, warm, strong, gentle. His fingers, merciless, tender on my bare skin. I feel his breath on my temple, on my cheek. He's dragging me back, gently. I could fight, I could kill him. I won't.
Perhaps I misunderstand, perhaps I am mistaking. He could kill me, now. I feel his heart beating, pounding. His skin is so smooth. My hand slides down the flat stomach, down, and down, and I know. I know that I don't misunderstand. He wants it. He wants me. I want him. It isn't a dream.
He isn't staring at me any longer. I know it. I feel it. He has closed his eyes. I have closed mine. His breath tickles my cheek. His left hand holds me tight. I lean back against him, and let my own hand looking for him. He wants it. I want him. He wants me. It isn't a dream.
YYY
Candles, soufflé, chocolate, champagne… Valentine Day. He is standing in front of the fireplace, looking at our old binoculars. I remember. He remembers. I love him. He loves me.
"Words are only painted fire; a look is the fire itself."
Mark Twain