MFU: Imagine
Rating: PG, it’s all vague…
Summary: A fight that can’t be won…
Beta: Beta read by Estelle, with much thanks… and I didn’t mean to make you cry!
Archive: Oh please!
Disclaimer: As per usual, the good things in life are not mine to have, but belong to someone else... in this case, MGM and all the others… I just borrow them every now and then :) And I promise to give them back… eventually! The song is Imagine, written by the wonderful John Lennon.
Authors Note: Blame the bunny, not me, blame the bunny! Feedback makes friends!
Warnings: Character Death!
"I will fight this Napoleon, I promise." He squeezed the hand of the dark-haired man beside him. They were sitting on a park bench in Central Park on a cold, grey morning. Napoleon glanced down at their hands, then returned to watching the people with their dogs, businessmen on their way to work, normality.
Nothing was normal for them anymore.
Illya had been frugal before. Now he spent everything he could on doctors and treatments and more doctors and more treatments. But they all told him the same thing. The only thing they couldn't tell him was how much time he had left.
They made a decision there and then: to live each day as though it were their last. Napoleon took a sabbatical from his company. Illya had already handed over the reins of Vanya's, and they spent every day together.
Napoleon stared around the room. He couldn't do it. Not yet. Empty boxes lay everywhere, silhouetted in the candlelight. He couldn't bring himself to pack anything up. He couldn't pack up the books, the jazz records, nor the clothes. He didn't want to. If he packed everything away, that would mean admitting the truth.
The truth...
Illya was gone.
He reached for the glass of scotch. It didn't numb the pain. Nothing numbed the pain. Music, he thought. That will distract me. He browsed the shelves. Fingers moved across the records. Across his records. Across Illya's records. He selected a sleeve at random and turned the volume up. Strains of music filled the room.
Imagine there's no heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today...
He sipped slowly. Napoleon wasn't quite sure why he put the song on. Something just told him he needed to hear it. Illya had become a Beatles fan after someone remarked on the similarities of their hairstyles. Illya firmly maintained that he had had his way before the Beatles ever became famous. Yet he collected their records with the fervour he did everything with, right down to the solo albums.
Lost in thought, his memory took him back to the first time. The first time they had kissed. It had almost been a surprise to both of them. Not the most romantic setting for it, Napoleon was the first to admit. A dingy hotel in a foreign country. A hard mission just finished. The reports waiting to be written. The wounds waiting to heal. They hadn't left for the airport immediately, instead crashing straight into bed and sleeping for twelve hours. Illya had woken first, and when Napoleon had blearily opened his eyes, he thought he was somewhere else. The morning sun had glinted through the broken shutters, reflecting off the blonde hair almost like a halo as he bent over the table, furiously writing. He looked up and gave Napoleon a small smile as he stirred. Without knowing how or why, suddenly Napoleon found himself standing next to the table, arms folded around the Russian. Illya hadn't said anything. Just wrapped his arms around Napoleon's waist, almost as if hanging on for dear life. Then an almost inaudible whisper. So quiet that Napoleon almost missed it.
"I thought I'd lost you"
Then it had happened. Looking back, it had seemed like the most natural thing to do, they had both agreed on that. Illya had raised his head, looking up at Napoleon. Napoleon had leant down and their lips had met.
Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace...
They had strived to keep their personal life separate from their work. They did not want to be separated. But there was still work to be done. Thrush didn't stop just because they had become lovers. So the battle continued. The treks across country. The flights late at night to remote locations. The plots, the girls, the wounds. The waiting nervously in hospitals to be told that everything was all right. It was in hospital that Illya had first suggested it. Lying there, wrapped in bandages, he had opened his eyes, knowing that he would find Napoleon at his side, concern etched in those deep brown eyes. A smile, then he said it. He needed help. Would it be all right if he moved in? And that was that. He never moved out. Not after he recovered, not ever. He was never meant to move out. It had seemed so right. So perfect. They had thought nothing could wreck their happiness.
You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will be as one
Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world...
Slowly, slowly it had happened. He couldn't put his finger on the exact moment he knew he couldn't live without Illya. The mornings when they woke snuggled close together, sharing body warmth and relishing having someone to hold. Complete opposites, they complemented each other perfectly. Napoleon, much to the disappointment of the secretarial pool, had stopped flirting quite as much. He couldn't stop completely, nor Illya had admitted, would he have wanted him to. It was a part of him. Yet they were now a part of each other. Partners in more than one sense of the word. The Casanova and the Scientist, working side by side, sleeping side by side. Far enough apart to not arouse suspicion, yet close enough to arouse suspicion. They knew they wouldn't be able to hide it forever. They were spies. They worked with spies. Someone was bound to work it out. The first time they had known that others knew was when April had said something completely innocently with a gleam in her eye. Illya had ducked his head, a blush spreading across his cheeks. Napoleon had smiled back at her, a similar gleam in his eye. A gleam that had not been there when he had first joined U.N.C.L.E. A gleam that appeared that morning they had kissed. Two strong personalities merging together as one. Two halves of one soul.
