The Iron Curtain Affair: Epilogue
The Iron Curtain Affair
-a Man from UNCLE slash fanfic by Taylor Dancinghands
Pairing: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin; Characters: Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin
Genre: slash, h/c, BDSM, A/U: Sentinels and Guides, Sentinels are a known institution
Warnings: explicit m/m sex
Rating: Mature/PG 17
Chapter Index
Prologue: A Very dangerous game...
Act 1: Why did it have to be you?
Act 2: I won't start anything if you don't.
Act 3: Good Morning sisters!
Act 4: They call him... KIng of Šumava.
Epilogue: ...unfinished business."
Epilogue: "...unfinished business."
Notes: This is not really an epilogue, but rather a full length final chapter. That's what I get for trying to shoehorn my smutty, plot heavy stories into the five act TV show format. Of course, they didn't include any sex scenes in the TV show, and that makes for a lot of extra words, ya know.
Napoleon was only in the hospital for two days, for transfusions and stitches. The bullet had pierced muscle and nicked an artery, but had passed by the bone, thankfully. He was released on crutches and with orders to stay off the leg-the kinds of orders Napoleon had previously taken only half heartedly, but now there was a Sentinel at his side, insisting most fervently that he would make sure that Napoleon would follow those orders rigorously.
Happily, he would at least be following them in the pleasant confines of the lodge. UNCLE had declared that Napoleon would convalesce in Zwiesel, as it cost nothing, and let Agent Fischer finish up whatever training she could impart with Napoleon partially invalided. That ended up being nothing more than a review meeting which she and her Guide set up in the lodge's main lounge, with a fire in the immense fireplace and an extensive spread of cold cuts and slices of dense, seedy rye bread.
"There really wasn't much more that I had planned for you," she said over her second mug of beer. "And I think the two of you have pretty much got the hang of how to function as a pair. What I would like to give you now, however, is my report on how the two of you did in your last mission-and your first as a bonded pair."
Napoleon already knew that they could count the mission as a slightly qualified success, as the smuggled cargo had, indeed proved to be fissionable materials from the Jachymov mines. The two captured smugglers had given up enough information about the source of the smuggled goods for the Czech authorities to plug the hole. The only loose end was the KIng of Smugglers himself who, it seemed, had little to do with the Jáchymov connection in any case, and mainly provided a guide service to anyone with the money. Mission outcomes notwithstanding, Napoleon was not as certain about how his and Illya's new partnership would be evaluated.
"This is the report you'll be sending on to UNCLE administration, I assume," Napoleon said.
"A more formal version, yes," Agent Fischer said. "Well be speaking more personally this evening, Sentinel to Sentinel and Guide to Guide."
"No doubt it includes something about how I need to pay more attention to my Guide," Illya commented, seeming resigned, but philosophical about it.
"Actually," Agent Fischer replied, "especially considering how unprepared you were at the start, you've made tremendous progress. You actually requested your Guide's help in centering yourself, in order to find a safe path out of the bog. That's a very good sign. No, your biggest mistake in this last mission, Sentinel Kuryakin, was a very difficult one to avoid."
"And that was?" Illya asked.
"Letting your own Sentinel get the bit between his teeth when you realized that you were pursuing a rogue Sentinel," the Senior Sentinel answered. "Balancing your Sentinel instincts and your training as an agent can be a tricky business in most circumstances, and it can be almost impossible when you encounter something like this. Fortunately, actual rogue Sentinels are quite rare, so you're unlikely to encounter one in the future, but if you do, know that your Sentinel may not respond rationally, and will be difficult to control."
"Even I have a problem with the idea of a Sentinel who would allow such dangerous and destabilizing materials to be transported through his territory, much less facilitate it," Napoleon said. "And I imagine it didn't help when I shouted for you to go after him."
"It wasn't necessarily the wrong thing to do at the time," Herr Fischer commented. "And you certainly didn't tell him to let himself get lost while going after him."
"Well, no," Napoleon said with a smile.
"On the other hand," Herr Fischer continued, and Napoleon realized that this would be his evaluation. "You did make one egregious mistake, Guide Solo, which you must never make again. A guide must never, ever hold back anything from their Sentinel. I know you believed that revealing the seriousness of your injury would distract him, not because you told me, young man, but because all newly bonded Guides think so."
"You know, I don't think it was altogether fair for you to have gotten my post mission report while I was still on strong pain meds," Napoleon complained.
Herr Fischer smiled. "You are quite a strong Guide, Mr Solo," he said, "but I am somewhat more experienced. Your state of mind made my work a bit easier, but would have learned what I wished to know in any case. Your ability to mask your Sentinel from another Sentinel is quite impressive, and the two of you are well matched for power. Your Sentinel, however, is not the only one of you whose education did not adequately prepare him for bonding. I can say this with certainty as almost all Guide training, even the most progressive, is still based on the misapprehension that Guides are meant to be subservient to their Sentinels."
"My parents told me not to believe that," Napoleon considered, "but all of my trainers did seem to."
"And here is your result," Herr Fischer said. "You have it in your subconscious, that your needs must take second position to your Sentinel's, but in fact, your needs and his are one and the same. Your Sentinel needs you, everything you know, sense and feel, every ability that you have. He needs one hundred percent of you, at all times, and anything you hold back from him takes away one of the tools he needs to do his job."
"Huh…" Napoleon said after a moment. "I never thought of it that way before."
"And I suppose that goes both ways," Illya said, frowning in thought himself. "I have been taught that I must protect my Guide, but if I protect him by keeping something back…"
"Then you are leaving him vulnerable. Precisely," said Agent Fischer.
