Chapter Text
UNCLE Headquarters NY was subdued in the predawn hours, the urgent pace of activity picked up by branches on the other side of the globe. The redhead manning the reception desk yawned as she handed Faustina her badge. “Too bad you missed the rest of the party,” she said, curiosity in her tired eyes.
“Yes, it was. THRUSH is no respecter of our festivities,” Faustina improvised. “Did you enjoy yourself?”
The girl giggled. “I spent all my mad money on the Kissing Booth.”
“Well, the Save Our Souls Mission appreciates your sacrifice,” Faustina said dryly, wondering again what Priscilla’s reaction would be if she discovered just how the donation was raised.
“Oh, Mr. Kuryakin left this for you. I'm to tell him when you’ve arrived.” Faustina accepted a sealed note. Tearing it open, she found two scrawled lines: ‘Report to the party,’ and under that ‘Please.’
Faustina fought the urge to run straight to the gymnasium. Instead she headed up to her office, debating the wisdom of accepting the invitation. It could not truly be considered a directive, but she would not put it past Illya to come find her. Better to beard the lion in his den. Having given herself permission, she freshened her face and went down.
An album was playing in the gymnasium when she entered. She recognized it immediately. Days of Future Passed, side two. The party had ended some time ago, and the room was empty. Only the dance floor was lit, leaving the rest shrouded in darkness.
"Hello?” she called, feeling strangely vulnerable standing alone in the light.
At her words, Illya stepped out of the shadows. His blue eyes held hers as he approached. Her nerves were tighter than guitar strings, and with each step he strummed them into dizzying vibration.
“You’re late,” he said, the words a caress.
It took a moment to find her voice. “Only by a few minutes.”
Illya shook his head. “By a few years.”
The track changed, and a new song began. “Dance with me,” he said, pulling her into his embrace. With skillful steps, he led her around the floor, their bodies turning and swaying, as the Moody Blues sang of nights in white satin. Illya laid his check against hers. His breath teased her ear, sending a frisson down her spine. She sighed in pleasure.
At the sound of her sigh, Illya brought their dance to a halt. He reached up and with his fingertips gently traced the outline of her face. Faustina held her breath when he paused at her jawline for the briefest moment. Then his hand continued its exploration below her ear to the nape of her neck. Slowly he drew her to him and covered her mouth with his.
It was unlike his kiss in the elevator. This was a soft, tentative brush of his lips across hers. Illya drew back slightly, gauging her reaction. Faustina gripped his arm tightly and leaned in. Hunger shone in his eyes, and with a groan, he captured her lips in earnest.
Illya had been too modest about his kissing expertise. Already she felt her control slipping. She tried to consider the kiss dispassionately, as she did with Napoleon’s. Those were the polished performances of a virtuoso. Illya’s kiss was altogether different. Natural. Elemental. Familiar, yet not as she imagined it would be. And she had imagined it often.
She was holding part of herself in reserve, and he knew it. His fingers massaged the nape of her neck. His lips became more demanding. It had been so long since she’d given her whole self to a kiss. She was tired of living a half-life. Her restlessness cried out to be satisfied, if only for a few minutes. Casting sense and scruples aside, she opened the floodgates and gave herself completely to his embrace.
Illya had once said he burst into flames very easily; it was the truth. Two passionate natures converged. After years of restraint, they were starving for this moment. They devoured each other, hearts pounding, blood racing. Rational thought retreated, and there was only sensation, wild and primal. His arm around her waist, hers about his neck, they clung together, drunk with need, pressing ever closer, yet not close enough to satisfy.
‘Oh, how I love you.’ The lyric repeated, intruding on her bliss. In a moment of devastating clarity, Faustina could see the outcome of this kiss stretching before them. The taxi ride, the apartment, the affair. And in the shadowy distance, the arguments, the flying glassware, the turn of a scrapbook page, and the faceless figure of Illya’s successor. She couldn't do that to him. She wouldn't. She loved him too much.
With an anguished cry, she pushed him away. “I can't do this. Not again. Not with you.” She ran off the dance floor, plunging into the darkness, and was gone.
Illya remained standing where she left him, his breath ragged, his face like stone. The album’s final track, "The Late Lament," woke him from his stupor. ‘Impassioned lovers wrestle as one. Lonely man cries for love and has none.’ He tore the record from the turntable, the needle screeching across its surface. Then he hurled the album across the gymnasium. It found its mark, the party banner that hung on the far wall. ‘Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang.’ As it crashed and shattered, Illya strode from the dance floor and was lost to the darkness.