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Illya
Where does Napoleon find these women? Two days ago I left him for dead in the middle of a forsaken California desert, and today he showed up with a young and lovely blonde in tow. Sometimes there is no explanation other than luck.
It certainly wasn't anything I did. I could only watch, immobilized by ropes on my wrists and a gun at my back. I dug at my wrists with my nails, drew blood and tried to use that lubrication to slip my hands free but had made little progress when that final blast sent Napoleon tumbling over a cliff. The air thickened to an unbreathable substance, my imagination more than equal to conjuring up the snap and splinter of bone, the metallic scent of Napoleon’s blood soaking into thirsty sand.
My captors taunted me with a similar fate. They delighted in describing his broken body on the rocks below, holding out the carrot of reprieve if only I would betray vital information.
At that moment, though, I feared life far more than death. Our macabre game of "Who goes first?" had come to its inevitable, grim conclusion. Life without Napoleon? My center of gravity tilted with seismic force, no anchorage left for me but duty. All that remained was a stubborn will to survive and complete my mission. It was as much for Napoleon as for UNCLE -- I could not permit his final assignment to go down in the books as a failure.
Then the assignment turned out to be a ruse, a trail of breadcrumbs strewn through a maze of Thrush's design. Thrush seemed to be attracting a higher order of evil masterminds these days. It was a plan worthy of Napoleon at his most devious -- and naturally it was Napoleon who exposed the trick.
As a partner and backup I had been singularly unuseful, it seemed. The vacuous young lady he brought to New York for debriefing had proved more astute and helpful than I.
His entrance into Waverly's office was classic Napoleon, sleek, groomed and complete with patented carefree facade. I was astounded he was not in a hospital with major injuries. Where were his concussion, sprained ankle and dislocated shoulder -- the chronic injuries that plagued me under similar circumstances? He must be bruised all over at the least, but betrayed no obvious discomfort. Annoyance rose within me like a squall line out of a clear sky. How dare he evade the injuries that always dogged me?
At least I had the satisfaction of knowing he had to write the report himself.
"So. There you are at last, Napoleon. And I should have known you would not be alone." I scowled at him and his companion, as if the only question in my mind was what had taken him so long.
He patted the girl's arm protectively and beamed at me. "Better late than never, my grandmother always used to say."
Better late than never. Oh, how true that was. I wanted nothing more at that moment than to yank him up against me, hard, so I could feel his breath and heartbeat. And then kiss that smug 'how do I do these things?' expression off his face. Instead, my emotional stamina waning, I found I could not meet his eyes, a failing not as noticeable as it might have been, given that his attention was intimately engaged elsewhere. Still, I could not resist oblique glances, to reassure myself of his wholeness.
Napoleon is too perceptive to have missed the girl's 'uninterested' signals, so I could only presume he had another reason for dragging her along. The Los Angeles office could have debriefed her with far less effort and expense. Mr. Waverly had no medal to award, no congratulations to render. No, Napoleon’s purpose was clear to me. This was his way of tossing my multiple failures in my face.
"Well, get on with it!" I finally snapped, unwilling to endure this final grievance any longer. My annoyance cut through the haze of distraction which seemed to beset Napoleon whenever he looked at the girl. He manufactured a ceremony, returning to her a safety pin, of all things, which had apparently also been more useful than I, and of course he kissed her. The ceremony -- and especially the kiss -- seemed to conclude the entire affair. There was no point to competing over the young lady. Even had I found her desirable, she was anxious only to return to her boyfriend.
I left soon after, exhausted to my very marrow, wondering if somehow Napoleon would manage to overcome her resistance to his charms.
* * * * * *
An hour later, a vodka or three and Billie Holiday on the turntable had proven unequal to the task of banishing a phalanx of unwanted memories. When I made the mistake of closing my eyes, an image of Napoleon, broken and bleeding, imprinted itself on the inside of my eyelids. And even though I knew that vision to be unreal, the agony that sizzled through my nerves like live voltage through wires was genuine enough.
I do not know how many deaths I have caused, directly or indirectly. How very strange, then, that the one that disturbed me most was the one who hadn't died after all. Yet.