"Being a Guide or a Sentinel means contending with powerful instincts," Herr Fischer added. "But many things you have been told about those instincts are not true. Your predisposition to keep your pain or worry to yourself has nothing to do with Sentinel/Guide instincts, and everything to do with your affection for each other. Listen with an open mind to your Sentinels and Guides, and you will not make this mistake."
"You sound as though you're speaking from personal experience," Napoleon said after a thoughtful moment.
"Very astute, Guide Solo," Agent Fischer said with a smile. "You'll have your own learning experiences in the years to come, but the more lessons we can impart to you before you learn them the painful way, the better."
~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~
The two couples each departed to their own rooms shortly afterwards. The Fischers had their own place outside of town, but would stay in the lodge in Zwiesel so that they could drive Napoleon and Illya to Munich, from where they'd be flying to their next assignment, whatever that would be. That was the biggest unanswered question for them now, as Napoleon's base had previously been New York, whereas Ilya's had been London. They'd not talked about it much, as the decision wouldn't be up to them and neither one wanted to pin their hopes on such an uncertainty.
Illya had never even visited America before, his Soviet handlers uneasy about letting their precious asset put an ocean between himself and Mother Russia. They would not be pleased if UNCLE chose to send them to New York, but there was nothing they would be able to do about it. Illya himself might have had more of an opinion about it in the past, but since his bonding and other recent events, Illya's opinions had undergone something of a reorientation.
He found that he no longer cared at all about where in the world he lived, as long as it was with Napoleon Solo. It was troubling to admit this, but futile to argue against it. He had become the very thing his old masters had feared-loyal to none but his Guide and the common good, regardless of nation or creed. He was also rather shamelessly in love with his Guide, which the Soviets would never have approved of. It was his rationalist, Soviet upbringing, however, that led Illya to face the truth about who and what he was, and who, what he needed from life and who he loved.
Having made that admission to himself, Illya knew that there were things he needed to admit to his Guide. Looking back on their first night together, he found his own memories indicting his behavior, and the cruel brusqueness with which he'd cut short what should have been a long and pleasant process of mutual self discovery. Helping Napoleon wrap his bandage in plastic before showering, Illya caught a glance of himself in the bathroom mirror and knew that he was the one who would have to make it right.
After Napoleon's shower, Illya helped him change his bandage, an uncomplicated process the like of which Illya had done countless times before with other fellow agents over his career. Tending to his Guide, however, felt grounding, as well as lending the sense that such humble acts were literally building the foundation of their partnership. Healing touches became as meaningful as loving touches… and then simply became loving touches, all on their own.
Sitting beside him on the bed as Illya finished taping Napoleon's bandage and let his fingers trail over his thigh, Napoleon raised an eyebrow.
"Yes, I remember what we agreed," Illya said. "So, yes, I am now admitting that we have… unfinished business."
Part of Illya wished that seeing Napoleon's face light up like that didn't fill him with irresistible romantic notions, but most of him delighted in it and knew that old part of him was in its last days. "I am sorry… for rejecting you, as I did in Munich, but I think it is not too late to… pick up where we left off?"
"And where would that be?" Napoleon asked, leaning back on his hands to gaze at Illya with heart melting affection. He was wearing nothing but boxers and gave Illya, in turn, quite a bit to admire. It was not only Illya's eyes which were drawn to feast upon the sight of his Guide, for he found his hands longing to touch, mouth eager to taste, ears straining for the sound of his every breath and heartbeat, and lungs drawing the scent of him deep within. Illya had thought to make some clever reply to Napoleon's question, but quickly found that part of his brain had absented itself.
"Right here; right now," Illya said, voice suddenly rough as he leaned down to take his Guide's mouth with his own, tongue thrusting deep to take what it craved. Through the bond they shared, Illya was aware in passing that Napoleon also had some clever retort in mind, but abandoned it in favor of reaching up to pull Illya down onto him.
"Oh hell yes," was all he could manage verbally, murmuring the words against Illya's lips.
Letting his weight settle against his Guide's body Illya became immediately aware that his tee shirt was going to have to go, and that his and Napoleon's boxers would be following shortly. Not only his hands now, but every square inch of his skin was hungry to be in contact with Napoleon's. Holding himself up with one arm, he pulled his shirt off with the other, interrupting his kiss for brief seconds only. He moaned aloud with relief to feel his skin laying against his Guide's, pressing himself into the other's body voraciously.
It still wasn't enough, with both their legs hanging off the side of the bed. They were of one mind as they scrambled and scrunched their way up the bed, which came to include the shedding of their last pieces of clothing. At last they lay side by side, wrapped in each other's arms, crushed in a mutual embrace whose impossible goal seemed to be merging them into one being. Failing that, Illya wanted to somehow engulf his Guide's body with his own, to feel his Guide inside him, as well as all around him.
As his hands grasped Napoleon's shoulders, pulling him closer, his mouth consumed whatever it found, moving from his lover's mouth to tasting his face and neck, to licking and biting the collarbone and hardening nipples. It was not enough. He moved further down, taking in the flavor of his Guide's skin over his belly and hips, feeling the play of the muscles beneath the skin. When his mouth encountered his rigid and upright cock, Illya wanted to taste that too, wanted to take it inside him, as deeply as he could.
Napoleon cried out, thrusting his hips helplessly as Illya's mouth came to cover his sex. Illya didn't care. He wanted to take as much of Napoleon as he could into him, any way he could. Even as he savored the hard length of Napoleon's cock in his mouth, Illya felt a passing frisson of alarm, realizing the truth of what he really wanted. He'd never, ever wanted such a thing before, could even remember having felt revulsion at the very idea. He was not that man any more; that much was becoming clearer with every passing day.
