Christmas in July!
I don't know about you guys, but I need a little Christmas right this very minute. This is as close as I could get.
Title: Christmas Present
Author: aneuhaus
Pairings: NS/IK, NS/other
Rating: R
Warnings: Het
Christmas Present
Napoleon Solo rolled over in bed and threw his arm over his bedmate. Marcie? No. Marley? Uh uh. Merry. That was it, Merry, spelled M-e-r-r-y, he recalled; having thought, last night, what an appropriate date she was for Christmas Eve.
He snugged his arm around her trim waist and buried his nose in her long blonde hair. The lingering scent of hairspray and chemical coloring assaulted his senses; but he remembered back to last night, buried hilt deep in warm, wet flesh, and his morning erection hardened to nearly bursting.
"Merry Christmas, Merry," he whispered into the dainty ear before biting the lobe tenderly. "I have a present for you under the covers."
"Do I get to open it now?" Merry purred through pouty lips.
"I was, rather, thinking of opening you." Napoleon leered seductively. He had been pleasantly shocked, years ago, to learn that most women were just as horny as men when they first woke up. He had hardly ever failed to take advantage of that knowledge since.
"I'm afraid you won't find any satin bows or pretty wrappings." The pout deepened.
Napoleon leaned back a little, as though to get a better look. "Oh, I don't know," he smarmed, "I can't recall when I have ever seen a prettier package." Through with talking, he covered her lips with his and began to devour her mouth.
He moved lower, tasting a bit of neck, a shoulder, a nipple, across her quivering belly and dipping into her belly button. When his lips felt the roughness of pubic hair, her legs spread wide and he delved between them, tongue flicking and laving alternately. She began to moan and press against his face and he raised himself up, grasped his aching cock, and plunged into that inviting cavern. Last night, they had danced the waltz, the tango, and the Watusi. This dance, more primitive and infinitely more satisfying, had many names; and was as old as time itself.
They were lying, wrapped up in each other, waiting for breathing and heartbeats to return to something akin to normal, when the two tone beep sounded. Even Christmas day wasn't sacred at the U.N.C.L.E. Napoleon groaned an oath but, dutifully, reached for his communicator on the bedside table, missing Merry's puzzled look at the back of his head.
"Solo, here," he spoke into the device, once he had opened the top and extended the antennae.
"Mr. Solo," came Alexander Waverly's chipper voice, "you sound all out of breath. Working out, I hope."
"Yes, Sir," Solo answered emphatically. "I've just had a very satisfying session with a, uh, friend."
"Well, shower quickly and get to La Guardia by ten am." The Old Man was all business now.
"Where am I headed, Sir?" Napoleon asked, wondering if he needed to grab the suitcase packed with twill pants and cotton shirts, or if this mission would call for cold weather gear.
His boss's voice pulled him from his thoughts. "You're not headed anywhere, Mr. Solo; at least, not for the moment. You are to meet your new partner, just in from London. Amalgamated Airlines, flight 629. I told you about him some weeks ago."
That was putting it mildly. It had been the first time in his UNCLE career that Napoleon had actually argued with his superior.
Two years after he lost his last partner, he still managed to avoid being permanently paired up with anyone else. Not that it wouldn't be nice to have company during the long flights hither and yon or, for that matter, someone you could be sure was on your side and wouldn't sell you to the highest bidder; but to watch someone tortured to death by THRUSH goons for information about an explosive device that didn't even work, especially someone he had learned to trust and care about, was something Napoleon wasn't in a hurry to do again.
How do you explain that to UNCLE's Number One of Section One, though? 'Sorry, Sir, but I just don't have the intestinal fortitude to befriend someone and then watch his insides ripped out before my eyes for no reason.' Hardly.
Mr. Solo, are you still there?" Waverly prompted.
"Uh, yes, Sir. La Guardia, at ten o'clock. I'll be there, Sir." Napoleon's cheerful voice belied the cold knot growing in his belly. Then a thought occurred, "How am I to recognize him, Sir?"
"Don't worry, he'll recognize you. He has a full dossier on you, as you will have on him - on your desk tomorrow morning. The records department apologizes for the delay, but it couldn't be helped. It seems that official information on Mr. Kuryakin is nearly impossible to obtain."
