Old MFU fic post
Title: The Behind Door Number 3 Affair
Author: Lil
Fandom: Man From UNCLE
Pairing: IK/NS, FT
Rating: R
Summary: A shocked Napoleon spots a familiar person in a compromising position. Slash
Disclaimer: I do not own (although I wish I did) any of these characters. They belong to MGM, Turner and a bunch of other corporate folks. I make no money from this, so please don't sue.
Notes: I'd like to thank my two wonderful betas, Theresa Kyle and KateD. For much patience, inspiration, and genuine help. I'd especially like to thank Theresa for her encouragement and generosity. This was originally posted years ago to File 40, a fantastic MFU site.
The Behind Door Number 3 Affair
by Lilminlj
"Illya, are you coming?"
"No, thank you, Napoleon. I have a prior engagement."
"The science society can discover new gadgets without you for one night. Sandy and I are catching a new play this evening, followed by more play tonight. She said Margo in Translation has been dying to see it, too. And would not mind some masculine company. I can get another pair of tickets… All you have to do is say the word..."
"The word is 'no.' I hope you and Sandy have an excellent time and that Ms. Marlowe finds a more interested escort."
"Illya, it'll be fun... A delicious meal at Le Cirque, and an exciting Broadway play, followed by an even more exciting and delicious encounter with a beautiful woman. What could possibly be better?"
"Although tempting, Napoleon," Illya's tone clearly indicated he was not at all tempted, "the word is still no. I shall see you on Monday. Good night." With that and his customary nod, Illya Kuryakin turned and left his partner in their office.
Napoleon sighed but had not truly expected a different response. His chances of persuading his partner to do anything if he'd already decided against it were practically nil. But he'd had to try, if only to keep up the game he and the Russian had been playing for years. Too many years, many more by far than anyone in Napoleon's acquaintance would believe. But he kept at it, there was too much at stake. Besides, man must have hope and Napoleon had always been an optimist.
****
Sandy had made it clear that she was perfectly willing to allow the evening to continue well into morning. But obeying some instinct he never could afterwards define, Napoleon called it an early night.
Maybe it was the fact she lived just a few streets away from Illya, and they'd walked by his corner on their way to her place after catching a nightcap at one of her favorite spots in the Village. Maybe it had hit him in a visceral, almost nauseating way just how empty the evening had been, how utterly devoid of any real feeling aside from a pretty little veneer of pleasantness. Maybe this one night he couldn't stand the thought of waking up next to someone who, in all honesty, was no more than a warm body, especially when Illya was so close.
And so he left her after a not-so-chaste kiss good night and, slightly depressed and unusually contemplative, he wandered back towards 7th Avenue where he was sure to find a cab.
****
He had no reason to look into the alley. And it was only chance -- or his own brand of "luck" -- that brought a car rushing past just in time to illuminate the dark passage.
Subconscious recognition made him stop. It took his conscious mind a few more moments to catch up and understand what he'd recognized. He balked at first. The hair was wrong, red, and the clothes were far more "hippie" than anything he'd seen before -- torn jeans, fringed beige jacket, and a spectacularly tie-dyed T-shirt. But he knew that body, knew it better than his own, knew the profile despite the slight goatee.
It was Illya.
And he was wholly engaged by another young man in a vigorous fuck.
For the longest moment Napoleon only stared, vehemently resisting the implications. But his brain refused to stay stuck. Illya was in this alley, having sex with a strange man. A stranger. A stranger was rubbing his body against Illya, cock to cock, intimately touching him. Getting him off. Fucking him.
A strange, dark-haired boy was having what he'd never had, what Illya had always refused to give him, had even refused to acknowledge between them.
His world reeled, everything he'd always thought he'd understood about his partner and their relationship taking a flying leap off a very high cliff.
This meaningless game he played... pursuing empty affairs with nameless bodies while Illya refused to pursue anything at all. He knew, or always thought he knew, that Illya was perfectly aware that he'd drop the game once and for all if his partner so much as hinted that he was ready to deal with what was between them. If there was just the slightest softening of that "hands-off" policy Illya broadcast as surely as he breathed. That Illya was aware Napoleon had long since grown weary of the game, that what started out as a tease intended to seduce his partner had become merely a way to pass the time, to survive the empty hours. That the game had turned to love a long, long time ago.
