No one had warned the staff of Anfa's exclusive Clinique Royale--no royal connections; only aspirations--about Napoleon, and consequently, life was looking a lot rosier. It tended to, for Napoleon, when he was looking at it from underneath a beautiful girl. Registered Nurse Miriam--who shared her name with half her colleagues, and a lovely name it was, too--was a curvaceous creature with coffee-colored skin, electric green eyes, and a head of glossy auburn curls that cascaded over her shoulders onto Napoleon's chest as she leaned down to kiss him. Her full, wine-dark lips tasted just as delicious as they looked.

"My dear--" Napoleon murmured when they parted, running his hands up the smooth skin of her upper arms, but the rest of his sentence was preempted by the door to his suite flying open with such force the room reverberated when it hit the wall. Illya stood in the doorway.

Napoleon raised his eyebrows. "Oh, there you are, tovarisch." He'd woken up the previous afternoon and been informed he'd missed a day. In the intervening twenty hours, he had seen not a whisker of his partner. "Oh, wait, don't go," Napoleon said as Miriam swung her leg over him and slid off the bed.

She shook her hair back from her shoulders before straightening her rumpled white uniform. "Dommage," she said, glancing slyly at Illya, "mais je ne me sens pas de taille." She blew Napoleon a kiss, the pucker of her lips doing beautiful things to his insides, and gave Illya a cordial greeting, which he returned, as she slipped by him. He closed the door behind her.

Napoleon lifted one knee under the covers to camouflage certain states of affairs, and gave Illya a sour look. "Brilliant timing."

Illya's brow wrinkled, his mouth drawing tight in deep concern. "I was so worried," he said.

"You were?"

Illya crossed to his bedside in two long strides. "Yes--petrified some unscrupulous woman might be forcing her attentions on you in your weakened state, taking shameless advantage, robbing you of your virtue."

"Now, look," Napoleon growled. "I was running a fever of a hundred and five by the time I got here."

Illya put both hands on the edge of the bed and leaned down so that his hair fell across his face. He gazed earnestly into Napoleon's eyes. "I know," he said, "and the thought of you in that condition, being held down and ravished--" He shuddered theatrically.

On the one hand, Napoleon was powerfully annoyed--he could well imagine this as the theme of every romantic interruption his partner engineered for the next year. On the other, the sunlight streaming in the large windows limned Illya's hair in gold and turned his eyes the precise shade of a cloudless sky on a summer day. Napoleon had always been put out when Illya's looks, so different from his own, caught women like deer in headlights, but maybe they had a point, at that. He realized he was staring straight into those blue eyes when Illya went silent. Napoleon blinked, then smiled. "Good thing you came to save me, then."

Illya's eyelids lowered and he tilted his chin up slightly, but he was still very close--kissing distance. That thought made the hairs on the back of Napoleon's neck stand up.

"You're not supposed to be engaged in strenuous activity while you convalesce," Illya said.

"Miriam was just administering treatment."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, I was having trouble sleeping."

"Were you, indeed?" Illya asked. "Well, that is serious."

"I thought you'd agree."

"Oh, I do." Illya's right arm landed bent above Napoleon's head on the pillow and he leaned down till they were nose to nose. "I can't have you ruining your recovery with sleep deprivation." His lips touched Napoleon's.

Napoleon was too surprised to resist when his partner deepened the kiss, pressing him back into the pillow. Illya's finger stroked the cleft in his chin, then trailed down over his Adam's apple, to the depression between his collarbones. He flattened his hand there, half his fingers touching skin, half cloth, as he slowly explored Napoleon's mouth.

His pupils were dilated when he pulled back, his lower lip glistening and slightly swollen. He breathed quietly through parted lips. The entire picture was almost frighteningly sensual. Napoleon had never before pictured his partner like this. He'd seen him go off with the odd girl, but never wondered what expression he might make when they kissed--how that expressive mouth of his might taste... Napoleon closed his eyes.

Illya's breath ghosted over his cheek. His hair swept against Napoleon's temple, smooth and cool as water. "Napoleon," he whispered, "I want my partner beside me. Let me treat you in her place."

