| The young blond
woman eyed her middle-aged employer speculatively.
She wasn't sure about the job that had come in over
night. Not that she was uncertain of his
abilities. Solo Securities had been operating for a
little under four years now and she'd been working as
secretary, personal assistant and general co-ordinator for
all but a month of those years. Even pushing forty, Napoleon Solo was more capable than most and more than able to look after himself. But this job... she was worried that he wouldn't come out of this one unscathed. "Mandy?" Napoleon prompted her as she stood silently in the doorway of his office. She took a deep breath and handed him the file, or the part of the file she'd managed to scrabble together in the last two hours. Minus the one sheet she'd printed, read, and shredded. Solo smiled his usual warm smile - the one that didn't quite touch the cold of his eyes - and sat down behind his desk to read the information there. Hesitating for a moment, Mandy walked backwards out of the office and pulled the door closed in front of her. She made herself a strong coffee and took a seat at her own desk to wait. Ten minutes passed before the intercom buzzed. "Yes, Mr Solo?" she asked politely. "Mandy, could you get me on the first available flight to Chennai?" ~ Napoleon pulled the shutter down against the night sky and leaned back in the wide leather seat, sipping the expensive whiskey. First class travel was a luxury he was able to afford thanks for the US government. It was quite incredible, the amount of money they were willing to pay to keep certain mouths silent. His security business was simply a means of keeping busy, of not dwelling on the past. Before he could become maudlin he took up the file Mandy had compiled for him and read it through once again. Chennai's Fashion Festival attracted designers, press and VIPs from all over the world. It was four days of beautiful women, lavish parties and a lot of money. Six catwalks played host to twelve parades daily. In between shows, gallons of champagne and tons of canap�s were consumed by people Solo considered - in his humble opinion - to be ponces. A man calling himself Cato Jitsu, from Ink Fashions, had contacted Solo Securities late the previous night. He was convinced, it seemed, that someone would use the event in Chennai to murder the company's principal designer. Oddly, Napoleon couldn't find the name of the apparently intended victim anywhere in the file, but he had to wonder how anyone could hate a fashion designer enough to want him or her dead. There was actually very little in the file. Ink Fashions had been formed almost five years ago. The holdings and factory were in Singapore, although there seemed to be some speculation on where its designers were based. No reason had been given for Jitsu's allegations and Solo's suspicious mind already had the man in the frame for something, even if it wasn't murder. Closing the file, Napoleon drowned the rest of his whiskey and settled back to try to get some rest. He slept for an hour and dreamt of screaming. ~ The Chennai Raddisson was a five star hotel a couple of kilometres from the airport. Solo had flown into Calcutta and boarded an internal flight to reach his destination. The fashion show started the following day and both airports as well as the hotel were bustling with walking fashion accessories. How Mandy had managed to secure him a room he wasn't sure and made a mental note to ask her, although he thought he might be able to guess the answer. A knot of dread was slowly forming in his stomach - a feeling he had hadn't engendered since his days with UNCLE. He checked in swiftly, despite the crowd, and was taken to his room on the first floor of the building. He was given a message from Cato Jitsu asking to meet down in the hotel bar at noon. It gave Napoleon a chance to take a shower after the long flight, to hang his suits and to have a look around. The hotel and surrounding area seemed to be packed with people either barking orders or carrying them out. Long rails of covered clothing were being wheeled into and out of the hotel almost constantly. Outside, a seemingly never-ending stream of cars and taxis dropped off and picked up. Again, Solo wondered why anyone would suspect a murderer in all this camp glitz. The worst most of these people looked capable of doing was throwing drinks over one another. On the other hand, it would be easy to slide a knife between a person's ribs and drop them in a moment without being seen. In this crowd, he supposed, anything could happen. They just didn't seem the type of people intent on murdering anything but a large number of martinis. He went to the bar at eleven thirty, ordered a scotch and water and took his drink to a table close to the back