Story Post (2/2)
13 September 2005 12:43 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
leethet
Illya shook his head but didn’t have the energy to protest as Napoleon hauled him upright. He saw the flinch of pain on his partner’s face as the effort pulled at his shoulder, and guilt prevented him from resisting or arguing.
Napoleon wrapped him in a towel and dried him; Illya leaned on his partner’s uninjured shoulder, still shaking, still sick to his stomach, unable to think. Every brief accidental touch of Napoleon’s hand against his skin made him twitch, made him think did he touch Allen here?
“Are you all right?” Napoleon asked, straightening to dry his hair. “You’ve got a bit of a bump on your head—” His hand passed gently over the swelling. “You’re a little shaky.”
“Just cold,” Illya said.
“Hang on. Stay in here–” He held up a hand. “It’s warmer.” He left the bathroom, came back in a moment with khaki trousers and a dark flannel shirt. “Climb in,” he said. “It’s all we’ve got ’til we go home tomorrow.”
He steadied Illya as the Russian got into the clean, worn clothes, then guided him into the dark bedroom. The sickness in Illya’s stomach flared to see the inside of the room he’d looked into so short a time before, but Napoleon simply hustled him under a mound of blankets and tucked him in, sitting on the side of the bed while Illya’s body settled.
“My gun,” Illya blurted.
“Right here.” Napoleon touched it, on the nightstand, within reach.
Illya relaxed. Mostly.
“We did it again, tovarish,” Napoleon said. “Allen will take the capsules to L.A. tonight, and tomorrow we’ll be on our way home. We’ll get that thick skull of yours checked out, maybe get you some chicken soup.” He reached out – for an instant Illya, gaping, thought Napoleon was going to brush his fingers along his brow – but his hand altered course and pulled the blankets up around Illya’s chin. “Rest. We’re safe.”
Illya closed his eyes, sighed out a breath, and felt the bed shift upward as Napoleon left the room. He squeezed his eyelids tight, feeling the prickle of unwanted moisture behind them.
* * *
When Napoleon went downstairs, Allen had collected the canisters and his coat. “They’re here. Time to get these little nasties to Los Angeles. You all right?”
“Just tired. We’ll be OK here ’til morning.”
Allen picked up his coat, headed for the door, then stopped, looking at the stairs.
“Why was he so angry?”
Napoleon shrugged, defeated rather than casual. “It seems like he always gets the worst of it. I don’t know. He comes in, soaked, exhausted, freezing ... and I’m sitting in front of a fire with a mug of coffee.” He looked at Allen, smiled bleakly. “Maybe he’s just sick of it. Or sick of me.”
“He didn’t see you when you came in,” Allen said. “Does he assume you’re not pulling your weight? That’s not the partner you were talking about earlier.”
“I don’t know,” Napoleon repeated. “I suppose when he wakes up he’ll explain.”
Allen put on his coat, watching Napoleon as he buttoned it. “Then will you explain?”
Napoleon shook his head. “I doubt it.”
“You’ll just keep on pretending? Until it kills you?”
“I’m far more likely to be killed by other things,” Napoleon said, smiling up at him. “Thanks, Allen. For the cabin. For the needlework. Especially for the ear.”
Allen opened the door. It was snowing outside. The jeep with his escorts was parked in front of the steps, engine growling.
“Take care, Napoleon,” Allen said.
“See you.” Napoleon turned his gaze back to the fire. He waited as long as he could after the door shut. An eternity. He figured, objectively, maybe three minutes. Then he went upstairs.
It was surprisingly chilly. He left the hall light on so he could see, but didn’t turn on the bedroom light, not wanting to wake Illya.
His partner lay on his side, curled up, piled with blankets. After watching for a few minutes, Napoleon realized Illya was shivering, just a little. He wondered if he should wake him and take him downstairs in front of the fire, but he was reluctant to face Illya’s anger, whatever the cause.
Illya shifted a little, murmured, and Napoleon moved closer instinctively. Illya murmured again, a protest. Then, “Napoleon.”