"Whuh--" Napoleon said articulately, then, "Whoa, wait, Illya--" as his partner's hand slipped under the sheets and down his chest. Illya's mouth covered his and Napoleon froze in the act of pushing his hand away. Illya moved Napoleon's hand to his own shoulder, and his continued its path down Napoleon's stomach. Napoleon startled when it strayed yet lower, about to struggle, but Illya tilted his head and nuzzled at his lip, a small sound escaping him as he pressed closer. Napoleon remembered their first kiss, two days hence; Illya's reaction then had told him clearly that he was loved. It was the same, now; he could feel it plainly in the gentle, thorough movement of Illya's lips and tongue, like he was just barely holding back an urgency that could break dams and level cities, and instead taking care with every slightest touch. It took the fight straight out of him.

"Illya," he said, when their lips parted.

"Your fever won't come down if you don't rest," Illya whispered in his ear. He kissed Napoleon's throat. "Don't fight me."

I can't, Napoleon thought, and mutely nodded. Illya gave him a small smile, though his brow was still creased with trouble. Napoleon frowned and raised a hand to his partner's face. He traced the crease down the center of his forehead with his thumb. Illya closed his eyes and Napoleon stroked over the tensed brow.

Illya's lips parted in a tiny sigh. "Napoleon," he said softly.

His tone made Napoleon shiver, even as he thought, I've heard him say my name that way before. Why didn't I understand what it meant?

Illya's cheek brushed his, leaving his hand behind, and then his forehead rested on the pillow beside Napoleon. "Why did you come?" he whispered.

Napoleon opened his mouth to answer and took a sharp breath instead when Illya's fingers wrapped around him beneath the sheets.

"What did you imagine, Napoleon? Did you picture his hands on me, like this?"

"Illya--"

"Did you see me on my back, my expression as another man penetrated me?"

"No," Napoleon said. "It wasn't--"

"Could you hear my voice? Hear how I moaned? Or did I cry out--"

"It wasn't like that," Napoleon panted. His hand on Illya's shoulder gripped tight, as the other twisted in the sheets.

"What was it like, Napoleon? Was I helpless? Tied down? Did I beg, in your mind?"

"No, Illya, damn it, no--"

"What did you see, Napoleon?" Illya's voice was low, almost hoarse by his ear. "What brought you from your sickbed, across an entire continent? Did you come to save me from indignities no man should suffer? Or did you come because the only one to know me that way should be you?"

Napoleon groaned and shuddered. His fevered brain couldn't keep up with the conflicting signals--Illya's fingers on him, his breath feathering over his ear, and the desperation in his voice. "I thought," Napoleon managed to say, "you needed me."

Illya shifted and his mouth sealed over Napoleon's, and Napoleon couldn't tell if he had answered correctly or not, but he couldn't hold out any longer.

He woke in darkness. "Illya," he said.

"I'm here." The lamp on the night stand clicked on and cast a soft amber light gentle on the eyes. It illuminated his partner, lounging with legs crossed in the armchair adjacent. "Here," said Illya, holding out an open medication bottle. "The nurse left this for you." Napoleon held out his hand and Illya shook two small, round pills into his palm, then handed him a glass of water. He took it back when Napoleon had finished. Napoleon settled on his side so he could see Illya. His partner's eyes were in shadow, but his expression was relaxed. "How do you feel?" he asked.

"Like a sack of potatoes," said Napoleon, "only better looking."

Illya snorted. "That's the second time you nearly died of the same routine, entirely curable ailment in less than a month."

"I wasn't in any real danger, this time."

"That's not what Dr. Alaoui says."

"Well, sure, if you want to go around believing everything a man says just because he has MD at the end of his name."

There was a pause. "I did need you, both times," Illya said. "The first, to save my life, but it could have waited. The second, to stop me doing something cruel to someone who didn't deserve it, but you were too late."

"I wouldn't be so sure he didn't deserve it."

Illya smiled wryly. "Whatever he said to you Friday, we hadn't done anything at that point."

"That makes it marginally better," said Napoleon, "but only marginally."

"Hm," said Illya.

"Is he in love with you, then?"

"I think so." Illya sighed and sat back, looking at the ceiling. "At any rate, he feels more strongly for me than I can reciprocate."

Napoleon watched him for a moment, the subtle downturn at the corners of his mouth. "You didn't know," he said. Not a question--he knew Illya well enough not to have to ask. Illya shook his head. "It happens," Napoleon said gently.

"I suppose it does," Illya said. Napoleon cleared his throat uncomfortably. Illya looked back at him and smiled. "It wasn't your fault, either. Or, rather, it was... but it wasn't something you could have helped."

"How long?"

"Neptune," said Illya.

"That long," Napoleon said.

