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Everything is blurry and out of focus. Napoleon blinks and squints as he feels something wet trickle and pool in the corner of his eye. He raises a hand to touch the wetness and is relieved to see only a minimal amount of blood on his fingers. So, it’s just rain after all. Napoleon can feel the beginnings of a massive headache creeping in but at least he’s not bleeding half to death. Through the ringing in his ears, Napoleon hears harsh words barked loudly but he finds the voice irrationally soothing.
“Agent down. Requesting immediate extraction.”
There’s a short burst of static and then Napoleon’s world narrows to a hulking figure. Napoleon feels himself instantly relax under the canopy of his giant partner.
“Look at me, Cowboy.” Napoleon’s whole face is cocooned by the largest hands he has ever seen. His head gets tilted up, and Napoleon is sure he is drowning because all he can see are the endless pools of blue. For a moment, he is almost weightless as he lets the calm waters envelop him.
A sigh of relief brings Napoleon back from the depths and he answers it with a gasped breath of his own.
“Good. Where are you hurt?” the voice sounds gentler now but with an immensely heavy undercurrent of worry. But Napoleon isn’t concerned; no need to be with Illya there. The realization itself should worry Napoleon but he’s way past that point, has been for countless weeks, even months, by now.
Napoleon struggles to sit up but Illya is quick to move his hands down to Napoleon’s shoulders in order to hold him down. Losing those hands on his face makes Napoleon ache more than anything else he’s suffered so far. Napoleon pushes the feeling down and takes a mental note of his body. He can feel and move all his extremities, which should mean that nothing’s broken.
“I think I’m fine, Peril,” Napoleon says but can’t be absolutely sure.
He tries to sit up again, and this time, Illya lets him but not without watching Napoleon with shattering intensity. It really is hard to tell if Napoleon is bleeding somewhere since he’s wearing black and his tactical gear is soaked by the rain. Napoleon runs a sluggish hand across himself and flinches as his exploratory hand brushes his thigh. Illya’s hands join his in an instant and there most definitely is blood on Napoleon’s fingers this time. The realization is followed by a Russian curse and Illya’s hands become a blur of movement.
Napoleon is quite certain that the slight bleeding isn’t a real problem. Sure, his thigh hurts, and it will probably be all kinds of black and blue tomorrow, but Illya is not heeding any of Napoleon’s attempts to make him stop. Illya runs exploratory fingers all over Napoleon’s thigh, and they brush dangerously close to where Napoleon has dreamed of his partner touching him for what seems like a torturous eternity. Then Illya’s fingers come across the small tear in the fabric of Napoleon’s pants. The American flinches partly in pain, but mostly at the shock of Illya’s fingers against his naked skin. Without further ceremony, those sure hands rip the tear wider for Illya’s inspection. Napoleon is absentmindedly grateful that none of his nicer pants are subject to the brutish treatment.
Napoleon is quick to realize how very unhurt he is and how he has rather lost the control of his mental faculties. He can feel his body, left unsupervised by his blurry mind, all too eagerly reacting to Illya’s touch. The visual of that blond head between his legs is not helping things in the slightest. Illya’s fingers follow the rip until his progress gets hindered by Napoleon’s thigh holster. He skims along the sensitive inside of Napoleon’s thigh in search of the clasp. Something in Napoleon breaks then and he can’t quite bite back a desperate moan.
The American freezes like a deer in headlights and Illya’s movements halt immediately. Napoleon attempts to seize the opportunity to squirm out of his partner’s reach before he has the chance to embarrass himself further. He struggles to get traction on the slippery grass but it’s mostly in vain.
“Like I said, Peril, I’m fine,” Napoleon tries to reason with him but the insistent Russian is quick to stop Napoleon’s pathetic escape attempts.
Illya doubles his efforts of prodding and probing Napoleon’s leg in search of the wound. The stubborn crease of Illya’s brow tells Napoleon his partner is hard set on making sure the American isn’t bleeding to death. He seems oblivious to the fact that the reason he can’t find the wound is because there really isn’t one. The small scratch is all there is and the slow trickle of blood is the worst of it. But there is, however, an insistent flow of blood that is making itself towards Napoleon’s crotch with every brush of Illya’s hands.
Clearly struggling to find the fastenings of the holster, Illya’s frustration is starting to show. He is getting slightly rougher in his ministrations and when a persistent hand curls around the strap of the holster and gives it a yank, the bloodied knuckles come only an inch from brushing against Napoleon’s crotch. There is the hopeful ache in Napoleon’s stomach coupled with the pangs of lust at the thought. In the end, the rising panic in him wins out. With an undignified yelp, Napoleon tries to shove the other man off. It is of no use. Illya’s hands are unyieldingly sure and strong. Napoleon lets out a desperate little sound. He is also running slightly short of breath in his struggle and his gasping protests only manage to intensify the worried look on Illya’s face. Illya attacks Napoleon’s holster with new fervor to unclasp it, and Napoleon finally wrenches himself out of his grasp. He manages a few scoots away from his partner before he notices the worry replaced by rising temper. The furrow between Illya’s eyes deepens, which is a sure sign that Napoleon is in trouble. Illya opens his mouth but then his eyes land on the tenting in Napoleon’s pants that the American can’t quite hide. Illya’s expression seems to go through about a million different emotions before going carefully blank. To Napoleon’s horror, Illya doesn’t stop staring at Napoleon’s source of shame.