It was only by focusing on what he really wanted that Illya was able to pull himself away from his Guide's cock. Napoleon made a bereft sound at first but soon caught Illya's intention, sitting up part way to meet his lover's eyes.
"Lotion," Napoleon said, voice rough with desire. "We're gonna need it… and there's some in my suitcase."
Illya blinked hard, forcing his lust addled brain to make sense of Napoleon's words. "Your suitcase…?"
"Lie back, I'll get it," Napoleon said eagerly. Illya stilled him with a hand on his hip.
"I will get," Illya said, following his Guide's gaze to his suitcase. "You stay off leg."
"Point taken," Napoleon said as Illya found the container of hand lotion. "You're gonna be on top then."
"How…?" Illya returned to the bed and was immediately consumed with the need to feel his Guide's skin against his. Napoleon was altogether cooperative, and yet also managed to take control of the jar of lotion.
"You've never done this before, have you?" Napoleon seemed to have something in mind, wriggling around to lie perpendicular to him.
"No," Illya shook his head, chasing the top of Napoleon's head with kisses, thinking, you can trust him. Let him Guide you; let him take control.
"My beautiful, beautiful Sentinel," Napoleon said, kissing Illya's hips and belly. "I'm the luckiest Guide in the world. Lift your knees up."
Illya complied without a thought and sighed at the touch of lips on his inner thighs now, and around the base of his cock. The craving for whole body contact faded with the intensity of the sensations, of a tongue tracing the length of his cock, of teasing kisses covering his testicles, the perineum. Illya's hands sought and found his Guide's mussed hair, in turns caressing and grasping. Napoleon only moaned with pleasure as he sent Illya deeper still into bliss.
As pleasurable as it was, Illya still found it somehow shocking to feel Napoleon's tongue caressing him there. He shouted, hips thrusting, but Napoleon calmed him, like a skittish horse, hands stroking Illya's thighs, as his tongue continued its explorations. Illya had no words, no concept for how it felt to have the silky moistness of Napoleon's tongue circling the sensitive flesh around his opening, but it was fantastic. He wanted more, and more came, as a lotion slicked finger now followed where the tongue had gone before.
Illya felt a new craving now, inconceivable not long ago, for he wanted that finger to penetrate him, wanted to feel something of Napoleon inside him, as at last he did. Illya moaned, panting desperate sounds, begging wordlessly for more, knowing that Napoleon would understand. Illya hardly knew how to say what he wanted, but Napoleon understood precisely what his Sentinel craved. His finger pressed deep into him, thrusting until Illya was keening helplessly, then he added another.
Two fingers now worked him relentlessly, stretching him ever so gradually. The stretch became more pronounced with a third finger added, but the sense of finally being filled as he craved overcame any discomfort. When Napoleon pressed his three fingers as deep as they could go Illya felt the stretch almost become too much, but then Napoleon touched something inside him, stroking it just so, and Illya's who body went boneless with pleasure.
"That's the spot," Napoleon crooned softly. "That's what you want, yes?"
"Boze moy," Illya groaned. "Yes… but…"
"Oh, I know what you really want," Napoleon whispered, withdrawing his fingers and rolling onto his back. "Come on then Sentinel; come and ride me, to your heart's content."
The picture in Napoleon's mind was a clear as a snapshot to Illya. It took a moment to get his limbs to cooperate, but every part of him desperately wanted that sensation of being filled again, and to be filled with Napoleon's spectacularly upthrust cock, which he was now slicking down with a generous coat of lotion. Illya rolled to his knees, then lifted one leg to straddle his Guide's body, feeling like coming home the moment he settled himself there.
Together, two pairs of hands holding hips and guiding two bodies towards a much desired union, Sentinel and Guide brought Napoleon's cock to press at Illya's entrance. Balanced on a knife point of ecstasy and the last vestigial traces of fear, Illya eased himself back, feeling the hard flesh breach his threshold and enter. He cried out in pain and astonishment, the stretch momentarily alarming but soon passing, as the sensation of being entered and filled all but overwhelmed him.
Panting with the intensity of the experience, Illya let his full weight finally settle onto Napoleon's hips, astonished at the sensation of being penetrated, of another body intruding so deeply into his. Glancing down to meet his Guide's eyes, Illya felt something like a circuit connecting. This was what he had wanted and this was why. This was his Guide, now a part of Illya as much as Illya had become a part of him. This was the home Illya had never known, the heart that would contain his as he held the other's.
"Napolya…" Illya murmured, reaching down to frame his Guide's face between his hands. "Napolyanka… my Guide."
"My Sentinel," Napoleon whispered in turn, taking Illya's hand to kiss it. "All mine… only mine… Dear God you feel fantastic."
Then Napoleon began to thrust, small, gentle motions which, nonetheless, went off like fireworks in Illya's brain. He cried out and thrust back, impaling himself deeper, desiring to feel the hard flesh within him deeper still. They rocked together, first in unison, then in opposition, flesh and skin colliding in an urgent rhythm. Illya swore loudly at the touch of Napoleon's lotion slick hands taking hold of his cock, stroking it, letting Illya thrust into his grasp.
Illya became a creature of pure sensation and the innate reaction demanded of him. He had no volition of his own, existing in each moment's mindless desire for pleasure-one moment throwing himself into his Guide's delicious caress, the next pressing his lover's cock still deeper into his body. Seized by an unending and yet building loop of ecstasy and desire, Illya felt how he and his Guide propelled this cycle of pleasuring and pleasure-taking, how together they were a single astonishing being of potentially tremendous power.