Illya nodded. "You were my closest friend; I hadn't planned to let it go any farther. I knew you didn't tend that way." He flicked his eyebrows. "I thought everything was over when those missiles struck and the crops in Russia began to fail. Our countries would go to war, and U.N.C.L.E. would be disbanded, I'd never see you or Mr. Waverly again, and the whole world might well perish. And in the midst of that, there you were, calmly telling me it would be all right. You had complete faith, in your own government, in U.N.C.L.E., and in yourself. You were so confident, I found myself believing you. I went back to Russia trusting that you would stop it all--and you did."

Napoleon couldn't help a measure of pride. "It was nothing you couldn't have done."

"The mission, perhaps," said Illya, "but optimism was beyond me at that point."

"You'd had a rough few days," said Napoleon, remembering Illya's haggard face in the War Room, the desperate light in his eyes, the tension in his body as he moved and gestured like the crack of a switch, filled with anger and apprehension. "I hated to see you like that."

Illya smiled. "There you have it: You saved my country from famine, U.N.C.L.E. from relegation, and the world from war, and I was never able to think of you the same way."

"It's a good story," said Napoleon. "I mean, it beats, 'we met at the church rummage sale.'"

"Shame it's classified."

Napoleon's eyes flicked away from Illya's. "Your wrists," he said.

Illya glanced down to where the bandages protruded from his shirt cuffs. "Aloe and so forth."

"What about your shoulder?" Napoleon felt an unfamiliar frisson when Illya pulled his unbuttoned collar down, but rather than flesh, he revealed more bandages.

"I wrenched it," he said, "but I can work with it. I'm going to Spain tomorrow."

"Spain?"

Illya smiled wolfishly. "In light of his newly discovered connections with THRUSH, headquarters is letting me pick up de la Fuerta."

"With Westcott?" Napoleon asked, not keeping his voice as neutral as he thought, to judge by Illya's snort.

"No, he's staying here to follow up on some of Pascal's connections with the local office, then on to France for more of the same."

"You're leaving me alone, again."

"This clinic has a full complement of female staff; I'll be done before you can spare a thought to miss me." It was said lightly, but the words stung.

"Just as long as you don't need me, I guess," said Napoleon, "I'll manage here on my own."

"I won't," said Illya. "I've had enough of you convalescent. I expect you fully recovered by the time I return."

"Yes, sir," Napoleon said.

"You'd never have made it in the Navy with a salute like that."

"Just as well. I hate seagulls." There was a long pause. "When do you leave?"

"In the afternoon. Tonight, I'll stay here."

"What, in the chair?"

"It's quite comfortable."

"Do you--"

"No."

Napoleon frowned. "Thank you," he said.

They spoke a bit more of Amandine and de la Fuerta before Napoleon drifted off once more. When he woke, it was morning, and Illya had gone.

Illya was more or less right about when he would finish his assignment; several Miriams occupied Napoleon's conscious hours for the next three days until Westcott made contact to tell him de la Fuerta was now languishing in an Interpol prison.

"And why are you telling me this?" Napoleon kept his voice even more for the sake of the Miriam cuddled into the crook of his communicator arm than for that of his interlocutor.

"I thought you might want to know," Westcott answered lightly. "If he already told you, I'm sorry for the repetition."

But rather than return to Morocco, Illya went on to Italy to support a local affair, which was where he was a week later when Napoleon was discharged and shipped back to New York. He'd no sooner stepped into his apartment than his communicator was in his hand, a smile and a taunt about Illya's Italian on his lips. "Open Channel--" Napoleon stopped. After a moment, the pen emitted the high-pitched whine that meant the idiot holding it was taking too long to make up his mind.

"Damn!" It was the fifth time he'd done this since Illya left for Spain. "Damn, damn, damn! Channel F." The pen hissed pensively, then returned to the whine. Napoleon took a deep breath, closed the communicator, and opened it again. "Open Channel F. Direct agent to agent connection: Illya Kuryakin."

There was a click almost immediately. "Kuryakin here."

"You're not hanging off the side of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, are you?" The smile in his partner's voice when he answered in the negative filled Napoleon with relief so heady he had to sit down. "And you're not currently playing hide and seek with armed THRUSHies, who are now, thanks to my call, closing in on your position?"

"No," said Illya. Why hadn't he contacted him earlier?

"And you weren't asleep?"

"No, although I should have been. What can I--"

"I miss you," Napoleon blurted. "Will you come home, already?"

