MFU Fanfiction: A Single Alif (revised)
Jan. 2nd, 2012 04:44 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
saki101
Written for
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selyndaep for Down the Chimney 8 (2011). The prompts were: computer glitch, power outage/failure, smut would be excitingGenre: Slash
Rating: NC-17 eventually
Length: ~7.8K
A/N: Episode-related (The Arabian Affair). Final scene revised. Typos in the DtC post corrected here (hopefully)!
Disclaimer: MUNCLE is not mine and no money is being made.
(Original version posted on muncle DtC 2011.)
Excerpt: A blue spot had coloured the smoky air over the small platform at the club. The oboe’s silver levers had winked in the eldritch light as Illya‘s fingers moved over them. Napoleon had seen those fingers move with the same precision among the tangled wires inside a bomb.
“Whoever you are, my friend, I would like to thank you,” Illya said as he turned off the power supply to the vehicle. He glanced back at the person in a chemical suit who had helped him overpower the last two THRUSH agents in the corridor. Illya did a double take, but not because the hood being removed showed the person to be Napoleon; Napoleon was always turning up to lend a hand when he was supposed to be on another continent. They did that for one another regularly. They hardly raised an eyebrow at it. The double take was because Napoleon’s urbane mask had slipped and his expression revealed so much.
Illya offered some graceless taunt about Napoleon’s clumsiness. It wasn’t a word that described his partner, who could navigate a mine field like a dancer, and usually without mussing his hair, but Illya delivered the remark to give Napoleon time to compose himself. It wasn’t enough. Silver-tongued Napoleon scrambled for words and in a puerile voice uttered the most juvenile thing Illya had ever heard him say. “I wish I had a pretty dress like that,” Napoleon drawled, reaching for the robe Illya wore, lifting it, sliding his fingers along the silk, feeling the twisted strands of gold.
Illya couldn’t place what random persona Napoleon had retreated behind, but Napoleon’s eyebrows were still angled in grief over eyes wide with surprise. Illya regarded Napoleon for a moment, then lowered his eyes. He wondered what he should do about what he had seen.
***************
Napoleon threw the open envelope down on his desk. “I don’t believe this. Damned computers.”
Illya looked up from the file he was reading, his eyebrows raised above his glasses, and waited for more commentary. He already knew the substance of the matter. His computer-generated notice was neatly filed under H for Housing in the cabinet behind him, the interoffice envelope in his out tray, ready to be collected and re-used.
“They’re moving me into your apartment until the security system in my building is fixed,” Napoleon grumbled, dropping into his chair.
“Well, the security system in my brownstone is still functioning,” Illya observed. “I believe most field agents are being billeted with their partners, unless they both lived in your building.”
Napoleon’s apartment house was the newest UNCLE owned and his apartment, on the top floor overlooking the park, was one of the finest. The technicians had thought the new structure would be the easiest one in which to install the updated, computer-monitored security system. They had underestimated the power needs, however, and melted the circuits, shorting out the whole building and most of the city block surrounding it. The wiring in the UNCLE building had been state of the art, more than sufficient, but the connections to the city power grid had been standard when they were new and it had been years since they were installed. The ConEd representative had not been amused when he contacted Mr Waverly’s office nor had the Fire Code inspector. Mr Waverly had been the least amused of all. He would not take kindly to any grumbling on the part of his agents about the temporary housing re-arrangements resulting from the situation.
“You don’t even have a spare bedroom and your couch isn‘t long enough to sleep on,” Napoleon groused. He’d taken a pen from his desk drawer and was tapping it with increasing intensity on top of the offending notice.
“I have a very large bed,” Illya said. “I was astounded when I first saw it. King size, I believe it’s called. It should do for an emperor, temporarily.”
Napoleon’s pen stopped in mid-air. The teasing in Illya’s tone was about something more than capitalist extravagance. “Where could I put my suits?” Napoleon asked, without turning around in his chair.
“I could move some of mine to the hall closet,” Illya said.
Napoleon opened his mouth to mention drawer space, but decided he would sound petty. Materialistic and petty. “Any estimate on how long this is going to take to fix?”
“A few weeks, I think. Mr Waverly is loaning our specialists to ConEd to restore power to the other residents on the block and to upgrade the junction, then they have to completely rewire your building, not just the circuits for the security system. We’ve survived worse,” Illya finished and got up, pulling his jacket off the back of his chair.
“Where are you going?” Napoleon asked, glancing at the clock. It was already after five.
“I’ve got to pick up my tuxedo from Del Floria’s. Annika has tickets for Peer Gynt and asked if I’d accompany her,” Illya explained as he slipped on his jacket. “I thought it only polite to ask her to dinner before the concert.”
Napoleon raised his eyebrows and made vague curving gestures with his hands. “Dr Bjerknes, visiting from Oslo?” Illya nodded. “She’s half a foot taller than you!” Napoleon exclaimed.
“Yes,” Illya said with a quirk of one eyebrow. “Got your spare key?” he asked and the corners of his lips were twitching as he left.
When the door closed, Napoleon was still nodding.
****************
Napoleon dropped a couple suitcases at Illya’s flat on his way to pick up Lily. He didn’t stay the night at her place when she said he could. On the walk back to Illya‘s apartment, he tried to tell himself that his decision had nothing to do with wanting to see if Illya had come home or not.