I have never been, by nature, an introspective man. Things are what they are. If circumstances are not to my liking, I do what I can to change them. If unchangeable, I accept what is. This methodology has worked satisfactorily for more than thirty years. Why then did I find myself brooding over something I could not change?
I hoped for better absolution from music of my own making. Napoleon may work out his aches of the heart between the sheets; I work mine out between the sheet music.
After all, Victor Hugo famously described music as expressing that which cannot be put into words but cannot remain silent.
With deliberate care I opened the case that held my cor anglais, assembled it with hands that refused to stop shaking, placed the bocal into my mouth, and let my horn choose the song.
* * * * * *
Anyone who thinks Illya is all practicality and icy reserve has never watched him play his horn. Passion streams into the plaintive melody, an unstoppable flow. There's so much passion for life inside him, but most people never see that. He's smart and disciplined, and they see only what he wants them to see.
But passion can't be contained forever. Like Illya himself, his music is a complex mélange of brilliance and mischief, clarity and melancholy, an expression of something so fundamental within his spirit that it transcends words. When he plays for himself, for the love of music, he's exposed, right down to the core of himself. The combination is utterly compelling.
That was what I saw when I entered his apartment. It didn't surprise me when my knock went unanswered; I assumed he hadn't heard over the music seeping around the edges of the doorframe and into the corridor. But that he was so lost to his music that he didn’t realize I'd entered -- that surprised me. It's hard to catch him off-guard.
The song wound down, fading out on a low note as mellow as the December sunlight spilling through the window. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of that battered old sofa we'd dragged home from a Harlem flea market like a hunting trophy.
I moved to the sofa. "Illya?" My voice sounded as scratchy as one of his precious old jazz records.
"Hello, Napoleon." He blinked, and in that instant before discipline reasserted itself, I glimpsed fading sadness in his eyes. If I'd needed a measuring stick for just how much the mission had affected him, I had one now
"Where is your silly little companion?"
"The luscious Miss Abbe Milton is on her way back home to the eminently undesirable metropolis of Gossamer Flats, California." I allowed a touch of disgruntlement to creep into my voice. "But if I'd known you wanted a threesome, tovarishch, I'm sure I could've arranged otherwise."
Illya made a rude sound in the back of his throat. "Your inclination toward debauchery is unmatched."
I nudged him with my knee and hip, until we could sit comfortably, wedged shoulder-to-shoulder on that shabby sofa. "Rumor has it you're not above a bit of debauchery yourself, partner mine."
He rolled his eyes, but at least annoyed disgust fit him better than that odd sort of bleak misery I'd glimpsed. "Three’s a crowd."
Perhaps all he needed was a little cajoling. I took his free hand in mine and knotted our fingers together. "Ah, but two's company. We could do a little companionable debauching all by ourselves."
I loved that little twitch of his lips, like he was trying to prevent a grin. "And I would want to do this because--?"
"Because you love me?"
His fingers tightened in mine, and that little twitch of his lips turned into a real smile, one of those wide, genuine ones that reached his eyes and lit up his face like sun through storm clouds. It wasn't something we'd ever talked about, the feeling between us. Hadn't felt the need to name it before, not when we lived it so thoroughly.
"Why, Napoleon, do you harbor honorable intentions toward me?"
Then Illya wrapped his hand around the back of my neck, pressed his gorgeous, lush mouth against mine, opened his lips and sucked me into a deep, wet, uncompromising Smirnoff-flavored kiss. I couldn't resist tangling my fingers in his sunshine hair, couldn't stop the greedy little sounds I made, and I guessed he couldn't help his answering, insistent growl.
I've never before kissed anybody who knew so thoroughly and exactly what he wanted from me. Demanded it -- and received it. And gave everything he had in return.
When he finally released me, I realized that, yes, I did have honorable intentions toward Illya, because I wanted desperately to conjure up a future for us that went beyond the next week, or month, or even the next couple of years. And apparently so did Illya, a thought that made me go hot and then cold under my skin.
I buried my face against his shoulder and busied myself licking salt from his neck. "I’m sorry I died out there."
His pulse thundered under my mouth and his grip tightened on my neck, but all he said was, "Apology accepted" in a breathless, choked little voice. And then, fiercely, "I’m sorry I didn’t kill them."