He knew Illya wasn't inclined towards men in a general sense. Knew his friend allowed only a chosen few -- of either sex -- past his carefully guarded perimeters. He'd always been premier among those few, allowed places no one else had even suspected in Kuryakin's life. And if anyone was to be allowed this ultimate intimacy, it would be him. Or so he'd believed.
But apparently not. Not only was Illya far less selective than Napoleon had thought, he was also perfectly open to men. Any man, as a matter of fact, even ones in filthy back alleys. Any man, that is, except his partner.
He had been so blithely certain that beneath it all, Illya loved him. That it was only that desperate need to protect himself, to preserve his independence, and social stigmas against a homosexual relationship that kept Illya from acknowledging what they had. That certainty had allowed him to carry on, had fueled his hope and comforted him on the many cold nights and torturous days spent breathing the same air as his lovely partner.
To be so wrong was terrifying and humbling in the worst sense. It hurt, damn it. So much.
For the second time in his life, Napoleon Solo felt his heart break, and he wondered if he would survive it this time.
****
Another car flashed by and abruptly Napoleon came back to a physical awareness of himself. The slight damp in the air; the sour, not so subtle odor of the alley; the rumble of traffic. And realized that the men before him would soon conclude their business. There was a part of him -- one that apparently had not been hurt enough -- that wanted to stay and at last see Illya's face at the moment of completion. A not so masochistic side wanted to stay to see Illya see him -- to be there in righteous indignation and confront his partner. And maybe tear out that little homewrecking hustler's heart through his throat.
But rationality prevailed. He didn't want to add the image of Illya at orgasm to this night's already too vivid reel. And putting on a show for that little pick-up of Illya's held even less appeal. So he forced his body to move and kept his paces quiet so as not to alert the pair in the alley.
Once moving he wanted nothing more than to keep walking. His steps took him past a dark bar, Door Number 3. No doubt the origin of the alley hustler. Another dozen yards brought him round the corner from Illya's apartment. At that corner he hesitated. His rational side tried to speak up again, urging him to keep going and never mention this again, but his irrational side was arguing.
There had been no promises, no real commitments between them. He had no grounds for all these feelings of betrayal. For all this anger and hurt.
But his heart would not be denied twice. Facing Illya on Monday, pretending this had never happened... Impossible. But he couldn't walk away without knowing why. He had to know why.
So he turned and calmly walked to Illya's, used his spare key to get in, and settled himself on Illya's worn, third-hand couch, in the dark. To wait.
****
Fortunately, perhaps, he didn't have to wait long. It was scarcely another ten minutes before he heard his partner's key in the lock.
Napoleon knew his face was composed. Years of training were, in fact, useful. He only blinked once when Illya flipped the lights on, and he was even able to smile at his partner's obvious shock at finding him there. He noted in passing that the goatee was already gone.
"Napoleon! What are you doing here?"
"Nice to see you, too. That's a new look, isn't it?"
Illya visibly controlled the instinct to adjust his clothes or touch his dyed hair, a measure of just how rattled he was. But he couldn't stop the blush that deepened the color in his cheeks, color lingering from recent activity. After a moment to school himself back to impassivity, Illya again asked, "What are you doing here?"
"I was in the neighborhood. Why the new look?"
"I was in the mood for a change. Napoleon -- "
"I saw you."
The words escaped through tight lips. Illya froze for just an instant before recovering. "What are you talking about?"
"The alley." It felt like the words were ripped out of his heart, leaving him hollow and bleeding.
Training or not, Illya paled, at last leeching some of that damnable color from his face. A heartbeat of silence, two. "I see." Another measured pause and training reasserted itself. "Were you following me?"
Napoleon stared, frankly shocked that Illya would try that, now.
Flushing again, Illya lowered his eyes and sighed, the mask dropping from his face. He made his way to the chair across from Napoleon, sinking into it wearily. "I'm sorry. You were never supposed to see that."
"Why?" So many questions in one.
Illya's gaze remained fixed on the stained coffee table and Napoleon was suddenly unsure he wanted to know.
His partner rubbed a hand across his eyes, "I'm not sure I can explain -- I wanted to see -- " Illya broke off, clearly not knowing what to say. "I'm sorry, I -- "
"How long?"
"A couple of months. Since Singapore."
