Snow Gardens
elfin


Solo glanced out into the snow-covered gardens and saw a figure.

Crème suit, white shirt, golden tie undone and hanging from the open collar around his throat.  

A bottle of vodka hung from the fingers clasping the glass neck.

His walk was unsteady, weaving, leaving an odd path of footprints in the newly fallen snow.

Napoleon knew the figure.  He smiled to himself and for a couple of minutes he watched its progress.

"Illya."  He tasted the name of his partner on his lips, no louder than a murmur to himself.  "Tovarisch."

The Russian passed under one of the garden lamps.  The amber glow shone in his hair for a moment until he passed it by.

A smile touched his lips.  There was snow in the wayward blond hair and it reminded Solo of a halo of sorts.

"Ahren," he breathed.


After everything Illya had been through these last few days, at the hands of THRUSH, Solo could hardly blame him for drinking a little.

His deceptively slight partner was more than capable of taking care of himself and could hold his own in a fight.  But he'd been out-numbered and out-gunned.  He'd gone down fighting.  On more than one occasion if UNCLE's doctors were telling the truth.

Solo wasn't sure it was part of the usual torture routine an agent could ever get used to.  Or would ever want to.  But it was routine enough for his partner not to be in need of counselling.

He was settling for an expensive bottle of Russian vodka courtesy of their employer.  The least UNCLE could do.

Taking a deep breath, watching it curl in the chilled air when he released it, Solo stepped off the stone into the snow-laiden grass.  His shoes crunched the thick, cold carpet as he walked to the path, a little ahead of Kuryakin, putting him in the man's way a couple of seconds later.

"Napoleon."

Solo smiled.  The Russian's sometimes imperceptible accent was given definition whenever he drank too much.  "Not dancing?"  

There was a sting in the slightly slurred words, one that made Solo proceed with caution.

"I wanted to make certain my partner was all right."

"I don't need babysitting."

"I never said you did."

"Really?" Illya asked flatly.

Napoleon bristled guiltily.  He had spotted his partner earlier, seated at one of the tables talking quietly with the Ambassador's Aide.  He'd intervened, although he wasn't sure what he'd seen to make him do so.  There was no threat, no danger to either of them.  It was a party for Heaven's sake!

But for some reason he'd felt the need to interrupt, to engage Illya in a private conversation, all but shooing the other man away, before abandoning his partner in favour of the Ambassador's beautiful daughter, Bethany.

He didn't know the name of the Aide.

"I'm your partner, it's my duty to be concerned about you."
 
"You appear to be having delusions of..." Illya paused, appeared to think about it, "...of whatever the opposite to 'grandeur' is."  Cold blue eyes caught warm chocolate.  The slur was gone, the words deadly serious. "I'm not part of your duty tonight, Napoleon."

Solo sighed, this wasn't going the way he'd planned it to.  He took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry we weren't faster.  I'm sorry we didn't get to you before...."

Illya glanced away but only for a moment.  "Leave me alone," he said quietly, resignedly.  "Go... dance.  Enjoy yourself."

"What about you?"

He chuckled.  He raised the bottle in his hand.  "I have my Stolichnaya to keep me from becoming lonely."

Usually, Solo would have smiled, nodded, let it go.  He would have returned to the party without another word, accepting his partner's request that he be left to his own devices.  But tonight he didn't want to let it go.  Not yet.  Despite that, he wasn't sure what prompted his next question.

"Is it enough?"

"It doesn't seem like I have a choice, does it, Tovarisch?"

Solo processed that.  Was his partner referring to the Aide?  

Not allowing his suspicions to show, he reached into his pocket for the pack of cigarettes he'd bought before leaving Stuttgart for the safety of Geneva.

He very rarely smoked but he needed the nicotine hit, wanted the heat of the smoke in his lungs.

Holding the short length between his lips he lit the tip, shielding the match in the cup of his hand.  

Flicking the spent match to the snowy ground, he took a long drag before plucking the cigarette from his lips and breathing out into the chilled air.

His eyes widened when his partner reached out.

Illya took the cigarette from Solo, held it between two stiff fingers and sucked the tar into his lungs, breathing deep, exhaling slowly.

Solo smiled at the naked pleasure on his partner's face.