Both felt it come into being; both felt it wake in the moment of their climax, or perhaps it was their climax that woke it. They shouted out together in that moment, Illya watching his own spending spatter over his Guide's body as he felt the pulsing warmth of Napoleon's release within. The reverberations of their mutual culmination echoed between them for a long, timeless moment, as their voices echoed each other's cries. Eventually Illya found himself slumping, body going boneless in the wake of its exertions.
He managed to direct himself so that he collapsed to lay beside Napoleon, rather than on top of him, and in doing so felt his lover slip free from within him. Illya shuddered at the sensation, an almost too intense mixture of pain and pleasure. Napoleon turned his head to meet Illya's eyes, momentary worry vanishing as he saw Illya's besotted smile.
"Napolya," Illya murmured, reaching out to touch Napoleon's face. "My Guide."
"My Sentinel," Napoleon answered, voice wrecked but eyes sparkling with affection.
They lay in silence for some time, no words remotely equal to what they'd just experienced. After a little while Illya found in himself the volition to roll onto his side, curling his body around Napoleon's. Napoleon shifted himself closer in response and Illya lay his arm over Napoleon's waist, feeling them fit together like hand and glove. They lay thusly for a long time before Illya fell asleep, revelling in the surprisingly comfortable place, free of thoughts or plans or worries, which holding his Guide close seemed to enable.
It was more than clear now, how foolish he'd been to resist this, but not even this internal admonition troubled him. Such was the power of this new existence as a bonded Sentinel. It was a whole new life he faced, to be sure, but Illya fell asleep without worries, knowing that whatever he came to face in the future, he would never be alone.
~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~
"I'm glad UNCLE is counting it as a successful mission," Napoleon said as Agent Fischer's van pulled away from the lodge, beginning their trip to the Munich airport. "But I still feel as if we let the 'big fish' get away."
Illya knew what he meant, but was too busy trying to imagine what his life would be like, living in New York. Agent Fischer had delivered this news, the order coming straight from Director Waverly himself, along with UNCLE's final report on their mission, when she'd come to pick them up this morning.
"Oh, he won't get away," Agent Fischer answered. "UNCLE knows it too. The problem of the King of Šumava doesn't fall under their jurisdiction, but they have confidence, I'm sure, that those whose jurisdiction it is will solve it, to everyone's satisfaction."
"And whose jurisdiction is it?" Illya asked, paying attention now. Agent Fischer's eyes met his by way of the rear view mirror, brows raised.
"I guess it's true, then," she said after a moment, "that Stalin really did eliminate all the old Sentinel Councils in Russia."
"The what?" Napoleon asked.
"Oh, they never had them in the New World," Agent Fischer answered, enigmatically. "Or rather, the native tribes probably had something similar, but I would imagine that they were all, or nearly all, extinguished too. Here in central Europe, though… well, we still have some traditions that go back a long way, like I said."
"And these… 'Sentinel Councils' are one such?" Illya prompted.
"Rogue Sentinels don't happen often," Agent Fischer explained. "But when they do, it's up to any other Sentinels in the area to put them down. The Councils exist, and have for Centuries, at least, to facilitate such actions, and to make sure that no law abiding Sentinels feel that their territory was encroached upon. They also meet to settle territorial disputes between Sentinels, organise Sentinels in times of war… things like that."
"Do they not also impose a hierarchy among Sentinels?" Illya said, remembering some vague mention of this institution in his early education.
"They recognise a natural hierarchy among Sentinels," Agent Fischer explained. "Which I'm sure the Party doesn't like to admit to. Some Sentinels are simply stronger than others, and bonded Sentinel-Guide pairs, being the strongest and most stable, tend to hold higher positions in that hierarchy. The two of you would be considered Alphas in any of the Councils that I know of."
"And this hierarchy," inquired Illya, not sure whether his doubts came from Soviet propaganda or his normally suspicious nature. "It is determined by some sort of combat?"
"Did you and I 'combat?" Agent Fischer asked. "Of course not. I recognised your strength, as any Sentinel would, and when you come to meet more Sentinels, you will come to recognise them as either more or less powerful than you, naturally. More powerful doesn't mean superior, either, Agent Kuryakin. We are who we are, and we each have our roles to fulfil."
"But these Councils… they don't exist in the US?" Napoleon asked. "Doesn't that cause problems?"
"It probably does," Agent Fischer answered. "But we have no way of knowing over here. I imagine that if the need is great enough something will naturally form. Maybe the two of you will be part of that."
There was little conversation for the rest of the trip, but Illya could not help turning Agent Fischer's words over in his head, finding them strangely resonant with their new orders, to come and serve UNCLE in New York city. Illya had never met UNCLE's Section One, Number One and founder, though his reputation preceded him. Alexander Waverly was not one to do things by chance and Illya Kuryakin had never much believed in coincidences.
Did he and his Guide have some sort of destiny in the New World that was soon to be their home? While Illya might once have found such an idea superstitious nonsense, he now found it inconsequential. Sentinels have but one purpose: to protect the tribe; and one destiny: to become of better service to that tribe by bonding with a Guide.
Illya Kuryakin had long ago dedicated himself to his protective purpose, and would remain so dedicated for the rest of his life. As for his destiny, he'd accomplished the only one that mattered. Any others that awaited he would meet together with his Guide and partner for life.
=FIN=
Oh look! I've set myself up for a sequel! Stay tuned...