It ached how clearly he could see Illya's indulgent, you're-a-child-but-I-like-you-anyhow grin. "Very soon."

He was on Napoleon's doormat the next evening, travel-worn but clearly in a good mood, indicating the affair in Italy had gone well, too. He had his suitcase in hand--so he hadn't been home, first.

"Illya!" said Napoleon, throwing the door wide. He was conflicted as to whether or not to touch his partner, then settled for clapping him on both shoulders and grabbing his suitcase as he ushered him over the threshhold. "Welcome home," he said earnestly.

Illya smiled warmly, though one eyebrow rose. "Not quite home, yet."

"You're close enough. Have you eaten?"

"Not since lunch on the plane. Er--"

Napoleon spread a hand on his back and steered him towards the kitchen. "You're probably sick of Italian by now. I've got a steak, and I think some potatoes--"

Illya narrowed his eyes, and his brow furrowed. "Napoleon--"

"Oh, and this." Napoleon stepped around him and opened the freezer to produce the bottle of Stolichnaya he'd put there last night. Illya closed his mouth and sat down at the kitchen table. When Napoleon poured him a glass, he raised it to his host. Napoleon lifted his own. "To two missions well concluded."

"And your return to active duty," Illya answered.

It was not the first time Napoleon had cooked for his partner, but on reflection, it was probably only the third. He generally only cooked for women, and even then, only the ones who were playing hard to get. That was a shame, because Illya was a good audience. Despite his appetite, he was quite picky, and it was gratifying to see him devour whatever Napoleon put in front of him, then look up hopefully for seconds. Napoleon fed him a ten-ounce steak in pepper sauce, roast potatoes with garlic, a head of broccoli in butter and lemon, a hastily constructed salad with mozzarella, and most of a loaf of French bread before Illya put down his knife and fork and sighed. "Thank you," he said, closing his eyes, "that was excellent. Er--" He opened them again. "What are you having?"

Napoleon chuckled. "I had dinner before you arrived." Lucky thing, too, as his refrigerator now looked like a picture you'd see over the heading, "Please Give Generously."

"I suppose," said Illya, "I should let you rest, and go unpack."

"Oh, now, wait," said Napoleon. "I know you were raised by wolves, but you're not going to eat and run on me, are you?" He stood, lifting the bottle of vodka and nodding towards the living room. "I've got this whole bottle to finish, and I wouldn't drink this jet fuel on my own."

"I can take it off your hands, if it bothers you," said Illya, but he picked up his glass and followed Napoleon into the next room.

They went from talking about Illya's recent missions to simply egging each other on as the vodka slowly dwindled. When it had gone, Napoleon opened something else--he honestly wasn't sure what--because he didn't know how else to keep his partner there, but he knew he didn't want him to leave. So he kept pouring, and Illya kept accepting, which they both regretted when they were called in to headquarters early the next morning and dispatched to New Orleans.

There wasn't much in the way of coherent conversation on the drive over; the groans said it all.

They had a few hours in New York to prepare before they shipped out to join the Tantalus Affair. Napoleon stopped in to thank Heather for her help and admire her tan--very nice--on the way between Translation, who had French pointers for him, and Section 4, who wanted to talk disguises. When he emerged from Translation, he heard a pair of familiar voices and glanced down to the end of the corridor to find Illya speaking with Westcott. Napoleon's teeth set on edge. The younger man was standing far too close. Napoleon ducked around a corner and leaned out to watch them. He couldn't make out what they were saying, but Illya's hangover scowl was absent from his face, and where did that lumbering oaf Westcott get off making moon-eyes like that at him in the middle of headquarters?

Napoleon took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Jealousy was not a good emotion. He wasn't stupid enough to think that his urge to punch Westcott when he brushed Illya's hair back and ran his thumb up the crease in his forehead, and drag Illya off somewhere, meant anything positive. Laying claim to the people around you only proved you were a Neanderthal. It wouldn't do Illya any good, and he couldn't ask for that kind of loyalty from him unless he was ready to step in and be that man, and...

"Oh, hallo, Solo."

Napoleon jumped and swung around to find Mark Slate smiling politely at him. "Hi," he said tightly, and released his white-fingered grip on the wall.

"Hear you're heading out again already," said Slate. "No rest for the wicked, eh?"

"I've had all the rest I can take."

"You don't look it," Slate observed cheerfully.

"Thanks," Napoleon said sourly. Slate was looking over his shoulder, so Napoleon took the opportunity to glance that way, keeping his face studiously neutral. Westcott was still standing too close to Illya, but at least they were no longer touching.

