Pairing: Illya/Napoleon
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Not long after The Return of the Man From U.N.C.L.E., Napoleon and Illya deal with the past.
Disclaimer: Don't own (don't I wish I did??), don't make money (just ask my office), and it is *all* sithdragn's fault! Up one side, down the other, all her fault. All. Her. Fault.
Notes: Finally! I thought I'd never get this done. This is the third and final story to follow Low and Storm. Thanks for the encouragement, Emma, Keely (who knew spies were scared of your whip?) and sithdragn!


No Regrets
by Nicole D'Annais
Copyright 2003


--

"Is it just me, or was saving the world a lot less exhausting before?"

Napoleon looked down the short length of the couch to where his partner was slumped against the opposite corner. "I think we were a lot lest exhaustible," he said, finishing off his glass of scotch. He leaned forward and refilled the glass from the bottle on the coffee table. "Want some more?" he asked, holding up the bottle.

Shaking his head, Illya took another drink from his own glass. "I can't believe you don't have vodka."
"There's been nobody to drink it." Napoleon heard the slight longing in his own voice, but if Illya noticed, he had the decency to pretend he didn't. "Those knots they tied us up with were laughable," he said to cover the silence. "Don't they teach these children anything these days?"

"They did seem to be rather indignant at being captured by a couple of--what did they call us?"

"Old Farts."

Illya laughed softly. "Yes, that was it. Disrespectful brats."

"Not quite so disrespectful after your right hook."

"True."

"I can attest to the strength of that punch myself," Napoleon said, rubbing his jaw.

Illya shot him a dark look. "It did not knock you out."

"No." He'd known Illya had pulled his punch; he just hadn't been sure if Illya had known it. Or, more importantly, why.

"Napoleon...perhaps we should discuss...things if we're going to go back to working together."

"What 'things,' exactly?"

Illya finished his scotch in one gulp. "Then again, perhaps this isn't a good idea," he said, placing his glass on the coffee table and starting to rise.

"Wait." Napoleon grabbed his partner's arm. "I wasn't trying to be difficult. There's just so many 'things' I don't know where to start."

After a long moment, Illya refilled his glass and sat back down. "I suppose we could start with the very real chance that either one of us could be killed. Or worse." He took a drink, his eyes holding Napoleon's. "Can you handle that?"

"Illya...about Cathy and what happened--"

"I understand." At Napoleon's look, Illya smiled. "Really, Napoleon, I know you like to think you know everything about me, but you don't. I understand--at least enough to forget."

"But not to forgive?"

"There is nothing to forgive. Agents and emotions do not go well together. We learn quickly to cut them off. And we forget how to handle them altogether."

Napoleon stared. It couldn't possibly be this easy. Of course, it wasn't. There was still the blizzard to deal with. He took a deep breath. "Illya...." Christ, how the hell was he supposed to say this? 'I screwed you when you were blind and had no clue it was me,' wouldn't exactly be the best spin to put on it.

"Napoleon? If you're not sure--"

"No! No, it's not that I'm not sure." Another deep breath. "That night, seven years ago, in the blizzard...." Breathe, Napoleon. You've already given it away with that. "It was me. I lied to you about who I was."

He was prepared for an explosion. Or possibly a frozen shoulder and the abrupt departure of one Russian. He was not, however, prepared for Illya's low laugh.

"Really Napoleon, either you are the most delusional man I know, or you have entirely too little faith in my abilities." When Napoleon continued to stare, Illya laughed again. "I've surprised you."

Napoleon blinked. He blinked again, but Illya was still sitting there, smiling at him. "You knew?"

"One, there are Russians with better southern accents than you. Two," Illya leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, "no one else smells like you. Three," he tilted his head and lowered his voice, "if I were stricken blind, deaf and dumb, I would still know your touch." He laughed at the expression on Napoleon's face. "I take it back; you're not surprised, you're shocked."

With another blink, Napoleon could only answer, "You knew."

"You're repeating yourself, Napoleon."

"But why?"

"Since I've already explained why I knew, I'll assume you want to know why I'm sitting here?"

Napoleon nodded, unable to come up with actual words.

