Napoleon crept softly into the room, intent upon not waking his partner. The night which had started out full of promise had ended with a hardy handshake at her door and nothing else. So, instead of working off some steam with some lovely action in bed, he'd settled for a drink, alone, at the bar, looking for anything that would blot the day from his mind.
Not for the first time, Napoleon wished he had Illya's stoicism. The day had been bad. Hell, who was he fooling? This whole affair had stunk from Day One. They needed a way to get close to a THRUSH operative, and so they recruited Margaret, one of the THRUSH's old girlfriends. It had worked well for them in the past, so well that they forgot a key point. Trust needed to be earned, not blindly given. She went blissfully to the THRUSH's arms, revealing herself to be twice the threat to UNCLE and the world as the THRUSH operative had ever been. Illya had taken a bullet and Napoleon experienced some less than pleasant moments in an improvised torture chamber while Illya was strapped to a nearby pallet.
Neither of them were severely damaged, physically, but mentally was another story. It would be a long time before Napoleon could look at a car battery without cringing. The only thing that had saved them from real injury had been the THRUSH coming back to save them and plead with them to save him from his organization and the insanity of the woman.
Even then, Napoleon was intent upon saving her. After some tense moments with Waverly, it was agreed to bring Margaret back along with the THRUSH to UNCLE. They would be deprogrammed and released back into the wild, as it were. They'd nearly made it to London when things went from bad to very wrong. Somehow, Margaret got a gun and took a child hostage.
In the end, the not-so-innocent was dead, as was the child. The THRUSH operative took a head shot that didn't immediately kill him, but would leave him a vegetable if he even survived the night. Napoleon had been grazed twice and Illya… he just didn't know. The man had been emotionally shut down and unapproachable since their arrival in London.
Illya had been the one who had shot the woman and, unavoidably, the child as well. He'd clocked the action and immediately gone to check on the THRUSH. Napoleon had no regrets about the woman, but the child… it would have been nice to avoid that. He'd thought the child was clear when he ordered Illya to shoot. Of course, it didn't help that he was in Margaret's sights. Who knew she'd be so twisted as to use the child as a shield, tossing him in the path of Illya's bullet in a last ditch effort to save her own miserable hide?
Napoleon stopped just inside the door, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness of the room. He'd blithely announced to Illya that he'd be gone most of the night and not to wait up. Illya had dismissed him with a wave of his hand and returned to the inevitable paperwork. Napoleon hadn't worried. They'd been patched up and had each talked with the headshrinkers at UNCLE HQ – London. It was standard procedure when an innocent was killed during a mission. The child's death was regrettable, but Napoleon knew, unavoidable.
It took him a full minute to realize that the room was empty. Instantly, a chill went through him. Illya had made it quite clear he was staying in, probably drinking himself into oblivion and passing out on the bed. Yet, as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, it was apparent there was no one on either bed.
Frowning, Napoleon went to the bathroom and snapped on the light. The bluish tint of the fluorescent light didn't do the facilities any favors, but Napoleon wasn't interested in those. Rather, it was the broken mirror and the little flecks of blood that dotted the reflective glass and the porcelain of the sink. It didn't look as if a struggle had taken place – all their toiletries were undisturbed, the towels hung as he'd left them.
Napoleon looked down and saw the drops led out of the room and into their sleeping quarters. He began to follow them, the trail leading him to the balcony. The door was cracked open slightly and he mentally started knocking himself upside the head.
Illya had probably had too much to drink, broke the mirror by accident and stumbled out here to get some fresh air… well, as fresh as you could get in downtown London. Napoleon pushed the curtains aside and sighed as he spotted his partner.
Illya was at the far end of the balcony sitting on the floor, his back to the room. Not a great spot for an agent, but it had been a long day for both of them.
Napoleon saw the quiver in Illya's shoulders and he felt a blush coming to his cheeks. Illya was jacking off? Out here? That was… decidedly out of character. That's when Napoleon heard it, just barely audible over the constant thrum of the traffic beneath them. Not jacking off… his partner was crying.
For just the briefest of seconds, Napoleon hesitated. He'd watched Illya shoot men pointblank, take physical and verbal abuse that would have dropped lesser men to their knees and never bat an eye. He'd argue the necessity of violence to avoid violence, bloodshed to ensure peace. Illya was focused and as hard an agent as they came. Napoleon had also seen Illya drop a man twice his size when a German UNCLE agent had made the mistake of grabbing Illya's arm unannounced. Unprepared, Illya had come around swinging and the other ended up with four new front teeth.