"See that you're on time, Mr. Solo. We don't want to give the young man the impression that we are lackadaisical here, do we? …and the connection was broken.
Napoleon started a little when he heard his name spoken from behind; having forgotten, for the moment, everything except the conversation with Waverly. He turned to look into exceedingly wide green eyes.
"Napoleon, where did you get that marvelous little walkie talkie? Where can I get one? He said something about a new partner from London. I didn't know your law firm had an office in London. Do new partners just move from one office to another like that? I didn't think that was how it worked. And why is he your partner? Do lawyers have specific partners? Why is it that…"
Napoleon glanced at the bedside clock and was relieved to see that it was twenty minutes after nine; late enough that he could shoo his date out the door and beg off answering any questions. He did so, post haste - a quick kiss and a hug his only apology - and hopped into the shower with razor and tooth brush. Forty minutes, and a twenty dollar bribe for the cab driver, later, he walked into the Amalgamated Airlines terminal to meet his destiny head on.
Of course, Napoleon, along with everyone else, had heard about the wunderkind that had come close to breaking nearly all the records at UNCLE's Survival School. In fact, if Napoleon told the truth, he was a little intimidated; a fact that was compounded by not having had a chance to read the dossier, or even see a photo of this agent that had taken UNCLE by storm.
When the young, blond haired, blue eyed man approached him in the airport terminal, Napoleon's first thought was that, whatever his price, he would be a pleasant diversion for an hour or two. He had met men like this before, and this one was much better looking than most of them. The last thing he expected was the extended hand, the tight lipped smile, and the smooth, accented voice that announced, "I am Illya Kuryakin; your new partner, Mr. Solo."
Napoleon could never be quite sure of what his reaction was, but the smile on the other man's face had widened noticeably, so it must have been comical to see. He recovered quickly, though; and, seeing that Kuryakin already had his bags in his hands, turned to lead the way to the parking lot.
I'm sorry if I'm being too forward, Mr. Kuryakin," Napoleon began, "but your accent has me a bit baffled. What are you - Rumanian, Hungarian…?"
Illya's eyes flashed and he raised his chin defiantly, obviously preparing for a negative response to his answer. "I was born in the Ukraine. I am Russian," he replied. "I was, however, educated at Cambridge and the Sorbonne."
"Oh," Napoleon responded, with a smile.
"Have you no further questions or comments, Mr. Solo?" Kuryakin questioned icily.
"Nope," Napoleon responded quickly, refusing to give the anticipated hostile reaction. After all, if the guy was smart, intuitive, and good with a gun, what did it matter if he was born in the Soviet Union or on Mars?
When Kuryakin looked at him again, the glittering ice of his blue eyes had melted into deep azure pools that Napoleon found himself drowning in, and he knew he was on thin ice.
The first few months of their partnership were glorious, frustrating, educational, and tried Napoleon's patience to its limits. He had no idea that one man could be so garrulous, so loyal, so conceited, so intrepid … and so damned sexy.
Professionally, they instinctively acted and reacted with each other as though they had one mind. They understood and respected each others’ strengths; and easily passed command back and forth, as the situation warranted.
Personally, there were undercurrents that neither was willing to admit; let alone explore. It soon became known that the best way to bring one partner running directly at you was to abduct, or threaten the well being of, the other. Not even a direct order from Alexander Waverly would keep them from scrambling to rescue one another. Fortunately, they quickly became the ‘Old Man’s’ most successful team; so an occasional tongue lashing was all they were ever forced to endure for their disobedience.
The nights were the worst, even when the hotel rooms had separate beds. Illya had none of the body modesty that is drummed into American children from infancy, and found nothing embarrassing about walking about the room completely naked. Many was the night that Napoleon lay awake, waiting for his partner’s even breathing to indicate slumber, so he could sneak into the bathroom for a quick and quiet hand job. On the other hand, the nights when it was necessary to share a bed were, to put it bluntly, sheer Hell.
As the months, and then the years, passed; Napoleon found it more and more difficult to keep his hands, and his thoughts, to himself. He had always been a tactile person - touching people on the arm or shoulder to make a point - but, lately, he found himself concocting reasons to touch Illya. Surprisingly, his normally skittish partner never backed away. In fact, there were times when Napoleon could have sworn that Illya actually leaned into the contact briefly.