"I didn't know you smoked."

"You don't know everything about me."

"I am starting to realise that."

Illya's turn to smile, a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth before he took another drag and handed the cigarette back.

Accepting it, Solo locked his gaze with Illya, taking a long breath of nicotine.  He shivered slightly, at the cold night, at the expression on his partner's face, at the ice in the blue eyes.  He didn't know.  Wasn't sure he wanted to.

For a moment his eyes dropped to Illya's mouth then returned to hold the guarded stare.

Taking the cigarette between his fingers, holding it slightly away from his body, Solo took a step forward.

Illya didn't move, but his expression shifted.

"I won't be one of your conquests, Napoleon."

The words, so easily spoken, stilled Solo.  Had he really been going to kiss his partner?  That was apparently what Illya thought and he didn't seem phased by the idea, just not interested.

As confused as he was by his own actions as well as Illya's, Solo didn't move away.  He held his position, face inches from the other he knew so well.

"No, you won't."

Illya waited, but when Solo remained where he was the Russian broke the moment by side-stepping neatly around the taller man and continuing his wander through the gardens.

Rooted to the spot, Solo turned his head and watched his partner weaving gently away from him.

Snow was falling harder now, settling in the golden hair, on the shoulders of the expensive tailored suit.  Maybe some flakes were even getting into the vodka still hanging from Illya's left hand.

It wasn't that the thought hadn't ever entered his head in the past, just that the possibility had never been there before.  He'd always been drawn to beauty and Illya fitted that bill perfectly.  He'd never been with a man but the idea hadn't ever been a repulsive one.  Just he hadn't chanced across the right man.  

But he had, hadn't he?

Someone he cared for, loved even.  It was difficult to trust your life to someone and not acquire some deep running feelings along the way.

He stood for a long time watching the snow.  He didn't feel the icy night, just an odd sort of warmth creeping along his veins.

He had no idea how long it was before he called out.  

"Illya!"  Finally moving, Solo jogged after his partner who had vanished from sight.  

It took him a couple of minutes to find the aisle of pine trees down which Kuryakin had turned.

"Wait."  

As soon as he was close enough he reached out and caught the man's arm.  

In the same moment his brain caught up and warned him, 'don't!', but it was too late and he was already standing with his arm locked painfully behind his back and the sharded remains of a broken vodka bottle pressing against the vulnerable base of his throat.

"Illya!"  This time it was barely a squeak.

He felt the sigh against his neck just before the grip was loosened and the glass retreated from his skin.  He heard several bright Russian expletives spat in the softly accented voice and then,

"You owe me a bottle of vodka."

Napoleon hesitated before throwing in, "There's a well-stocked bar in my room."

Cool blue eyes assessed him for just a moment before Illya threw back his head and laughed.

Solo was stunned.  He tried to recall a time when he'd seen such open delight on his partner's usually stoic features and found that he couldn't.

"Does this ever work?" Illya asked when he was able.

"Does what ever work?" Solo responded, unsure whether or not to be offended.

"This strategy, that pick up line."  He shook his head, snow falling from his hair.  "If you want to take me to bed, Napoleon, just say so.  You don't need to seduce me."

Illya's quiet grace had always been able to succeed where his boisterous charm failed.

Napoleon swallowed and stepped forward.  "I want to take you to bed."

His partner's reply was a smile.  "Let's go back to the house."


They turned, Illya dropping the remainder of the bottle into the snow at the base of a tree.  Solo made a mental not to inform the host in the morning.  And to apologise.

Slowly they made their way back toward the lights of the mansion.

Napoleon imagined he could feel his blood running hot through his veins.  He glanced at the blond man at his side, all too aware of Illya's presence as he realised he had been throughout their partnership, just in a different way.

He suddenly thought, as they started back, how awkward he might have just made things.  

They had to work together, side by side.  They needed to depend on one another for everything, from a lift into work on cold mornings to sometimes just seeing the next sunrise.

What else was he introducing into the already tried and tested formula?  This would change everything, he had no doubt.  This could destroy a partnership that meant more to him than anything ever had.  

It could jeopardise their friendship.  It could cost them their jobs.

"Why do you want to take me to bed?"  Illya's tone was light, humorous, breaking Solo's introspection.