"I've had eight years to think about it, Napoleon. I was rather hoping you'd sort it out eventually."

"But...it can't be that easy."

"I'm not saying I wasn't angry. I did punch you if you recall."

His hand going automatically to his jaw, Napoleon frowned. "I recall vividly, thank you." He dropped his hand with a sigh. "Not that I didn't deserve it."

"Well, thank you very much for your permission," Illya responded before he took another drink. "Did you really think I would just jump into bed with a stranger?"

"Any port in a storm?"

He frowned. "Bad pun. And I'm rethinking the anger--I should punch you for that one."

"Sorry. Bad joke." Napoleon's fingers closed a little tighter around the glass, resisting the itch to touch the man sitting across from him. "It can't be this easy."

"So you've said. Why?"

He thought for a moment. "Because...." Where to start? "Because I left."

"You did. And so did I."

"That's true. Why did you leave?"

With a small smile, Illya took another drink. "I was wondering when you'd get around to that." He sighed. "I could see when I woke up--and I knew the drugs should wear off before morning, so don't get any over-inflated ideas of your abilities."

Napoleon laughed. "I'm certain you'll see that I never do."

"Yes, well, someone has to keep you in line," Illya returned quickly. "Anyway, I woke up and saw you lying there, and...I'd known it was you all along, but seeing you brought everything back. Not just the good--I'd had my reminder of that--but when you left. I don't think you had any idea what would happen."

"I didn't think. I just ran."

"I know."

His eyes closed, Napoleon thought about the days following his abrupt departure from U.N.C.L.E. and New York. The memories were mostly an alcoholic haze, punctuated with vague recollections of various beds with women (and a few men). But most of all, he remembered a bone-deep loneliness that--but for one snowy day in the middle of nowhere--had never left him until mid-fight in the Russian Tea Room when he'd turned and seen Illya at his side again.

But at least he'd had a choice.

Illya had been forced to live with the choice. And for the first time Napoleon realized what that must've taken. He had always known his Russian didn't trust easily, and it was a wonder he was being so cavalier about that trust. Was it really so much easier for him now?

"Napoleon?"

"Sorry," he said, looking up to see concerned blue eyes far closer than he was comfortable with at the moment. "I still don't understand."

"What?"

He shook his head. "Why you're even speaking to me."

Illya laughed softly. "Only you would still be questioning your luck at this point."

"What?"

"Can't you just accept it and move on?"

"I've always been inquisitive."

Rolling his eyes, Illya finished his drink and placed the glass on the coffee table. "As I already said, I've had a long time to work through this. Yes, you were a complete ass. Yes, I was angry. Yes, I'm probably a damn fool. But I don't care."

He took Napoleon's drink out of his hands and placed the glass beside his own. "We've wasted fifteen years on your stupidity, Napoleon, and I don't know if we have fifteen more. So would you please stop trying to turn me into a hair shirt and just kiss me instead?"

Stunned, Napoleon just stared until Illya growled, "Should've chased you down and done this years ago." Before Napoleon could react, Illya pulled his head down until their mouths met in a demanding kiss.

At the touch of Illya's lips, Napoleon's worries buried themselves under a surge of need. The years had dulled certain memories, he realized, as his tongue delved into Illya's mouth. The taste was far sweeter than he remembered, and more than enough to banish any question still left in his mind. Almost of their own volition, his hands found their way under Illya's suit jacket, shoving it off his shoulders and pulling up the turtleneck to find bare skin underneath.

"Thank God being a designer hasn't changed your wardrobe," Napoleon muttered against Illya's mouth.

"What?" Illya mumbled between kisses. "Why?"

"Because I don't think I could remember how to manage a tie or buttons right now," was the reply, as Napoleon yanked Illya's shirt over his head, leaving his arms trapped inside as he pinned Illya to the couch. One more long kiss before Napoleon's lips trailed down Illya's neck, tasting every inch of skin, relearning each spot that made the Russian squirm.

He'd made his way to the middle of Illya's chest before strong hands came between them, pushing Napoleon back. "You haven't lost your touch," Napoleon said, nodding his head at the shirt, which now lay on the floor.

