MFU Fanfic: Without a Word (Parts VIII & IX)
These are the concluding chapters of the story. As it was too long to fit in one post, these last two chapters are separate.
Parts VIII & IX have slash and het and are NC-17.
Parts I - VII are here and on mfu_yumdaily (see previous post for links).
Disclaimer: Don't own MUNCLE and no money is being made!
Part VIII
A blade of light cut between the draperies, across the carpet and over the three sleeping figures intertwined amidst the pillows in the centre of the bed. Napoleon lay on his stomach, his face half-buried in a pillow tucked under Illya‘s arm, facing away from the balcony doors. Illya was on his back, one leg resting across the small of Napoleon’s back, one hand curled around the back of Napoleon’s head. Vera was under Illya’s other arm, her head on his chest, one leg bent across his thigh, her foot tucked under his calf.
Two shots sounded. Two hands moved under two pillows and retrieved two guns before the echoes had died away. Napoleon bounded out of the bed, scooping up the robe on the floor beside it as he moved to the balcony doors, Illya right behind him. They stood on either side of the doors, guns poised, listening. Voices shouting. Begault, Mercier, Van der Wall, Lindsey, one by one they identified the voices, all local UNCLE agents. Napoleon slipped the robe on one arm, switched his gun to his other hand and finished donning it.
He opened one of the balcony doors and called, “Mercier?”
“We have him, sir. The one you called us about last night,” Mercier replied.
“Is he dead?” Napoleon asked, moving onto the terrace and across it to the balustrade. The stone was cold on his bare feet.
“No, sir. We used sleep darts,” Mercier clarified.
“He’s a big man, sir. We used two,” Begault added.
“Van der Wall saw him from a distance, slinking up through the vineyards and called us,” Mercier continued.
“We intercepted him here in the garden,” Begault explained.
“He seemed to be heading for your balcony,” Mercier added.
Napoleon saw Van der Wall and Lindsey struggling with something large on the ground. “Can you get him into the salon?” Napoleon asked.
“Yes, sir,” several voices responded.
“All right. I’ll be down before he comes around,” Napoleon said, lowering his gun. He heard the sound of a car door slamming in the distance. He raised his gun again.
“It’s Fleury,” Mercier said. “He’s brought croissants.”
“We’ve already made coffee, sir,” Begault added.
“See you even sooner then,” Napoleon replied and headed back to the room.
Vera was up on her elbows, looking a question at him when he came through the doors. “Everything under control,” Napoleon said, walking around to her side of the bed. Vera turned to look over her shoulder at him, one eyebrow still raised. She had managed to lose any covers by the time he got there. “Who was Cecil expecting?” he asked, tapping the back of Vera’s calf with the muzzle of his gun.
“His friend,” she said, putting a special emphasis on the word and keeping her eyes on Napoleon’s face.
“Purely a social call, then?” Napoleon replied, sliding the barrel of the gun up the back of Vera’s leg. Her other eyebrow rose. She opened her mouth as though to speak and then appeared to think better of it. Napoleon let the gun barrel slip between her upper thighs, pressing the cool metal against her sleep-warmed skin. The gun was loaded with sleep darts, but Vera wouldn’t know that. She moved one of her thighs. Napoleon smiled and looked back up at her. “I’m going to need to have a talk with Cecil’s friend, he said, his voice smooth and suggestive.
“I need my clothes,” Vera replied, holding Napoleon’s gaze.
Napoleon thought of the lacy garments on the sofa, the silk and velvet on the floor. He nudged the gun barrel a little higher. “I’ll tell Illya. He’s got the keys,” he replied and turned away.
When Napoleon closed the bathroom door behind himself, Illya was already rinsing shampoo out of his hair.
“That was fast,” Napoleon said.
“We wouldn’t want to keep our colleagues waiting,” Illya replied as he rubbed soap across his chest.
“You heard there were fresh croissants,” Napoleon accused.
Illya raised an eyebrow. “I headed in here as soon as I learned the situation was under control. Who did you warn them about last night?”
Napoleon turned the lock on the bathroom door and stepped closer to the shower. “I thought you were in here?” he teased. Illya smiled and lathered under his arm.
“When I saw the second dressing gown last night, I called Mercier. I thought someone else might have been expected to join the party late or be hiding in the grounds,” Napoleon finished explaining as he turned to hang his robe on the back of the door.