Napoleon eased himself onto the bed and laid a hand on his partner’s blanket-covered shoulder. “I’m here. Illya...”
“No!” Illya sat up, startling Napoleon. He backed off, watched the wild-eyed panic in his partner’s eyes fade. In the space of one slowly indrawn breath Illya erased the emotion from his face, but his body still shook.
“Sorry,” he breathed. “A dream.”
Napoleon touched his partner’s face, feeling an instant of skin like marble before Illya drew back.
“You’re cold,” Napoleon said. The look that crossed his partner’s face – anger? pain? – jolted him, but it was gone before he could be sure he’d seen it. “Are you hungry?”
Illya snorted a soft laugh. “Yes,” he whispered. “I am.” He turned away from his partner and lay back down, pulling the blankets up around him again.
Bewildered, Napoleon stared at Illya’s shoulder for a long moment. He was still shivering.
Napoleon thought briefly of the fire and his half-drunk cup of coffee downstairs. Then he pulled the blankets back and slid under them, moving against his partner’s suddenly stone-stiff back.
Napoleon wrapped his arms around Illya’s torso. He felt the stubbornness in Illya’s posture and his silence – he wasn’t going to ask the obvious question. He laid his cheek against Illya’s neck, pulled him close but not too tight, and waited. Warmth spread like a pool of water. Napoleon felt Illya’s muscles grudgingly relax, felt the shivering evaporate.
Napoleon sighed, the residual tension leaving his own tired body. Whatever Illya was angry about, he still trusted Napoleon enough to allow this. That awareness flooded Napoleon with new warmth, warmth that might have brought arousal with it but for its impossibility. This was trust, yes. It was friendship and caring. But it wasn’t the kind of love he wanted.
“Are you and Allen lovers?”
Napoleon had thought Illya asleep. The Russian’s words surprised him so much he wasn’t sure he’d heard them right.
Even as he said, “What?” against Illya’s neck he realized what he’d been asked. “No! Why would you think that? He’s a friend.”
He sat up, looked down at Illya as his partner turned onto his back, gazing unreadably up at him.
“Sorry,” Illya said. “I thought ... never mind.”
“No–” Napoleon caught Illya’s chin as he tried to turn his face away. “There’s no way you can say never mind after saying something like that. Why would you think Allen and I were lovers?”
Illya slid one hand out from under the blankets, waved at the window. “I saw you. When I was coming down the mountain.”
Napoleon looked at the window, trying to remember. “You mean when he was stitching my shoulder?”
“After, I suppose.” Illya’s arm dropped on top of the covers. “It isn’t any of my business either way. I apologize.”
Napoleon tilted his head. “Is that why you were angry? Because you thought I was ... having sex with Allen while you were hiking through the rain and cold?”
Illya laughed. Napoleon felt, first, astonishment. Then anger.
“You thought I was screwing around while you were out there, alone, on the run from THRUSH?” he said, his voice low, dangerous. “Is that–”
“No!” Illya struggled into an upright position, the fingers of one hand just touching Napoleon’s shoulder. “No. That’s not–” He shook his head, touched Napoleon’s face – the astounding gesture cooled some of Napoleon’s anger. “Napoleon. We are partners. There are certain ... absolutes in that. I would never think such a thing of you.” His hand dropped.
Napoleon blinked, let himself breathe. “Sorry. You ... you caught me off guard. Why are you angry?”
“I ... it doesn’t matter. It was a mistake. I apologize. I will apologize to Allen as well.”
“He’s gone to L.A. with the virus.”
Illya shrugged. His head ached a bit less, suddenly, whether due to Napoleon’s words or the nap, he didn’t know or care. “I can apologize by telephone.”
Napoleon watched him. “Did you really think that–”
Illya waved that away. “I ... misunderstood what I saw. Please, Napoleon. Let it go.”
Napoleon tried to. He couldn’t. Quieter, he said, “Illya, please tell me that you didn’t think I would be ... would be so selfish, so self-indulgent, while you were in danger.”
