MFU Fanfiction: Unblemished
Title: Unblemished
Author: Saki101
Genre: slash
Rating: PG
Length: ~800 words
Warning: A hint of AU.
Disclaimer: I don't own MUNCLE and no money is being made.
Author's note: Episode-related, The Children's Day Affair.
Excerpt: Consciousness was sudden. Napoleon listened to the silence. Definitely not New York.
Unblemished
Consciousness was sudden. Napoleon listened to the silence. Definitely not New York. Cracked open an eyelid, surveyed the room. The fabric of the curtains was thin, white with pale, blown roses. It let the light in from the east. Geneva. Mission accomplished. Western hemisphere conference concluded. Participants safely departed, except for Mr Waverly who wanted some extra time with Carlo. They’d accompany Mr Waverly back to New York on the UNCLE jet tomorrow evening. This day, a day of rest for Napoleon and Illya.
A breeze ruffled the curtains, fresh from over the lake. Quiet.
Not like a city at all. Sunday in Geneva. Napoleon’s muscles were tense. His lip curled. It wasn’t always easy to turn off, to blot out the images, after a mission. No children hurt. Not by UNCLE anyway. The THRUSH under lock and key, their vile enterprise halted. Mother Fear. The skin over Napoleon’s jaw twitched. It pleased her to inflict pain. Lost children, impressionable youths. She enjoyed scarring them, mind and body. His fist clenched.
Birds sang.
She wasn’t really doing it for THRUSH. They were merely a source of funds, their project an excuse for her to take trust and abuse it, affording her a perfect opportunity to twist, to wound, to mar. His nostrils flared.
The air flowing from under the curtains was cool from the mountains and the cold water of the lake.
The sound of his teeth grinding made Napoleon open his mouth, exhale slowly. He took dewy air in, let it out scorched. It was over, but the image of the welts remained, livid on Illya’s back, blood welling up where the edge of the thick leather had sliced open the skin, where the strokes crossed, little red kisses of pain. When he’d lifted Illya’s shirt, for an instant, he’d forgotten the danger, the guards, everything except the desire to erase those marks from the fair skin, to take the pain away. With a dab from a wash cloth? Napoleon snorted at his futile gesture, pressed his lips together.
They’d both been caught then. Circumstances had worked in their favour subsequently. THRUSH let them escape. Illya had slipped on his jacket and driven the car away without a flinch. Illya’s capacity for ignoring injuries was impressive, to hear him moan, disorienting. Napoleon closed his eyes for a moment. He could see Illya’s blood on the white cloth. Not a great quantity, but it had seemed especially wrong.
There was a faint scrape of metal.
Napoleon glanced at the window. The breeze was growing stronger, pushing the curtains slightly apart. The light dazzled him. He shivered. Illya had gone to bed without a top. He’d be chilled now. Napoleon turned to look at the other bed. Illya was sleeping on his side, facing the door, his back to Napoleon. The covers were gathered near his waist. The sunbeam lay a bright stripe across his upper arm, half-way down his back.
Napoleon squinted. The light wavered along the white skin. He sat up. The curtains flapped, opening a little wider. The sun touched Illya’s hair. Yellow. Illuminated his shoulder and back. White. Napoleon got up. His feet were silent on the thick carpet as he walked round his bed, stood next to Illya’s, blocking some of the light, looking down at the pale, unbroken skin. Napoleon’s brows furrowed. He dropped to a crouch by the bed, his eyes within inches of the smooth skin. Napoleon drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly, his fingers hovering as his eyes scanned. Not a mark. That wasn’t possible. It had only been two days. He realised it should have been alarming, but it felt right. He didn’t care how. Her marks had never belonged there.
“Touch, if you want. To be sure,” Illya said without turning, his voice clear, like the morning. "I'm surprised you haven't noticed before."
It was odd that he hadn't, but then Napoleon didn't allow himself to look his fill at Illya. He looked enough to evaluate, anticipate, communicate, so they could function like two halves of the same person, but he didn't let himself dwell on the texture of Illya's skin, the way it reflected the light, how perfect it was. Napoleon wondered how long Illya had been awake, listening to him ruminate. He rested his forehead against Illya’s arm, slipped his hand between the pillow and Illya’s shoulder, his thumb at the base of the neck, feeling the muscles over the bone, relaxed. He inhaled deeply, exhaled reluctantly. Illya’s scent was reassuring, no smell of blood or pain. And no scars.
Napoleon closed his eyes, tilted his head and permitted his lips to touch the cool, unblemished skin.