wall. He sat so that he could see the bar and the two arched entrances. Then he waited. It was exactly noon when an oriental man walked confidently to the bar, ordered two drinks and brought them straight to his table without even a glance around. Napoleon smiled despite himself. He accepted the second scotch gracefully and clinked it against his client's glass. He glanced at the clear liquid in the other glass with a pang of sadness. Vodka. He hadn't drunk vodka since... well, for a very long time. Composing himself, he smiled. "Mr Jitsu," he held out his hand. It was taken and shaken firmly before the other man seated himself opposite Napoleon. "Welcome to Chennai, Mr Solo. I trust your room is to your liking?" That, at least, was one mystery cleared up. "Yes, thank you." "You will be well paid for protecting our designer," Jitsu told him, moving swiftly to business. "He is aware of the danger but does not seem to care." "I'm sure the payment will be more than adequate," Napoleon acknowledged pointedly. "What makes you think your designer is in danger?" "There have been threats over the years. Most are general but recently this event has been mentioned more than once." Jitsu took a folded piece of paper from a pocket and handed it to Napoleon. He unfolded it carefully and read the neat handwriting. 'Ink, your days on this Earth are numbered. The last sight you see will be Chennai by spotlight.' "My employer dismisses this as he does the rest. But I worry so I call you." Solo folded the paper. "Why me?" he asked slowly. "You came... very highly recommended." Jitsu smiled before tipping his drink back in one. "Come, meet my employer." ~ Jitsu led the way up to the penthouse suite. They didn't speak on the way but the silence was professional. When they stopped outside the door, Jitsu knocked once and entered. Solo followed him inside, looking around appreciatively at the decor. His own room was greens and off-whites, this was rich reds and golds. He stopped in the centre of the suite's living area, attention caught by the view from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Jitsu walked to one of the windows, turning to smile back at Solo. It was time he asked the question. "Mr Jitsu, I don't want to appear rude but why would anyone want to murder a fashion designer?" The answer came from behind him. "I suppose it depends on your taste in clothing." For a moment Napoleon was frozen to the spot, unable to move or think or speak. He couldn't begin to guess the expression on his face when he turned. "Illya." Ten years of being apart from the man who'd meant the world to him was at once a moment and a lifetime. Illya hadn't changed. His hair was the same golden blond, his blue eyes shone bright. He didn't look to have aged a day. Something snagged in the back of his mind. 'Ink Fashions'. "I N K. Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin." He smiled softly. "Nice." "It wasn't my idea, Napoleon." It was the tone of that one word - his own name - that broke the spell. Illya hadn't hired him. Illya didn't want him here. But he couldn't voice his disappointment, or his joy in simply seeing his old partner again. He glanced at Jitsu. Illya finally took pity on him and dismissed the stunned oriental, leaving them alone. "You look good," the Russian conceded grudgingly, not moving from where he'd appeared in the arch between the living area and the lavish bedroom beyond. "I look old," Solo clarified. "You look... amazing." He did. Dressed casually in black pants and a white silk shirt he was managing to somehow look as he had when they'd first met. Embarrassed and frustrated, Illya glanced away, crossing to the window. Solo watched him. "So... a fashion designer?" Illya shrugged, not turning from the view. "What did you do, draw a pair of pants on the back of a cigarette packet for a millionaire?" Illya's head moved slightly and Napoleon caught the smile he couldn't quite hide. "More or less, yes. It's really very easy. And with the added benefit that no one shoots at me." "That's not what Jitsu says." Another shrug. "It's an idle threat, Napoleon, nothing more. I don't need you here. I can take care of myself." Hiding the hurt quickly, Solo took a couple of steps forward and reached out with trembling hands. "It's been ten years." "For a reason. I don't want you here." His fingers curled over Illya's narrow shoulders, feeling the sturdy body beneath the expensive shirt. "Not even for old times' sake, Illyuska?" But Illya stiffened under Napoleon's touch. "Don't...." "Why not?" He hesitated. "I've missed you." "No you haven't. You never needed me, Tovarisch." Napoleon stared at the back of the blond head, disbelief colouring his features. "You know that's not true." Illya jerked away, turning. "I told you, I