"Nor have I lost the ability to deal with a tie and buttons," Illya replied, his hands already working the knot free on Napoleon's tie. As soon as it was loose enough, Illya pulled it over Napoleon's head and tossed it aside. The buttons didn't stand a chance against those determined hands, and Napoleon spared a second to be glad they weren't the exploding kind as they popped off in all directions a quick moment before the shirt followed them to the ground.

Napoleon grinned down at his partner. "You always could keep your head in intense situations."

"And you were always the one who could make me lose it." Illya rose from the couch, pulling Napoleon up against him for several long kisses. His hands tucked into Napoleon's belt, using it to pull him towards the bedroom even as he dealt with the buckle.

By the time they reached the bed, Napoleon's pants were completely undone. He let them fall, never once taking his lips off Illya's as he stepped out of pants, underwear and shoes in one fluid move. He made quick work of Illya's jeans--thankfully without a belt, as he didn't think he was up to anything more complicated than a zipper--but before he could push them down, he found himself flat on his back on the bed.

Illya smiled down at him as he stepped out of his jeans, his shoes having apparently disappeared somewhere along the way. "Fifteen years," he said, losing his socks and finally his underwear before he crawled onto the bed to straddle Napoleon's thighs.

"I'm sorry," Napoleon said. "I should never--"

"Ah--none of that," Illya interrupted, his hand over Napoleon's mouth. "I was just wondering how many days we could spend in here to make up for lost time."

Napoleon licked the hand across his mouth, wrenching a gasp from his lover. He reached up and clasped Illya's wrist, pulling the hand away enough to say, "As long as you want." His tongue darted out to lick Illya's index finger, quick, soft tastes before he pulled the hand closer, sucking the finger into his mouth.

Eyes closed, Illya rocked forward, his cock sliding against Napoleon's before he remembered himself and pulled his hand away, eyes open again. "Oh, no you don't. Not this time."

"No?" Napoleon tried to wriggle his way down the bed until their cocks met again, but Illya stopped him, hands on Napoleon's waist, holding him in place.

"No." Illya raised up onto his knees, as his hands slid leisurely up Napoleon's chest, along his arms until they reached Napoleon's wrists. The move just barely kept his body from touching Napoleon's from hips to neck, just far enough away to make Napoleon groan. He leaned his head down near Napoleon's ear. "You said it yourself," he growled. "This was too easy."

That did get a groan from Napoleon. "You're not going to leave me like this?"

"Oh, no." His mouth moved closer, until his lips grazed Napoleon's ear as he whispered, "but by the time I'm done, you might wish I had."

Napoleon closed his eyes, taking deep, uneven breaths. He could survive this. It would be worth it if it meant Illya was back in his life--and in his bed. He was certain it would be a hell of a ride. But he was prepared.

*click*

"What the--"

*click*

"Illya!" Napoleon tried to pull his arms down, but found they were trapped. The cold metal told him all he needed to know.

"Yes, Napoleon?"

"You did *not* just handcuff me to the bed."

Illya nodded, smiling down at him as he settled across Napoleon's thighs once more. "I'm afraid I did."

"How?"

"Well, there are two sets of handcuffs, and on each one of them, your hand is in one, and the other is attached to the bed."

"Illya!"

One eyebrow raised. "Yes?"
"It's *my* bed! Where did the handcuffs come from?"

"Oh, that? Really Napoleon, you should pay better attention to what guests do when they leave the room."

Napoleon groaned again. *Just going to the bathroom. Pour me a drink?* No wonder he'd been gone for five minutes. "Now, Illya, listen--"

"No."

"No?"

"No." Illya's hands roamed up and down Napoleon's chest, but his eyes held Napoleon's as firmly as the handcuffs held him to the bed. "I've had a long time to imagine everything I wanted to do when I got you back again," Illya said quietly, leaning down to kiss Napoleon's neck. "Wouldn't want you to leave before I was done," he finished into Napoleon's ear.