You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will live as one
Napoleon sighed. Suddenly nothing seemed worth doing now. He couldn't admit the truth. He hadn't wanted to admit the truth. Even that morning. The night before they had shared a meal, a bath, then finally their bed. They had shared everything that night. Fingers tickling, tongues lapping, arousals awakening until the moment they became one. Thoroughly satisfied, they had settled down to sleep, Illya's head pillowed on Napoleon's chest. Napoleon's arm protectively wrapped around him.
He had woken early that morning. Before he even opened his eyes, he had known something had changed. Something was different. He lay in the darkness, listening, searching for the cause. Had he really become so used to Illya's breathing that it now no longer invaded his senses? Then it struck him and he sat up sharply, blinking. Looking down at the form next to him. As he stared, he realised what had changed. He realised what was different. He could no longer sense Illya's presence, because Illya was no longer there.
He made the calls he needed to make. The one to Alexander Waverly, explaining that Illya was no longer a retired agent. The call to their doctor, thanking him for everything he had done. The call to April. The monotonous tone he had used nearly broke as he spoke to their closest friend. But he refused to cry. Illya hadn't wanted that. They had discussed it of course. They had discussed every eventuality. He had replaced the receiver and sat on the edge of the bed, gazing at the man that had filled his life with so much love, so much happiness. But no longer. He did not know how much time had passed before gentle hands and a sad smile had led him away. As they materialised into April, Napoleon realised that he had been crying. Crying for a love lost. A love that would never die. He sobbed openly in her arms, crying at the injustice of it all. Wanting it to have been him instead of Illya. Grief and anger mixed ‘til he no longer knew why he was crying. He could feel the tears coursing down his cheeks now.
The sound of static filled the room, bringing Napoleon back to the present. Slowly he slid the record back in its sleeve. As he put the case away on the shelf, an envelope fell out. As he reached down to pick it up, the writing on the front leapt out at him. It was Illya's flowing script. Two words neatly printed on the front. No regrets. With trembling hands he opened it.
Darling, I regret nothing. Actually, I only regret one thing. I regret not having told you sooner how I felt. I regret not telling you the truth in the desert when you asked me. If I had told you then, we would have had four more years together. But I didn't. And I regret that.
But I do not regret the time we had. Nor how it ended.
I love you moy dushka.
Napoleon stared at the sheet for long minutes. April had always said they knew each other better than they knew themselves. Illya had known that Napoleon would play this record. Illya had known what would happen, the memories it would bring back. And with the simplest of words, he relieved the pain. Carefully, Napoleon folded the letter and slid it into his wallet. He now knew what he had to do. Illya had given him the strength to go on.
"I love you too moy dushka, always..."
To Be Continued…?
Summary: A fight that can’t be won…
Beta: Beta read by Estelle, with much thanks… and I didn’t mean to make you cry!
Archive: Oh please!
Disclaimer: As per usual, the good things in life are not mine to have, but belong to someone else... in this case, MGM and all the others… I just borrow them every now and then :) And I promise to give them back… eventually! The song is Imagine, written by the wonderful John Lennon.
Authors Note: Blame the bunny, not me, blame the bunny! Feedback makes friends!
Warnings: Character Death!
"I will fight this Napoleon, I promise." He squeezed the hand of the dark-haired man beside him. They were sitting on a park bench in Central Park on a cold, grey morning. Napoleon glanced down at their hands, then returned to watching the people with their dogs, businessmen on their way to work, normality.
Nothing was normal for them anymore.
Illya had been frugal before. Now he spent everything he could on doctors and treatments and more doctors and more treatments. But they all told him the same thing. The only thing they couldn't tell him was how much time he had left.
They made a decision there and then: to live each day as though it were their last. Napoleon took a sabbatical from his company. Illya had already handed over the reins of Vanya's, and they spent every day together.
Napoleon stared around the room. He couldn't do it. Not yet. Empty boxes lay everywhere, silhouetted in the candlelight. He couldn't bring himself to pack anything up. He couldn't pack up the books, the jazz records, nor the clothes. He didn't want to. If he packed everything away, that would mean admitting the truth.
The truth...
Illya was gone.
He reached for the glass of scotch. It didn't numb the pain. Nothing numbed the pain. Music, he thought. That will distract me. He browsed the shelves. Fingers moved across the records. Across his records. Across Illya's records. He selected a sleeve at random and turned the volume up. Strains of music filled the room.
Imagine there's no heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today...
He sipped slowly. Napoleon wasn't quite sure why he put the song on. Something just told him he needed to hear it. Illya had become a Beatles fan after someone remarked on the similarities of their hairstyles. Illya firmly maintained that he had had his way before the Beatles ever became famous. Yet he collected their records with the fervour he did everything with, right down to the solo albums.
Lost in thought, his memory took him back to the first time. The first time they had kissed. It had almost been a surprise to both of them. Not the most romantic setting for it, Napoleon was the first to admit. A dingy hotel in a foreign country. A hard mission just finished. The reports waiting to be written. The wounds waiting to heal. They hadn't left for the airport immediately, instead crashing straight into bed and sleeping for twelve hours. Illya had woken first, and when Napoleon had blearily opened his eyes, he thought he was somewhere else. The morning sun had glinted through the broken shutters, reflecting off the blonde hair almost like a halo as he bent over the table, furiously writing. He looked up and gave Napoleon a small smile as he stirred. Without knowing how or why, suddenly Napoleon found himself standing next to the table, arms folded around the Russian. Illya hadn't said anything. Just wrapped his arms around Napoleon's waist, almost as if hanging on for dear life. Then an almost inaudible whisper. So quiet that Napoleon almost missed it.