don't need you here!" Napoleon backed away slightly at the dangerous flash in the blue eyes. "We haven't seen each other in so long." "I know. And nothing's changed." "What are you talking about?" He shook his head. "Why did you leave?" Hard blue eyes refused him an answer. Pulling his sleeves down, Napoleon straightened up. "Jitsu is paying me to protect you -" "- with my money." He ignored that. "- and it's exactly what I'm going to do." Turning on his heels, Napoleon reached for the door handle. He was almost outside when he heard his name called in a voice devoid of anger. "Napoleon?" "What?" It came out harsher than he'd planned. Whatever Illya said, it was in Russian; an almost poetic line. Napoleon rolled his eyes and left. Leaning back on the door, hands gripped around the handle, Solo took a couple of deep breaths, fighting back the emotion threatening to swamp him. "He really is pleased to see you." Napoleon's head snapped up. There was a young man - possibly late twenties - standing opposite him, leaning against the wall in a similar manner to himself. He was in emerald green silks that matched his eyes beautifully and despite himself, Solo couldn't help but be appreciative of the sight. "Who are you?" "My name's Sephano." He could hear the hint of Italian now, mixed in perhaps with a little Indian and a touch of Russian. "Illya calls me Sephanie, so you can too." A flare of jealousy surged through Napoleon. "You... know Illya?" The young features lit up with a knowing smile. "Yes. I found him moping in a bar in Florence five years ago." A stab of regret cut through the jealousy, making Napoleon feel slightly nauseous "How well do you know him?" It was vaguely pathetic, but he didn't know what else to say. Another smile. "Come on, let me buy you a drink." The hotel lobby was still very busy but the bar was practically empty. Napoleon found the comfort of a couch while Sephanie bought a scotch for him and vodka for himself. He took the armchair opposite and for a minute or so he just sipped his drink and studied the new comer. "Illya never speaks of you," he said eventually. Napoleon was starting to want nothing more than to get out of Chennai. But something stopped him from rising immediately. "Then how do you know me?" "Because now and again, after he has had too much vodka, he tells me little stories from his past. There are scars also, on his body and on his mind." Horrified, Solo shook his head. "I didn't...!" Sephanie smiled, holding up a quietening hand. "I know. That isn't what I meant. On those rare occasions, he talks of a partner. He keeps a photograph of you in a book he likes to read often. You were close, weren't you?" Hesitating, Napoleon nodded. "I like to think so. We worked together for so long, saved one another...." He pushed away resurfacing memories. "He left. No explanation, no goodbyes." "Only he can say why he did that. I honestly don't know." He looked up and Solo turned to see Jitsu waving from the entrance of the bar. "I'm sorry, I have to go. Ink has a show early in the morning." He finished his drink and stood. "You should come. You will see some of Illya's designs. He has a flare for creating beautiful things." Swallowing, Napoleon thanked him. "I will come." "Good." And he was gone, leaving Solo to consider a couple of brutal truths. Illya was no longer his. And he didn't belong in his old partner's new world. Tipping the scotch down his throat, he ordered another. Sometime later he realised that something was stopping him from getting his sixth whiskey to his mouth. Napoleon looked down carefully and saw the long fingers curled around his wrist. Surprised, he glanced at the man now sitting beside him. "I'm sorry," Illya murmured softly. He slid his fingers over those clutching the glass and took it from Solo, downing the drink himself. "For drinking my whiskey?" "For what I said before. It is good to see you again." "I know." A hint of danger returned to the Russian accent. "You know?" "Sephanie told me." He heard a deep breath taken, held and released. "What else did Sephanie say to you?" The wariness and weariness of the words confused Napoleon. "He said that he found you moping in a bar in Italy." He paused. "And that you carry the scars of your past." "We both do, you and I." Illya spoke almost to himself and sighed softly, rolling the empty crystal glass between his palms. "Yes, he picked me up in a bar in Florence." Napoleon's eyebrows rose at the phrasing but he didn't interrupt. "He sat beside me, tore open a cigarette packet and asked me to draw a shirt on it. I was a little drunk so I did as he asked, as odd as it seems now. He took the drawing and came back an hour later to find me. His father - Alberto - owns a string of cafes all over Italy, it was he who put up the