Napoleon didn't think there was anything that could make him feel worse, but that did. Singapore had been an especially difficult affair. Napoleon had nearly died, courtesy of a THRUSH bomb that had stranded them both in the rubble of an office building's basement. For 15 hours, Illya had held him and kept him alive, his touch so tender, so gentle throughout, his voice a continuous murmur anchoring him, sometimes talking, sometimes singing soft Russian songs. Despite the pain, it had been a treasured memory. No longer.
"Why?!" The rage leapt out. It was all he could do to remain on the couch, to refrain from lunging at his partner and shaking him until the pain stopped.
"Because I -- because I couldn't wait -- "
"Wait for what?!"
"For us, Napoleon."
Solo could tell it pained the Russian to put it so bluntly, but he frankly didn't care. "What?!"
"I could no longer bear -- "
"You're blaming this on me?!" Napoleon could hardly credit his conclusion.
"No! The fault is strictly my own." A distracted hand brushed through fake red strands, "I am not explaining this well -- "
"No, you aren't."
"Please." Intense blue eyes beseeched him, "Napoleon, this is not easy for me -- "
"You're not the only one." The plea could not even dent the wall of his anger.
Illya lowered his eyes once again, hands clasped together, knuckles white. Barely a pause and then, "I was raped several times in the labor camp."
The anger stilled. Not fading, but quieting. Illya never talked about that time. He waited for his partner to continue.
"The KGB recruited me for espionage. Because of my looks, part of that training was to be in … specialized forms... I was to be... a lure."
Napoleon didn't need elaboration.
"My 'instructor' -- The first time he… he unintentionally triggered -- I killed him."
It was a good thing that Illya was still not looking at him. Gaffed fish was not his most becoming expression.
Illya smiled with no humor at all, his mind obviously a million miles -- or to be precise, 6,000 miles away. "Are you wondering why I'm still alive?" Napoleon gave no answer; Illya didn't really require one. "I got 'lucky.' The man's superior didn't like him -- the man enjoyed his work too much, apparently. He was glad to be rid of him. He decided to make use of my 'natural talents' and shifted my training emphasis to covert assault and assassination." Illya shrugged. "It was better than the alternative, and I got the chance to continue my education."
"Illya -- " For once Napoleon Solo had no idea what to say.
Illya raised his face. "Can you understand, Napoleon? The very last thing I could have -- I never expected to love a man."
"Love?" Napoleon repeated, throat closed and eyes stinging.
"Strange, isn't it? Most unexpected. I ignored it, fought it, denied it... After Singapore, I could do so no longer." Painfully candid eyes found his own, "But I didn't know if I could... allow... not even you..."
"Tovarishch -- "
"The first time I barely stopped myself from breaking his neck. And I could not let him... touch me." A quick flicker to Napoleon, then back to the coffee table. "Subsequent encounters became, gradually, easier to bear."
Napoleon could only stare again, torn between disbelief, sympathy, and a twinge or two of hysteria. "Tovarishch, whatever made you think -- "
"Desensitization is a sound behavioral modification technique, Napoleon," Illya sounded surreally, reassuringly pedantic. "It is still fairly new, but case studies -- "
Napoleon barely managed to restrain a giggle. He was very much afraid those hysterical twinges were multiplying. "Tovarishch, I'm sure the technique is fine. But..." All laughter died as pain flared back, "Illya, I could, we could -- "
"I could not bear to fail with you."
Ah, the crux of it. But, "It hurt so much."
A pain shared. "I never meant -- you were never supposed to know."
"But I do."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"I know." And he did. It was so very like Illya to approach this sort of situation with the most rational, cockeyed logic... Yet... he'd done it because he loved him. For the first time that night, Napoleon took a moment to examine that admission and revel in it. He had been right after all. Illya loved him. Enough to try and overcome childhood trauma so deep the KGB hadn't bothered to change it. But Illya had tried, for him. Deep breath. //Don't think of how. Think of why. He loves me.// But... "How far did you get?"
"Wh-what?"
Napoleon could not ask a second time. Could not.
Illya swallowed nervously, licked at dry lips, "I am a bit ahead of schedule, I -- " he faltered, glanced at Napoleon then quickly away. "Tonight, I -- I nearly became aroused -- "
"Nearly aroused?" Napoleon looked at him intently. "But you didn't come."
"I -- no."
"You've never come, with any..?"
"No." Pause, and that sky-blue gaze lifted, "Nor have I ever kissed any."
"None?"
"None."