Despite his escalating panic - or maybe because of it - the question was completely unexpected.  This was his chance, he could stop this, apologise, stop them before they fell.

He turned his head and his breath caught in his throat.
 
Illya's usually pale cheeks were rosy with the cold.  He was smiling, blue eyes looking curiously into Solo's own, searching for his answer.  Snow was melting in the golden strands of his hair, the crystals of ice sparkling in the moonlight.  And Napoleon wondered at how this man had ever come to be walking at his side, sharing his life, never mind offering to share his bed.  

The essence of everything Illya had ever said to him swamped him then.  From nightmare stories of his childhood to recounted horrors at the hands of THRUSH.

"I...."  It was all he could manage to say and it amused Illya.

The Russian sighed to himself, shaking his head as if in despair.  "Has no woman ever asked you that?"

"No."

Solo was treated to another wonderful, refreshing laugh.  It was a sound that went straight to his cock and fanned out along his nerves, setting his body alight with desire.

"How we get your ego through the narrow corridors of HQ, I'll never know," Illya continued.

Napoleon smiled, embarrassed.  

"That party's full of women who wouldn't ask, Napasha.  So why are you out here with me and not in there choosing two female beauties to share your bed?"

He couldn't answer his partner's question.  He didn't know how to say that at that moment it felt like his whole life was aligning itself with *now*, with *this*.

He barely noticed when Illya paused in his steps.  He felt his hand taken and he stopped, turned slightly, wondering how he looked and hoping he wouldn't scare his partner.

"Napoleon, twelve hours ago a man raped me."

The words slammed into Solo like a fist, dousing the fire, leaving him feeling hollow where only moments ago there had been a kind of jubilation.  

He stepped back, barely able to breathe and blinked sudden, unexpected tears from his eyes.  "I'm sorry."

But cold fingers squeezed his hand as a strong thumb began a circling caress of his palm.  

"Don't be sorry.  Just be aware."

Napoleon shook his head.  "I shouldn't have...."  Whatever else he was going to say was lost in Illya's mouth covering his own.  He knew the taste of his partner before he felt his warmth.  

And then he was lost to it.

Illya's slim arms wound tightly around his neck, tongue insistent at Solo's lips.  

He welcomed his partner, wrapped his arms around him and gathered Illya to him possessively.  His whole body language was screaming, 'mine!' and he knew it.  But his beloved Russian wasn't exactly fighting him off.

Illya tasted of vodka and smoke and he found he liked it.  He liked the firmness of the lithe body held close to him.  He liked the slight stubble rubbing his chin and cheek.  

He loved the way Illya's blossoming erection was pressed length to length with his own, stoking his arousal with every slow, easy thrust of Illya's body.

Both men broke off the kiss at the same time.

"You asked me to go to bed with you," Illya teased, resting his already hot forehead against Napoleon's cheek.  "There was no mention of snow."

Napoleon chuckled, snaking his arm tight around his cherished partner, holding him close as they started walking again back to the house.


The party was still in full swing but no one noticed them as they climbed the stairs together, just a little closer than men of their standing usually would be, but at least further apart then they had been in the garden.

Napoleon unlocked his bedroom door and stepped inside, turning to watch Illya hesitate on the threshold.  Outside, in the snowy wonderland something magical had been happening.  Now, here in the bedroom, it wasn't magic, it was real.  It was sex.

"We'll be okay," he murmured, stretching out his hand, beckoning with his fingers.

Illya nodded once and followed, closing the door.  

Napoleon watched him as he leaned back against it, gazing up from under damp, wayward hair.  His partner had always been able to speak volumes with his eyes alone and the sentiment in the blue depths was clear.

Making a decision, Napoleon crossed to the bar in the corner of the well-appointed guest room and dug the vodka from the ice box.  It had become a habit in recent months to move the vodka whenever he stayed in a hotel room with a mini bar.  Illya preferred it cold, the colder the better.

Pouring a measure into a glass, Solo took a long drink of the half-alcohol, half-ice mix, enjoying the burn at the back of his throat before handing the glass to Illya.  He closed the gap between them as he did, watching his partner as he drank, full lips caressing the rim of the glass.