The shower was running when he unlocked the door. Napoleon couldn’t put a name to the feeling that elicited, so he just went to bed.
****************
“It’s like being on a mission,” Illya said the next morning when he rolled over and found Napoleon lying with one arm behind his head, gazing out the window. Judging from the sunlight, it was nearly noon.
Napoleon’s eyes flicked towards Illya and back to the window. “Strenuous concert, was it?”
Illya stretched and Napoleon’s eyes flickered back for an instant, took in the broad smile and the white tee shirt stretched across Illya’s chest. “I notice you’re still in bed, too.“ Napoleon didn’t reply. “I’ve got coffee, if you like. I’m going to make some tea,” Illya said and threw off the rest of the covers.
“Tea’s fine,” Napoleon replied, his attention apparently riveted on the clouds scudding past the window.
“Hmm,” Illya remarked and headed towards the kitchen.
Napoleon watched him leave.
************
It was the smell of rye toast which got Napoleon out of the bedroom. A plate of it was sitting on the coffee table next to a teapot, an open pint of milk and a jar of dark honey. Illya was stretched out on the couch reading a journal on astrophysics, his white tee shirt revealing a crescent of pale stomach.
“I thought quantum physics was your area,” Napoleon said as he leaned over to take a piece of the buttered toast.
“They intersect,” Illya said, dropping the journal onto his chest and looking at Napoleon. “And you never know when THRUSH might decide to join the space race.”
Napoleon raised his eyebrows in acquiescence and bit into the toast. It was strange how something so basic could taste so good. And be so messy. He crammed the rest of the bread into his mouth and brought the base of his thumb to his lips to catch the trickle of butter heading towards his wrist. He looked over his hand at Illya. Illya was watching.
“I’m out of serviettes,” Illya explained.
Napoleon was not sure why the room suddenly felt so warm.
**************
“If you haven’t made another date yet, come with us,” Illya suggested before his head disappeared into his blue turtleneck.
“A lecture on astrophysics?” Napoleon said. “I have my reputation to think about.” Illya’s head emerged; he rolled the collar, adjusted the sleeves. The colour was the same shade as his eyes when he was concentrating. “Besides, I’d be a third wheel.”
“Sixth, actually,” Illya corrected, reaching for his jacket. "Dr Sawada, his wife, Fiona, you’ve met her in Translation, and the new biochemist from New Orleans are coming with us.”
“The little blonde one with the big blue eyes?” Napoleon asked, standing a little straighter. “I’ve been meaning to introduce myself.”
Illya smiled. “The very one. Violette had never been to New York before she arrived last week.”
“So you’re taking her to a science lecture on a Saturday night? Poor girl,” Napoleon replied.
“Haydn Planetarium is definitely one of the sights of New York. The lecture will follow a show at the planetarium.” Illya put his wallet and his communicator into his jacket pocket. “Sitting next to a pretty girl under a starry sky. I’m surprised it’s not on your list of seductive things to do.”
Napoleon was fairly sure Illya was teasing him. “I haven’t been to the planetarium since I was a boy,” Napoleon said. “And you’re going to dinner afterwards?”
Illya added a money clip and a few other small items Napoleon didn’t see to his pockets, but knowing Illya they, too, could probably explode. “Hideo picked the restaurant. He said there’s dancing on the weekend. Annika likes dancing.” He glanced at Napoleon. “And I know you do. Perhaps Dr Bonnier does as well.”
“Dr Bonnier?” Napoleon asked.
“The new biochemist, Violette Bonnier,” Illya clarified and checked his watch. “I have to pick up Annika. We’re meeting the others outside the planetarium in an hour. That’s plenty of time for even you to get ready. Can I tell them you’re joining us?”
“I should have already introduced myself,” Napoleon said, half to himself. “Such a little wisp of a thing. She doesn’t look old enough to have a doctorate.”
“Is that a yes?” Illya asked, turning towards the door.
“Yes. It’s a yes.” Napoleon replied.
“Good,” Illya called from the hallway. “An hour.”
Napoleon started humming as he decided which suit to wear. He picked his new charcoal grey one, wool and cashmere, Italian tailoring. His hand brushed across the shoulders and down one sleeve. He’d seen Violette Bonnier in the canteen. She’d been standing in line directly under one of the lights, talking with a colleague, her bobbed hair shimmering gold as her head moved in accompaniment to the gestures of her small, ringless fingers. She wore glasses, all lens, with a glint of gold along the top. Glasses didn’t trouble Napoleon. He knew they could be taken off. He’d been about to walk over and introduce himself when his communicator had chirped. He’d meant to go down to the labs to make up for the missed opportunity. He was whistling when he got in the shower.
******************
Napoleon stretched his arm out along the back of the seat behind Dr Bonnier. It was a clichéd move, but it usually worked. He had been outside the planetarium when Violette arrived with the Sawadas. Napoleon had taken note of the very high heels she was wearing when they were introduced; she was still shorter than him though. And the glasses were gone; they were for reading apparently. The evening had been looking up until a taxi arrived and Illya and Annika Bjnerkes got out. A statuesque woman, taller than Napoleon, she stood up straight next to Illya and it was clear that they were both perfectly comfortable with it. Napoleon tried to think why it should matter. As they walked up the stone stairs to the entrance, the image of Dr Bjerknes’ legs wrapped around Illya’s neck flashed through Napoleon’s mind and he had almost missed a step. Illya and Annika were seated on the other end of the row now and Violette’s perfume was scenting the air next to him as they tilted their heads back to watch the stars wheel overhead. Napoleon had seen real skies like that on mountaintops, in the desert and out at sea, but never in New York. He smiled when Violette’s head reached his arm and settled against it. Napoleon admired the stars.