money to form Ink Fashions. He'd always wanted to get 'in on the scene' but had never been able to find a way." Solo couldn't hide his bewilderment. "You?" "He said I had the right looks and the right accent. Russian's, apparently, were 'hot'." Illya glanced up. "His word not mine." "Oh, I completely agree with him." It brought a blush to Illya's cheeks which Solo decided was well worth it. "I don't design the clothes, not really. I sit down and scribble. Alberto has people who turn my doodles into clothing." "You undervalue yourself," Napoleon told him gently. "You always did." "Fashion isn't a strong point of mine." "Then why agree to do it?" "I needed money. And something to do. Something that wouldn't involve constantly putting my life in danger." Solo dropped his head back to the couch, turning to study his friend's profile. "Why did you leave? One day you were there, the next... I was alone." "You were never alone, Napoleon." "You know what I mean." "Oh...." With a dramatic sigh, Illya too sat back. "I woke up one morning and I couldn't remember who I was. Literally. I couldn't remember my name. I'd had enough. One too many bullets, one too many beatings. I suddenly thought if anybody ever laid a finger on me again I'd kill him, friend or foe." Illya turned his head and Napoleon saw the plea for understanding shining bright in the blue eyes. "I had to leave." "You might have said goodbye," Solo tried to joke but his voice cracked on the last word. "You would have talked me out of it. I couldn't let you. I couldn't take that risk. I'm sorry." Silence settled between them, but it was a comfortable silence, one cultivated during their years of working side by side, of living in one another's pockets. "When did you leave UNCLE?" Illya enquired after a time. "About a month after you did," Napoleon told him calmly. "What?" "What did you expect?" "I...." Solo watched him struggle to find the words. "I expected you to stay on, to eventually take over the New York operation." Napoleon nodded. "Did you expect me to find another partner? To want another partner?" Agitated, Illya sat forward, placing the glass on the low table in front of them before picking it back up again. "Why are you being like this?" he hissed without looking around. Not wishing to push, but unwilling to let it go, Napoleon kept his voice neutral. "Like what, Illya? For five years we trusted our lives to one another, we shared everything, saw the same horrors, had the same nightmares. We breathed the same damned air! And then you left. Walked away as easily as if you were leaving a dead THURSH agent!" He was losing it, he knew, and took a deep breath to steady himself. When he looked up, Illya was watching him, eyes wet with unshed tears. "You honestly think it was easy to leave UNCLE?" "I don't give a damn about UNCLE! What about *me*, Illya? I was your partner, I thought we were friends. Hell... I thought...." He trailed off, unable to say it. What was the point anyway? He had obviously been wrong. "You thought what?" He sighed, defeated. "Nothing. It doesn't matter. It was ten years ago." "A different life, Napasha." Napoleon met the blue gaze, touched by the name Illya used to call him on occasion. "No. We only get one life. Didn't you learn that?" He rose. "I'm going to take a look around the city. I promised Sephanie I would be at the show tomorrow morning. It's the most likely point of attack as I'm guessing you'll be exposed." Illya was looking up at him, but he neither denied nor confirmed the assumption. "I take it you can look after yourself here in the hotel?" Kuryakin didn't dignify the question with a reply. "I'll see you tomorrow." The flat words followed Solo out of the bar. A couple of minutes later, Sephanie took the seat Napoleon had vacated. Without a word he reached for Illya, hugging him quickly and tightly, releasing him after just a few moments. "Tell him," he urged. "I can't." "Oh Illya.... It was so long ago." He squeezed the other's hand, oblivious to the glances they were getting. "Can't you see what you mean to him? How much he cares for you?" Illya pulled his hand away gently. "Where's Cato?" "He's in his room. Hiding." ~ Napoleon barely took in any of Chennai. His mind was racing, replaying words and looks he'd shared with Illya, trying to read meanings into everything that had passed between them. He could think of nothing else. He returned to the hotel only an hour after setting out. The bar was busier but he couldn't spot Illya or either of his two companions so he retired to his room and called down to the kitchens for something to eat. He ordered lamb and a bottle of Anarkali, not wanting to sober up any more than he already had on his walk. Room service arrived promptly and he ate in silence. The rich ruby wine was