Fic and Pics
Title: Reflection
Author: aneuhaus
Rating: R-ish
Pairing: NS/IK
Warnings: Nope
“There he goes again,” Illya heard, in an amused female voice, as he walked shoulder to shoulder with his partner down the gunmetal hall of U.N.C.L.E., New York. Sure enough, when he looked around, Napoleon was gazing at the metal wall, apparently trying to catch a glimpse of his reflection. Illya hadn’t paid any attention to the situation until he overheard a group of women discussing it in the cafeteria one day.
“Have you noticed Mr. Solo lately?”
“Of course I’ve noticed him - what am I, blind?”
“Yeah, I notice him every time he comes around. I only wish he would notice me a bit.”
“No, I don’t mean that. I mean, you know, he has always been the kind to look like he just stepped out of a band box, but he always seemed so nonchalant about it before.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Don’t you guys ever notice anything? Lately, he’s been, I don’t know, watching himself. Every time he gets near a reflective surface, he stares as though he simply can’t tear himself away. I think he’s getting conceited.”
“Is that why you don’t talk to him anymore?”
Just then, Emerson appeared at his shoulder to tell him that he was needed in Research and Development, to help with the testing of the newest sleep dart formula. The conversation, however, had lodged itself in his brain and thoroughly refused to budge.
It was true that Napoleon had always been vain about his appearance, there was no doubt. Sharp creases in his pants, exactly half an inch of shirt cuff showing, matching tie and socks; these were all matters to be meticulously attended to. Lately, though, his narcissistic tendencies were getting out of hand.
Why, just three days ago, in Morocco, Illya had barely been able to shave because Napoleon was hogging the hotel bathroom mirror; and he wasn’t doing a thing but looking at himself. Illya resolved to speak to his partner at the first available opportunity.
The opportunity presented itself the following evening, when Napoleon invited him over for dinner; which usually meant they would play chess and drink a bit more than they should. Being safely locked away in an U.N.C.L.E. secured apartment, and in no one’s company but each other’s, they tended to ‘let their hair down’, to use the vernacular.
Illya hadn’t had time to plan out and rehearse exactly what he was going to say, but he had gotten used to making things up as he went along. Besides, who knew when a chance such as this would arise again? This time tomorrow, they could be halfway around the world or, worse, sent on separate missions. No, ‘carpe diem’ was the thing.
So, after filling up on pasta primavera, Napoleon’s specialty and, as far as Illya knew, the only dish he could cook, the two friends sat down at the chess board; Napoleon with the white pieces and his single malt, and Illya with black and a bottle of vodka, straight from the freezer.
The chess set was one that had been given to Napoleon by his sister, and it was very modern; with cubist style ceramic pieces and a mirrored board, on which the white squares were frosted and the black ones were clear. Illya finished setting up his men and looked expectantly at his partner, who was…staring at himself in the chess board!
“Napoleon,” Illya began softly, not wanting to sound accusing in case his friend was troubled about something, “what are you doing?”
Napoleon lifted his head and looked at his partner as though he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. In a flash, though, it was replaced by his usual insouciant smile.
“I’m not sure what you mean, I.K. I was merely admiring my sister’s birthday gift. Beautiful, isn’t it?” He beamed.
Illya’s tone grew firm. “Wipe that smirk off your face and talk to me. I know every smile in your arsenal, Napoleon, and that one is for officiating at departmental meetings and playing nice with foreign dignitaries. It is I, your best friend, and I am concerned about you.”
“Well, if you’ll be kind enough to tell me just what it is that you’re concerned about, perhaps I could enlighten you.” The smile remained, but the café au lait colored eyes were definitely nervous.
Illya heaved a heavy sigh. “It isn’t just I, Napoleon. The office staff has noticed too, and they are talking behind your back. They all see you watch yourself in every surface that casts a reflection, as though your image is something of inordinate interest to you. The general consensus seems to be that you have become besotted with yourself, but I know you better than that.” His voice softened again. “As you say, ‘Give, Partner’.”
Napoleon’s face fell and the false smile disappeared. “I don’t understand it, Illya. What do they see, all those women? Do they see me, as I am, or do they see what they think they want me to be? I can understand why all the women hanker for you; with that hair and those eyes and that bottom l…”
”That what?" Ill;y;a interrupted with a laugh. "Do you like my bottom, Napoleon?” Illya asked, half jokingly.
“I was going to say bottom lip; but, yeah, I do like your bottom. Do you mind very much?” Napoleon replied, mirroring his partner’s half teasing tone.