Illya’s head had been heavy against his arm the last time he’d been under a star-spangled sky.
Napoleon had been trying to keep his balance as he half ran, half slid down the rocky, desert slope when the roar of the explosion Illya had set poured out of the mine behind him, lighting the landscape. Illya somersaulted past and landed flat on his back. The hills growled and shook as the shafts inside them collapsed. Illya didn’t get up and run. Napoleon stumbled towards him and knelt to slip his hand beneath Illya’s back. The muscles in Napoleon’s chest loosened as his fingers ticked up the vertebrae to Illya’s neck and found it hadn’t snapped. His hand continued examining up into Illya’s hair. It was dry, his skull pillowed on a soft mound of sand. Napoleon hoisted Illya over his shoulder and loped for the boulder behind which they’d left their jeep. Illya grunted when Napoleon dropped him into the back seat and leapt behind the wheel. Rocks were rolling down the hill as the jeep skidded along the dirt road away from the mine. Illya clung to the back of the passenger seat and cursed Napoleon’s driving. A couple minutes later, they bumped onto the smooth asphalt of a highway and Napoleon threw back his head and laughed up into the cold, sparkling sky.
He glanced down the shadowy row of seats. He couldn’t see Illya past Dr Bjerknes’ ample silhouette. He didn’t know if Illya’s idea of hospitality included physical intimacy. Napoleon’s eyes turned back to the glittering dome. He felt a surge of gratitude that Illya was still alive so he could wonder with whom he might be sleeping.
**************
After dinner they danced until the women took off their high heels and Violette had to dance the slow dances on tip toe. As it turned out, they were all good dancers. Napoleon enjoyed the evening and it hadn’t just been the dancing. He said as much to Illya in the wee hours as he reset the alarm in his flat without turning on the light.
“I wouldn’t have suspected you of such stereotyping, Napoleon,” Illya said and Napoleon heard the smile in Illya’s voice. It brightened the darkness like the galaxies spiralling across the planetarium ceiling. Napoleon smiled, too. They had all had a lot to drink.
**************
Napoleon made omelettes the next morning. He found a tissue box and set it on the kitchen table and then took it away before he called for Illya to come eat. He didn’t analyse his action.
*************
Monday was meetings and paperwork until late afternoon when Mr Waverly sprung separate missions on them. Illya was dispatched to Florida to check on the launch of the latest UNCLE satellite. Napoleon was made the watchful escort for several UN delegates attending a conference in Washington, DC. Nothing went awry with either assignment.
Napoleon arrived back in NY on Friday afternoon a couple hours after Illya. He was grinning broadly when he stepped through the door to their office and found Illya concluding a telephone conversation. Napoleon picked up one of the photos on Illya’s desk and chuckled. “Did they confuse you with the visiting schoolboys?” Napoleon teased when Illya hung up the telephone.
Illya pursed his lips and looked over his glasses at Napoleon. “I had been planning to invite you to join Annika and Violette and me this evening,” Illya replied.
“Let me guess, a lecture on evolution followed by a private tour of the Natural History Museum,” Napoleon said and picked up another photo. Illya had clearly been enjoying himself. And he did look so young and sweet, Napoleon thought. No one would imagine the experience lying behind that innocent-seeming face, the danger.
Illya nodded. “A good guess,” he said and waited for Napoleon to think he might be correct. The silence lengthened. Finally, Illya smiled. “A couple members of the orchestra we heard last week are sitting in at a jazz club in the village. They won’t start until eleven, so we can have a leisurely dinner first. Of course, if you are already committed tonight, I don’t mind having two charming companions for the evening.” Illya took off his glasses and looked up at Napoleon, the glasses dangling from one hand. Napoleon watched the subtle signs of amusement behind Illya’s deadpan expression. Being able to read those shades of meaning had earned them a reputation for being able to read one another’s minds. Napoleon thought it odd that he couldn’t be certain what was amusing Illya at the moment. “Or I could see if Mark is available,” Illya added, reaching for the telephone.
“No, I’m happy to help you out,” Napoleon said. “Friend in need and all.” Illya took his hand off the receiver. “Don’t you need to make dinner reservations?” Napoleon asked.
“Already done,” Illya replied.
*****************
They had all been laughing when the taxi dropped them off at Annika’s doorstep. They’d seen her in, walked the three blocks to Violette’s apartment joking and humming snatches of music and then on home to Illya’s place. The city grew quieter as they approached the park. If it had been summer, dawn would have been approaching, but in December the chirps and trills of awakening birds did not replace the absent traffic as the city settled down to rest. The full moon flung long shadows across their path as it moved behind the old trees at the edge of the park. A lone car seemed to know it was out of place and sped away.