"Good." Napoleon stood abruptly, took the few steps that would bring him to Illya's side. "Up," he gestured for his partner to rise. Illya did, watching him uncertainly. "You need a shower, tovarishch. I think we both could use one."
Illya nodded but still looked unsure.
An internal sigh and Napoleon very gently brought his hand up to Illya's face, carefully cupped his cheek, fingers tracing lightly over smooth skin. "It hurt, Illya. I wish you'd come to me, that we -- but I understand why you didn't."
"You were always here, Napoleon," Illya lightly tapped his temple, "I could not have borne it otherwise. The men had to loo-- "
"I don't want to know." An edge to those words and eyes too bright, but the fingers remained gentle. Napoleon shook his head, a slight smile fighting its way through somehow, "Crazy Russian." He opened his arms and Illya came, buried his face in Napoleon's shoulder, arms wrapped tightly around him. Napoleon drank in his partner's warmth, the hard feel of his body, so familiar against his own but not in quite this way. Questing fingers found soft strands but the color was all wrong. And his scent -- overlaying Illya's own was that other, sordid, spent sex. Napoleon stiffened and felt an answering tremble in his partner. That and countless memories of his own sordid nights -- not so very different from Illya's back alleys and done for far less noble cause -- made him relax, brush his lips against Illya's hair, pure silk despite the color rinse.
His partner looked up, scanning his face anxiously. "Shhh," Napoleon whispered, thumbs caressing Illya's jaw. "It's all right." And it was. It would be. //Focus on why.// Ever so slowly he tipped his head, giving Illya ample time to back off. Though he swallowed heavily, Illya stayed put, eyes huge and terribly vulnerable.
"I love you," Napoleon breathed against soft, dry lips. And then he kissed him. A gentle kiss, almost chaste. But tonight's hurt and years of waiting needed more than "chaste," more than a hint of Illya's sweet taste. Of those rosy lips, so endearingly hesitant, shy, but willing to open to him. For him. Only for him. He really did love this man.
"Come on."
Illya took his hand and together they went to the bathroom. Napoleon undressed himself, then Illya. Knowing that his partner needed to do this, Illya allowed it.
The fringed suede jacket survived. But not the T-shirt, not when Napoleon felt the wetness there. Rage flared again and his fingers tightened on the material, bunching it up in his hands, ripping it without a sound. He let it fall where it would. For a moment more he held still, the rage not completely satisfied.
Illya stood for it, watching him with steady eyes. Calm, accepting whatever Napoleon chose to do, as he had accepted years of casual affairs thrown in his face.
It was that which helped Napoleon rein himself in, that and the knowledge of his partner's past. He wanted no memory between them to be colored by violence. After several steadying breaths, control returned. With a start he realized he'd been clutching Illya's shoulders, consciously loosened his grip, rubbing at the reddened skin in apology.
He meant to actually say: "I'm sorry." What came out was, "Promise me." Unsteady and pained.
"I promise. Never again," Illya said immediately.
"Never." Just a hint of threat, he couldn't help that.
Illya acknowledged it with a nod, eyes hardening as he issued a threat of his own.
Napoleon had no trouble reading that threat and smiled inwardly. It was about time the little blond bastard got possessive. "Never." This time Napoleon said it gently, his own vow.
Illya relaxed minutely and went into his arms. Napoleon held him fiercely, knew then that he would never, could never let him go.
"Let's take that shower." Start this properly.
Nodding, Illya pulled back. "You'll sleep here?"
"Yes, tovarishch."
Illya took a step towards the tub, one hand unbuttoning his jeans. He hesitated, biting his lip, eyed Napoleon through a fringe of dyed red. Odd to see that sky-blue through anything but white gold. Napoleon itched to get the shampoo and wash those strands back to their rightful blond, but held still, waiting.
"Napoleon, I -- I can't yet -- "
Oh. "I know, tovarishch," very, very softly. "Tonight we sleep."
Relief made the last of Illya's tension disappear. "Spaceeba."
With a twist and shimmy, Illya chucked his jeans and slipped into the shower. Napoleon entered a moment later, glad he had not followed his first instinct to confront his partner in that alley. Or worse, his second, which had been to walk and keep walking, and would have ended with a short resignation. Walking away from all of it. From UNCLE. From Illya. A deep shudder now and Illya looked at him, concerned, water streaming over his shoulder.
Napoleon smiled reassuringly and drew the lithe body close. Where he belonged, where they belonged. Yes, he was very glad things had turned out the way they did.