Illya wasn’t one hundred percent positive that Napoleon was serious; but the near confession, and two thirds of a bottle of vodka, gave him the courage to finally say what he had been holding back for years. “I like your bottom too, and that’s only one attribute that all those women see in you. There are also your eyes, that change color with your every mood, and wrinkle up at the corners when you smile a genuine smile; your, I imagine, soft, sable hair that is usually immaculately groomed, and looks even better when it isn’t; and…" He stopped, realizing he may have gone too far, and regarded Napoleon closely, wondering at the look of confusion on his face.
“Okay,” Napoleon began, “let’s say you’re not stark raving mad and all those things you say are true. But what about my hands, that are scar tissue on scar tissue; my back, that is covered in ugly white stripes from beatings; or the fact that, at only thirty three, I can forecast the weather from nine different parts of my body? Let’s face it; physically, I’m no prize."
‘Well,’ Illya thought to himself, ‘in for a penny, in for a pound.’ “But that’s not all they see. They see a hero; a man who wakes up every morning knowing that he may have to fight, and die, to save the life, or lives, of someone he may never even meet. They see strength and valor and someone who, unlike so many others, has never let the job cause him to lose his sense of humor; or make him forget to be kind and sensitive and… human. You may not think so, but who you are is in your voice, it shines through your eyes, and it is displayed in your posture and mannerisms. That’s what I… uh… they see.”
Ignoring the slip, he held Napoleon’s gaze, amazed at how quickly the emotions chased each other through his shining eyes. The atmosphere was suddenly thick, as though Illya’s words hung in the air around them, and Napoleon seemed to be fighting for each breath.
“And what do you see, my partner and my friend?" Napoleon spoke slowly, weighing each word. “When you watch me when you think I’m not looking; when I touch you on the arm, what makes you press into my hand? What I wonder most about, Illya, is what makes you stick by me through thick and thin? What makes you defend me when I am defenseless? What makes you risk the mission, the innocent, and your very life, to rescue me? After what you’ve just said, and the way you said it; could it be possible that what I have felt for you all these years is not, as I have believed, unrequited? Say it, Partner Mine.”
Illya dropped his head. “I don’t know what you mean. Say what?” he fairly mumbled.
“Now you’re going to try the same act you just called me on?” Napoleon’s eyes were twinkling with mirth and new found knowledge; then he sobered and whispered, “You’re more the ‘fools rush in’ type than I am. Say it, Illya, and free us both.”
“I… I…” Illya looked into those amazing eyes that could freeze you in your tracks, or grow so warm they would melt you where you stood, and the heat he saw pooled there loosened his tongue. “I’m in love with you, Napoleon, and I want you.”
“And I want you, My Love.” Napoleon rose and, walking around to where Illya sat, he took him by the arms and pulled him from his chair. He figured that, since his partner was the first one to say the words, the least he could do was get the ball rolling; not to mention the fact that he couldn’t wait one more second to taste those luscious lips. He took Illya into his arms - not because he was unconscious, or injured, or hypothermic, but simply because he wanted to feel that sweet body against his - and kissed him.
Napoleon should have expected his partner to be as aggressive in this as he was with everything else, but was surprised when Illya’s tongue demanded its rightful place inside his mouth. He was amazed at a momentary feeling of pride that the couple of inches difference in their heights didn’t make it difficult for Illya to take control. He was even more shocked that he didn’t mind one bit.
His partner was learning the contours of his mouth with as much enthusiasm as he entered into any new venture. Napoleon moaned in delight; and the scent, taste, and feel of his friend bombarded his senses until his knees began to feel weak.
“Illya,” he murmured, “do you know what I want; what I have been dreaming of?”
“No,” Illya replied hoarsely, “but, whatever it is, the answer is ‘Yes’.”
Napoleon released his hold, regretfully, and took one of the large, capable hands in his. Pulling Illya toward the bedroom, he said, “I want to tell you, any way. I want to see you, naked and aroused, looking expectantly up at me from my bed, those beautiful blue eyes filled with love and desire.”
Illya’s steps faltered for a moment, and then he reached up and kissed his partner’s jaw and then his mouth. This kiss was different, though. This time, he drew Napoleon’s tongue into his own mouth and sucked on it like a baby receiving sustenance at its mother’s breast.
His legs only slightly firmer than jelly, Napoleon danced them into the bedroom and sat Illya down on the edge of the bed. He pressed his hand against the obvious bulge tenting his partner’s - no, lover’s - trousers and Illya closed his eyes and leaned his head back in slow motion.