“Napoleon.” Illya clasped his partner’s wrist, warmed by his sincerity, by how plainly the idea appalled him. “I didn’t think that at all. I saw ... I saw you two, and it looked like something it was not. That’s all.” And it broke my frigid Russian heart. That’s all. Again Illya shook his head. The memory was fading, but it still made him sick to his stomach. The images ... Napoleon and Allen ... and himself, outside, watching, unable to stop it ...
But Napoleon had woken him. Had comforted him. Had ...
Feeling his face heat, Illya gestured at the bed. “Why did you ...”
“Hold you?” Because I love you. Napoleon closed his eyes briefly, willing himself to be calm. “Because you were cold. Because ... because I wanted to. Because I knew you were angry and I thought if I did that, you wouldn’t kill me before you’d told me why you were mad at me.”
Illya sighed. “I wasn’t angry at you. Never mind, Napoleon. It isn’t important. I made a mistake.”
Napoleon thought: You believed Allen and I were lovers, and you were angry about that. Why? An incredible hope filled him – and his will squashed it down.
“Are you hungry?” he asked again. “There’s stew, and coffee.”
Illya shook his head. “Just tired. And ... cold.” He laid himself back down. Napoleon watched him, seeing no sign of invitation, and thought to hell with that. He slid back under the blankets again, once more wrapping himself around his partner. To his surprise, Illya wiggled around a little to get comfortable, then simply relaxed into his hold.
Not too close, Napoleon told himself. Not too tight, or he’ll know.
God, he wanted him to know. He longed to ...
“Napoleon?”
“Hm?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
A ripple of tension ran through Illya’s body; Napoleon felt it against his chest.
“For ... putting up with me,” Illya said.
Napoleon chuckled, again laid his cheek on Illya’s neck. For some reason it was easy to say, “I love you, you idiot.”
For some reason? Because he knew that, right now, Illya would take it as a declaration of friendship and nothing more. That kind of love was understood between them.
Illya sighed. “I know you do,” he said. Then, “I wish ...”
Napoleon stopped breathing, but forced himself not to tense. Against Illya’s ear, he said, “You wish what, tovarish?”
Stillness. Silence. Napoleon’s heart accelerated, blood thrilling through his arteries. He tried not to show it, but he knew there was no hiding his panting breaths against Illya’s neck.
“Illya...” He exhaled the words, unable to stop himself. “Please...”
The Russian made an unintelligible sound, deep in his throat, eloquent of need, and turned in Napoleon’s arms, grabbing his head to press their lips together.
Illya’s tongue plunged into his mouth, hot, startling, electrifying – and the Russian withdrew, still holding his head. His eyes were wide in the dim light, mortified.
“Napoleon–” He twisted abruptly, trying to rise, but Napoleon pulled him back. They ended up in their earlier position, Illya’s back drawn tight against Napoleon’s chest. He tried to keep his hips still, tried not to press his erection into the hard ass so near to him, instead stroking Illya’s heaving chest with both hands.
“Illya.” He heard the strain of hunger in his own voice. “What is wrong?”
Illya stopped struggling, but his body was stiff. “I am wrong, Napoleon. I’m sorry.”
“Shh ...” Napoleon pulled him closer, kissed his neck, feeling the pulse hammering. “Please don’t be afraid of me.”
Illya shook his head. “Not you. Not of you.” But he was shaking again. Napoleon held him close, gently kissing his neck, his ear, his shoulder, slowly, a cycle of caresses with his lips and tongue that eventually enabled Illya to sigh out a long breath and say:
“You do not ... have to ...”
“Have to?” Napoleon said, chuckling. “Have to?” He reached nimble fingers to unbutton the loose flannel shirt Illya wore. The Russian laid his hands on Napoleon’s forearms, neither helping nor hindering. In a few moments Napoleon had the shirt unbuttoned and had slipped it from Illya’s body, shoving it aside. Napoleon quickly – very quickly, for fear Illya would flee while his hands were otherwise occupied – unbuttoned and removed his own shirt, then drew their bare torsos together again.
Illya hissed in a breath. “Napoleon...”