Author: Lil
Fandom: Man From UNCLE
Pairing: IK/NS, FT
Rating: R
Summary: A shocked Napoleon spots a familiar person in a compromising position. Slash
Disclaimer: I do not own (although I wish I did) any of these characters. They belong to MGM, Turner and a bunch of other corporate folks. I make no money from this, so please don't sue.
Notes: I'd like to thank my two wonderful betas, Theresa Kyle and KateD. For much patience, inspiration, and genuine help. I'd especially like to thank Theresa for her encouragement and generosity. This was originally posted years ago to File 40, a fantastic MFU site.
The Behind Door Number 3 Affair
by Lilminlj
"Illya, are you coming?"
"No, thank you, Napoleon. I have a prior engagement."
"The science society can discover new gadgets without you for one night. Sandy and I are catching a new play this evening, followed by more play tonight. She said Margo in Translation has been dying to see it, too. And would not mind some masculine company. I can get another pair of tickets… All you have to do is say the word..."
"The word is 'no.' I hope you and Sandy have an excellent time and that Ms. Marlowe finds a more interested escort."
"Illya, it'll be fun... A delicious meal at Le Cirque, and an exciting Broadway play, followed by an even more exciting and delicious encounter with a beautiful woman. What could possibly be better?"
"Although tempting, Napoleon," Illya's tone clearly indicated he was not at all tempted, "the word is still no. I shall see you on Monday. Good night." With that and his customary nod, Illya Kuryakin turned and left his partner in their office.
Napoleon sighed but had not truly expected a different response. His chances of persuading his partner to do anything if he'd already decided against it were practically nil. But he'd had to try, if only to keep up the game he and the Russian had been playing for years. Too many years, many more by far than anyone in Napoleon's acquaintance would believe. But he kept at it, there was too much at stake. Besides, man must have hope and Napoleon had always been an optimist.
****
Sandy had made it clear that she was perfectly willing to allow the evening to continue well into morning. But obeying some instinct he never could afterwards define, Napoleon called it an early night.
Maybe it was the fact she lived just a few streets away from Illya, and they'd walked by his corner on their way to her place after catching a nightcap at one of her favorite spots in the Village. Maybe it had hit him in a visceral, almost nauseating way just how empty the evening had been, how utterly devoid of any real feeling aside from a pretty little veneer of pleasantness. Maybe this one night he couldn't stand the thought of waking up next to someone who, in all honesty, was no more than a warm body, especially when Illya was so close.
And so he left her after a not-so-chaste kiss good night and, slightly depressed and unusually contemplative, he wandered back towards 7th Avenue where he was sure to find a cab.
****
He had no reason to look into the alley. And it was only chance -- or his own brand of "luck" -- that brought a car rushing past just in time to illuminate the dark passage.
Subconscious recognition made him stop. It took his conscious mind a few more moments to catch up and understand what he'd recognized. He balked at first. The hair was wrong, red, and the clothes were far more "hippie" than anything he'd seen before -- torn jeans, fringed beige jacket, and a spectacularly tie-dyed T-shirt. But he knew that body, knew it better than his own, knew the profile despite the slight goatee.
It was Illya.
And he was wholly engaged by another young man in a vigorous fuck.
For the longest moment Napoleon only stared, vehemently resisting the implications. But his brain refused to stay stuck. Illya was in this alley, having sex with a strange man. A stranger. A stranger was rubbing his body against Illya, cock to cock, intimately touching him. Getting him off. Fucking him.
A strange, dark-haired boy was having what he'd never had, what Illya had always refused to give him, had even refused to acknowledge between them.
His world reeled, everything he'd always thought he'd understood about his partner and their relationship taking a flying leap off a very high cliff.
This meaningless game he played... pursuing empty affairs with nameless bodies while Illya refused to pursue anything at all. He knew, or always thought he knew, that Illya was perfectly aware that he'd drop the game once and for all if his partner so much as hinted that he was ready to deal with what was between them. If there was just the slightest softening of that "hands-off" policy Illya broadcast as surely as he breathed. That Illya was aware Napoleon had long since grown weary of the game, that what started out as a tease intended to seduce his partner had become merely a way to pass the time, to survive the empty hours. That the game had turned to love a long, long time ago.