Napoleon and Illya were still trying their partnership on for size. They worked together well and had a sense of connectivity that other teams envied, but Napoleon wasn't sure if he could approach Illya safely without announcing himself first.
A soul rending sob, half strangled, pulled him back from his thoughts and he moved on pure instinct to kneel beside his partner, pulling him into a rough embrace. Whether Illya recognized him or whether he was just too miserable to care, Napoleon didn't know, but it didn't matter. He rocked the man gently.
"Shh, это не была ваша ошибка (Shh, it wasn't your fault)." He picked Russian, thinking it would be more comforting to the blond, repeating the phrase again and again.
"Я сожалею… Я сожалею (I'm sorry… I'm sorry…)." Illya kept mumbling it and Napoleon decided he wasn't apologizing for crying… he was begging forgiveness from someone who could never give it to him.
"It wasn't your fault." Napoleon tried again, in English this time.
"It was… it was my fault. I had a choice." Illya choked then and Napoleon rubbed his back. "I picked you." And the sobs started anew. "I was selfish and I am punished."
It took Napoleon a moment to chew on that one. "Well, selfishly, I'm pretty relieved you did." Then impulsively, he kissed Illya's temple, just as his mother had done his when he'd come to her upset.
The soft skin beneath his lips was slightly salty with sweat and Napoleon licked his lips, tasting Illya on them. He rubbed his forehead against Illya's and then angled in to kiss the corner of Illya's eye, salty wet with tears, then followed the tears' path down his cheek.
With a shock, Napoleon realized his body was responding, anxious for a connection, any connection. There was certainly no mistaking Illya for a woman. His skin was rough with whiskers, body hair and the body itself was hard and flat, not soft and curvaceous. This was not some helpless creature, lost and in need of masculine reassurances. Far from it and yet, still Napoleon felt a draw to hold Illya closer, to push the bad images from his mind in the only way Napoleon knew, with better ones, stronger ones, loving ones.
Illya didn't resist him. Instead he moved to meet Napoleon's lips with his own, the kiss tentative and anxious. Their tongues met and the corner of Napoleon's mouth curled up in a smile. Women would wait patiently, if they permitted frenching at all, for the man to take that first step and here Illya was, just as aggressive as Napoleon. And why not? Two men, they were both used to taking the dominant role. This could be very interesting.
And while the kissing was good, Napoleon wanted more. He also knew he had to move, to simply respond before common sense took over and shook him back to reality.
"Bed?" he whispered into a hair-fringed ear and felt Illya's head nod in return. How they actually got there was sort of a mystery because Napoleon remembered nothing of the trip. He simply remembered being there, hands working frantically at the buttons of Illya's shirt, pulling and tearing when they didn't meet Napoleon's need for speed. Likewise, he could feel the first bites of the cool air rapidly replaced by warm calloused flesh as Illya's hands were everywhere at once.
Illya was twisting beneath him and Napoleon was busily abusing the tender skin at the base of Illya's neck, when he felt himself being abruptly pushed away.
"Vait." He smiled at the strength of Illya's accent. "Vhat are we doing?"
"The best we can," Napoleon answered and it was apparently enough for Illya for he pushed and suddenly Napoleon was on his back with Illya at his throat.
There was nothing soft or easy about their love making. Napoleon was used to being the dominant one in bed, as apparently was Illya. They fought for control, neither willing to just lie back and take it. It was strangely exciting and erotic to have to fight for supremacy. Somehow they ended up bassackwards, each facing the other head to toe.
Stretched out beside his partner, he got Illya's belt unbuckled and undid the clasp. Slowly, as if unwrapping a much anticipated toy, he eased down the zipper and pushed the pants down. Illya lifted to help and sighed as his penis sprang free from the restricting material.
It had been awhile since Napoleon had given a blow job, but he didn't think either of them would really complain about a lack of style. He flicked just the tip of his tongue in to taste the preseminal fluid, slightly salty, slightly bitter, all Illya.
He was abruptly aware of a similar sensation, warm breath on his penis, a silky smoothness stroking him. Napoleon hadn't even felt his own pants being removed, but now he welcomed the freedom.