The American hmmed against Illya’s back, then set his teeth to the muscle there and gnawed gently, feeling Illya squirm against him.
“You cannot...” Illya started to turn over. Napoleon, sensing the advantage he might lose if Illya could push him away, held his partner in place.
“Illya,” he ordered. “Take off your pants.” He waited, not breathing, to see if Illya would resist, or laugh, or fight his way free.
He felt Illya’s hands move fumbling down to the button and zipper of the loose khakis he’d borrowed. Napoleon speedily divested himself of his pants, kicking them out of the way as Illya did the same. He was giddy with the knowledge of Illya’s ... what? Need? Love? Fear? Cooperation? What was it?
Questions fled when their bare bodies touched again, full length, under the blankets.
Napoleon moaned. “Illya...” The word was plea, praise, prayer ... everything. God. He’d dreamed of this, of Illya against him, naked, eager. His erection pressed hard and hot between Illya’s cheeks. Again, Illya trembled. Napoleon couldn’t breathe. The feel of Illya’s smooth flesh against him intoxicated him.
“No...” Illya’s body, squirming back against Napoleon’s cock, contradicted the weak denial.
“No?” Napoleon echoed, his teeth gritted. “Illya ... tell me now. Tell me and I’ll stop. But ... tell me now.” His body rocked forward, and he groaned to feel his cock sliding between Illya’s cheeks. “Please...” Only love kept him from pushing on without explicit agreement. He had never taken advantage of anyone, ever, and he wasn’t about to start with the only human being he loved, no matter how dizzy, how goddamned hungry...
“Illya...” he gasped, “tell me ... to stop ... or let me ... make love to you...”
Illya hmmed low in his throat, denial of denial, his head falling back against his partner.
Napoleon sucked on Illya’s ear, still rocking them together. He couldn’t keep his hands still. He stroked downward – and encountered Illya’s jutting erection.
The feel of it – god, he wants me too – sizzled through Napoleon’s body. He purred against Illya’s straining shoulder as his hand circled his partner’s hard-on. Illya’s body bucked against his.
“Napoleon!” He reached back and grabbed Napoleon’s hips, pulling them closer together. “Napoleon, please...”
Napoleon kept his left hand wrapped around the silky hardness of Illya’s cock; his right hand grabbed his own throbbing erection and slid it between Illya’s hard thighs. He thrust, irresistibly, clutching at Illya’s hip, pressing them together, crying out as Illya’s thighs tightened around him. He milked Illya’s hard cock as he would have his own, loving, needy. Good god, this was Illya. They were making love ... he couldn’t think of it without his brain spinning.
Then Illya reached down, between his own legs, stroking Napoleon’s pounding cock and pushing it upward, up against the soft sac of his testes, tight, so tight and hot...
Illya’s body trembled uncontrollably and he cried out as he thrust forward, coming hot over Napoleon’s pumping fingers. The Russian’s hand caught at Napoleon’s cock, tickling, stroking, and Napoleon sank his teeth into his partner’s hard shoulder as orgasm thrummed through his body, shaking him to his core, leaving him shuddering, limp, blank-minded and defenseless.
Napoleon felt his lungs come back to life first, drawing in air that brought the rest of him to awareness. They lay against one another, hot, sweating, sticky. Illya shifted, as if to move away, and Napoleon grabbed his shoulders, turned him over and claimed his mouth in a slow, commanding kiss, tasting Illya’s mouth as a connoisseur sampled the finest of wines, until Illya broke with a gasp.
“I can’t breathe.” The admission came as a hoarse whisper, almost a laugh, and Napoleon regarded Illya’s flushed, stunned face.
“Illya.” He had to say it now. Needed to say it. “I love you. I’m in love with you. I...” He laughed softly. “I’m crazy about you.”
Sated blue eyes searched his face, searched deeper. “Napoleon.”
Napoleon smiled. “I’ve rendered you speechless, I see.” He kissed Illya again, briefly, licked the tempting lips and drew back.