Illya’s tone was as bright as the morning sky and it made Napoleon hesitate. The note of complicit knowledge he had come to expect was absent and he missed it. Missed that subtle reference to what had gone before. It always made him want to have it again. Right then. And when duties took precedence, it spoke of pleasures to come, making the waiting ripe and full. And it was missing.
Napoleon glanced at the glass doors of the shower. Illya was looking down, washing a raised foot, the water streaming over his back. As Napoleon watched, Illya lowered his foot, bent forward to soap the rest of his leg. The morning erection the brisk air on the terrace had quelled, began to revive. Napoleon grabbed a towel, wrapped it snugly about his hips and opted to shave.
The water stopped running. When Illya’s face appeared in the mirror, he was rubbing his hair dry and smiling more widely.
“You already knew,” Napoleon said, his razor clearing a path through the shaving cream on his cheek. Illya tossed the towel towards the hamper. “I thought the two robes suspicious.” He lifted his clothes off the hook and draped them over one arm. “Although convenient.”
“That’s why you drove back here last night with…” Napoleon stopped talking and inclined his head towards the bedroom.
Illya checked his jacket pocket for his communicator. “Perhaps you can talk to her before you come downstairs.”
“You think she has something more to tell us?” Napoleon said, turning from the mirror.
“Definitely,” Illya answered, his hand on the doorknob. Napoleon nodded.
“Vera needs some clothes. I suppose you aren’t going to give her the keys to her room,” Napoleon said, turning back to the mirror.
“I’ll take her to fetch a few things before I go downstairs,” Illya replied.
“Leave me a couple croissants,” Napoleon called as Illya opened the door. Illya gave Napoleon another sideways glance and a small smile.
Napoleon tried not to think about the fact that Illya apparently planned to dress in the bedroom.
***********
Part IX
The bed was empty. The curtains over the balcony doors billowed with the breeze. Illya scanned the room. Vera was standing naked by the couch, gathering her scattered clothing. Soundlessly, Illya moved towards her. She shook out her gown and stepped into it.
“You need something more appropriate for the morning,” Illya said when he was only a couple paces away.
Not startled at all, Vera glanced at him, then turned her back towards him. “Can you help me with the zipper?” she asked.
The zipper was fully open, her milky skin vivid between the dark velvet. Without undergarments, the indentation of the spine segued into the cleavage of the buttocks. It was a pleasing prospect. Illya lay his clothes on the arm of the sofa and stepped closer. He rested an open hand on Vera’s hip to keep the cloth in place. As he seized the tag of the zipper the side of his hand brushed over the swell of Vera’s cheeks. Vera startled then. Illya kept his hand angled so it stroked all the way up Vera’s back as he pulled the zipper along.
And then the touch was gone. Vera turned. Illya was pulling on his trousers. He, too, had forgone underwear. Although he was looking down, out of the corner of his eye, Illya was watching Vera. Her eyes had widened slightly as she watched Illya carefully tucking himself in and closing his fly. He buckled his holster over his bare chest, settled his gun in it and slipped his arm under the rest of his clothes.
“For decency in the hall,” he said, turning to face Vera. “In case any of the other agents are upstairs.”
Vera was trying to keep a blasé look on her face, she had had him last night after all, but she couldn’t stop her eyes from following the lines of the black leather across Illya’s fair skin with obvious interest. Illya stepped across to the hearth, a small smile curving his lips as he turned away. When he bent over the woodbox, Vera’s eyes noted the play of shoulder and back muscles around the shiny leather. The keys on the steel ring jingled as Illya lifted it from between the logs.
“After you?” he said, extending his arm towards the door.
******************
Like the room where they had spent the night, Vera’s bedroom was white-panelled and hung with several mirrors. They were bright with the reflected sunlight from the double windows whose draperies had not been drawn. Vera dropped her shoes by her bed, her other clothing on it and walked to the bathroom door. Illya deposited his clothes on a nearby chair and followed her.
At the door, Vera looked back. “Zipper?” she asked succinctly.
It hissed as Illya undid it. Vera continued into the spacious bathroom, letting the gown drop as she walked. She stopped next to the bath, took it off and looked back at Illya. “Are you joining me?” she asked, handing Illya the dress and leaning forward to turn on the water taps.
Illya took a step back and leaned sideways to hang the dress over a hook on the back of the bathroom door.
“I’ve already showered,” he replied, smiling faintly. “But I haven’t shaved yet.”
Vera twisted her hair into a bun and repositioned the few remaining pins in her hair to hold it in place. “Even prisoners of war get some privacy,” she said.