Illya traced the shell of Napoleon's ear, his tongue sliding once again to Napoleon's neck, as Napoleon pulled again at the cuffs, but his resolve was weakening. Illya would never hurt him--he was as sure of that as he was that the sun rose in the morning. If Illya wanted him tied down, so be it. However much torture the Russian felt he deserved, he probably deserved ten times that. And not the sweet, exquisite torture he knew was head of him. There were worse punishments.

Like fifteen years apart.

Napoleon stopped struggling completely and gave himself over to the sensations Illya was creating in his body. He would've sworn the Russian had grown extra hands, because they were all over him, as if determined to mark every bit of skin with his touch--or at least every bit that wasn't marked by lips, tongue and teeth.

He'd never been able to forget what an amazing mouth Illya had, but again, memory had not served him nearly as well as he'd thought. Like liquid fire, that tongue traced its way down his collarbone, across a field of goose bumps to one hardened nipple. Sharp teeth nipped at the tiny bud, sending electric shocks straight down Napoleon's stomach to cause a twitch in his cock that he swore he could feel down to his toes.

That talented tongue made its way down Napoleon's side, across a hip far more sensitive than he'd ever thought possible, stopping to bite at a particularly fleshy part before continuing on down his thigh. Strong hands bent his leg just enough that Illya could taste the back of his knee, finding a spot Napoleon hadn't realized was anything special, but one swirl of Illya's tongue there and he found himself straining against the handcuffs, wanting to keep Illya there, or maybe pull him up and pound him into the mattress until he was too exhausted to do anything for a week.

Mental imagery that did nothing to help his current state of arousal. Actually, it did a lot to help it, but absolutely nothing to alleviate it. Long licks in the hollow behind his knee gave way to nibbles on his kneecap before Illya's tongue resumed its slow trail down the top of his leg to his ankle. His ankle bone was thoroughly tasted, and soft kisses rained across the top of his foot before that tongue made its leisurely way back up the inside of his leg.

After another stop on the back of his knee--really, he had to figure out just what made that such a turn-on someday, maybe when he could think again in a year or so--Illya began to nibble his way up the inside of Napoleon's thigh. His lips nuzzled, his teeth grazed skin, but he never caused pain, only pinpricks of pleasure that made Napoleon want to grab the man and force him to do anything to relieve this exquisite, maddening torture.

Funny how Illya knew him so well, even now, to have the foresight to make that impossible. Or, at least, he was sure he would find it funny. Later.

One harder bite to the inside of his upper thigh made him surge up against the hands that held him down.

Much, much later.

Illya's breath was hot, bouncing off Napoleon's thigh onto his straining cock. He was sure that it couldn't get much worse, that this was the limit to the amount of torture he could handle.

And then that damned tongue touched his cock.

Just a small, quick taste, followed by another, and another. Napoleon gazed helplessly down to where Illya was hard at work, his tongue darting out, soft and pink, barely touching, surely not enough to really taste, and definitely not enough to relieve any pressure on Napoleon. Jesus, did they teach this in the KGB as torture technique, or did he come by the talent naturally?

The tongue reached up to circle the head of Napoleon's cock, one circle, then Illya's lips closed around it and sucked for a mere second before letting it go with a smacking sound. Illya blew softly across the head, cooling the wetness and causing Napoleon to grip the headboard in a real attempt to break the solid oak wood.

"Are you trying to kill me?"

That couldn't have been his voice, so hoarse and strained, but it must've been, because Illya smiled up at him and shook his head. "Trust me," he said quietly, then turned his attentions back to his work. Napoleon's head fell back against the pillow, his eyes closed. He supposed whatever was left couldn't possibly be any worse.

One of his knees was already bent from Illya's earlier journey down his body, now Napoleon felt the other one being bent as well. His brain functions had slowed to just above that of an unconscious Thrush goon, which, added to the unbelievable sensation of Illya's tongue exploring every fraction of an inch of his balls, explained why he had no warning of what was to come.

Until he felt one finger pushing against the tight ring of muscle behind said balls.

His mind managed to gather a few protests. They'd never done it this way before, he wasn't ready, he couldn't touch Illya--all sound protests, or so the small part of his brain that was still rational said. He didn't care.

He wanted this, wanted Illya to claim him in any way and every way, and then start all over again. Before, when they were together, he'd always been in control. Illya had opened himself up so nicely--physically and otherwise--and just let Napoleon dictate everything.