He had even begun to believe that Illya, on occasion, showed signs of being jealous. There were times when he became sarcastic, even churlish, around Napoleon’s dates; and he even had gone so far as to outright sabotage the budding romance with Salty Oliver. Of course, it could have simply been pay back for Napoleon pulling rank on him and calling him ‘Filthy’,
And so, Napoleon vacillated between being positive that his partner was secretly in love with him; and absolute certainty that, at the slightest hint of what Napoleon felt for him, Illya would run screaming back to Russia, regardless of the consequences.
Christmas Future
Napoleon Solo rolled over in bed and threw his arm over his bedmate.
“Good morning, Sunshine,” he murmured into a warm ear.
Illya turned over to glare at him. “It will be a good morning after a shower, a strong cup of coffee, and a bagel with lots to cream cheese.”
“Tell you what,” Napoleon countered, in his very best bargaining voice, “you take care of the shower and I’ll do the rest, okay?”
The sleepy-eyed blond looked skeptical. “And just what,” he asked suspiciously, “has brought on all this good will?”
“Well,” Napoleon stage whispered in a conspiratorial way, “don’t let it get around, but, uh, I’m hoping Kris Kringle is watching.”
With that, he leapt out of bed, threw on his robe, and headed for the kitchen. As he filled the carafe with water, managed to remove just one filter from the stack, measured out the coffee, and poured the water into the coffee maker, he couldn’t get his mind off Illya in that shower. After twenty years together, the mental picture of a wet, naked Illya was still more of a temptation than he could resist.
He retraced his steps to the bedroom, smiling at the welcoming sound of a hot shower. Better yet, a hot shower with his gorgeous, sexy husband. He dropped his robe onto the bed and walked the few feet to the bathroom; but, no sooner had he opened the door, than he heard footsteps in the hallway, dashing madly toward him.
He just managed to wrap a towel around his waist before a pair of matching wild Indians surrounded him, resplendent in plastic headdresses and brandishing red rubber tomahawks. His attempts to catch them were thwarted by the speed and agility of seven year olds. He looked up in time to see the shower curtain twitch and a very wet, blond head emerge.
"David! Roberta!" his partner scolded. (Napoleon had always been partial those names.) "It’s time for ‘Johnny Quest. Go watch it. We'll be down in a few minutes to make breakfast."
The chief and chiefette exited the way they had come, and the silence they left behind was nearly deafening. Napoleon pulled the shower curtain back, dropped his towel, and stepped under the spray.
After so many years of dealing with the hot, humid summers and the frigid, snow laden winters of New York; the former law enforcement agents had decided that California, with its mild summers and milder winters, sounded like a good place to retire. They had first rented a two bedroom in Marina del Rey but, upon deciding to adopt the twins, opted to move to a more settled, less touristy area. El Segundo boasted excellent schools, a good public transit system, and was close to the campus of UCLA; where Illya, despite the fact that their combined, and rather generous, pensions from UNCLE was far more than sufficient to support them very comfortably, had accepted a Professor of Chemistry post. They both had definite ideas as to the type of house where they would live out the rest of their lives, and they had spent months looking for this one. Illya had to have a garden and a back patio with a view of water, so they had chosen a place on the bay. Napoleon's only concerns had been that the master bedroom was large enough for a king sized bed and the bathroom had two shower heads. Yep, this house was perfect.
Although he could no longer complain about Napoleon hogging all the water, Illya shot him a quick scowl on principle. His irascible attitude was belied a moment later, though, by the strong arms that tenderly encircled his partner's waist and the lips that began sucking on his neck. That wicked Russian-cum-American tongue began to slide down Napoleon's spine, causing him to have to move away before his knees buckled and sent him sprawling to the tile floor. Never one to miss an opportunity, he turned to face his lover and kissed him soundly; their tongues moving together in a well rehearsed, yet constantly thrilling, dance.
"I love you, Husband," he spoke into Illya's open mouth.
"And I, you, Husband. Happy Christmas Eve." Illya purred, just before their tongues collided again.