“You feel so good, so hot and hard, I want to see you,” Napoleon practically begged; his voice husky with need.
Illya grabbed the bottom of his black turtle neck and yanked it over his head. He actually blushed when Napoleon’s eyes fastened on what was revealed. “Napoleon,” his voice rumbled, “you’ve seen my chest many times. Why are you staring at it now?”
“Because,” Napoleon replied in his best bedroom voice, “when I saw it before, I never allowed myself to wonder how that warm skin would feel under my hands and mouth, or what your nipples would taste like on my tongue. Now, I can’t think about anything else.”
Once again, Illya’s eyes slid closed, and he spoke the only word his mind would register, “Dushka.”
That was the password that, hitherto, neither of them had known. Napoleon lowered his lover to the bed and began to feast on the warm, soft skin; finally taking each nipple into his mouth in turn, deciding the he was already addicted to the taste.
When Illya groaned, “It’s not fair, I want to see you too,” it brought Napoleon back to himself and he remembered that this was not one of his many dreams; but was, indeed, reality. If his love wanted him naked, then naked he would be, and he began to fumble at the buttons of his shirt.
The workings of a button had not perplexed Napoleon as much since he was three years old. Impatience got the better of him and, had he been in a different state of mind, he would have heard a button ping across the room as he pulled his cotton dress shirt, along with his undershirt, over his head. He cursed in several languages when he had to stop to unbutton the cuffs, and Illya laughed out loud; a sound Napoleon decided he wanted to hear every day for the rest of his life; even if it was at his own expense.
“Uh, I think I’m going to have to stand up to manage the rest of this,” he lamented.
Illya’s eyes looked troubled for a moment, and then he shook his head and rolled them over so he was now on top. In a flash, he had Napoleon’s fly undone and was urging him to lift his hips. He tugged the trousers and underwear down his partner’s muscled legs and off over his feet, taking socks and slippers with them. He then rolled onto his back to allow Napoleon to do the same for him.
Napoleon chuckled. “And they say I’m the brains of this partnership.”
“Well,” Illya replied, “as the man said, ‘Necessity is the mother of invention’.” The smile he gave Napoleon was so bright it brought tears to his eyes, like looking directly into the sun.
“So, what do we do now?” Napoleon asked guilessly.
“What do you want to do?” Illya queried softly, his smile widening.
“Over the years we have been partners, I have admired how strong and beautiful your hands are,” Napoleon confided. “I have spent countless hours watching them working at various tasks and wondering how they would feel working on me.”
Illya’s smile turned sly. “Yes, I had noticed. I simply thought you were trying to learn something,” he said, his voice laced with sarcasm, but his eyes twinkling with mirth. He reached up and kissed Napoleon again, nipping and sucking at the already swollen lips, as he rolled them over once more until they were now on their sides, facing each other. He ran his hands over his lover’s chest and looked down. It was obvious, by the copious amount of precum dripping from Napoleon’s cock, how little time they had left; so Illya gave his partner’s nipples a brief tweak and slid his hands quickly down the supple body.
He had never considered touching another man sexually before, though he had struggled for years to sublimate his feelings for Napoleon. He knew what felt good to him, though, so he rubbed his fingertips gently against his partner’s inner thighs until they parted for him. He heard Napoleon sigh as he began to gently knead the furry balls.
“Wait!” Napoleon cried hoarsely, almost as if in pain. “I’m pretty good with my hands, too."
He leapt up, turned himself around so his head was at the foot of the bed, and lay back down on his side. Illya understood the purpose of the maneuver when he felt Napoleon nudge his legs apart and begin to mimic his ministrations. He echoed his partner’s sigh perfectly.
Continuing to gently roll Napoleon’s balls with one hand, he reached the other between his partner’s thighs and touched the tip of one finger to the head of his hard, leaking cock. A split second later, he felt the exact same touch, and the lovers hissed in unison. They continued; touch for touch and response for response. Much too soon, first one, and then a split second later, the other, groaned out their completion; each busy hand covered in warm, sticky semen.
Napoleon turned himself back around so he could rest his head on Illya’s shoulder while they waited for their heartbeats to return to normal. As soon as he could catch his breath, he looked up to see that he was being scrutinized by a pair of sleepy blue eyes. The only thought in his somewhat foggy mind was that he wanted to tell this incredibly remarkable man what he was feeling at that moment. Then the realization dawned on him that everything he wanted to say was being reflected back at him in that beautiful face. It was exactly what he had been looking for all along.