He knew Illya wasn't inclined towards men in a general sense. Knew his friend allowed only a chosen few -- of either sex -- past his carefully guarded perimeters. He'd always been premier among those few, allowed places no one else had even suspected in Kuryakin's life. And if anyone was to be allowed this ultimate intimacy, it would be him. Or so he'd believed.
But apparently not. Not only was Illya far less selective than Napoleon had thought, he was also perfectly open to men. Any man, as a matter of fact, even ones in filthy back alleys. Any man, that is, except his partner.
He had been so blithely certain that beneath it all, Illya loved him. That it was only that desperate need to protect himself, to preserve his independence, and social stigmas against a homosexual relationship that kept Illya from acknowledging what they had. That certainty had allowed him to carry on, had fueled his hope and comforted him on the many cold nights and torturous days spent breathing the same air as his lovely partner.
To be so wrong was terrifying and humbling in the worst sense. It hurt, damn it. So much.
For the second time in his life, Napoleon Solo felt his heart break, and he wondered if he would survive it this time.
****
Another car flashed by and abruptly Napoleon came back to a physical awareness of himself. The slight damp in the air; the sour, not so subtle odor of the alley; the rumble of traffic. And realized that the men before him would soon conclude their business. There was a part of him -- one that apparently had not been hurt enough -- that wanted to stay and at last see Illya's face at the moment of completion. A not so masochistic side wanted to stay to see Illya see him -- to be there in righteous indignation and confront his partner. And maybe tear out that little homewrecking hustler's heart through his throat.
But rationality prevailed. He didn't want to add the image of Illya at orgasm to this night's already too vivid reel. And putting on a show for that little pick-up of Illya's held even less appeal. So he forced his body to move and kept his paces quiet so as not to alert the pair in the alley.
Once moving he wanted nothing more than to keep walking. His steps took him past a dark bar, Door Number 3. No doubt the origin of the alley hustler. Another dozen yards brought him round the corner from Illya's apartment. At that corner he hesitated. His rational side tried to speak up again, urging him to keep going and never mention this again, but his irrational side was arguing.
There had been no promises, no real commitments between them. He had no grounds for all these feelings of betrayal. For all this anger and hurt.
But his heart would not be denied twice. Facing Illya on Monday, pretending this had never happened... Impossible. But he couldn't walk away without knowing why. He had to know why.
So he turned and calmly walked to Illya's, used his spare key to get in, and settled himself on Illya's worn, third-hand couch, in the dark. To wait.
****
Fortunately, perhaps, he didn't have to wait long. It was scarcely another ten minutes before he heard his partner's key in the lock.
Napoleon knew his face was composed. Years of training were, in fact, useful. He only blinked once when Illya flipped the lights on, and he was even able to smile at his partner's obvious shock at finding him there. He noted in passing that the goatee was already gone.
"Napoleon! What are you doing here?"
"Nice to see you, too. That's a new look, isn't it?"
Illya visibly controlled the instinct to adjust his clothes or touch his dyed hair, a measure of just how rattled he was. But he couldn't stop the blush that deepened the color in his cheeks, color lingering from recent activity. After a moment to school himself back to impassivity, Illya again asked, "What are you doing here?"
"I was in the neighborhood. Why the new look?"
"I was in the mood for a change. Napoleon -- "
"I saw you."
The words escaped through tight lips. Illya froze for just an instant before recovering. "What are you talking about?"
"The alley." It felt like the words were ripped out of his heart, leaving him hollow and bleeding.
Training or not, Illya paled, at last leeching some of that damnable color from his face. A heartbeat of silence, two. "I see." Another measured pause and training reasserted itself. "Were you following me?"
Napoleon stared, frankly shocked that Illya would try that, now.
Flushing again, Illya lowered his eyes and sighed, the mask dropping from his face. He made his way to the chair across from Napoleon, sinking into it wearily. "I'm sorry. You were never supposed to see that."
"Why?" So many questions in one.
Illya's gaze remained fixed on the stained coffee table and Napoleon was suddenly unsure he wanted to know.
His partner rubbed a hand across his eyes, "I'm not sure I can explain -- I wanted to see -- " Illya broke off, clearly not knowing what to say. "I'm sorry, I -- "
"How long?"
"A couple of months. Since Singapore."