The conversation at the breakfast table was rife with questions, speculations, and general musings on the arrival, activities, and generosity of Santa Claus. The twins were getting old enough to appreciate the joy of giving, as well as receiving, and the past several days had been filled with mysterious outings and giggles behind locked doors. Now, the air fairly crackled with anticipation of the big day.
"Kids," Napoleon instructed affectionately, "go get washed and dressed and straighten your rooms. Aunt Irina will be here soon." Illya's older sister, who had finally been able to defect to the states and had settled in nearby Glendale, always spent Christmas eve and Christmas day with them.
Cheers accompanied the scramble from the chairs and the race up the stairs to comply. Aunt Irina always brought the “coolest” presents. Besides, this was one day of the year when all parental requests were obeyed immediately and to the letter, for fear that St. Nick was lingering close by with espionage on his mind. The adults remained at the table, wondering if they could work in a nap some time during the day to offset the upcoming sleepless night; and looking forward, with rapture, to the looks on their children's faces as they systematically undid all their parents' careful handiwork.
"You know," Napoleon grumbled pleasantly to no one in particular, "they say that solstice is the longest night of the year, but any parent can tell you that it's Christmas Eve. We'll be up until dawn, putting those bicycles together." He glanced across the table to receive the response from his husband, and was surprised to see that the astonishing blue eyes were unnaturally bright.
"Lyubov," he uttered the endearment softly, "what is wrong?"
"Wrong, Napoleon?" Illya answered. "Nothing is wrong. In fact, it has never been so right before. We are married; we have two wonderful children and a beautiful house in a literal paradise. I love my job; we are no longer being tortured and shot at on a daily basis; and my sister is safe and living close by. Everything is perfect and I am happier than I have a right to be; and all because you had the nerve, all those years ago, to tell me that you were in love with me. None of this would have happened, otherwise. You would probably have married some 'acceptable' woman and gone into an administration job in UNCLE. I would have remained alone and lived out my days in some dingy lab, working on projects for which I would never have received the credit; and we would have, eventually, drifted apart, as people do when they no longer have anything to keep them together."
Without conscious thought, Napoleon stood and moved around the table, pulled Illya to his feet, and crushed the beloved body against his own. It was several minutes, as he stood there, holding the dearest person in the world to him, before he realized his own tears were coursing down his cheeks. The whole while, Illya was murmuring his name into his ear, "Napoleon, Napoleon."
Startled, his eyes flew open. Disorientation flooded his senses, as he realized he was now lying down. Relief washed over him when he found that he was in bed in, yet, another hotel room in, yet, another innocuous town.
Christmas Present
Napoleon Solo rolled over in bed and threw his arm over... nothing.. A noise had awakened him, and his first instinct was to protect his partner; until he realized that self same partner was the source of the disturbance.
They had tried to get home for Christmas, but a blizzard had hit Denver and all the flights were grounded. In fact, they had been lucky to get a hotel room.
He was surprised to find Illya leaning over him, murmuring "Napoleon," over and over; deep distress inflecting his voice.
“I’m okay,” he smiled into the familiar blue eyes filled with a concern that caused warmth to bloom in Napoleon’s heart.
"I’ve been trying to wake you for at least five minutes,” Illya exhaled, the effort of trying to hide his relief twisting his features.”
“Sorry, I was dreaming,” Napoleon answered, as though it was a perfectly sound explanation.
Illya lay back down on his side of the queen sized bed. “It must have been a - what is the word? - lulu.” His voice had become soft with sympathy and affection.
"Wha..." Napoleon cleared his throat and tried again. "What do you mean, Tovarisch?"
"Well, I have seen you have nightmares before, but I have never known you to wake up with tears in your eyes. It must have been very bad, indeed." Illya was watching Napoleon closely, as though trying to read the spectre in his friend’s eyes.
"Actually, it wasn’t a nightmare at all. In fact, it was a Christmas dream." Napoleon smiled warmly into the cherished face.
"A Christmas dream?" Illya exclaimed cynically. "What, exactly, is a Christmas dream?"
"A Christmas dream," Napoleon grew serious, "is one filled with joy, peace, and hope for the future. If that won't make a man cry, I don’t know what will?"
“And speaking of the future,” he continued, “there’s no time like the present.”
With that, he sat up, leaned over his partner, and kissed him. The best Christmas present he ever received was when Illya started to kiss back.