-a Man from UNCLE slash fanfic by Taylor Dancinghands
Pairing: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin; Characters: Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin
Genre: slash, h/c, BDSM, A/U: Sentinels and Guides, Sentinels are a known institution
Warnings: explicit m/m sex
Rating: Mature/PG 17
Chapter Index
Prologue: A Very dangerous game...
Act 1: Why did it have to be you?
Act 2: I won't start anything if you don't.
Act 3: Good Morning sisters!
Act 4: They call him... KIng of Šumava.
Epilogue: ...unfinished business."
Epilogue: "...unfinished business."
Notes: This is not really an epilogue, but rather a full length final chapter. That's what I get for trying to shoehorn my smutty, plot heavy stories into the five act TV show format. Of course, they didn't include any sex scenes in the TV show, and that makes for a lot of extra words, ya know.
Napoleon was only in the hospital for two days, for transfusions and stitches. The bullet had pierced muscle and nicked an artery, but had passed by the bone, thankfully. He was released on crutches and with orders to stay off the leg-the kinds of orders Napoleon had previously taken only half heartedly, but now there was a Sentinel at his side, insisting most fervently that he would make sure that Napoleon would follow those orders rigorously.
Happily, he would at least be following them in the pleasant confines of the lodge. UNCLE had declared that Napoleon would convalesce in Zwiesel, as it cost nothing, and let Agent Fischer finish up whatever training she could impart with Napoleon partially invalided. That ended up being nothing more than a review meeting which she and her Guide set up in the lodge's main lounge, with a fire in the immense fireplace and an extensive spread of cold cuts and slices of dense, seedy rye bread.
"There really wasn't much more that I had planned for you," she said over her second mug of beer. "And I think the two of you have pretty much got the hang of how to function as a pair. What I would like to give you now, however, is my report on how the two of you did in your last mission-and your first as a bonded pair."
Napoleon already knew that they could count the mission as a slightly qualified success, as the smuggled cargo had, indeed proved to be fissionable materials from the Jachymov mines. The two captured smugglers had given up enough information about the source of the smuggled goods for the Czech authorities to plug the hole. The only loose end was the KIng of Smugglers himself who, it seemed, had little to do with the Jáchymov connection in any case, and mainly provided a guide service to anyone with the money. Mission outcomes notwithstanding, Napoleon was not as certain about how his and Illya's new partnership would be evaluated.
"This is the report you'll be sending on to UNCLE administration, I assume," Napoleon said.
"A more formal version, yes," Agent Fischer said. "Well be speaking more personally this evening, Sentinel to Sentinel and Guide to Guide."
"No doubt it includes something about how I need to pay more attention to my Guide," Illya commented, seeming resigned, but philosophical about it.
"Actually," Agent Fischer replied, "especially considering how unprepared you were at the start, you've made tremendous progress. You actually requested your Guide's help in centering yourself, in order to find a safe path out of the bog. That's a very good sign. No, your biggest mistake in this last mission, Sentinel Kuryakin, was a very difficult one to avoid."
"And that was?" Illya asked.
"Letting your own Sentinel get the bit between his teeth when you realized that you were pursuing a rogue Sentinel," the Senior Sentinel answered. "Balancing your Sentinel instincts and your training as an agent can be a tricky business in most circumstances, and it can be almost impossible when you encounter something like this. Fortunately, actual rogue Sentinels are quite rare, so you're unlikely to encounter one in the future, but if you do, know that your Sentinel may not respond rationally, and will be difficult to control."
"Even I have a problem with the idea of a Sentinel who would allow such dangerous and destabilizing materials to be transported through his territory, much less facilitate it," Napoleon said. "And I imagine it didn't help when I shouted for you to go after him."
"It wasn't necessarily the wrong thing to do at the time," Herr Fischer commented. "And you certainly didn't tell him to let himself get lost while going after him."
"Well, no," Napoleon said with a smile.
"On the other hand," Herr Fischer continued, and Napoleon realized that this would be his evaluation. "You did make one egregious mistake, Guide Solo, which you must never make again. A guide must never, ever hold back anything from their Sentinel. I know you believed that revealing the seriousness of your injury would distract him, not because you told me, young man, but because all newly bonded Guides think so."
"You know, I don't think it was altogether fair for you to have gotten my post mission report while I was still on strong pain meds," Napoleon complained.
Herr Fischer smiled. "You are quite a strong Guide, Mr Solo," he said, "but I am somewhat more experienced. Your state of mind made my work a bit easier, but would have learned what I wished to know in any case. Your ability to mask your Sentinel from another Sentinel is quite impressive, and the two of you are well matched for power. Your Sentinel, however, is not the only one of you whose education did not adequately prepare him for bonding. I can say this with certainty as almost all Guide training, even the most progressive, is still based on the misapprehension that Guides are meant to be subservient to their Sentinels."
"My parents told me not to believe that," Napoleon considered, "but all of my trainers did seem to."
"And here is your result," Herr Fischer said. "You have it in your subconscious, that your needs must take second position to your Sentinel's, but in fact, your needs and his are one and the same. Your Sentinel needs you, everything you know, sense and feel, every ability that you have. He needs one hundred percent of you, at all times, and anything you hold back from him takes away one of the tools he needs to do his job."
"Huh…" Napoleon said after a moment. "I never thought of it that way before."
"And I suppose that goes both ways," Illya said, frowning in thought himself. "I have been taught that I must protect my Guide, but if I protect him by keeping something back…"
"Then you are leaving him vulnerable. Precisely," said Agent Fischer.