Switching his oboe case to his left hand, Illya got out his keys. Napoleon glanced at the case. “What is it with women and musicians?” Napoleon asked as they crossed the foyer and mounted the stairs, passing through the pale panels of moonlight the fanlight spread over the lower steps and proceeding up into the darkness. He remembered Violette and Annika leaning forward, their drinks forgotten, enraptured while Illya played.
Illya chuckled. “'We are the music-makers. And we are the dreamers of dreams…'” he recited. A fire engine screeched along the street obliterating the rest of the verse.
It had annoyed Napoleon that he‘d been as surprised as any stranger when Illya got up from their table and joined the musicians for the second set. Annika patted his arm as he slipped past her chair. She wasn’t surprised. Napoleon had swallowed the rest of his scotch and signalled for another. Illya must have brought the case with him from the office. Napoleon rubbed his hand across his face. He hadn’t been right since they’d gotten back from the desert; he was still avoiding Illya’s eyes half the time. That could get them killed.
Illya opened his apartment door and closed it quietly behind them. Napoleon heard Illya’s fingers tapping in the security code.
A blue spot had coloured the smoky air over the small platform at the club. The oboe’s silver levers had winked in the eldritch light as Illya‘s fingers moved over them. Napoleon had seen those fingers move with the same precision among the tangled wires inside a bomb.
***************
“How’s the rewiring going?” a Section Three agent asked the engineer in the elevator on Monday afternoon.
“We’ve got the basement and part of the first floor done,” the man answered. “Eager to get home?”
“My partner snores,” the agent replied. Mendes was his name, Napoleon remembered.
“We’re working as fast as we can,” the engineer explained.
Mendes sighed. “I’m sure you are.” The elevator doors opened and Mendes got off.
The engineer looked at Napoleon‘s frowning face. “Your partner snore, too?”
“No!” Napoleon answered, surprised.
“Good. Because this isn’t going as fast as we’d hoped it would,” the engineer said as the doors opened on the next floor and he stalked off.
The elevator rose again. Napoleon saw his reflection in the polished metal. He was smiling.
****************
Flurries were starting to come down when they left Del Floria‘s. By the time they reached the United Nations Plaza, the flurries had matured into thick flakes that outlined the bare tree branches and stuck to the sidewalk. Illya glanced up. The sky was the colour of UNCLE’s hallways. “Let‘s hope we can catch a ride with Mr Waverly after the reception,” he said.
Half a dozen UNCLE agents were circulating among the guests. Three of the delegates Napoleon had accompanied to Washington were chatting with Mr Waverly. Napoleon could hear them commending him. He drifted further away, nodding at Mark and continuing to scan the crowd. The representatives from one of the Gulf countries entered the room. The two men in front moved aside revealing a shorter man behind them, slim and graceful in his white headdress and robe and black cloak trimmed with gold. Napoleon’s mouth felt dry. The man turned, caught Napoleon’s eye and held it for a moment. He tilted his head, said something to one of his taller companions and stepped towards Napoleon.
“Napoleon.” As he spoke, Illya levelled a direct look at the advancing diplomat and closed his hand around Napoleon’s elbow. The man lifted his chin slightly, smiled and turned back to his friends. “Mr Waverly wants to introduce us to a former colleague,” Illya said, leading Napoleon a few paces away. “Did you want a pretty dress like his, too?” Illya asked, his voice low.
Like a sirocco, the heat from a blush enveloped Napoleon. Fortunately, Mr Waverly and his old friend were standing next to the buffet table, near an ice sculpture. Napoleon wondered whether he might melt it.
********************
Mr Waverly’s car dropped them off in front of the deli a couple blocks from Illya’s building and pulled slowly away from the kerb. The tires spattered a line of brown slush across the cleaner snow on the sidewalk. The flakes were hurtling down, a curtain of white.
They’d had to turn up their collars to brave the short distance from the deli and the corner store just beyond it to Illya‘s place. They stamped the snow off their shoes, brushed it off one another’s coats and their parcels before they came in the front door. “Seem chilly in here to you?” Napoleon asked as Illya unlocked the door to his apartment. They exchanged a glance, silently closed the door and pulled out their guns.
A search of the flat revealed no open windows. They holstered their guns. Illya rested his hand on the nearest radiator. “Heat’s off,” he sighed.
Napoleon re-capped his communicator. He‘d only chuckled when Lily had offered to keep him warm at her place. “No technicians to spare tonight,” he relayed.
“I heard,” Illya said, moving down the hallway. “Hot water heater’s functioning,” he called from the bathroom.
Napoleon walked back to the door and collected the bags they had abandoned there. “At least we’ve got food.”
Illya strode into the kitchen, took scotch down from the cupboard and vodka from the freezer. “Food, alcohol and hot showers. We’ll live,” Illya proclaimed, setting out glasses and pouring them drinks.
“We can survive on rainwater and grubs, but I didn’t expect to be roughing it in New York this evening,” Napoleon said. “Annika and Violette would invite us to stay with them if we gave them a call,” he added. “All those giggles the other night were easy to interpret.”
Illya handed Napoleon his scotch, then looked up and held his eye. “But you don’t want to, do you?”
Napoleon felt as though he’d already swallowed the whiskey. He didn’t drop his eyes. “No,” he said.
Illya clicked his glass against Napoleon’s and nodded.