Title: Christmas Present
Author: aneuhaus
Pairings: NS/IK, NS/other
Rating: R
Warnings: Het
Christmas Present
Napoleon Solo rolled over in bed and threw his arm over his bedmate. Marcie? No. Marley? Uh uh. Merry. That was it, Merry, spelled M-e-r-r-y, he recalled; having thought, last night, what an appropriate date she was for Christmas Eve.
He snugged his arm around her trim waist and buried his nose in her long blonde hair. The lingering scent of hairspray and chemical coloring assaulted his senses; but he remembered back to last night, buried hilt deep in warm, wet flesh, and his morning erection hardened to nearly bursting.
"Merry Christmas, Merry," he whispered into the dainty ear before biting the lobe tenderly. "I have a present for you under the covers."
"Do I get to open it now?" Merry purred through pouty lips.
"I was, rather, thinking of opening you." Napoleon leered seductively. He had been pleasantly shocked, years ago, to learn that most women were just as horny as men when they first woke up. He had hardly ever failed to take advantage of that knowledge since.
"I'm afraid you won't find any satin bows or pretty wrappings." The pout deepened.
Napoleon leaned back a little, as though to get a better look. "Oh, I don't know," he smarmed, "I can't recall when I have ever seen a prettier package." Through with talking, he covered her lips with his and began to devour her mouth.
He moved lower, tasting a bit of neck, a shoulder, a nipple, across her quivering belly and dipping into her belly button. When his lips felt the roughness of pubic hair, her legs spread wide and he delved between them, tongue flicking and laving alternately. She began to moan and press against his face and he raised himself up, grasped his aching cock, and plunged into that inviting cavern. Last night, they had danced the waltz, the tango, and the Watusi. This dance, more primitive and infinitely more satisfying, had many names; and was as old as time itself.
They were lying, wrapped up in each other, waiting for breathing and heartbeats to return to something akin to normal, when the two tone beep sounded. Even Christmas day wasn't sacred at the U.N.C.L.E. Napoleon groaned an oath but, dutifully, reached for his communicator on the bedside table, missing Merry's puzzled look at the back of his head.
"Solo, here," he spoke into the device, once he had opened the top and extended the antennae.
"Mr. Solo," came Alexander Waverly's chipper voice, "you sound all out of breath. Working out, I hope."
"Yes, Sir," Solo answered emphatically. "I've just had a very satisfying session with a, uh, friend."
"Well, shower quickly and get to La Guardia by ten am." The Old Man was all business now.
"Where am I headed, Sir?" Napoleon asked, wondering if he needed to grab the suitcase packed with twill pants and cotton shirts, or if this mission would call for cold weather gear.
His boss's voice pulled him from his thoughts. "You're not headed anywhere, Mr. Solo; at least, not for the moment. You are to meet your new partner, just in from London. Amalgamated Airlines, flight 629. I told you about him some weeks ago."
That was putting it mildly. It had been the first time in his UNCLE career that Napoleon had actually argued with his superior.
Two years after he lost his last partner, he still managed to avoid being permanently paired up with anyone else. Not that it wouldn't be nice to have company during the long flights hither and yon or, for that matter, someone you could be sure was on your side and wouldn't sell you to the highest bidder; but to watch someone tortured to death by THRUSH goons for information about an explosive device that didn't even work, especially someone he had learned to trust and care about, was something Napoleon wasn't in a hurry to do again.
How do you explain that to UNCLE's Number One of Section One, though? 'Sorry, Sir, but I just don't have the intestinal fortitude to befriend someone and then watch his insides ripped out before my eyes for no reason.' Hardly.
Mr. Solo, are you still there?" Waverly prompted.
"Uh, yes, Sir. La Guardia, at ten o'clock. I'll be there, Sir." Napoleon's cheerful voice belied the cold knot growing in his belly. Then a thought occurred, "How am I to recognize him, Sir?"
"Don't worry, he'll recognize you. He has a full dossier on you, as you will have on him - on your desk tomorrow morning. The records department apologizes for the delay, but it couldn't be helped. It seems that official information on Mr. Kuryakin is nearly impossible to obtain."