Lifting one hand, Solo stroked his thumb along Illya's lightly-stubbled jaw, fingers fanning out over his throat, feeling the ripple of muscles as he swallowed the icy liquid.

"Beautiful," he murmured, mostly to himself.

Blue eyes hardened for just a moment in warning, then Illya lowered the glass and took a single step forward, tipping his head a little to meet Napoleon's waiting mouth.

Solo waited a heartbeat before responding, restlessly moving his lips over Illya's, tongue caressing tongue in a slow dance.  

Arousal ripped through him like wildfire but he held himself in check, following Illya's lead.  Never had he imagined his partner was in possession of such sensuality.  And before tonight he hadn't thought of experiencing Illya in this way.

But as he tasted the vodka in the other man's mouth he risked a touch to the blond hair, combing his fingers through the damp silken locks.

Illya broke away, pulling back just a fraction, so that when he spoke his lips brushed Napoleon's.

"You've done this before."  

A statement of fact rather than accusation.  Solo knew what he was referring to.

He bit Illya's bottom lip once, quickly.  "Not with you."  He waited, felt his partner's smile rather than saw it, and was rewarded with another kiss, with Illya stepping closer to him.  The slide of Illya's clothed erection against his own was tantalising at first, becoming quickly maddening.

Reaching between them, careful not to push the other man away, Napoleon slid his hands inside the crème jacket and edged it from the narrow shoulders, following its fall down deceptively slim arms until it gave up Illya's body to his own embrace.

He held his partner for a long time, kissing deeply, committing the very taste of him to memory until his hands started an exploration seemingly of their own volition.  He unfastened each shirt button slowly, deliberately brushing the tips of his fingers over smooth skin, his touch becoming more teasing the lower he went.

As the last button slipped through its hole, he parted the sides of the white shirt and spread his fingers out over the taut belly, slipping his thumb into the waistband of Illya's pants.

Kuryakin stepped back, leaving Napoleon momentarily stunned, breathing hard, feeling a little like a wild animal whose prey had just escape its clutches.

He took in his partner's state of undress, lingering on dark nipples before casting downward to admire the pointed arousal.  He raked his gaze back up, taking his time, finally locking heated gazes with Illya.  And he watched the slightly swollen lips form one word.

"Strip."

Napoleon's eyes widened.  He could scarcely believe the erotic tone of the now heavy Russian accent, or the expression of pure unadulterated want shaping the oh-so-familiar features.  Illya's eyes were molten and he didn't look as if he would take no for an answer.

Silently, Solo shrugged off his jacket.  He unfastened his own shirt with the same slow pace he'd used on his partner's, stroking the expensive material rather than his own skin, his eyes never leaving Illya's.

Letting it fall to the carpet, he unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, pushing them down over his hips, taking his briefs with them.  Stepping out of the legs, toeing off his shoes and socks with consummate skill, he stood naked.  

He could feel the sweeping blue regard over every inch of his body bared to it.  He forced himself to stand still, to endure until Illya came into his arms again.

The touch of the expensive material against his naked skin was incredibly arousing.  Napoleon wound his arms around Illya, under his open shirt, folding the shorter man against him.  Words cued in his mind but none of them seemed appropriate.  Illya knew, he told himself.  He had to know.

A soft, keening sound from his lover's throat betrayed the control he'd shown and moved Solo to continue what he'd started.  He released Illya enough to open his pants and work them down.  Breaking the kiss, he dropped into a crouch, sliding underwear off, hooking his fingers into each sock in turn and removing those once Illya stepped out of his shoes.

He came face to face with his partner's cock and smiled as he dropped a chaste kiss to its weeping tip.  

Illya's fingers clawed into his shoulders and he took the hint.

Rising, he grabbed the shorter man and with one swing dropped him to the nearby bed.  Illya's nails in his arms made sure he followed him down, flesh sliding over flesh as they melted once more into a deep kiss.

They shifted together, hauling themselves up until their feet were no longer dangling over the edge of the mattress.  Napoleon's mouth moved over Illya's while his hands explored the strange, hard body.

The moment their cocks met for the first time, they both stilled.  Illya swore softly in his native tongue, dropping his head back to the bed, arching his back to increase the pressure, dragging a true American obscenity from his lover.