delicious and his exhaustion soon got the better of him. ~ The sun had set and risen when Napoleon awoke. He showered and dressed, deciding against breakfast. The show was at ten and he realised he had no idea where it was taking place. Finishing the coffee he'd made for himself, he headed out in search of Jitsu or Sephanie. "Mr Solo!" Napoleon turned to see Jitsu waving at him from the end of the lobby. The hotel seemed even busier than it had been the day before. Descending the stairs, Solo didn't speak until he was face to face with the oriental. "Good morning, Mr Jitsu." He noticed that the man was a little less exuberant today and wondered privately just how unhappy Illya had been with him. "I was wondering if you could give me directions to where the Ink Fashion show is taking place this morning." He nodded quickly. "Of course. Please, follow me. It is not far." As they neared the theatre, Napoleon's heart started to race. At first glance it looked as if he was too late. People were running about, shouting. Twice he heard what sounded like a woman screaming. He broke from Jitsu's side, ignoring the man's calls, and ran to the crowd, looking about desperately for the epicentre of the action. But as he approached, he realised he'd made a mistake. The woman screaming was actually a brightly dressed man who was now watching, through an expression of deep-seated horror, as a rail of clothing was set upright again having toppled over into the thankfully dry street. The running about and shouting was apparently part of the preparations for the show, as Jitsu explained when he caught up with Napoleon. He led the way through the allegedly organised chaos into the theatre. Inside it was white marble, wide, round pillars and ornate decoration. "Ink will be behind the catwalk," Jitsu informed him, and for a moment the question was on Napoleon's lips, 'Who...?', and then he realised. Sephanie had called him Illya, but to everyone else he was 'Ink'. He nodded. "Show me." Backstage was in even more disarray than front of house. Men and women in various states of undress were being pinned, zipped and in some cases sewn into the clothes. Solo's eyes were initially drawn to the models, but the idea that Illya had designed the costumes stuck him and he shifted his attention. There were long coats of blue velvet, silk shirts with elaborate ruffles. Tight black pants and lose white ones. The women were putting on long white dresses fastened by narrow black cord. Short blue skirts topped with fitted white shirts. Simple style. Smooth lines and only the most delicate detail. So very Illya. "I only sketch," a voice purred softly in his ear. "Other people do the hard work." Napoleon turned his head slowly, unable to keep the smile from his face. "Good morning, Genius." Illya was leaning on a stack of boxes, arms crossed on the top one, chin rested on the back of his hands. If anything, he looked even better than yesterday. His blue silk shirt set his eyes off perfectly. Yesterday had seemed so unreal when he'd woken this morning. Ten years of seeing Illya out of the corner of his eye only to find a stranger standing in his place had conditioned him to banish his old partner to his dreams. But this Illya at least was real. His blond, doe-eyed, sardonically sarcastic friend was a breath of fresh air that brought with it an intoxicating surge of hope. "I'm sorry about yesterday," he said softly. For a moment or two, those fierce blue eyes studied Solo. Then Kuryakin straightened, clasping his hands together. "My fault. I was... emotional." "Very unlike you," Solo tried not to stammer. "Um. Let's get out of here." Napoleon frowned. "I thought.... Isn't this important to you?" "No." Illya hesitated. "You are important to me." For a second he could barely breathe. "Illya...." He was cut off, one finger pressed to his lips. "Ink," he was reminded. Solo nodded. He opened his mouth carefully, moving his lips over Illya's finger, hot breath touching the warm skin. Their eyes locked for a heartbeat and a flood of warmth rolled over him. And then the digit was gone. Despite wanting nothing more than to return to the hotel with Illya, Napoleon composed himself. "It's you they want to see. Take the glory for once. I'm not going anywhere. After all, I am supposed to be protecting you." Illya smiled, nodded. "Thank you." ~ Napoleon peered out into the auditorium just before the start of the show. The catwalk was lined with press and VIPs. The rest of the theatre was packed, the chatter a living sound. Jitsu's appearance at the top of the catwalk hushed them in a moment. "Ladies and gentlemen. Ink." The lights went out. At the moment the whispers began, one single white light cut along the length of the catwalk and the first model stepped out to rapturous