"See that you're on time, Mr. Solo. We don't want to give the young man the impression that we are lackadaisical here, do we? …and the connection was broken.
Napoleon started a little when he heard his name spoken from behind; having forgotten, for the moment, everything except the conversation with Waverly. He turned to look into exceedingly wide green eyes.
"Napoleon, where did you get that marvelous little walkie talkie? Where can I get one? He said something about a new partner from London. I didn't know your law firm had an office in London. Do new partners just move from one office to another like that? I didn't think that was how it worked. And why is he your partner? Do lawyers have specific partners? Why is it that…"
Napoleon glanced at the bedside clock and was relieved to see that it was twenty minutes after nine; late enough that he could shoo his date out the door and beg off answering any questions. He did so, post haste - a quick kiss and a hug his only apology - and hopped into the shower with razor and tooth brush. Forty minutes, and a twenty dollar bribe for the cab driver, later, he walked into the Amalgamated Airlines terminal to meet his destiny head on.
Of course, Napoleon, along with everyone else, had heard about the wunderkind that had come close to breaking nearly all the records at UNCLE's Survival School. In fact, if Napoleon told the truth, he was a little intimidated; a fact that was compounded by not having had a chance to read the dossier, or even see a photo of this agent that had taken UNCLE by storm.
When the young, blond haired, blue eyed man approached him in the airport terminal, Napoleon's first thought was that, whatever his price, he would be a pleasant diversion for an hour or two. He had met men like this before, and this one was much better looking than most of them. The last thing he expected was the extended hand, the tight lipped smile, and the smooth, accented voice that announced, "I am Illya Kuryakin; your new partner, Mr. Solo."
Napoleon could never be quite sure of what his reaction was, but the smile on the other man's face had widened noticeably, so it must have been comical to see. He recovered quickly, though; and, seeing that Kuryakin already had his bags in his hands, turned to lead the way to the parking lot.
I'm sorry if I'm being too forward, Mr. Kuryakin," Napoleon began, "but your accent has me a bit baffled. What are you - Rumanian, Hungarian…?"
Illya's eyes flashed and he raised his chin defiantly, obviously preparing for a negative response to his answer. "I was born in the Ukraine. I am Russian," he replied. "I was, however, educated at Cambridge and the Sorbonne."
"Oh," Napoleon responded, with a smile.
"Have you no further questions or comments, Mr. Solo?" Kuryakin questioned icily.
"Nope," Napoleon responded quickly, refusing to give the anticipated hostile reaction. After all, if the guy was smart, intuitive, and good with a gun, what did it matter if he was born in the Soviet Union or on Mars?
When Kuryakin looked at him again, the glittering ice of his blue eyes had melted into deep azure pools that Napoleon found himself drowning in, and he knew he was on thin ice.
The first few months of their partnership were glorious, frustrating, educational, and tried Napoleon's patience to its limits. He had no idea that one man could be so garrulous, so loyal, so conceited, so intrepid … and so damned sexy.
Professionally, they instinctively acted and reacted with each other as though they had one mind. They understood and respected each others’ strengths; and easily passed command back and forth, as the situation warranted.
Personally, there were undercurrents that neither was willing to admit; let alone explore. It soon became known that the best way to bring one partner running directly at you was to abduct, or threaten the well being of, the other. Not even a direct order from Alexander Waverly would keep them from scrambling to rescue one another. Fortunately, they quickly became the ‘Old Man’s’ most successful team; so an occasional tongue lashing was all they were ever forced to endure for their disobedience.
The nights were the worst, even when the hotel rooms had separate beds. Illya had none of the body modesty that is drummed into American children from infancy, and found nothing embarrassing about walking about the room completely naked. Many was the night that Napoleon lay awake, waiting for his partner’s even breathing to indicate slumber, so he could sneak into the bathroom for a quick and quiet hand job. On the other hand, the nights when it was necessary to share a bed were, to put it bluntly, sheer Hell.
As the months, and then the years, passed; Napoleon found it more and more difficult to keep his hands, and his thoughts, to himself. He had always been a tactile person - touching people on the arm or shoulder to make a point - but, lately, he found himself concocting reasons to touch Illya. Surprisingly, his normally skittish partner never backed away. In fact, there were times when Napoleon could have sworn that Illya actually leaned into the contact briefly.