"Being a Guide or a Sentinel means contending with powerful instincts," Herr Fischer added. "But many things you have been told about those instincts are not true. Your predisposition to keep your pain or worry to yourself has nothing to do with Sentinel/Guide instincts, and everything to do with your affection for each other. Listen with an open mind to your Sentinels and Guides, and you will not make this mistake."
"You sound as though you're speaking from personal experience," Napoleon said after a thoughtful moment.
"Very astute, Guide Solo," Agent Fischer said with a smile. "You'll have your own learning experiences in the years to come, but the more lessons we can impart to you before you learn them the painful way, the better."
~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~
The two couples each departed to their own rooms shortly afterwards. The Fischers had their own place outside of town, but would stay in the lodge in Zwiesel so that they could drive Napoleon and Illya to Munich, from where they'd be flying to their next assignment, whatever that would be. That was the biggest unanswered question for them now, as Napoleon's base had previously been New York, whereas Ilya's had been London. They'd not talked about it much, as the decision wouldn't be up to them and neither one wanted to pin their hopes on such an uncertainty.
Illya had never even visited America before, his Soviet handlers uneasy about letting their precious asset put an ocean between himself and Mother Russia. They would not be pleased if UNCLE chose to send them to New York, but there was nothing they would be able to do about it. Illya himself might have had more of an opinion about it in the past, but since his bonding and other recent events, Illya's opinions had undergone something of a reorientation.
He found that he no longer cared at all about where in the world he lived, as long as it was with Napoleon Solo. It was troubling to admit this, but futile to argue against it. He had become the very thing his old masters had feared-loyal to none but his Guide and the common good, regardless of nation or creed. He was also rather shamelessly in love with his Guide, which the Soviets would never have approved of. It was his rationalist, Soviet upbringing, however, that led Illya to face the truth about who and what he was, and who, what he needed from life and who he loved.
Having made that admission to himself, Illya knew that there were things he needed to admit to his Guide. Looking back on their first night together, he found his own memories indicting his behavior, and the cruel brusqueness with which he'd cut short what should have been a long and pleasant process of mutual self discovery. Helping Napoleon wrap his bandage in plastic before showering, Illya caught a glance of himself in the bathroom mirror and knew that he was the one who would have to make it right.
After Napoleon's shower, Illya helped him change his bandage, an uncomplicated process the like of which Illya had done countless times before with other fellow agents over his career. Tending to his Guide, however, felt grounding, as well as lending the sense that such humble acts were literally building the foundation of their partnership. Healing touches became as meaningful as loving touches… and then simply became loving touches, all on their own.
Sitting beside him on the bed as Illya finished taping Napoleon's bandage and let his fingers trail over his thigh, Napoleon raised an eyebrow.
"Yes, I remember what we agreed," Illya said. "So, yes, I am now admitting that we have… unfinished business."
Part of Illya wished that seeing Napoleon's face light up like that didn't fill him with irresistible romantic notions, but most of him delighted in it and knew that old part of him was in its last days. "I am sorry… for rejecting you, as I did in Munich, but I think it is not too late to… pick up where we left off?"
"And where would that be?" Napoleon asked, leaning back on his hands to gaze at Illya with heart melting affection. He was wearing nothing but boxers and gave Illya, in turn, quite a bit to admire. It was not only Illya's eyes which were drawn to feast upon the sight of his Guide, for he found his hands longing to touch, mouth eager to taste, ears straining for the sound of his every breath and heartbeat, and lungs drawing the scent of him deep within. Illya had thought to make some clever reply to Napoleon's question, but quickly found that part of his brain had absented itself.
"Right here; right now," Illya said, voice suddenly rough as he leaned down to take his Guide's mouth with his own, tongue thrusting deep to take what it craved. Through the bond they shared, Illya was aware in passing that Napoleon also had some clever retort in mind, but abandoned it in favor of reaching up to pull Illya down onto him.
"Oh hell yes," was all he could manage verbally, murmuring the words against Illya's lips.
Letting his weight settle against his Guide's body Illya became immediately aware that his tee shirt was going to have to go, and that his and Napoleon's boxers would be following shortly. Not only his hands now, but every square inch of his skin was hungry to be in contact with Napoleon's. Holding himself up with one arm, he pulled his shirt off with the other, interrupting his kiss for brief seconds only. He moaned aloud with relief to feel his skin laying against his Guide's, pressing himself into the other's body voraciously.
It still wasn't enough, with both their legs hanging off the side of the bed. They were of one mind as they scrambled and scrunched their way up the bed, which came to include the shedding of their last pieces of clothing. At last they lay side by side, wrapped in each other's arms, crushed in a mutual embrace whose impossible goal seemed to be merging them into one being. Failing that, Illya wanted to somehow engulf his Guide's body with his own, to feel his Guide inside him, as well as all around him.
As his hands grasped Napoleon's shoulders, pulling him closer, his mouth consumed whatever it found, moving from his lover's mouth to tasting his face and neck, to licking and biting the collarbone and hardening nipples. It was not enough. He moved further down, taking in the flavor of his Guide's skin over his belly and hips, feeling the play of the muscles beneath the skin. When his mouth encountered his rigid and upright cock, Illya wanted to taste that too, wanted to take it inside him, as deeply as he could.
Napoleon cried out, thrusting his hips helplessly as Illya's mouth came to cover his sex. Illya didn't care. He wanted to take as much of Napoleon as he could into him, any way he could. Even as he savored the hard length of Napoleon's cock in his mouth, Illya felt a passing frisson of alarm, realizing the truth of what he really wanted. He'd never, ever wanted such a thing before, could even remember having felt revulsion at the very idea. He was not that man any more; that much was becoming clearer with every passing day.