So very, very Illya that I burst out laughing. My wonderful, ruthless, loyal, bloodthirsty partner. My heart felt like the Grinch's -- it grew so big it threatened to burst out of my chest.
He grinned back at me, and just like that we were safely past the accusation of first-degree sentimentality.
I wiped the tears of laughter from my eyes. "So, didn't someone mention debauchery?"
"That would have been you." His voice was dry as a good martini, but his eyes twinkled.
I adopted my most inviting expression and waggled my eyebrows playfully. "Solitary debauchery isn’t nearly as much fun, my friend."
He shook his head in what I took to be amused exasperation and lifted his horn back to his mouth. "You forgot to say please."
And then he drew his lips over his teeth and eased the mouthpiece -- pardon me, bocal, as he's reminded me a dozen times - between them and all of a sudden my pulse kicked into high gear at the hungry, possessive gleam in his eyes, and my dick stiffened to attention.
I've seen him do that lip and teeth thing hundreds of times, but on none of those occasions was he playing a horn. My cock twitched, reminding me it had a proprietary claim on that specific technique. I could almost feel myself being sucked into luxurious heat and wetness.
He shot me a sideways glance: mischievous, amused and smug.
* * * * * *
"Napoleon." The catch in his voice told me he'd seen my back. I straightened up from pulling off my socks, unable to hide the wince as I did so. I couldn't see the bruises, but after two days knew they had to look as spectacularly painful as they felt.
The bed dipped under his weight. I imagined the rueful smile on his face as his big hands traced the line of bruises with exquisite gentleness. "I wondered how you managed to walk away unscathed."
One warm hand slipped inside my trouser waistband. His palm molded against the curve of my ass and squeezed experimentally. "Just how far do the bruises go?"
"Far enough." I hissed when he squeezed a tad too hard. He leaned closer, not quite touching, so that I felt his comforting warmth all down my back. His lips settled lightly against the point of my right shoulder.
I felt his smile through the kiss. "I'm glad I amuse you, Illya."
He replaced his mouth with his hands and massaged the stiffness from my neck and shoulders, careful around the bruises. That low, knowing chuckle sounded in my ear, his breath was warm on my cheek. "Occasionally." Then he schooled his voice back to its usual dry sarcasm, "Next time, do not be so clumsy as to fall off a cliff, please."
I hadn't exactly fallen, but I definitely agreed with his advice. "Well, at least I'm lucky." I meant it as a joke. Behind me he inhaled hard through his nose, and I nearly jumped out of my skin when his hands pressed too hard, just for a second, before he remembered my bruises.
"Not all luck is good luck, Napoleon." There was a break in his voice I didn't like. I couldn't twist my head far enough to see his face -- not unless I wanted a nice case of whiplash to go with the rest of the injuries -- so I slipped out from under his hands and turned to face him.
"Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated," I reminded him, damned my bruises and pulled him close so he felt the heat of my body, the reassuring thump of my heartbeat and finally, a kiss that was as deep and as hard as I could make it, until he clutched hands in my hair and took what he needed.
He took a couple of long, slow breaths and then leaned in for another kiss, not as hard or deep as before but much, much sweeter. One hand cradled my head loosely, the other brushed across my chest and then lower, to stroke across the front of my pants. The tenderness in his touch awakened a congenial commotion in my groin. We held that almost unbearably sweet kiss for a long time, his tongue teasing mine, him doing most of the breathing for both of us. It was a good thing we were still sitting down, because everything except my dick went limp from the waist down. It was that kind of kiss.
My hands still worked, though, and fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. The rest of me was desperate for some skin-on-skin contact. His expression remained slightly troubled, but he eased back far enough to give me some working room.
I got his shirt open, bent my head to taste one exposed, crinkled nipple and rubbed my cheek against the small dusting of golden hair along his breastbone. His cock responded, hardening even more against my thigh.
He groaned, a low, liquid sound that practically made my toes curl, and tumbled over on his side, pulling me with him. By design or happy accident, he landed on the bottom. I voted for the former, and rewarded his thoughtfulness by nibbling around his navel. It happened to be a particularly sensitive spot. "Ohhhh. Napoleon."