It would have been easy to just stay still, letting Illya's mouth engulf him, suck him until he could bear no more, but Napoleon wasn't about to give Illya that sort of break and he began his own exploration, determined that it would be his partner who broke first.
In the end it was, but only by a hair's breadth. As tempting as it was to rest his head on Illya's thigh and drift off to sleep, there was a roil in his gut that roared, "Not enough!"
Sighing, Napoleon shifted position until he was looking into those blue eyes and he leaned in for a kiss, a chance to taste himself on Illya's tongue and exchange the favor.
For a long moment, they just kissed, then Napoleon pulled back, running a finger down Illya's cheek.
"It wasn't your fault, Illya."
"It was. I could have gone for a non-lethal shot." Illya's head fell back with a plop. "I just remember being tied to the bed and listening to you scream. All I could think of was making her pay for that. I shouldn't have been so unprofessional as to let my feelings take over like that. And because of it, a child will never learn what it means to be an old man."
"That child might have grown up to be the next Hitler or Mussolini."
"Or a Gandhi or an Einstein. There is no way to know."
"We can't beat ourselves up over what if's, Illya." Napoleon leaned in to kiss him again. "I'd have done the same thing."
"No, you wouldn't." Illya pushed him away and rolled into his side, his back to Napoleon. "I try so hard to keep a hold on it, but I am weak."
"Illya, you're one of the strongest men I know. What are you talking about?"
"You. You make me weak. "
It was said so softly, Napoleon wasn't even sure the sentence had been meant to be spoken aloud. He stroked his hand over Illya's shoulder and down. "See, that's where we're different, partner. You make me strong."
Illya half rolled back towards him. "I don't –"
"You aren't a superman, Illya, you aren't perfect, but I watch you fight and struggle, trying to be accepted, trying to be seen and recognized as a man, and not as The Soviet or The Russian. Men hurl insults at you and then I watch you stand shoulder to shoulder with them, risking your life for their lousy necks. You never stop, you never hesitate, and you never tire."
"Нет, я только ломаюсь и плачу как ребенок (No, I just break down and weep like a child)." Illya rolled over all the way and buried his face in a pillow.
"You wouldn't be much of a man if you didn't." Napoleon began stroking Illya's back again, running his hands lightly over the scars that marred the soft skin. "A man who doesn't show compassion, regret, or emotion – he's not a man, Illya, he's a monster. And you, my friend, are no monster." He leaned over and kissed a fresh scar, still pink and puckered. "I want to make love to you, Illya. Will you let me?"
"No."
The answer made Napoleon pause and he eased back to study Illya's profile.
"No?"
"I will make love with you, Napoleon, but not as an uninvolved party. I am not one of your little paramours, who lies prostrate at your feet, swooning in your wake."
"God, I hope not."
"You have done this before?"
"It's… um… been awhile," Napoleon admitted reluctantly.
Illya nodded and rolled over onto his side. "Then I shall lead. Just try and keep up."
And Napoleon did, thrust for thrust until he was sure he would explode, only then did he permit himself the satisfaction of flooding Illya's fist with his semen, moaning and babbling nonsense as he came. Illya never let go of him, simply pounded into him a few more times before digging the formidable fingers of one hand into Napoleon's hip and gasping through his own climax. Napoleon didn't know how Illya managed to keep the other hand loosely caressing his penis, but he was damned glad he did.
Illya reached down, found a ruined shirt and cleaned both of them off with it before collapsing onto the bed and reaching to pull Napoleon to him.
"Aren't you going to ask me if it was good for me too?"
"No, I know it was. You would not have climaxed if it hadn't been."
Napoleon chuckled and caught one of Illya's hands. "The next time you think that you are being selfish or weak, I want you to remember this." He kissed the scarred knuckles tenderly. "Together we are strong." He entwined their fingers. "Together we cannot be broken."
"Together we have a flight in six hours…" Illya squeezed back and smiled sleepily. "And as much as I'd love to make love with you again-"
"I think you're right." Napoleon nodded his agreement. "Besides, we can always get caught up back in New York."
"Our sleep?"
"Our love." Together they shifted this way and that until a happy medium was reached and, satisfied, they drifted off to sleep. And while he hoped Illya's sleep would be dreamless, Napoleon knew he was going to dream of lustful, impractical things… and of having his partner at his side every step of the way.