It was only by focusing on what he really wanted that Illya was able to pull himself away from his Guide's cock. Napoleon made a bereft sound at first but soon caught Illya's intention, sitting up part way to meet his lover's eyes.
"Lotion," Napoleon said, voice rough with desire. "We're gonna need it… and there's some in my suitcase."
Illya blinked hard, forcing his lust addled brain to make sense of Napoleon's words. "Your suitcase…?"
"Lie back, I'll get it," Napoleon said eagerly. Illya stilled him with a hand on his hip.
"I will get," Illya said, following his Guide's gaze to his suitcase. "You stay off leg."
"Point taken," Napoleon said as Illya found the container of hand lotion. "You're gonna be on top then."
"How…?" Illya returned to the bed and was immediately consumed with the need to feel his Guide's skin against his. Napoleon was altogether cooperative, and yet also managed to take control of the jar of lotion.
"You've never done this before, have you?" Napoleon seemed to have something in mind, wriggling around to lie perpendicular to him.
"No," Illya shook his head, chasing the top of Napoleon's head with kisses, thinking, you can trust him. Let him Guide you; let him take control.
"My beautiful, beautiful Sentinel," Napoleon said, kissing Illya's hips and belly. "I'm the luckiest Guide in the world. Lift your knees up."
Illya complied without a thought and sighed at the touch of lips on his inner thighs now, and around the base of his cock. The craving for whole body contact faded with the intensity of the sensations, of a tongue tracing the length of his cock, of teasing kisses covering his testicles, the perineum. Illya's hands sought and found his Guide's mussed hair, in turns caressing and grasping. Napoleon only moaned with pleasure as he sent Illya deeper still into bliss.
As pleasurable as it was, Illya still found it somehow shocking to feel Napoleon's tongue caressing him there. He shouted, hips thrusting, but Napoleon calmed him, like a skittish horse, hands stroking Illya's thighs, as his tongue continued its explorations. Illya had no words, no concept for how it felt to have the silky moistness of Napoleon's tongue circling the sensitive flesh around his opening, but it was fantastic. He wanted more, and more came, as a lotion slicked finger now followed where the tongue had gone before.
Illya felt a new craving now, inconceivable not long ago, for he wanted that finger to penetrate him, wanted to feel something of Napoleon inside him, as at last he did. Illya moaned, panting desperate sounds, begging wordlessly for more, knowing that Napoleon would understand. Illya hardly knew how to say what he wanted, but Napoleon understood precisely what his Sentinel craved. His finger pressed deep into him, thrusting until Illya was keening helplessly, then he added another.
Two fingers now worked him relentlessly, stretching him ever so gradually. The stretch became more pronounced with a third finger added, but the sense of finally being filled as he craved overcame any discomfort. When Napoleon pressed his three fingers as deep as they could go Illya felt the stretch almost become too much, but then Napoleon touched something inside him, stroking it just so, and Illya's who body went boneless with pleasure.
"That's the spot," Napoleon crooned softly. "That's what you want, yes?"
"Boze moy," Illya groaned. "Yes… but…"
"Oh, I know what you really want," Napoleon whispered, withdrawing his fingers and rolling onto his back. "Come on then Sentinel; come and ride me, to your heart's content."
The picture in Napoleon's mind was a clear as a snapshot to Illya. It took a moment to get his limbs to cooperate, but every part of him desperately wanted that sensation of being filled again, and to be filled with Napoleon's spectacularly upthrust cock, which he was now slicking down with a generous coat of lotion. Illya rolled to his knees, then lifted one leg to straddle his Guide's body, feeling like coming home the moment he settled himself there.
Together, two pairs of hands holding hips and guiding two bodies towards a much desired union, Sentinel and Guide brought Napoleon's cock to press at Illya's entrance. Balanced on a knife point of ecstasy and the last vestigial traces of fear, Illya eased himself back, feeling the hard flesh breach his threshold and enter. He cried out in pain and astonishment, the stretch momentarily alarming but soon passing, as the sensation of being entered and filled all but overwhelmed him.
Panting with the intensity of the experience, Illya let his full weight finally settle onto Napoleon's hips, astonished at the sensation of being penetrated, of another body intruding so deeply into his. Glancing down to meet his Guide's eyes, Illya felt something like a circuit connecting. This was what he had wanted and this was why. This was his Guide, now a part of Illya as much as Illya had become a part of him. This was the home Illya had never known, the heart that would contain his as he held the other's.
"Napolya…" Illya murmured, reaching down to frame his Guide's face between his hands. "Napolyanka… my Guide."
"My Sentinel," Napoleon whispered in turn, taking Illya's hand to kiss it. "All mine… only mine… Dear God you feel fantastic."
Then Napoleon began to thrust, small, gentle motions which, nonetheless, went off like fireworks in Illya's brain. He cried out and thrust back, impaling himself deeper, desiring to feel the hard flesh within him deeper still. They rocked together, first in unison, then in opposition, flesh and skin colliding in an urgent rhythm. Illya swore loudly at the touch of Napoleon's lotion slick hands taking hold of his cock, stroking it, letting Illya thrust into his grasp.
Illya became a creature of pure sensation and the innate reaction demanded of him. He had no volition of his own, existing in each moment's mindless desire for pleasure-one moment throwing himself into his Guide's delicious caress, the next pressing his lover's cock still deeper into his body. Seized by an unending and yet building loop of ecstasy and desire, Illya felt how he and his Guide propelled this cycle of pleasuring and pleasure-taking, how together they were a single astonishing being of potentially tremendous power.