*****************
The bathroom was pleasantly warm with the steam from the shower. Illya’s form was barely obscured by the frosted waves on the clear shower curtain. Napoleon opened the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet to get out the toothpaste and left it angled towards the bathtub as he brushed his teeth.
Illya stepped dripping onto the rug and met Napoleon’s eyes in the mirror before he reached for a towel.
“Get in before the water’s gone,” Illya said.
Napoleon pulled off his unbuttoned shirt and his shorts in a couple deft movements and walked to the bathtub. Illya was rubbing his hair dry, the towel half over his face. Napoleon thought there was a slight chance Illya didn’t notice, but Illya wasn’t known for missing details.
Napoleon didn’t turn off the shower until the water was cool. When he stepped out, Illya wasn’t in the room. Something was neatly folded next to the dry towel draped over the radiator. For a second Napoleon thought it was his shirt, but the collar was different and there was too much material. “I’m going to regret that pretty dress comment forever,” Napoleon muttered to himself as he finished drying off. He was still grumbling when he slid the robe over his head, although he appreciated that it fell all the way to his feet. Napoleon glanced in the mirror, grabbed his comb and brought his hair to order. The image in the mirror looked quite ordinary. He just needed to not look down, he thought as he flicked off the light and opened the door. Icy air swept over his damp skin.
Across the hallway, the bedroom door was nearly closed. “Hurry up, Napoleon, before you get cold again,” Illya called. Napoleon bounded across the corridor, kicked the bedroom door shut and dove for the bed.
“Where’d these come from?” Napoleon asked when he poked his head out from beneath the covers, rubbing his feet enthusiastically against the flannel sheets.
“Top of the closet,” Illya said. “I brought them with me from England, but I rarely use them here. Or the extra duvets,” he added, patting the thick layers of bedding which now covered them with the book he had been reading.
“Central heating is quite the invention,” Napoleon observed.
“When it works, yes; it’s very nice,” Illya conceded. “There’s more scotch on your nightstand and a glass of water.
Napoleon got his nose above the covers and turned to look. “How’d you have time to do all this?” Napoleon asked, reaching for the water and taking a long drink.
“I thought you’d be a while in the shower and you were,” Illya answered.
So Illya had noticed, Napoleon thought, sinking down to his eyes under the duvets again. “Where’d the robes come from?”
“Oh, I think you remember,” Illya said. “I believe they were meant to be betrothal gifts, although they were presented to me as the 'white robes of the leader'. I’ve got the dagger that goes with them on my nightstand. I like to keep the blade sharp.”
Napoleon decided that any further remarks about pretty dresses would be ill-advised. “It's warmer than I thought it would be,” he said instead.
“That’s why I kept them.” Illya replied, twisting to get his vodka glass and letting cold air under the covers. It hadn't been the only reason. Seeing if results could be recreated was sound methodology.
Napoleon recalled how Illya had looked, what he had thought the robes meant, and how, in one way, he hadn't been that far off. His mind wouldn't take the analysis any further than that.
“Aren’t you cold?” Napoleon asked, bringing his thoughts back to the present. He couldn’t seem to get his feet warm, although he’d only walked a few steps from the bathroom.
“I was moving rather fast before I got in bed,” Illya said, without turning his eyes away from the book he had balanced on his knee. "And I had slippers on. Go ahead. Warm your feet on me. I’ve saved you from frostbite before.”
Napoleon stopped rubbing his feet against the sheets. He stopped breathing for a moment, too. “I don’t think I’ll get frostbite in here,” he said slowly, fixing his gaze on a watercolour of the Mathematical Bridge across the room.
“No, but you’ve been jiggling the bed so much I couldn't read,” Illya replied.
“Ah,” Napoleon said and his brain began to whirr.
Illya raised his leg and the air shifted under the blankets. Napoleon heard a page turn. Napoleon smelt the soap they had both used and a hint of cedar. His toes were still cold although his face was becoming flushed. He moved one foot closer to the warmth of Illya’s legs. It made his feet feel even colder. He suppressed an urge to reach out with his hand, to find the hem of the long garment and explore the tented darkness between Illya’s raised knee and the leg that lay flat on the bed. His hand hadn’t been invited. Only my feet. Napoleon turned on his side and carefully moved his feet up against Illya’s leg, positioning them one above the other along the warm skin, the hair tickling the soles of his feet. Napoleon flexed his toes against the warmth, shifted his feet so his arches fit around the curve of Illya’s calf. Illya turned another page of his book.
Illya was pragmatic, Napoleon reasoned. The apartment was nearly freezing. Sharing body warmth made sense. They had often done it in the field. Napoleon took a deep breath; his feet were starting to thaw. But they were not in the field now. They were safe and uninjured, fed and clean and simply needing to get through a night until the heating could be repaired.
And with the replacement of a valve, the click of a switch, this privilege would be whisked away until some other emergency required it, excused it, gave him the gift of it. Napoleon moved his feet along Illya’s calf, touched the bone of his ankle with his toes, felt the side of Illya’s knee against his heel. His fingers were so much better suited to what he wanted to do. He inched closer; feeling the heat of Illya’s body against his back.