Once I had his full attention, I intended to keep it. Conversations about luck or cliffs or anything else besides how amazingly good he felt against me could just wait. I propped myself on my elbows, pushed his legs apart with my knee, drove my hips forward hard, and reached up to pinch and twist his nipples. He practically levitated up off the bed with a yelp, his grip on my ass strong enough to leave fingerprints. His glare promised retribution but I swooped in for a kiss and then another, and whatever threat he'd meant to issue got lost somewhere in the middle.
He was so unbelievably beautiful, grinning up at me, eyes gone hot with desire, the last of the weak late afternoon light glancing off his bright hair and gilding his flesh, luminous as a Vermeer portrait.
Just about the moment I realized he was being more cooperative than usual, his grin turned feral, his strong thighs clamped tight around mine, and he flipped us with all the controlled grace and ease of the gymnast he'd once been. If my bruises protested, I didn't notice, because he hovered over me, wild-eyed, sweaty and predatory like a wolf scenting prey.
"Do you feel lucky now?" He dipped his head, bit my neck and collarbone, then dragged his tongue in long, luxurious swipes across my chest. Rested his cheek there for a moment as if to reassure himself my heart really was beating. Nuzzled my nipples, his teeth worrying at them hard enough to send a jolt of pure electricity straight to my cock, a sensation that was just barely inside the line that marked pleasure from pain. I squirmed under him, twitchy from the need rising up in me like mid-day heat, and a whine got past my clenched teeth.
What I felt was unbelievably alive, the thick vein of connection between us pulsing hard and fast, in sync with every beat of my heart.
He took pity on my impatience and moved, fingers and tongue blazing a trail across my belly, soft hair trailing in their wake, kissing my skin everywhere he could reach, great sucking kisses that left his mark on me. Unbuckled my belt and savagely yanked trousers and boxers off. Paused with his nose in the curly hair at my groin and breathed in my scent.
He tasted my cock, licked up the underside and then swallowed hard, gulping me down nearly to the root. Pure. Scalding. Ecstasy. I came up off the bed with a wordless howl that meant yes and please and more and ohmygoddontstop. He pressed me back down with easy strength and flattened one hand against my stomach as a warning to keep still. The other hand went to my balls and rolled them in his big rough palm with just the right degree of pressure, and his mouth tightened around my cock, sucking so hard I felt the vacuum even behind my eyes. I didn't last long, couldn't hold out against that kind of outright demand, and came in his blast furnace of a mouth in explosive, fiery bursts that dazzled my vision behind closed eyelids.
I don't know how long I was insensible after that, and only returned to my senses when Illya slid up my body and kissed my cheek.
"I'll take that kind of death any day," I murmured, and turned to catch his beautiful, swollen lips with mine.
He smiled and practically purred into the kiss, pleased with himself. "Debauchery, as requested."
"Masochism is more like it." I cupped the bulging front of his pants, where heat and pressure had pooled.
He closed his eyes and stretched as unconcernedly as a cat, while I admired the view as his skin rippled over muscle and bone like water sheeting over rocks. "Not at all." He smacked his lips. Yes, a cat and his cream, most assuredly. "It's called delayed gratification, Napoleon. You should try it some time."
I unbuckled his belt and tugged. He lifted his hips so I could ease pants and underwear off. As I'd expected, his cock was hard as iron, seeping wetness and definitely eager for some gratification. Then I spotted something crumpled in the sheets, something that gave me a most tantalizing idea. I reached for it, pulled black silk taut between my hands. "Patronizing me only delays your gratification more, you know."
I probably sounded a tad too gleeful because he frowned. "Napoleon? What are you thinking?"
"Oh, just a little delayed gratification." Quickly, before he could react, I looped the tie around the base of his balls and cock and pulled it snug.
"What the…!" There was nothing wrong with his reflexes, nothing at all. He came up off the mattress like he'd been shot out of a cannon. "Napoleon!"
I just smiled at him and quickly tied a knot. The fabric was a little stiffer than a scarf, but not by much. He watched me do it, too, pupils gone so wide in shock his eyes looked black instead of blue. His chest heaved with the effort to control his breathing and his hands clutched tightly in the sheets.