Illya opened his mouth. “I ...” The attempt at speech evaporated as Illya pressed himself against his partner, his mouth covering Napoleon’s, claiming him with a passion and expertise that left Napoleon himself breathless.
“Hey–” he gasped out when they broke apart. “You’re not allowed to be better at this than I am.”
Illya didn’t laugh, didn’t even smile. One hand came up, fingers trailing lightly over Napoleon’s face.
“Napoleon,” he said. “You ... I do not expect ... I mean ... if this was ...”
Napoleon drew back, lifted himself on one elbow. “Oh no you don’t. You’re not running away from me now. I love you. Love. Not like. Not want to fuck. Not am fond of. Jesus, Illya. You ... you don’t have any idea, do you? How much you mean to me.” He stroked Illya’s face, his neck and chest, feeling the pulse beating wildly.
“I was jealous,” Illya blurted out. “Of you and Allen.”
Napoleon laughed. “Thank God. I didn’t know what was wrong. I was hoping. Allen is my friend, Illya. I ... told him about you. About ... how much I loved you, and how afraid I was to tell you.”
“Afraid?” Illya echoed, puzzled.
“Is it that hard to believe? That I would be afraid of losing you?” Napoleon shook his head, shook away those fears. Could it only have been an hour before that they’d been real as death to him? He bent and kissed Illya. “I love you. Forever, if you’ll allow me.”
“I wanted to kill him,” Illya said softly. “Is that love?”
“Hell yes,” Napoleon said. Illya looked at him, dubious, and Napoleon laughed.
“Illya, if you said it was snowing outside, then asked ‘is that love?’ I’d say hell yes.”
The Russian shook his head. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
Napoleon’s head tilted. “Don’t you?” he asked. “You usually know exactly what I mean. Sometimes even before I know it.”
“Not this. I had no idea that you ...”
Napoleon pulled him close. “Well, you do now.”
Illya smirked against his partner’s warm chest. “Hell yes.”
Napoleon laughed.
The End
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Date: 13 September 2005 10:57 am (UTC)Are you going to post this to
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Date: 13 September 2005 06:29 pm (UTC)I should link it, shouldn't I, to muncle? I was thinking that.
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Date: 13 September 2005 08:01 pm (UTC)Nothing wrong with that! Everyone's allowed a bit of mushiness now and again!
I'm so pleased that you posted this, it was great. Don't suppose you've got any more like this lurking on your hard drive, have you?
Thanks!
Date: 13 September 2005 09:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 13 September 2005 12:58 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 13 September 2005 02:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 13 September 2005 06:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 13 September 2005 06:15 pm (UTC)I love an UNCLE fic that leaves us with warm fuzzies.
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Date: 13 September 2005 06:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 13 September 2005 06:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 13 September 2005 06:40 pm (UTC)killing-jealous Illya
Date: 13 September 2005 08:12 pm (UTC)Re: killing-jealous Illya
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Date: 16 September 2005 04:30 am (UTC)moorspede
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Date: 16 September 2005 05:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 16 September 2005 11:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 16 September 2005 04:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 16 October 2005 12:47 pm (UTC)Thanks for sharing!
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Date: 16 October 2005 07:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 30 May 2007 01:33 am (UTC)I love the way you are true to the characters of the boys, letting them have emotions but still be strong, and showing them as being equals to each other.
Do you mind if I friend your journal? I'm having such fun reading your posts about whether or not the boys grocery shop, why people read fic for fandoms they aren't familiar with, etc.
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Date: 30 May 2007 06:20 am (UTC)And yes, of course you may friend me - how could I say no after you said such nice things about my stuff? ;-)
(I have others here????? I thought - oh! Substance XX! Wouldn't you rather have the pretty pdf, though? I can email it to you. It's beautifully presented by Mara)
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Date: 30 May 2007 03:04 pm (UTC)And I found three here that I had never read before. This one, Substance XX, and the dream one where Napoleon was kidnapped and Illya was wearing really tight jeans (thanks for the visual!) Dispite my intention to savor them, I of course read them all in one setting.
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Date: 30 May 2007 07:02 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2 September 2008 02:37 am (UTC)