“How did you get so cold between the bathroom and here?” Illya asked. The hand that wasn’t steadying his book settled on the bit of Napoleon’s head above the covers. “You didn’t dry your hair well enough,” Illya said as if that was the only matter requiring commentary at the moment. Illya pushed his fingers through the damp hair. Napoleon reminded himself to breath steadily, slowly, as though he were faking sleep. Illya’s fingers carded through the hair down to Napoleon’s neck and back to his forehead. His hand was warm against Napoleon’s scalp. A desire flared wildly to turn around and seize Illya in his arms. Illya would know everything then. The idea was enough to keep Napoleon still, focussing all his attention on the feel of Illya’s skin beneath his feet, of Illya’s hand on his head and ignoring everything in between those two warm points. Illya’s fingernails scraped lightly along Napoleon’s scalp as his hand moved and Napoleon's toes began flexing in the same rhythm. He kept all his attention on those two poles of his physical being while Illya stroked back and forth slowly, warmly, hypnotically.
****************
Napoleon was flat on his stomach, his head up against a pillow, not on it, the covers around his ears, when sounds and smells began to impinge on his consciousness. He was deliciously warm. He shifted against the flannel sheets. The pressure felt delicious, too. Illya was speaking, not too far away. Napoleon couldn’t make out the words. He’s speaking softly because he thinks I’m still asleep. The idea made Napoleon feel warmer. He didn’t bother to open his eyes. Illya would tell him if there was anything urgent he needed to know. Napoleon flexed his feet. The memory of Illya’s skin beneath them came back, the weight of Illya’s hand on his head. Napoleon pressed more firmly against the mattress. He’d wanted to take so much more. He sat bolt upright in the bed. I didn’t, did I?
The room was freezing.
Illya was standing by the window, talking and looking out, communicator in one hand, cup of tea in the other. He was outlined in the white light of sun reflecting off snow. “We’ll have our communicators nearby,” Illya said. He closed the device and turned to Napoleon.
“I see the heating’s still not working,” Napoleon said and shivered.
“I’d get back under the covers. No hope of heat today. It snowed all last night except for a spate of freezing rain around daybreak, so there’s ice under the newest snow. Almost nothing is moving. The evening shift didn‘t go home, some of the night shift came in early and they‘re still there. Mr Waverly went back to HQ last night and he’s there as well. They don’t need any more personnel at the moment. More snow‘s predicted later this morning.” Illya walked back towards the bed. He’d put on the white burnoose over the robe. The garments flowed about him as he advanced. “You’ll get cold again. Get under the duvet,” Illya repeated.
Napoleon drew the thick covers up to his shoulders without taking his eyes off Illya. He’d said the stupidest thing when he’d first seen Illya in those robes, said it in a voice he might have used when he was twelve, although probably not even then. Illya had just pressed his lips together and looked away. Napoleon hadn’t analysed his behaviour as he usually would. He’d told Illya once that sleeping with Angelique added spice to the experience. He’d analysed his attraction to her long ago. Why, Napoleon finally asked himself, hadn’t he analysed this?
Illya put his cup down on the nightstand and opened a thermos. The aroma of fresh coffee flavoured the air.
Facing fearful situations was an agent's job. Studying one's own reactions, understanding one's own fears were essential parts of it. Napoleon hadn’t examined that reaction to Illya. He’d let it float unconnected to causes or consequences and whenever it bumped against his consciousness, he’d bat it away. Illya hadn’t called him on this shortcoming, had let it pass. So far. Napoleon’s heart was thumping, no part of him cold, as he accepted the steaming cup Illya held out.
Illya stepped out of his slippers, settled himself on the bed above the covers, drawing his cloak across his legs and picked up his cup. He regarded Napoleon over the rim of it.
Napoleon stared into his coffee, avoiding Illya’s eyes. Suddenly, they had time this morning. Time to explore this anomaly. Napoleon took a sip of coffee and blamed his temperature change on the hot liquid. He lowered his cup and studied Illya’s feet, bare and crossed at the ankles, almost as pale as the robes and with their own highlights of gold. Napoleon swallowed more coffee that was too hot for more than sipping. He wondered whether Illya's feet were cold from standing by the window, whether he should hold them between his hands to warm them. Napoleon's fingers tightened around his cup; he gulped more of the coffee. He could have set his cup down on the nightstand, but didn't dare lean across Illya to reach it. Napoleon's eyes traced the fine white scar along the side of Illya’s left foot. A shard of flying glass had cut through his boot. Napoleon tried to remember which mission that had been, but all he could picture was blood oozing out of the gash in the thick leather and Illya smiling because they’d gotten out alive again.
He would have another scar now, on his thigh. Napoleon hadn’t been there when Illya got it, hadn’t been bold enough to look last night at how it had healed, but he’d seen Illya limping from it when it was new. And yet he'd set that woman on him. Why? Because he'd seen then that Illya didn’t want her and it was such a relief to see him flee. What would I have done if he'd embraced her instead? Napoleon drained his cup. The scar would be deep. He needed to see it. Illya’s hand was around the empty mug, tugging it away. Napoleon watched the hand and the cup moving through the air, the cup settling on the night table. He still didn’t look at Illya’s face, but he reached out and touched the scar on Illya's foot with the tip of his finger.