Illya’s smile increased a little. “Ah, but you are not a prisoner of war, are you?” he retorted.
Vera’s eyes travelled down from Illya’s, pausing at his mouth, sweeping over his chest and lingering at his groin. In one pocket the key ring bulged, in the other something else. “No, not a prisoner of war,” she said and lifted her leg high over the rim of the bathtub.
The mirror over the basin was the door to the medicine cabinet. Illya opened it to take out the razor and shaving cream, and left it open a few centimetres, so that he could see Vera in the shower as he shaved. He knew where most things were located in the suite from his search the previous day, but he thought it possible that he might have missed something. He was waiting for Vera to show him what it was.
Vera’s soap was rose-scented. The steam from the shower wafted it through the bathroom. Illya’s nose wrinkled for an instant at the sharp smell of ammonia and then there were only roses again.
Shaving completed, Illya sat on the tufted stool beneath the bathroom window and waited for Vera to finish showering.
“Do you have a colour preference?” Vera asked as she opened the top bureau drawer.
Illya stood in the bathroom door, leaning against the door frame, following Vera’s movements. “In what?” he countered, not moving.
Vera held up a brassiere of pure white lace and regarded Illya over it. “Too virginal?” she enquired when he didn’t respond. “Considering last night?”
The side of Illya’s mouth quirked. “Depends on your mood. Do you feel virginal this morning?”
A small crease formed between Vera’s eyebrows. “Do I…?” she echoed. She turned back to the drawer, moving her hands over its contents, over black silk and cream satin, not selecting anything else.
Illya had walked up behind Vera as she hunted, observing her hands. They kept returning to a certain spot towards the back of the drawer on the left side.
He leaned around her, barely touching her arm and selected, from the middle of the drawer, a pale green brassiere, its silk overlaid with white lace. “Does that one suit your mood?” he asked, lifting up one strap with his index finger.
Vera took it, turned and held it up in front of her breasts. “Does it?” she asked. Illya smiled a little as he reached up to smooth the silk over her breasts.
“Shall I help you put it on?” he asked. Vera nodded and Illya stepped back a pace. He held it out for her and Vera slipped her arms through the straps and turned for Illya to fasten it. His fingers smoothed over the fasteners carefully, then the straps, stroking her back and shoulders in the process and then he followed the curve of the wire under her breasts. Unless the information was incorporated into the fabric itself, Illya didn’t think there was any hidden in the brassiere. Over her shoulder, he observed Vera locate the garter and panties that matched the brassiere and a pair of silk stockings. She held up the garter belt for Illya to fasten. He checked it as he had the brassiere, and let his fingers trace the curve of Vera's waist when he was done. He felt the tiniest little shiver under her skin.
Vera moved to a small chair near the bureau. Illya turned to watch her, his hand sliding along the left side of the lingerie drawer towards the back, his fingers gliding over the delicate fabric until he found it. He palmed the small cylinder, slipped it into his back pocket and leaned his hip against the drawer to close it.
Vera pulled the panties up, sat down on the stool and raised one foot to the edge of the cushion. When she looked up through her lashes and found Illya watching, she smiled. She unrolled one stocking, fastened the garters and looked up again. Illya was still watching. Her smile grew as she lowered the stockinged foot and raised the bare one.
After she hooked the last garter, Illya asked, “What will you wear to hide them?”
Vera reached behind her neck with both hands and unclasped her necklace, then unhooked the earrings from her ears. She stood and walked towards Illya. He rewarded her with his attention. She slipped off her ring as she reached the bureau and opened the large jewelry box there. She placed the emeralds in their tiny velvet compartments and enquired, “What do you suggest?”
Illya looked carefully into the jewel case. “Depends on your dress,” he answered.
Vera looked at him for a moment and considered. “Pearls, I think,” she said and lifted out a triple strand. She held them up to her neck and turned her back to Illya. He ran his fingers over hers as he took the two ends from her and snapped them together. There was a small diamond in the clasp. Vera hooked two small pearl drops through her ear lobes and slipped a pearl and diamond ring on her finger.
“Scientists can’t usually afford such things,” Illya remarked.
“No,” Vera replied thoughtfully, looking down at the ring. She tilted her hand back and forth and the diamonds caught the light. “They can’t.” Vera reached up and pulled the pins out of her hair. She dropped them into a small glass dish near the jewel case and lifted a silver-backed brush. She shook out her hair and pulled the brush through it. Illya sat at the bottom of the bed and put on his socks and shoes.