Having found that pleasure, Napoleon wanted more.  He thrust against Illya, setting a maddeningly slow rhythm, purposely seeking to drive his partner insane.

Illya's hands were all searing heat on his flesh; one pressed into the small of his back, finger nails raking small circles in his skin, while the other clawed over his shoulder to scrape gently first one nipple, then the other.

Napoleon bit back a cry but couldn't stop the howl from being torn from him when Illya ducked his head and took one hard bud between his teeth.  

He pushed his lover away, forcing him back to the bed.  Covering his wayward mouth, he bit first the top then the bottom lip, soothing each bite with a sweep of his tongue.  

Illya tried to fight back and Napoleon pushed up, his hands flat on the mattress either side of Illya's head, Napoleon gazed down at the beautiful man beneath him.

 "Napasha...."  The endearment spoken heated in Russian swept over Napoleon.

*Twelve hours ago six men raped me.*

Anger soaked through Solo as the idea of six brutal strangers forcing themselves inside the body he was worshipping.  Suddenly he wanted revenge against every man and woman who'd ever hurt Illya, ever laid a hand on his smooth skin, once flawless, now mapped with pale scars and dark bruises that refused to fade completely.

Illya reached up and touched the fingertips of one hand to Solo's cheek, stroking gently.

"Napoleon... don't.  Please."

The anger and the hatred sapped away.  He knew he would die for this man, had known it for a long time.

He turned his head and kissed Illya's palm, his tongue trailing a path up one long finger before he sucked the digit into his mouth.

Illya moaned softly; the need in the sound was unmistakable.  Whatever had happened before, only hours ago, was part of a different world, a different life.

Napoleon felt his lover's free arm slide around him, fingers splaying out at the small of his back.  One strong leg was wrapped around his thighs and a second later he was lying on his side, Illya plastered to him.

He leaned in, kissed Illya slowly.  

"Better," he murmured in approval.

Illya's smile was his response and reward.  But it wasn't all.  The Russian's hand reached between them, strong fingers bringing their erections together, silken skin over hard steel.  

The sensations were exquisite, reaching deep inside him, drawing pleasure from every nerve ending.

"Illya...."

A skilled thumb brushed over the weeping head of his cock and he came screaming, feeling his lover shuddering against him with his own orgasm.

~

Napoleon had long ago trained himself to process all available data upon waking, before he opened his eyes.

This morning the data was full of contradictions.  He was too hot but comfortable nonetheless.  Whoever was using him as a convenient mattress and pillow was hard and heavy, but his fingers were curled in soft hair.

He opened his eyes and smiled to himself.

Illya was fast asleep, head in the hollow of his partner's shoulder, one arm thrown across Solo's chest, one leg hooked between Solo's two.

Napoleon untangled his fingers and stroked his palm over the ragout of spun gold on his lover's head.  He felt the tickle of Illya's breathing across his skin, the sudden tensing of long fingers in reaction to a dream.  

A wave of possessiveness swept over him so strong that in the moment he swore to himself that no other - man or woman - would touch Illya in anger or passion ever again.  Not that he was in any position to prevent it.  It was a promise - or perhaps a threat - that he couldn't hope to keep.  All he could do was hold on to last night and any more nights Illya offered him.

He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment, soaking up the sensations of having his partner wrapped so close around him.  When he opened them, a curious blue gaze was watching him.

"Morning," he murmured, not relinquishing his hold.  He couldn't understand the syllables that Illya spoke, but the shape of his mouth as he said it was incredibly arousing.

Leaning down, he brushed his lips against his lover's, relieved when Illya responded, if a little cautiously.

"We haven't been particularly sociable party guests," the Russian murmured into the dim morning light filtering in through the curtains.  

"We deserved some downtime."

"Deserved?"  Illya picked up on the past tense.  "Is this all we get?"

Napoleon chuckled.  "All?"  He watched the graceful movements as the other man shifted up over him.  Far from regret in Illya's eyes, there was a joy he'd never seen there before.  Wanting to share in it he reached up and stroked the blond hair again.  

The Russian smiled.  "You're developing an unhealthy obsession, Napasha."

"To add to my collection of many, some might say."

"Indeed."  

But the dry accusation was lost in Illya's kiss.


fin
elfin

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