Illya didn’t move. His skin was cold. Napoleon leaned forward and clasped the foot with both hands, rubbed across the instep, closed his fingers over the toes. He set the foot down on the duvet and took the other, rubbed it, warmed it, didn’t lift it to his mouth and kiss it. No, he resisted that, but not the hem of the robe. His fingers crept beneath it, just a short way at first and then a little higher to where his feet had been the night before and around the leg so the calf rested in his hand. He held his breath, feeling the muscle, warm and relaxed against his palm. Napoleon’s muscles weren’t relaxed. He concentrated on drawing in a breath without gasping.
Illya set down his cup. Napoleon’s heart stuttered and he looked up, knowing he probably had the same look of anguish on his face that Illya had seen the first time he wore those robes. There could be no doubt in Illya’s mind now. Probably there hadn’t been any doubt in Illya’s mind since The Arabian Affair, Napoleon thought.
“What was it you wanted to do then?” Illya asked.
Napoleon closed his eyes as though to remember, but it was so he wouldn‘t see Illya’s calm eyes looking back at him. “I’d come searching for you and you didn’t need me. You had it all in hand,” Napoleon said. He felt out of breath when he finished.
“You helped secure the facility. Before I even knew who you were, I thanked you for that,” Illya replied. "That wasn’t it.”
“I was surprised.”
“So was I,” Illya said, "and I teased you like we often tease one another."
“You looked different,” Napoleon offered, his eyes still shut.
“You’ve seen me in all sorts of disguises, Napoleon.”
“This was different. You looked like…”
“You also knew they were men’s clothes,” Illya said.
Napoleon nodded and sighed. “They looked like wedding clothes. You looked like a bridegroom.”
“Well, you weren’t too far off. Sophie went from wanting to sell me to wanting to keep me permanently. But that’s happened to us before on missions. Although it‘s usually been you.”
“Remember how uncomfortable I was each time? You seemed at ease. I thought you’d consented.”
“Oh, Napoleon. You hadn’t met her yet,” Illya chided, laughing.
“I wanted you,” Napoleon whispered. Illya almost didn’t hear him. “I wanted you to give your consent to me.” Illya stopped laughing. Napoleon opened his eyes.
“Didn’t set about it very effectively,” Illya replied.
Napoleon’s eyebrows slanted upwards and he shook his head. “No, I didn‘t. I could hear my voice, but I couldn’t stop the words.” He sighed. “And you didn’t say anything. You pressed your lips together and looked away.”
Illya nodded. “I thought I understood. Bombs and knives don’t shake your aplomb. Drugs don’t alter your personality that drastically.”
Napoleon leaned forward slightly. “You thought?”
“I was fairly sure," Illya amended, tilting his head. "But since then, you’ve had time to reflect and to act and you haven’t.”
“You looked away.”
Illya sighed. “Not accustomed to rejection, I see.”
“If you weren’t interested, I didn’t want to…" Napoleon paused and took a deep breath. "You figured that out, too.”
“Yes.” Illya's gaze didn't waver.
“So you’ve come to my rescue?” Napoleon asked. One of his hands slid past Illya’s knee and settled lightly on his thigh.
“Show me what you wanted to do,” Illya said.
Napoleon glanced down at where his hand rested under the white and gold cloth, noted how far up he'd pushed the hem of the garment and nodded. “Come under the covers with me,” he whispered. And Illya did.
****************
Napoleon took his communicator with him when he slipped out of bed and braved the frigid corridor. He turned on the hot water in the shower to warm the bathroom and brushed his teeth. They were chattering by the time he finished and his communicator chirruped.
“Solo here. Are we needed at HQ?”
“A commendable opening, Mr Solo. Not just yet, but this evening. We have a tele-conference arranged with Tokyo and Hong Kong about certain activities that I believe you will recall.” Napoleon murmured his assent. “Since our colleagues are not under a couple feet of ice and snow, they will be available as scheduled. I’d like you and Mr Kuryakin to join me at 2000.”
“Certainly, sir. We’ll be there.”
“Oh, and Mr Solo, your heat should be on soon, too. With so many staff members staying at HQ the pattern wasn’t noticed until a couple hours ago, but the heat had been turned off in all the buildings which have been switched to the computer-run climate control system. One of our European colleagues had entered the shut-off date of April 12th as 12/4 in the database and the system, being programmed using American conventions for dates, shut the furnaces down at noon yesterday. You will be pleased to know it’s being corrected as we speak.”
“One of the perils of international living,” Napoleon replied.
“Yes, quite so,” Mr Waverly harrumphed. “Until this evening, Mr Solo.”
Napoleon added a little cold water to the shower and got in. Heat would be nice, but not having it had certainly served a purpose. He snorted at himself as the hot water streamed over him. It was easy to begin to act assured after this morning, but it was an act. How could he ever be assured now that the intensity of his attachment to Illya was very clear to both of them?
Napoleon showered with due care and shaved rapidly. It was hard to focus on the emotional perils when there were hours before the meeting and Illya was naked and warm in bed.
**********
Stealthily, Napoleon eased himself under the covers and as close to Illya as he could get without touching, so as not to wake him just yet. It was hard to believe that he could touch now, without a pretext. That must have always made Illya speculate, Napoleon thought. How he could never keep his hands away from Illya. And hadn’t Illya presented him with a significant clue in return, by never objecting to it? Never going any further had always been based on fear though, Napoleon realised. It was a harsh truth to accept about himself, but it was wiser to acknowledge it. Self-delusion was dangerous.