applause and a barrage of flash bulbs. Napoleon glanced back at where Illya was sitting on a box, legs dangling. "Don't you go on?" "Not until the end," the whispered answer came back. As soon as the show had begun, the noise behind the scenes had died. The whole operation was being executed in silence, having gone from madness to a well-oiled machine in less than a second. Solo was starting to think that he must have been wrong about the show being the perfect opportunity to attack. For an hour they just sat there, Illya keeping an eye on proceedings back stage while Napoleon watched the show through the gap in the curtain off to one side of the catwalk. But as the last model stepped down and Jitsu returned to centre stage, Illya dropped down from his box and straightened his own clothes. He glanced at Napoleon who smiled. "You look amazing." He repeated his words from yesterday, this time just mouthing them. Illya acknowledged the compliment in the same way he always had, by glancing away awkwardly. Out on the catwalk Jitsu was announcing their illustrious designer. "Ladies and gentlemen. Ink." Illya stepped out into the spotlight and the crowd rose to its feet, cameras flashing, applause and wolf-whistles raising the roof. Napoleon couldn't help but grin at his old friend's obvious embarrassment as he looked around, shielding his face from the intense beams of white light as if trying to see every person in the room. He was the centre of attention. Solo's whole body went cold. The perfect target. He whipped his head around, scanning the top of the auditorium. There were no boxes, no balconies. The walls were sheer. No assassin would find a hiding place there. Carefully, quickly - well-positioned for the lights not to shine into his eyes - he scanned the crowed starting with the people around the catwalk. They were either take photographs or clapping. He worked back without moving, trained to spot a weapon in a sea of faces and bodies. But he couldn't see the danger. The three minutes that Illya was on stage were the longest of the last ten years. Nights that had lasted for days hadn't felt this long. And then it was over. Illya trotted down the steps again and came to stand beside him. "I've had my moment of glory," he said quietly. "Can we go back to the hotel now?" "Please." ~ They walked back in silence; the streets were busy and the subtle tension building between them was delicious. Napoleon waited until they were behind closed doors in Illya's penthouse suite before saying, "You were a sitting duck out on that catwalk. I suspect Jitsu would seriously harm me if anything happened to you." Illya crossed to the window, and Solo wondered whether he was seeing something important and just wasn't able to interpret it. "I suspect he would, but not for the reason you think." "He was the one who hired me." But even as he said the words he realised he was wrong. A grin slowly spread over his face. "You hired me." Illya didn't confirm or deny it. He continued to stare out of the window but Napoleon could see the stiffness in his shoulders. "You had Jitsu call my secretary, allowed her access to all the information except who you were...." "Not true. She was given my name, it was interesting that she didn't share it with you." He was right, it was interesting. But Napoleon had other concerns. "You made up the death threats." "Specifically the one Cato gave you. There are always threats, Napoleon, you know that." "Why?" Illya turned and sat on the wide, cushioned window seat. For a time he studied the other man and Napoleon stood still under the scrutiny. Finally, Illya looked away. "I wanted to see you again. I didn't know... if you would want to see me. I thought... if I gave you the option...." Napoleon nodded. "I came, but I didn't know it was you." "I saw the look on your face yesterday. You'd come but I still didn't know." Napoleon walked across the room, closing the gap between them to a mere couple of inches. "You're all I've thought about for ten years." "You didn't seem too happy to see me." "I have my pride, Illya. I didn't realise... I thought you were angry that I was here." Illya smiled wryly. "I was angry for a lot of reasons." Cautiously, Napoleon settled his hand on his friend's shoulder. "Are you still angry?" "No. I...." A pensive Illya wasn't one Napoleon had any previous experience of. He crouched down, letting his hand fall from the narrow shoulder and stroke down one arm to settle at Illya's wrist. "You...?" he prompted softly. "I have... missed you very much." For Illya, that was a confession of some magnitude. These things came easily to Napoleon, but not to the Russian who had lived his life behind a mask of apathy, doing an impressive job of convincing the world he didn't need anyone, that nothing