"Napoleon. That's an expensive tie." He measured out the words as evenly as a metronome, but his voice was low and raspy like he'd just smoked a carton of cigarettes.
I leaned forward to kiss him, both of us with eyes wide open. "Yes, I know. I gave it to you for your birthday last year. I thought it would look good on you." I looked down at my handiwork, at that beautiful cock and balls, rosy flesh stretched taut, at the black shimmer framing them. I'd never seen a more desirable work of art. "I still do." Then I clicked my tongue disapprovingly. "You really should treat it with more respect than just dropping it wherever you take it off."
He stared at me like I'd lost my mind. "Yes, using it as an instrument of sexual torture is infinitely more respectful."
"Certainly a lot more fun," I added cheerfully.
"Says the man who isn't roped and hogtied," he grumbled, but did lay back down when I pushed on his chest. I noticed his hands were still clutched hard in the sheets, and almost regretted the lack of a second tie.
"Never fear, my untamed maverick, this branding won't hurt at all." And then I proceeded to leave my mark on him, biting and sucking on his neck until I pulled his blood to the surface, a visible reminder of my existence. If he needed one.
He swatted me on my ass. "Liar. That hurt!" But he smiled, and one hand touched his neck where I'd made my mark.
After that I took my time working my way down his body, kissing here, nipping there, memorizing the flavors and scents that said 'Illya' to me: oil and gunpowder, sweat and vodka. His nipples swelled in my mouth when I sucked them, the skin on the inside of his arms was soft as suede, paler than the rest of his flesh. He trembled and shuddered underneath my lips and hands, gave off heat like a thermonuclear reactor, and didn't seem to know what to do with his hands. They tangled in my hair, raked through his own hair, fisted in the sheets and once -- just once his hands strayed toward his cock. I slapped his hands away.
He tensed when I got to his groin, but put his hand over mine, rode along as I stroked his erection and made the sweetest incoherent noises it had ever been my pleasure to hear. I was hard again but not like he was, not with the burning, heavy ache in his balls. Oh, yes, I knew how that felt. I tucked myself between his legs and kissed the closest inner thigh, the skin here more like velvet. The springy steel of firm muscles quivered. I liked that reaction so much I licked the crease where thigh joined body and dragged moans and curses from him.
He curled up, using my hands on his thighs as leverage and looked at me, although his eyes had gone hazy and unfocused. "I can't take much--"
"--come along, little dogie," I crooned. My mouth practically watered, anticipating the musky, undiluted essence of Illya that lurked between his legs. I wrapped my arms around him tight, because I knew he'd buck like a rodeo bull when I put my mouth on his cock, and rubbed my lips against the silky head of his cock. He didn't disappoint me, twisted and writhed, and pulled my hair so hard I teared up. The last time I'd heard noises like that, he'd been cowering in a corner, and then the noises had meant terror, not pleasure. That distinction made all the difference in the world. I wanted to suck him all night long, for the sheer pleasure of listening to those uninhibited animal sounds.
He had other ideas. "Not this way," he gritted out between gasps and cries. "Wanna--" He used every bit of strength he owned to push me away from his cock. My teeth scraped against him; I hadn't expected the rude interruption. He didn't seem to notice.
And then he rolled me over, reached for the lotion we always kept by the bedside and slicked both of us up with trembling fingers. I flexed, lifted my legs over his arms, and he did the rest. Lifted me up to where he wanted me with casual strength. Rocked forward, used his weight to sink into me, slow and smooth and perfect, so both of us felt every fraction of the inward glide, until silk rubbed against my balls. He was slit-eyed and shivering and reaching so very, very hard for control. He leaned over me, stroked my cheek and kissed me gently. "I can feel you," he whispered. I tightened my muscles to increase the pressure and his eyes shone like liquid silver in the deepening gloom. "So alive."
"Yes," I said, and all of a sudden I wasn't big enough inside to hold everything I felt. I took his head in my hands and held him down for a long kiss that said what I hadn't put into words. When it drifted into nothing more than the wash of warm breath, I whispered against his mouth. "Stay with me, partner," and snaked one hand between our bodies and pulled the slipknot on our impromptu cock ring.