Napoleon cupped his hands in front of his mouth and breathed on them. Only a little of Illya’s hair was visible above the duvet. Napoleon slipped completely beneath the blankets, laid his cheek against Illya’s back, twined his arm around his waist and let the sensation of holding Illya wash through him, let every cell participate. Of course, some parts of his anatomy were more obviously jubilant than others and it didn’t matter now that Illya would feel that when he awoke. Napoleon congratulated himself for having been able to function at all while ignoring a need as profound as this. Probably their training in withstanding torture had helped. He tried to match the rhythm of his breathing to Illya’s so their chests would rise and fall together. Stroking along Illya’s abdomen, the feel of the skin smooth beneath his fingertips, Napoleon let out a long sigh.
Illya shifted and enquired sleepily, “Will I be satisfying the famous Solo libido all on my own or will it be a team effort?” Napoleon’s muscles tightened. Illya turned around without dislodging Napoleon‘s encircling arm and considered him for a moment before brushing the hair back from Napoleon's forehead. He let his fingers run through the damp hair and back to Napoleon's cheek. Napoleon tried for a brave expression and knew he failed. “You dried it more thoroughly this time,” Illya said so gently it was almost an apology for the question, but not quite. He leaned forward, touching his lips lightly to the creases between Napoleon's eyebrows until the furrows disappeared and his eyes closed.
Napoleon's arm closed more firmly around Illya’s waist as he rolled onto his back, bringing Illya's solid weight against his chest, feeling the ripple of Illya's muscles beneath the smooth skin. Illya's smile changed the shape of his kisses as he moved along Napoleon's cheek to his mouth.
“Well?” Illya asked when their lips parted, his voice rising and falling with the one syllable, giving it texture. He lifted his head to look down at Napoleon.
The reminder made Napoleon's pulse race. He opened his eyes and found Illya's, shifted his legs so Illya’s thigh fell between them. “Would you be willing to take it on by yourself?” Napoleon asked.
“Do you think you could survive my full attention?” Illya replied, his gaze steady, his hand sliding down Napoleon's arm to grasp his hip.
“I’d be willing to die trying,” Napoleon said, his eyes half closing, his hips lifting in response.
Illya's head dipped until his lips grazed along Napoleon’s jaw to his neck. “I’d make a possessive lover,” Illya said, his words warm air against Napoleon‘s skin. “Unless it was for a mission.” He drew Napoleon’s skin between his teeth and nipped. “And maybe even then,” he added, pulling back to study Napoleon again and thinking of Angelique.
Napoleon saw the warning in Illya’s eyes, felt the danger it implied. Napoleon's breath came faster. Of all the dangerous people he knew, there were none more dangerous than Illya nor was there any greater danger than Illya deciding to walk away. Napoleon hooked his leg over Illya’s back as though to prevent his escape. “I’d rather die than not try,” Napoleon replied and he knew he had no mask in place when he said it.
Illya held Napoleon’s eyes as he reached behind his knee and raised it until the foot was over his shoulder. “I’ve made rather a habit of keeping you alive,” Illya whispered as he pushed far enough down to touch Napoleon‘s lips with his own.
One of Napoleon’s hands explored under the pillows. When he found the small item he wanted, he tapped the back of Illya’s hand with it, the hand that was stroking back and forth along the leg folded between them. Illya’s hand turned and closed over it. “You haven’t answered,” he said.
Napoleon had had some glorious encounters, but none of them had caused his blood to thrum the way it was now.
“I’d like it to be a solo effort,” he replied. His temperature spiked and the skin where they were pressed together became slippery. He could feel Illya laughing more than hear it.
“You should be embarrassed,” Illya said, sitting up and dragging the covers up with him. The cold air swooped in as Illya’s fingers stroked cool circles between Napoleon’s legs. He shivered. “But you mean it, don’t you?” Illya asked, lifting Napoleon’s other leg to shoulder height.
Napoleon began to say, yes, but the word turned into a hiss as Illya brought the covers back down over them. Napoleon was confident that Illya had understood his answer.
**********
Yes; and a single Alif were the clue ~
Could you but find it ~ to the Treasure-house,
And peradventure to The Master, too;
~ The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, Verse 50 (5th edition, E. Fitzgerald translation)
We are the Music-makers by A. W. E. O’Shaughnessy
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no subject
Date: 2012-01-02 06:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-03 03:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-03 03:38 am (UTC)I love the earlier interplay between them when they're going out on the double dates too, and the way his thoughts always come back to Illya--until he finally understands why.
Are you still up for January? I plan to get back to my routine tomorrow. And hope I haven't forgotten everything I did in November :)
no subject
Date: 2012-01-03 04:33 am (UTC)I'm very pleased you felt the direction of Napoleon's thoughts on the double dates worked. Had been wondering whether that was too indirect. :)
I am definitely up for our January plan. I'm still travelling but will be back in situ on the weekend and hope to get going shortly after that. I'd be delighted to read everything you'd like to send as soon as you start though. May take us a couple days to re-immerse ourselves, but then we will forge on.
Newsletter for Friday, December 21
Date: 2012-12-21 07:48 pm (UTC)