affected him. Pain and fear had been a part of their lives once. They'd walked straight into traps and had accepted the consequences. Their enemies had always seen Illya as the weaker one, only to discover that he was the toughest to crack. He'd endured through everything from cigarette burns to full mediaeval torture. But admitting he'd wanted to see Napoleon after so long was something that had taken all of Illya's courage. If Napoleon needed more he was going to have to take the step into the chasm, bridge the ten year gap that had separated them. He grasped Illya's wrist gently. "I've been lost without you." To his horror he watched an expression of grief settle over his partner's features. Then Illya was leaning forward, wrapping one wiry arm around Napoleon's neck, burying his face in Napoleon's shoulder. Solo released his wrist and took Illya into his arms, pulling him as close as he could in the awkward position. This was what he'd wanted for so long he was afraid to do anything else. Illya felt so good to hold, as Napoleon had known he would. He shifted closer, unwilling to let go even for a moment. "Tell me what you want, Illya," he whispered, keeping his hands still while he wanted to touch, wanted to feel the differing textures of his friend's skin, his hair... to taste his mouth. The head tucked between his shoulder and neck moved once, side to side. Napoleon felt the hitch of the man in his arms and was ready to move, to comfort, to reassure, when parted lips kissed his throat reverently. A shiver of excitement flickered down Solo's spine. Without warning, every injury, every torture, every THRUSH agent who'd ever laid a finger on Illya slammed into his mind. He breathed out slowly, holding on to the man burrowing into his arms. "Illya, Illya...." Kuryakin moved from the window seat, easing Napoleon back to drop to his knees, straddling the other's thighs. Solo's breath caught when Illya's mouth finally found his and for a moment he froze, not quite expecting it but far from not wanting it. Illya started to pull back but before he could move Napoleon lifted both hands to thread his fingers into the mop of blond hair. "Don't you dare," he muttered before bringing his friend's mouth back to where it most definitely belonged. The kiss obliterated the ten years lost to them. Illya's lips caressed his, moving restlessly while an insistent tongue duelled with Napoleon's. Solo ran his hands over his friend's shoulders, down his back and out across his ribs to his waist. He impatiently pulled the shirt tails from the black pants and moaned softly to finally feel smooth skin under his fingers. Illya squirmed in his grasp, reaching between them to unbutton Solo's shirt. Needing to calm this building desperation before they both completely lost control, Solo pulled out of the kiss, nipping Illya's bottom lip in unspoken apology. "I want to see you," he ground out, already trying to work out the fastenings on the front of the silk shirt. Illya brushed his hands away with a smile, leaned back in Solo's lap and pulled the garment off over his head in one graceful movement, giving Napoleon a stimulating view of lightly bronzed skin marred by scars. Illya saw the expression of sadness and guilt flit across Solo's face but before he could say anything, Napoleon had leaned in and taken one nipple between avid lips. A cry, somewhere between pain and ecstasy, tore from Illya's lips and his hands flew to Napoleon's head. But lips receded a little and teeth lightly held him in place, a veiled, erotic threat that held him still. Solo took his friend's - his lover's - weight on his arms as he leaned Illya back, moving from one hard bud to the other, alternately suckling and nipping, soothing and agitating. His legs and knees were starting to protest about the uncomfortable position and the unfamiliar weight, but for the moment he ignored them as he was ignoring the keen desires of other parts of his body. Only when Illya started to tremble against him did Napoleon finally have mercy. He kissed a trail back up to his lover's full lips and laid claim to his mouth. Pulling the blond back up against him, Solo started when the hard length of Illya's erection slid against his own. For a moment he felt Illya still and knew his reaction had given his lover doubt that this was what he really wanted. "You. Me. Bed," he murmured quietly, not surprised to hear the question, "Are you sure?" Gently, he took Illya's hand from the side of his head - where strong fingers were restlessly playing with his hair - and reached between them. He gasped when those same fingers stroked playfully along his trapped and straining cock. "I'll take that as a yes." Napoleon grinned. "Please do." ~ Sticky, sated and happy, they sprawled together on the