It seemed if he wanted Illya back, he'd have to do all the opening this time. *You won't have any control,* the tiny rational voice said.

He sent the rational voice packing.

Illya's finger was cool and slick with something, but Napoleon gave up wondering where the lotion or whatever had come from as a second finger entered him. It was too soon, but before he could protest, Illya went back to just one. He almost protested then, wanting to rush, wanting Illya inside him, as much to be that close to him as to just have the fear lurking in the back of his mind dealt with, but he kept silent. Or, as silent as his whimpered responses to the sparks that finger was starting to ignite would allow.

By the time Illya pulled Napoleon's legs up over his shoulder, he'd lost all concept of minutes and hours. As Illya entered him, Napoleon decided clocks were highly overrated anyway. He'd much prefer to stay in this one perfect moment, locked forever in this embrace.

As Illya pushed in further, the burning twinges of pain chased away some of the haze, making the moment more real somehow. Napoleon opened his eyes to see Illya's face close to his own, eyes a dark black with a thin rim of electric blue surrounding each. Their lips met as Illya pushed in further, the burn steadily fading in the onslaught of pleasure until Illya was buried as deep as he could go, his hips resting firmly against Napoleon's backside. They were joined, as close as they could physically get, and even the pain that hadn't quite receded couldn't keep Napoleon from marvelling at it all. Why had he denied himself this for so long?

Why ceased to matter as Illya leaned down carefully to capture Napoleon's mouth. Tongues danced around each other as Illya's hips began to move. He pulled out and thrust in again and again with slow, maddeningly slow care. Napoleon pushed against him, eager to speed things up, but Illya was in no hurry, kissing him as if they had all day, sliding in and out deliberately.

Napoleon heard words, had no idea if they were his, or Illya's, or both. His shoulders ached, and he realized he was pulling against the handcuffs with all his strength, trying to get his arms around his lover. *Next time,* he promised himself, relaxing his arms and instead putting his strength into the kiss, determined to suck Illya's very soul right out of his mouth.

At last, Illya pulled back, shifting his weight up onto his elbows, his eyes holding Napoleon's every bit as intimately as his lips had held Napoleon's mouth a moment before. He shifted, pushing deeper into Napoleon's body, igniting fireworks over and over with shorter, deeper thrusts.

Napoleon barely registered the hand that milked his cock as he fell over the edge. He heard a scream, felt his throat ache as if it might be his scream, and then everything went black.

The first thing he realized when he began to drift back to consciousness was that he could move his arms again. The second was that those arms were locked so tight around Illya he wasn't sure Illya could move at all. Well, he amended, at least part of Illya could move, given that Napoleon could feel lips nuzzling at his neck. Despite the great effort and energy it took, Napoleon relaxed his arm lock on Illya's body and managed to open his eyes.

Illya smiled up at him. "Welcome back."

"Thank you." He cleared his throat, surprised at how hoarse his voice was. "Was I gone long?"

"Not too long."

"Long enough for you to uncuff me."

Illya's eyes sparkled, "Yes, but you woke before I could put the cuffs on your ankles instead."

Napoleon found he didn't have the energy to glare. "Use silk ties the next time," he said, rubbing one wrist. "The metal hurts."

"Only when you struggle."

"You be on the receiving end of that and see if you don't struggle."

"Mmm, interesting idea," Illya said, his hands beginning to roam over Napoleon's chest. "But you don't need handcuffs to keep me around."

With a sigh, Napoleon gathered him close. "You don't need them for me, either, love."

"Are you sure about that?" Illya's voice was muffled against Napoleon's neck.

"I'm not going anywhere," Napoleon said, loosening his hold again so Illya could see his face. "I promise."

Blue eyes searched his, a long, hard search, then Illya relaxed once more. "Good."

Napoleon let go a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and smiled as he leaned down to kiss his lover. "Glad that's settled."

"Yessss..." Illya agreed, distracted by Napoleon's attention on his neck. "But Napoleon?"

"Hm?"

"I'm keeping the handcuffs."

___
END


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