He had even begun to believe that Illya, on occasion, showed signs of being jealous. There were times when he became sarcastic, even churlish, around Napoleon’s dates; and he even had gone so far as to outright sabotage the budding romance with Salty Oliver. Of course, it could have simply been pay back for Napoleon pulling rank on him and calling him ‘Filthy’,
And so, Napoleon vacillated between being positive that his partner was secretly in love with him; and absolute certainty that, at the slightest hint of what Napoleon felt for him, Illya would run screaming back to Russia, regardless of the consequences.
Christmas Future
Napoleon Solo rolled over in bed and threw his arm over his bedmate.
“Good morning, Sunshine,” he murmured into a warm ear.
Illya turned over to glare at him. “It will be a good morning after a shower, a strong cup of coffee, and a bagel with lots to cream cheese.”
“Tell you what,” Napoleon countered, in his very best bargaining voice, “you take care of the shower and I’ll do the rest, okay?”
The sleepy-eyed blond looked skeptical. “And just what,” he asked suspiciously, “has brought on all this good will?”
“Well,” Napoleon stage whispered in a conspiratorial way, “don’t let it get around, but, uh, I’m hoping Kris Kringle is watching.”
With that, he leapt out of bed, threw on his robe, and headed for the kitchen. As he filled the carafe with water, managed to remove just one filter from the stack, measured out the coffee, and poured the water into the coffee maker, he couldn’t get his mind off Illya in that shower. After twenty years together, the mental picture of a wet, naked Illya was still more of a temptation than he could resist.
He retraced his steps to the bedroom, smiling at the welcoming sound of a hot shower. Better yet, a hot shower with his gorgeous, sexy husband. He dropped his robe onto the bed and walked the few feet to the bathroom; but, no sooner had he opened the door, than he heard footsteps in the hallway, dashing madly toward him.
He just managed to wrap a towel around his waist before a pair of matching wild Indians surrounded him, resplendent in plastic headdresses and brandishing red rubber tomahawks. His attempts to catch them were thwarted by the speed and agility of seven year olds. He looked up in time to see the shower curtain twitch and a very wet, blond head emerge.
"David! Roberta!" his partner scolded. (Napoleon had always been partial those names.) "It’s time for ‘Johnny Quest. Go watch it. We'll be down in a few minutes to make breakfast."
The chief and chiefette exited the way they had come, and the silence they left behind was nearly deafening. Napoleon pulled the shower curtain back, dropped his towel, and stepped under the spray.
After so many years of dealing with the hot, humid summers and the frigid, snow laden winters of New York; the former law enforcement agents had decided that California, with its mild summers and milder winters, sounded like a good place to retire. They had first rented a two bedroom in Marina del Rey but, upon deciding to adopt the twins, opted to move to a more settled, less touristy area. El Segundo boasted excellent schools, a good public transit system, and was close to the campus of UCLA; where Illya, despite the fact that their combined, and rather generous, pensions from UNCLE was far more than sufficient to support them very comfortably, had accepted a Professor of Chemistry post. They both had definite ideas as to the type of house where they would live out the rest of their lives, and they had spent months looking for this one. Illya had to have a garden and a back patio with a view of water, so they had chosen a place on the bay. Napoleon's only concerns had been that the master bedroom was large enough for a king sized bed and the bathroom had two shower heads. Yep, this house was perfect.
Although he could no longer complain about Napoleon hogging all the water, Illya shot him a quick scowl on principle. His irascible attitude was belied a moment later, though, by the strong arms that tenderly encircled his partner's waist and the lips that began sucking on his neck. That wicked Russian-cum-American tongue began to slide down Napoleon's spine, causing him to have to move away before his knees buckled and sent him sprawling to the tile floor. Never one to miss an opportunity, he turned to face his lover and kissed him soundly; their tongues moving together in a well rehearsed, yet constantly thrilling, dance.
"I love you, Husband," he spoke into Illya's open mouth.
"And I, you, Husband. Happy Christmas Eve." Illya purred, just before their tongues collided again.