bed. Napoleon lay on his back, his hands idly stroking over Illya's lithe body that was draped over his own. Having such a dangerous, volatile man such as Illya lying naked and trusting in his arms was aphrodisiac in itself. But the man was devastatingly beautiful. Smooth skin, golden hair, full lips, skilled fingers and a pale, silken steel erection that Napoleon had been unable to keep his fingers away from. Stroking Illya's hair with one hand and his cock with the other was a new form of heaven, Solo thought as he reached behind him, grabbed a couple of pillows and stuffed them under his head. Illya shifted, mumbled something in his native language and lifted his head. "Stay still!" "I'm just getting comfortable." "I was comfortable." Not taking the bait, wondering absently how far he could push before his lover bit back in retaliation - maybe literally - Solo directed Illya's head up to the hollow of his shoulder and pressed his cheek to the crown, settling back with a sigh of utter contentment. He just knew the smug, happy smile that would be plastered on Illya's boyish face. The feeling of warmth, of belonging, of coming home made him realise just how empty the last decade had been. "You know, you could just have called." "But then we'd have had the very conversation we had yesterday when you arrived, and you'd have had no reason to stay." The voice of reason. Napoleon tightened his arms, spreading his fingers to touch as much as possible in one go. "You're the only reason I need." "We were both angry. We needed to vent that before we could move on." Napoleon smiled to himself, his feelings for the man in his arms swelling with every heartbeat. "I love you, Illya," he whispered, meaning it, speaking the words his body and soul were screaming. "Love you too, Napasha," came the easy response. ~ Napoleon awoke to the sunset. He was still holding Illya possessively, warm and comfortable. But his body was demanding a different type of relief. Sliding out from under his sleeping lover as carefully as he could, he padded through to the en suite. The chill of the air conditioning brought him out in a rash of goose-pimples almost immediately and he returned to Illya's warmth as soon as he'd flushed. Happy blue eyes watched him snuggle back onto the bed, but a second later Illya too had to rise. He climbed over Napoleon, straddling his hips, pausing for a long, welcomed kiss before heading for the bathroom. When he returned, he knelt up on the mattress. Solo reached out, brushing his hand over one perfectly muscled thigh. Illya's hand covered Solo's, stroking each of the fingers deliberately. "Are you hungry?" "For you." A small smile quirked the blond's lips. "Same old lines, Napasha?" "They never worked on the one person I ever really wanted." The question 'who?' was on the tip of his tongue just as the quietest part of his mind supplied the answer. "You weren't ready for this, for me." Solo had to admit his Russian beauty was probably right. "I'm ready for us now, Illya. I promise you." "Yes." Bringing Napoleon's hand to his mouth, he kissed the palm then let it drop. "Food. Shall we go out?" A feast of ideas surged forward in Solo's mind. "No. Let's call Room Service." ~ They left Chennai two days later. Illya lived in Geneva now and Napoleon had no plans to return to the states. Neither of them were sure about what the future would bring nor what they would do next. But they were certain of one another. Sephanie sidled up to Napoleon as he waited for Illya to finish settling up the company's accounts with the hotel. When he saw the young Italian, something reminded Solo of what Illya had said to him after their first fated meeting in the penthouse suite four days ago. "You wouldn't happen to speak Russian, would you?" he asked quietly. Sephanie smiled. "Of course. I learnt. After I met him." "Could you translate something for me?" A nod. Solo recalled the poetic line Illya had spoken just before he'd left the suite. It had stuck in his memory because of the rhyme inherent in the Russian words. He wanted to know what Illya had wanted to tell him, but hadn't been able to say. Sephanie thought for a moment and then spoke the line back to him, correctly. "That's it. What does it mean?" A grin split the handsome face. "Roughly translated, it means... 'stubborn, arrogant American.'" Solo's face fell. "Oh." But Sephanie squeezed his arm in comfort. "Not really. It means, 'I have always loved you.' Remember, Napoleon, break his heart, and I will tear out yours." Napoleon considered that. "Deal." He stepped away, meeting Illya as he turned from the reception desk. For a moment, inquisitive blue eyes read his expression. They questioned him silently and he replied in kind. "Sure?" Illya murmured, and Napoleon nodded. "Completely." |