Napoleon didn't think there was anything that could make him feel worse, but that did. Singapore had been an especially difficult affair. Napoleon had nearly died, courtesy of a THRUSH bomb that had stranded them both in the rubble of an office building's basement. For 15 hours, Illya had held him and kept him alive, his touch so tender, so gentle throughout, his voice a continuous murmur anchoring him, sometimes talking, sometimes singing soft Russian songs. Despite the pain, it had been a treasured memory. No longer.
"Why?!" The rage leapt out. It was all he could do to remain on the couch, to refrain from lunging at his partner and shaking him until the pain stopped.
"Because I -- because I couldn't wait -- "
"Wait for what?!"
"For us, Napoleon."
Solo could tell it pained the Russian to put it so bluntly, but he frankly didn't care. "What?!"
"I could no longer bear -- "
"You're blaming this on me?!" Napoleon could hardly credit his conclusion.
"No! The fault is strictly my own." A distracted hand brushed through fake red strands, "I am not explaining this well -- "
"No, you aren't."
"Please." Intense blue eyes beseeched him, "Napoleon, this is not easy for me -- "
"You're not the only one." The plea could not even dent the wall of his anger.
Illya lowered his eyes once again, hands clasped together, knuckles white. Barely a pause and then, "I was raped several times in the labor camp."
The anger stilled. Not fading, but quieting. Illya never talked about that time. He waited for his partner to continue.
"The KGB recruited me for espionage. Because of my looks, part of that training was to be in … specialized forms... I was to be... a lure."
Napoleon didn't need elaboration.
"My 'instructor' -- The first time he… he unintentionally triggered -- I killed him."
It was a good thing that Illya was still not looking at him. Gaffed fish was not his most becoming expression.
Illya smiled with no humor at all, his mind obviously a million miles -- or to be precise, 6,000 miles away. "Are you wondering why I'm still alive?" Napoleon gave no answer; Illya didn't really require one. "I got 'lucky.' The man's superior didn't like him -- the man enjoyed his work too much, apparently. He was glad to be rid of him. He decided to make use of my 'natural talents' and shifted my training emphasis to covert assault and assassination." Illya shrugged. "It was better than the alternative, and I got the chance to continue my education."
"Illya -- " For once Napoleon Solo had no idea what to say.
Illya raised his face. "Can you understand, Napoleon? The very last thing I could have -- I never expected to love a man."
"Love?" Napoleon repeated, throat closed and eyes stinging.
"Strange, isn't it? Most unexpected. I ignored it, fought it, denied it... After Singapore, I could do so no longer." Painfully candid eyes found his own, "But I didn't know if I could... allow... not even you..."
"Tovarishch -- "
"The first time I barely stopped myself from breaking his neck. And I could not let him... touch me." A quick flicker to Napoleon, then back to the coffee table. "Subsequent encounters became, gradually, easier to bear."
Napoleon could only stare again, torn between disbelief, sympathy, and a twinge or two of hysteria. "Tovarishch, whatever made you think -- "
"Desensitization is a sound behavioral modification technique, Napoleon," Illya sounded surreally, reassuringly pedantic. "It is still fairly new, but case studies -- "
Napoleon barely managed to restrain a giggle. He was very much afraid those hysterical twinges were multiplying. "Tovarishch, I'm sure the technique is fine. But..." All laughter died as pain flared back, "Illya, I could, we could -- "
"I could not bear to fail with you."
Ah, the crux of it. But, "It hurt so much."
A pain shared. "I never meant -- you were never supposed to know."
"But I do."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"I know." And he did. It was so very like Illya to approach this sort of situation with the most rational, cockeyed logic... Yet... he'd done it because he loved him. For the first time that night, Napoleon took a moment to examine that admission and revel in it. He had been right after all. Illya loved him. Enough to try and overcome childhood trauma so deep the KGB hadn't bothered to change it. But Illya had tried, for him. Deep breath. //Don't think of how. Think of why. He loves me.// But... "How far did you get?"
"Wh-what?"
Napoleon could not ask a second time. Could not.
Illya swallowed nervously, licked at dry lips, "I am a bit ahead of schedule, I -- " he faltered, glanced at Napoleon then quickly away. "Tonight, I -- I nearly became aroused -- "
"Nearly aroused?" Napoleon looked at him intently. "But you didn't come."
"I -- no."
"You've never come, with any..?"
"No." Pause, and that sky-blue gaze lifted, "Nor have I ever kissed any."
"None?"
"None."
"Good." Napoleon stood abruptly, took the few steps that would bring him to Illya's side. "Up," he gestured for his partner to rise. Illya did, watching him uncertainly. "You need a shower, tovarishch. I think we both could use one."