Both felt it come into being; both felt it wake in the moment of their climax, or perhaps it was their climax that woke it. They shouted out together in that moment, Illya watching his own spending spatter over his Guide's body as he felt the pulsing warmth of Napoleon's release within. The reverberations of their mutual culmination echoed between them for a long, timeless moment, as their voices echoed each other's cries. Eventually Illya found himself slumping, body going boneless in the wake of its exertions.
He managed to direct himself so that he collapsed to lay beside Napoleon, rather than on top of him, and in doing so felt his lover slip free from within him. Illya shuddered at the sensation, an almost too intense mixture of pain and pleasure. Napoleon turned his head to meet Illya's eyes, momentary worry vanishing as he saw Illya's besotted smile.
"Napolya," Illya murmured, reaching out to touch Napoleon's face. "My Guide."
"My Sentinel," Napoleon answered, voice wrecked but eyes sparkling with affection.
They lay in silence for some time, no words remotely equal to what they'd just experienced. After a little while Illya found in himself the volition to roll onto his side, curling his body around Napoleon's. Napoleon shifted himself closer in response and Illya lay his arm over Napoleon's waist, feeling them fit together like hand and glove. They lay thusly for a long time before Illya fell asleep, revelling in the surprisingly comfortable place, free of thoughts or plans or worries, which holding his Guide close seemed to enable.
It was more than clear now, how foolish he'd been to resist this, but not even this internal admonition troubled him. Such was the power of this new existence as a bonded Sentinel. It was a whole new life he faced, to be sure, but Illya fell asleep without worries, knowing that whatever he came to face in the future, he would never be alone.
~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~ ⇔ ~
"I'm glad UNCLE is counting it as a successful mission," Napoleon said as Agent Fischer's van pulled away from the lodge, beginning their trip to the Munich airport. "But I still feel as if we let the 'big fish' get away."
Illya knew what he meant, but was too busy trying to imagine what his life would be like, living in New York. Agent Fischer had delivered this news, the order coming straight from Director Waverly himself, along with UNCLE's final report on their mission, when she'd come to pick them up this morning.
"Oh, he won't get away," Agent Fischer answered. "UNCLE knows it too. The problem of the King of Šumava doesn't fall under their jurisdiction, but they have confidence, I'm sure, that those whose jurisdiction it is will solve it, to everyone's satisfaction."
"And whose jurisdiction is it?" Illya asked, paying attention now. Agent Fischer's eyes met his by way of the rear view mirror, brows raised.
"I guess it's true, then," she said after a moment, "that Stalin really did eliminate all the old Sentinel Councils in Russia."
"The what?" Napoleon asked.
"Oh, they never had them in the New World," Agent Fischer answered, enigmatically. "Or rather, the native tribes probably had something similar, but I would imagine that they were all, or nearly all, extinguished too. Here in central Europe, though… well, we still have some traditions that go back a long way, like I said."
"And these… 'Sentinel Councils' are one such?" Illya prompted.
"Rogue Sentinels don't happen often," Agent Fischer explained. "But when they do, it's up to any other Sentinels in the area to put them down. The Councils exist, and have for Centuries, at least, to facilitate such actions, and to make sure that no law abiding Sentinels feel that their territory was encroached upon. They also meet to settle territorial disputes between Sentinels, organise Sentinels in times of war… things like that."
"Do they not also impose a hierarchy among Sentinels?" Illya said, remembering some vague mention of this institution in his early education.
"They recognise a natural hierarchy among Sentinels," Agent Fischer explained. "Which I'm sure the Party doesn't like to admit to. Some Sentinels are simply stronger than others, and bonded Sentinel-Guide pairs, being the strongest and most stable, tend to hold higher positions in that hierarchy. The two of you would be considered Alphas in any of the Councils that I know of."
"And this hierarchy," inquired Illya, not sure whether his doubts came from Soviet propaganda or his normally suspicious nature. "It is determined by some sort of combat?"
"Did you and I 'combat?" Agent Fischer asked. "Of course not. I recognised your strength, as any Sentinel would, and when you come to meet more Sentinels, you will come to recognise them as either more or less powerful than you, naturally. More powerful doesn't mean superior, either, Agent Kuryakin. We are who we are, and we each have our roles to fulfil."
"But these Councils… they don't exist in the US?" Napoleon asked. "Doesn't that cause problems?"
"It probably does," Agent Fischer answered. "But we have no way of knowing over here. I imagine that if the need is great enough something will naturally form. Maybe the two of you will be part of that."
There was little conversation for the rest of the trip, but Illya could not help turning Agent Fischer's words over in his head, finding them strangely resonant with their new orders, to come and serve UNCLE in New York city. Illya had never met UNCLE's Section One, Number One and founder, though his reputation preceded him. Alexander Waverly was not one to do things by chance and Illya Kuryakin had never much believed in coincidences.
Did he and his Guide have some sort of destiny in the New World that was soon to be their home? While Illya might once have found such an idea superstitious nonsense, he now found it inconsequential. Sentinels have but one purpose: to protect the tribe; and one destiny: to become of better service to that tribe by bonding with a Guide.
Illya Kuryakin had long ago dedicated himself to his protective purpose, and would remain so dedicated for the rest of his life. As for his destiny, he'd accomplished the only one that mattered. Any others that awaited he would meet together with his Guide and partner for life.
=FIN=
Oh look! I've set myself up for a sequel! Stay tuned...