The conversation at the breakfast table was rife with questions, speculations, and general musings on the arrival, activities, and generosity of Santa Claus. The twins were getting old enough to appreciate the joy of giving, as well as receiving, and the past several days had been filled with mysterious outings and giggles behind locked doors. Now, the air fairly crackled with anticipation of the big day.
"Kids," Napoleon instructed affectionately, "go get washed and dressed and straighten your rooms. Aunt Irina will be here soon." Illya's older sister, who had finally been able to defect to the states and had settled in nearby Glendale, always spent Christmas eve and Christmas day with them.
Cheers accompanied the scramble from the chairs and the race up the stairs to comply. Aunt Irina always brought the “coolest” presents. Besides, this was one day of the year when all parental requests were obeyed immediately and to the letter, for fear that St. Nick was lingering close by with espionage on his mind. The adults remained at the table, wondering if they could work in a nap some time during the day to offset the upcoming sleepless night; and looking forward, with rapture, to the looks on their children's faces as they systematically undid all their parents' careful handiwork.
"You know," Napoleon grumbled pleasantly to no one in particular, "they say that solstice is the longest night of the year, but any parent can tell you that it's Christmas Eve. We'll be up until dawn, putting those bicycles together." He glanced across the table to receive the response from his husband, and was surprised to see that the astonishing blue eyes were unnaturally bright.
"Lyubov," he uttered the endearment softly, "what is wrong?"
"Wrong, Napoleon?" Illya answered. "Nothing is wrong. In fact, it has never been so right before. We are married; we have two wonderful children and a beautiful house in a literal paradise. I love my job; we are no longer being tortured and shot at on a daily basis; and my sister is safe and living close by. Everything is perfect and I am happier than I have a right to be; and all because you had the nerve, all those years ago, to tell me that you were in love with me. None of this would have happened, otherwise. You would probably have married some 'acceptable' woman and gone into an administration job in UNCLE. I would have remained alone and lived out my days in some dingy lab, working on projects for which I would never have received the credit; and we would have, eventually, drifted apart, as people do when they no longer have anything to keep them together."
Without conscious thought, Napoleon stood and moved around the table, pulled Illya to his feet, and crushed the beloved body against his own. It was several minutes, as he stood there, holding the dearest person in the world to him, before he realized his own tears were coursing down his cheeks. The whole while, Illya was murmuring his name into his ear, "Napoleon, Napoleon."
Startled, his eyes flew open. Disorientation flooded his senses, as he realized he was now lying down. Relief washed over him when he found that he was in bed in, yet, another hotel room in, yet, another innocuous town.
Christmas Present
Napoleon Solo rolled over in bed and threw his arm over... nothing.. A noise had awakened him, and his first instinct was to protect his partner; until he realized that self same partner was the source of the disturbance.
They had tried to get home for Christmas, but a blizzard had hit Denver and all the flights were grounded. In fact, they had been lucky to get a hotel room.
He was surprised to find Illya leaning over him, murmuring "Napoleon," over and over; deep distress inflecting his voice.
“I’m okay,” he smiled into the familiar blue eyes filled with a concern that caused warmth to bloom in Napoleon’s heart.
"I’ve been trying to wake you for at least five minutes,” Illya exhaled, the effort of trying to hide his relief twisting his features.”
“Sorry, I was dreaming,” Napoleon answered, as though it was a perfectly sound explanation.
Illya lay back down on his side of the queen sized bed. “It must have been a - what is the word? - lulu.” His voice had become soft with sympathy and affection.
"Wha..." Napoleon cleared his throat and tried again. "What do you mean, Tovarisch?"
"Well, I have seen you have nightmares before, but I have never known you to wake up with tears in your eyes. It must have been very bad, indeed." Illya was watching Napoleon closely, as though trying to read the spectre in his friend’s eyes.
"Actually, it wasn’t a nightmare at all. In fact, it was a Christmas dream." Napoleon smiled warmly into the cherished face.
"A Christmas dream?" Illya exclaimed cynically. "What, exactly, is a Christmas dream?"
"A Christmas dream," Napoleon grew serious, "is one filled with joy, peace, and hope for the future. If that won't make a man cry, I don’t know what will?"
“And speaking of the future,” he continued, “there’s no time like the present.”
With that, he sat up, leaned over his partner, and kissed him. The best Christmas present he ever received was when Illya started to kiss back.