Illya watched for a minute or two as Vera arranged the waves of her hair over her shoulders. “The dress,” he said softly, removing his holster. “We shouldn’t keep Napoleon waiting too long.” Illya slipped on his shirt, his fingers moving rapidly over the buttons.
Vera looked over at Illya. “No, not too long,” she agreed and walked to her closet. Illya re-buckled his holster. From among the dozen or so garments hanging in the closet, Vera chose a pale green outfit. Tie still dangling around his collar, Illya walked across the room to zip her into the form-fitting sheath and help her on with the jacket.
For the short stroll down the corridor, Illya took Vera’s arm. At the door to the guest room he paused, hearing Napoleon’s voice faintly through the door. Illya rapped. The voice stopped. A moment later Napoleon opened the door. “Your lady fair,” Illya said and extended Vera’s hand to him.
Napoleon looked from Vera to Illya and back again. There was a faint flush on her cheeks and her eyes were bright. She smelt like roses.
“Come in, milady,” Napoleon said, bowing slightly as he opened the door wider. Vera walked in and Napoleon raised an eyebrow at Illya. Illya raised both of his and tilted his chin up in Vera’s direction.
“I’ll see you downstairs,” Illya said and turned away.
“Don’t forget to tie your tie,” Napoleon said. “We have to keep up appearances, even in the field,” he called after Illya as he closed the door.
Illya re-locked the door to Vera’s room on his way to the staircase.
******************
After breakfast and assisting in the interrogation of the revived THRUSH, Illya headed out to the car. He left the keys in the sedan for Mercier to return to the rental agency and settled in the UNCLE car Fleury had been driving. Napoleon joined him a couple minutes later. “I got it,” he said, sliding into the convertible. He rested his arm on the back of Illya’s seat, flicking a glance back at the abandoned sedan. Illya put the sports car in gear and headed down the drive. “Aren’t you going to ask me what?” Napoleon asked.
“I am confident you will tell me,” Illya replied, rounding the first sharp turn.
Napoleon considered not saying anything and letting Illya read his report. After a minute or so during which the mountain road seemed to absorb all of Illya’s attention, Napoleon continued. “The coded message authorising the local THRUSH to advance her development costs for another invention as well as make the final payment for an amplifier for the Siren Machine she was working on with the fellow we captured this morning,” Napoleon said. “Since we know most of the content of the message, we can probably break the code in no time.” Illya glanced at Napoleon and raised an eyebrow. “I gave the message and all the information to Mercier,” Napoleon expanded. “He’s relaying the contents to Toulouse now.
Illya nodded. He liked Mercier. He was a talented and hard-working agent. It was why Illya had given the film with Vera's research notes that he'd found in her bureau to Mercier even before Napoleon came downstairs. The information had made the interrogation come to a conclusion much more rapidly. Mercier had told Napoleon that he hadn't found the film himself though. That wasn't surprising. It was the kind of agent Mercier was. It was another reason Illya liked him.
Napoleon studied Illya’s profile. “Did you already know about it, too?”
“I found it in her bag this morning when you were out on the balcony,” Illya said.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Napoleon asked.
“I was going to,” Illya replied.
“When?” Napoleon asked.
“Before we left, if she didn’t give it to you first,” Illya answered.
“But she might have already left with it,” Napoleon fumed.
“I took a photo of it,” Illya said, rounding another bend.
“Then why wait?” Napoleon insisted.
“I wanted to see if she would tell you,” Illya replied.
“Why?” Napoleon asked.
“Mr Waverly cleared her for release yesterday. I still had doubts. This was a little extra test,” he explained.
Test. The word set off alarms in Napoleon’s head. “And are you satisfied with the results of your test?” Napoleon asked, keeping his voice steady and nonchalant.
“They're promising, but not conclusive,” Illya answered, taking a hairpin turn fast enough to throw Napoleon against the car door.
“I see,” Napoleon said, bracing himself for the next turn when there was no indication from Illya that brakes would be involved in negotiating it. And I do see, Napoleon thought. I want to pass this test. He noted how white the knuckles of his hand gripping the dashboard were before he shifted his eyes back to Illya's profile. More than I’ve wanted anything. Ever.
The sun was bright overhead, the vistas each twist of the mountain road revealed, beautiful. Napoleon breathed in the clear air and hoped.
They drove the rest of the way to the airport without a word.
THE END