There is a tense moment. Napoleon croaks out a weak apology with a desperate attempt at one of his more disarming smirks. Illya’s finger ticks once, and it’s the only warning Napoleon gets, before he is hauled in by one hand around his thigh holster and the other around his opposite thigh. He is pulled roughly against his kneeling partner with impressive ease. The movement causes his shirt to ride up but despite the discomfort of cold, wet mud against his newly exposed skin, the manhandling makes Napoleon’s traitorous dick twitch excitedly. He can’t help but let out a groan which seems to be equal parts frustration, embarrassment and gut wrenching lust.
Illya’s hands travel along Napoleon’s thighs once more but considerably slower this time. Feeling Illya’s touch skim over the crease where his thigh meets his ass, makes Napoleon’s whole body shiver. He fights the increasing urge to wrap his thighs around his partner and pull the other man closer to him. Illya’s eyes seem to be boring through him and for a brief second, Napoleon is almost certain Illya can read his every illicit thought. Illya seems to be carefully cataloguing even the smallest shift in his partner’s expression, making Napoleon feel utterly naked under the intensity of those eyes. Napoleon wants to say something or reach for Illya or do anything at all to break the tension. But he doesn’t. He is rooted in place by that gaze and can do nothing but stare back.
Illya is so close that Napoleon can finally fully appreciate how long his lashes are. How delicately they curve upwards and how softly they kiss Peril’s skin as the other man blinks. For a moment, Napoleon is certain he could happily spend an eternity counting every single eyelash. It seems paradoxical that this powerhouse of a Russian, probably the deadliest man Napoleon has ever met, should be this breathtakingly, delicately beautiful. Napoleon’s mind is reeling and he can’t quite decide what to do so he just lies there; half deaf from the blood rushing in his ears, dumb and so turned on that it hurts.
“You are sure you are not hurt?” Illya finally says.
The way the words are half murmured makes Napoleon swallow hard, and he barely manages a small nod. Illya’s hands are burning through Napoleon’s pants while his own hands are fisted uselessly in the grass. There is not enough to grip properly and he is mostly clawing at mud. He scarcely dares to breathe, just stares at Illya’s mouth a little wide eyed. Maybe he hit his head a lot harder than he initially thought? Because said mouth is smirking down at him and closing in fast. Napoleon fights to keep his eyes open but then Illya’s lips are so close to his that Napoleon can feel the little puffs of Illya’s breath against his skin. He’s close enough for Napoleon to smell him so he does. Lets his senses be flooded by Illya’s scent. At first, he mostly smells of the sickly sweet coppery of someone else’s blood, gunpowder and sweat. Of death and power but also of Illya . The combination is pure danger, which should worry Napoleon but, unsurprisingly, it doesn’t. The lethal mixture does nothing to sound the alarm in his mind. It simply makes him feel completely safe and protected.
The first brush of Illya’s mouth along Napoleon’s cheek is a shock. It is sensory overload and the way it makes Napoleon’s whole world spin, forces his eyes closed. Napoleon should be embarrassed by how much it is affecting him but he can’t find it in himself to care. Peril always says he’s reckless and in this moment Napoleon revels in it. He just gasps and claws at the ground in desperate attempt to find something to hold onto. God, but he aches for Illya. He fights all his urges that demand him to reach and claim and take. Instead, he lies still as Illya’s lips inch their way closer to his mouth. Napoleon lets himself enjoy the scrape of Illya’s stubble against his clean shaven cheek; each prickle sending tiny sparks of sensation through him. Napoleon can’t remember a time when he had been this on edge while simultaneously being somehow utterly content.
There’s a soft murmur of Cowboy and Napoleon can feel Illya’s lips brushing against his as he speaks. The nickname seems to be a question and an adoration wrapped in one infuriatingly perfect breath that sends shivers throughout Napoleon’s body. He arches against the solid warmth draped on top of him and raises his chin in a vain chase for that mouth. There is still nothing but the ghost of breath on him and something in Napoleon aches to be satisfied.
There is a sudden pang of overwhelming want and Napoleon finally snaps. Ripping out tufts of grass and undoubtedly smearing mud all over Illya, Napoleon makes a wild grab for him. God but finally running his hands over the lean lines of Illya’s body is exactly everything Napoleon had ever imagined it to be like. He uses his own strength to draw Illya in while surging up blindly. Napoleon feels downright giddy in his anticipation of at long last getting his taste of the other man.
Any moment now and those lips will be on his.
Any moment now and Illya will claim him.
Any moment now and Napoleon will claim Illya.
And oh, how he intents to utterly ruin Peril.
To Napoleon’s absolute, devastating disappointment, Illya’s hot breath is gone and there’s a hand halting Napoleon’s movements. His mind is losing the game of catch up and Napoleon is left completely baffled. For the first time that day, Napoleon isn’t enjoying his partner’s manhandling even one bit.
“Hear that?” Illya asks.
Napoleon has absolutely no idea what he is referring to. For a moment, Napoleon is sure he has made some utterly ridiculously pathetic sound that has made Illya change his mind about kissing him. He is barely aware of anything part from Illya. A moment ago there was no ache in his skull or wet ground under his back. There had only been the breath against his lips, the solid warmth under his hands and the promise of fulfillment. There had only been Illya.
Napoleon’s dream world gets shattered by the insistent whirring of the blades of their evac chopper. For a moment he’s left dazed and alone on the ground and the rain is falling on his face unabated. As he once again squints through the wetness invading his eyes, he is greeted by the sight of his partner’s outstretched hand.
“Let’s get you home, Cowboy,” Illya says as he helps Napoleon to his shaky feet. As he feels his partner’s steadying hand at his side, Napoleon finally looks at Illya. Underneath the speckle of blood and mud, Illya’s cheeks are flushed and there is the small secret smile that he only shares with Napoleon on his lips. In that moment, Napoleon knows for certain that Illya is the only home he will ever need.