"His popularity's taken a hit, lately."

Napoleon started. "Whose, Illya's?"

"No, Westcott's," said Slate. "He came back a week ago, talking nonstop about his assignment with Illya."

"Really?" Napoleon's casual tone was the product of years of field experience. "What did he say?"

"Oh, it was mainly praise for Illya's professionalism, and what a pleasure it was to work with him. He didn't say much about the assignment itself, except that they captured THRUSH France's number four."

"That's all?" Napoleon asked.

"All I heard. Why, did he cut out your part?"

"Uh," said Napoleon. "So he was bragging too much?"

Slate joined him against the wall, out of sight of the object of their conversation. "No," he said more quietly, "not about the collar. But half the New York branch would have liked to be in his place."

"Why? It wasn't that glamorous of an assignment."

Slate gave him a look that would have been pure contempt if he weren't English, and instead came out as polite surprise. "Because they want to work with Illya," he said, as though helping along a slow student.

"Oh, come on--"

"Napoleon, Mark!" They looked up to see Roger hailing them, a grin on his freckled face. "When did you two get back?"

"Oh, hi, Roger," said Napoleon. "Two days ago--" He realized the redheaded agent was looking straight past him. His cheerful expression shifted to one so stricken, Napoleon stepped forward, thinking he might fall over. Roger turned wide, haunted eyes on him, then pivoted and wandered off the way he had come.

Napoleon stared after him, then swung around to look at Slate, who covered his mouth and coughed delicately. "Just how much of U.N.C.L.E. New York is in love with my partner?" he demanded.

"More or less every man who tends that way has at least considered him," Slate said, "and so have a lot who don't. Didn't you know?"

"No!"

"Well," said Slate.

"What about you?" Napoleon asked, narrowing his eyes at the smaller man.

Slate smiled. "No, you needn't worry about me. Welcome back, anyway, Solo. Try to keep the mosquitoes off, eh?"

Napoleon looked up the hall again when he'd gone, but Illya and Westcott had disappeared. Napoleon went on to Section 4, and hurried them through their explanations to avoid running into Roger again.

Illya fell asleep as soon as he buckled himself in on the plane. Much as he wanted to do the same, Napoleon found himself sifting new information and unable to stop.

So Westcott was in love with Illya, and, at least according to Slate, was being more of a gentleman about it than that one conversation had led Napoleon to expect. Roger--well, Napoleon had suspected about that earlier, but that was a much worse case than he'd assumed. And, again according to Slate, half the New York branch was just as bad. He looked at Illya, who had mastered the trick of appearing composed in his sleep on top of that of looking good in moonlight... and more or less any light, up to and including the hideous fluorescents that came on when New York HQ's backup generator kicked in. The fact was that if you looked at him properly, Illya was beautiful: the golden hair that fell in soft lines about his face now that he'd begun to grow it out; the blue, blue eyes that could look straight through you, be fierce, or funny, or tender; the perfect nose; his mouth--Yes, his mouth was decidedly dangerous, with that generous lower lip whose softness Napoleon did not now have to imagine.

Napoleon had never looked at him like this because, to him, he had always been simply Illya. Illya, the man who didn't let him get away with what he shouldn't, on whom he could rely for any information he himself lacked, who kept him on his toes, who dragged him to safety when he couldn't do it himself, who backed him up even when he went off on unsanctioned missions. His partner. His dearest friend.

Napoleon's sigh stirred the hair at Illya's forehead and he frowned in his sleep. Napoleon smiled, lifted his hand to Illya's face, then checked the impulse; then frowned at himself and checked the check. He brushed the hair back over Illya's temple, fingers stroking his forehead. The crease in Illya's brow smoothed and his mouth relaxed. Napoleon resisted the urge to touch his cheek and lowered his hand.

He'd hoped always to be there for Illya as his partner was for him, always to be at his side when he was needed, but what Illya really needed... wasn't him.

How carefully Illya had kissed him. You could say a lot with a kiss, and Illya had books to write with his. The way he'd touched Napoleon, the timber of his voice, low and tender and raw. To be loved like that by this man--No one at headquarters knew Illya well enough to realize how unworthy they were of that honor. Napoleon hadn't met the man yet who measured up, and that included himself.

Part II, Act II: Tantalus

Leave an LJ Comment

The Man from U.N.C.L.E. Fanfiction
East of Sanity