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They made it most of the way through an ice cold bottle of vodka, filling the highball glasses without pretending to only drink a finger or two at a time. Illya had most of Gaby’s pieces neatly lined up on the table by the board and check mate was within four moves, maybe five. She had held her own for a while, a better player than most. But Illya was intimidating on any night and tonight he was a determined beast.
He pretended not to notice when the hotel room door swung open and Napoleon slunk in. Instead, he finished the last of the vodka in his glass and took one of Gaby’s rooks. In his peripheral vision, he saw Napoleon hand the microfilm to Gaby. She patted his cheek and slipped into her room, leaving the two men alone.
Since that long ago morning when Illya woke up in the hospital and he feared everything he’d worked for was lost, not much had changed. He held his breath for months after, waiting, but he could admit that Napoleon was true to his word.
Napoleon, on the other hand, he changed. The man was near celibate. Oh, he was still a charmer, a flirt. He couldn’t help but be. But as far as Illya could tell, Napoleon had not engaged in recreational sex since learning the truth about their marks. Illya did not think it possible that Solo could be monogamous, let alone faithful to an idea. But there he was.
It made nights like tonight, honey pot missions when Illya knew exactly was Napoleon was doing, who was touching what was rightly his, so much harder.
Napoleon was disheveled. His hair mussed into its natural curls, his collar lipstick stained, and one cuff link missing. He looked debauched. And he looked miserable.
Illya sat and continued to play out the game on the board, methodically working his way toward the king. He did not acknowledge Napoleon but every nerve ending was alive with awareness of him. Of how, even miserable, the man could not help but move with feline grace as he made his way across the suite’s living room and toward Illya. Maintaining his anger in the face of Napoleon's absolute unwillingness to fight back was exhausting. Ignoring him was exhausting.
Once across the room, Napoleon paid no mind to Illya’s game. He kicked the coffee table aside and sank to his knees. With a great heaving moan, Napoleon put his forehead on Illya’s knee. Illya could not wrap his mind around the moment. A dominant, his dominant, on his knees before him like a supplicant. Illya didn’t know what to do with himself, where to put his hands.
Without looking up, Napoleon rasped, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Peril.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
The head on his knee shook back and forth. “That isn’t true. You may not have given yourself to me but I’m yours. I’m yours and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”
In the face of this pain, what could Illya do? With his dominant on his knees, with his soulmate heartsick, what could Illya do? Seemingly if their own accord, Illya’s hands came to the sides of Napoleon’s head. He began to gently run his fingers through Napoleon’s hair, just playing with the strands. The repetitive motion was soothing and the hair, soft.
They stayed that way for a long time, Napoleon on his knees and Illya playing with his hair. When Illya thought his chest might burst with it, Napoleon shifted just enough to place a chaste kiss on Illya’s knee. He stood up, thanked Illya, and slipped into his bedroom. Illya sat for a while longer, listening to the water running in Napoleon’s shower, trying to process all that had just happened.
Napoleon was his. Whatever the hangover, whatever the fire raging in his mind while Napoleon was gone, whatever the consequences of a night of solace and intimacy. He got to stroke his soulmate’s hair. He was rewarded with a kiss on his knee. Napoleon was his.