"I will," he promised, levered up, wrapped his hand around my cock, and moved. And took me with him, into hot, perfect friction. We moved together like we'd choreographed the whole thing, the way we did everything, a confluence of instinct and bone-deep knowledge, a synergy that made us more than just him and me.
Then, though there was nothing uncomplicated about anything else in our lives, I followed him into the sharp, uncomplicated thrill of release.
* * * * * *
"Ouch." Napoleon squirmed restlessly and pushed me off to one side. "My bruises have bruises."
I didn't appreciate losing my pillow, lumpy as it might have been. At least he was warm. "And whose fault is that?" I curled up alongside him, pleasantly drowsy and unexpectedly content. "I'm not the lucky one."
He sat up and turned on the bedside lamp. Annoying man. He should have the decency to fall asleep immediately after sex like any other normal man. But of course this is Napoleon. Not an ordinary man at all. And at least he is here to annoy me.
I cracked one eye open slightly against the glare. He did look rather miserable. "I have aspirin. And bad American vodka. Will those help?"
"Yes. Please." He leaned his head back against the headboard, as if he lacked the will or strength to lay down again.
Napoleon - reduced to saying 'please' to me? He wasn't that unaccustomed to on-the-job injuries. It seemed my partnerly responsibility to fetch these small comforts for him. This time there was something I could to help him.
I retrieved my bad American vodka from the living room and headed to the bathroom for the aspirin and those useful, if wasteful, disposable paper cups. The aspirin seemed to be engaged in a game of hide-and-seek, but I did find a pain medication prescription bottle in its place. Serendipity. I took two of those tablets back to the bed, poured Napoleon a small chaser of alcohol, and watched as he swallowed them down. He never even examined the pills.
Yes, I think he needed that pain medication far more than aspirin.
"Come, get into bed, my friend." I arranged the sheet and blanket so he could actually do that, rather than simply lay on top of the cover and catch a chill. I have always kept the thermostat quite low by his comfort standards and had neglected to turn it up earlier. Once he was comfortably arranged, I readjusted the thermostat setting and returned to his side.
I noticed the tie on the floor, where it had landed after we discarded it. I picked it up. "Napoleon?"
"Mmmmmm." He sounded half-asleep already.
"Why did you do that? The tie?" It was completely ruined, greasy with lube, wrinkled and stained.
His eyes opened, but the glassy look to them warned that I might not get much of an answer out of him.
"Didn't you like it?"
I had, very much, after the initial shock. It had been very intense, but that may have been due as much to receiving his intense undivided attention over such a long period of time, as to physical stimulation.
That, however, was something for me to consider later. "That wasn't what I asked."
"Improvisation. Not luck." He smiled at me, slow and sleepy and just a little bit wicked.
"What do you mean?" I looked down at the tie I still held and then back at him, puzzled. "What does this have to do with luck?"
He laughed softly. "Luck is just being smart enough--" he yawned and blinked hard "-- to recognize unexpected opportunity, and then using it creatively."
That sounded a lot like Lesson 46 in the Survival School manual. "I still don't--"
He crooked his index finger at me. Come closer. I obeyed. "I jumped, partner. Saw a chance to turn the circumstances to our advantage, and took it."
He could not have shocked me more if he'd said he was born on a different planet. I thought perhaps this was how it felt to be struck by lightning. "Napoleon!"
"You would've done the same." Another yawn.
I doubted I would have found the same inspiration in a 20 foot drop, or, quite frankly, a tie, black silk or not. I told him so.
The medication was definitely easing his pain. His smile turned… somewhat goofy. "You would've come up with something." He wriggled himself into a more comfortable position. "Anyway. Don't need luck. I have you."
"Napoleon?"
A soft snore was my only answer, but he'd certainly left me with a lot to consider. I glanced at my UNCLE issue watch, which tells quite accurate time in addition to its less mundane functions. Still quite early. I had plenty of time to contemplate his words.
If he was right and I was his luck, then surely he was mine. Which means that I am very, very lucky indeed.
It may be true that all we have, besides our ideals and a skill set that doesn't look good on a resume, is each other.
I smoothed sweat-dampened hair back from Napoleon's forehead and smiled.
Things are what they are. And I can be content with that.