"I thought I'd lost you"
Then it had happened. Looking back, it had seemed like the most natural thing to do, they had both agreed on that. Illya had raised his head, looking up at Napoleon. Napoleon had leant down and their lips had met.
Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace...
They had strived to keep their personal life separate from their work. They did not want to be separated. But there was still work to be done. Thrush didn't stop just because they had become lovers. So the battle continued. The treks across country. The flights late at night to remote locations. The plots, the girls, the wounds. The waiting nervously in hospitals to be told that everything was all right. It was in hospital that Illya had first suggested it. Lying there, wrapped in bandages, he had opened his eyes, knowing that he would find Napoleon at his side, concern etched in those deep brown eyes. A smile, then he said it. He needed help. Would it be all right if he moved in? And that was that. He never moved out. Not after he recovered, not ever. He was never meant to move out. It had seemed so right. So perfect. They had thought nothing could wreck their happiness.
You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will be as one
Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world...
Slowly, slowly it had happened. He couldn't put his finger on the exact moment he knew he couldn't live without Illya. The mornings when they woke snuggled close together, sharing body warmth and relishing having someone to hold. Complete opposites, they complemented each other perfectly. Napoleon, much to the disappointment of the secretarial pool, had stopped flirting quite as much. He couldn't stop completely, nor Illya had admitted, would he have wanted him to. It was a part of him. Yet they were now a part of each other. Partners in more than one sense of the word. The Casanova and the Scientist, working side by side, sleeping side by side. Far enough apart to not arouse suspicion, yet close enough to arouse suspicion. They knew they wouldn't be able to hide it forever. They were spies. They worked with spies. Someone was bound to work it out. The first time they had known that others knew was when April had said something completely innocently with a gleam in her eye. Illya had ducked his head, a blush spreading across his cheeks. Napoleon had smiled back at her, a similar gleam in his eye. A gleam that had not been there when he had first joined U.N.C.L.E. A gleam that appeared that morning they had kissed. Two strong personalities merging together as one. Two halves of one soul.
You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will live as one
Napoleon sighed. Suddenly nothing seemed worth doing now. He couldn't admit the truth. He hadn't wanted to admit the truth. Even that morning. The night before they had shared a meal, a bath, then finally their bed. They had shared everything that night. Fingers tickling, tongues lapping, arousals awakening until the moment they became one. Thoroughly satisfied, they had settled down to sleep, Illya's head pillowed on Napoleon's chest. Napoleon's arm protectively wrapped around him.
He had woken early that morning. Before he even opened his eyes, he had known something had changed. Something was different. He lay in the darkness, listening, searching for the cause. Had he really become so used to Illya's breathing that it now no longer invaded his senses? Then it struck him and he sat up sharply, blinking. Looking down at the form next to him. As he stared, he realised what had changed. He realised what was different. He could no longer sense Illya's presence, because Illya was no longer there.
He made the calls he needed to make. The one to Alexander Waverly, explaining that Illya was no longer a retired agent. The call to their doctor, thanking him for everything he had done. The call to April. The monotonous tone he had used nearly broke as he spoke to their closest friend. But he refused to cry. Illya hadn't wanted that. They had discussed it of course. They had discussed every eventuality. He had replaced the receiver and sat on the edge of the bed, gazing at the man that had filled his life with so much love, so much happiness. But no longer. He did not know how much time had passed before gentle hands and a sad smile had led him away. As they materialised into April, Napoleon realised that he had been crying. Crying for a love lost. A love that would never die. He sobbed openly in her arms, crying at the injustice of it all. Wanting it to have been him instead of Illya. Grief and anger mixed ‘til he no longer knew why he was crying. He could feel the tears coursing down his cheeks now.
The sound of static filled the room, bringing Napoleon back to the present. Slowly he slid the record back in its sleeve. As he put the case away on the shelf, an envelope fell out. As he reached down to pick it up, the writing on the front leapt out at him. It was Illya's flowing script. Two words neatly printed on the front. No regrets. With trembling hands he opened it.
Darling, I regret nothing. Actually, I only regret one thing. I regret not having told you sooner how I felt. I regret not telling you the truth in the desert when you asked me. If I had told you then, we would have had four more years together. But I didn't. And I regret that.
But I do not regret the time we had. Nor how it ended.
I love you moy dushka.
Napoleon stared at the sheet for long minutes. April had always said they knew each other better than they knew themselves. Illya had known that Napoleon would play this record. Illya had known what would happen, the memories it would bring back. And with the simplest of words, he relieved the pain. Carefully, Napoleon folded the letter and slid it into his wallet. He now knew what he had to do. Illya had given him the strength to go on.
"I love you too moy dushka, always..."
To Be Continued…?