Illya nodded but still looked unsure.
An internal sigh and Napoleon very gently brought his hand up to Illya's face, carefully cupped his cheek, fingers tracing lightly over smooth skin. "It hurt, Illya. I wish you'd come to me, that we -- but I understand why you didn't."
"You were always here, Napoleon," Illya lightly tapped his temple, "I could not have borne it otherwise. The men had to loo-- "
"I don't want to know." An edge to those words and eyes too bright, but the fingers remained gentle. Napoleon shook his head, a slight smile fighting its way through somehow, "Crazy Russian." He opened his arms and Illya came, buried his face in Napoleon's shoulder, arms wrapped tightly around him. Napoleon drank in his partner's warmth, the hard feel of his body, so familiar against his own but not in quite this way. Questing fingers found soft strands but the color was all wrong. And his scent -- overlaying Illya's own was that other, sordid, spent sex. Napoleon stiffened and felt an answering tremble in his partner. That and countless memories of his own sordid nights -- not so very different from Illya's back alleys and done for far less noble cause -- made him relax, brush his lips against Illya's hair, pure silk despite the color rinse.
His partner looked up, scanning his face anxiously. "Shhh," Napoleon whispered, thumbs caressing Illya's jaw. "It's all right." And it was. It would be. //Focus on why.// Ever so slowly he tipped his head, giving Illya ample time to back off. Though he swallowed heavily, Illya stayed put, eyes huge and terribly vulnerable.
"I love you," Napoleon breathed against soft, dry lips. And then he kissed him. A gentle kiss, almost chaste. But tonight's hurt and years of waiting needed more than "chaste," more than a hint of Illya's sweet taste. Of those rosy lips, so endearingly hesitant, shy, but willing to open to him. For him. Only for him. He really did love this man.
"Come on."
Illya took his hand and together they went to the bathroom. Napoleon undressed himself, then Illya. Knowing that his partner needed to do this, Illya allowed it.
The fringed suede jacket survived. But not the T-shirt, not when Napoleon felt the wetness there. Rage flared again and his fingers tightened on the material, bunching it up in his hands, ripping it without a sound. He let it fall where it would. For a moment more he held still, the rage not completely satisfied.
Illya stood for it, watching him with steady eyes. Calm, accepting whatever Napoleon chose to do, as he had accepted years of casual affairs thrown in his face.
It was that which helped Napoleon rein himself in, that and the knowledge of his partner's past. He wanted no memory between them to be colored by violence. After several steadying breaths, control returned. With a start he realized he'd been clutching Illya's shoulders, consciously loosened his grip, rubbing at the reddened skin in apology.
He meant to actually say: "I'm sorry." What came out was, "Promise me." Unsteady and pained.
"I promise. Never again," Illya said immediately.
"Never." Just a hint of threat, he couldn't help that.
Illya acknowledged it with a nod, eyes hardening as he issued a threat of his own.
Napoleon had no trouble reading that threat and smiled inwardly. It was about time the little blond bastard got possessive. "Never." This time Napoleon said it gently, his own vow.
Illya relaxed minutely and went into his arms. Napoleon held him fiercely, knew then that he would never, could never let him go.
"Let's take that shower." Start this properly.
Nodding, Illya pulled back. "You'll sleep here?"
"Yes, tovarishch."
Illya took a step towards the tub, one hand unbuttoning his jeans. He hesitated, biting his lip, eyed Napoleon through a fringe of dyed red. Odd to see that sky-blue through anything but white gold. Napoleon itched to get the shampoo and wash those strands back to their rightful blond, but held still, waiting.
"Napoleon, I -- I can't yet -- "
Oh. "I know, tovarishch," very, very softly. "Tonight we sleep."
Relief made the last of Illya's tension disappear. "Spaceeba."
With a twist and shimmy, Illya chucked his jeans and slipped into the shower. Napoleon entered a moment later, glad he had not followed his first instinct to confront his partner in that alley. Or worse, his second, which had been to walk and keep walking, and would have ended with a short resignation. Walking away from all of it. From UNCLE. From Illya. A deep shudder now and Illya looked at him, concerned, water streaming over his shoulder.
Napoleon smiled reassuringly and drew the lithe body close. Where he belonged, where they belonged. Yes, he was very glad things had turned out the way they did.