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Napoleon sat in his favorite overstuffed oxblood arm chair. He wished that the leather and cushion had been worn down to create the impression of his body in its most comfortable position. Alas, UNCLE kept him traveling too much for that to be. He sipped a single malt scotch while thumbing through a case file, listening to Illya inexpertly break into his home. He did not get up to assist or hinder the man, instead continuing to pencil notes into the margin.
Illya walked in as though such a break in were unremarkable. Things might be less strained since the two days in that safe house outside Ghent, but Napoleon was pathetically happy to have Illya here and had long since given up the hope of him one day possessing a key. So, trespassing it is. The Russian brute stood at parade rest, a few feet in front of Napoleon’s chair.
“I have a list.”
“Arms buyers in Krakow?” Napoleon had not yet lifted his eyes from the file and, indeed, his head was still mulling over the suspicious flow of money.
“Conditions if I were to be yours. I have list.” At that, Illya had his full attention. He could not even school his features into anything resembling nonchalance. He couldn’t even close his mouth.
Napoleon knew this gambit was nothing but bravado, they both did. No matter what his conditions, Illya knew that the moment he became Napoleon’s, there would be nothing he could do to enforce any terms. But that was the point wasn’t it. Trust.
“Ok Peril. You have my undivided attention.” His voice may have been steady, but his heart raced and he could barely move for fear that this fragile moment would break.
“First, you must treat me as your partner and equal at work. You cannot command me or presume to supersede me in the office or on mission.”
“Illya, I’ve told you I’m sorry. How can I—?”
“Nyet.” Illya’s tone was clipped, his accent more pronounced than usual. “Can you meet this condition?”
“Yes,” Napoleon breathed.
“Number two,” the man continued.
“There really is a list,” Napoleon mused. But of course, Peril was thorough. Meticulous.
“Of course.” Illya’s face was all conviction but his tone let on that he was being at least a touch playful. Flirty? Was he being flirty? “Number two, I will not kneel or bow in public.” Ok then, meant was what was saying, even if he was comfortable enough to play.
He batted the suggestion away with a flick of his wrist. “So gauche anyway.”
“Number three, if you expect kisses, you must brush your teeth after eating garlicky foods.”
A burst of surprised, relieved laughter. “Yes.”
“Number four, you should pet my hair whenever possible. It is very soft and I like how it feels. We should start that right away.”
With a grace so rarely expressed by that large body, Illya spun around and lowered himself so he ended cross legged on the floor, resting next to Napoleons’s feet, head tilted onto one of his dominant’s knees.
Napoleon was shocked by the fluid dancerlike motion, he had seen Illya move with such fluidity before but rarely. His mind focused on this as the safer alternative to the optimism blooming in his chest. Illya was sitting at his feet.
“Chop chop. This hair won’t pet itself.” Illya rubbed his cheek, catlike, against Napoleon’s trouser leg.
“Apologies.” Two could be playful. Napoleon was coming back to himself.
“Cowboy?”
“Yes?”
“I think I am ready,” he whispered. “I am scared but I trust you.”
“Oh, Illya. I’m scared, too.” He carded his fingers through the thick blond hair. It was soft.
“So we do this together. As partners.”
“Partners.”