The Safest Place
ï»¿The laboratory, built into the side of a mountain, was invisible to aerial surveillance and the heavy metals in the rock offered protection from fallout of the "experiments." Kuryakin and Solo quickly surmised that they were too late when no welcome committee blocked their way in. Presently the earth reared sending the agents to the ground and causing the lights to flicker before finally blinking out entirely. The whirring ventilation system sputtered into silence.
Illya cursed, his breathing suddenly loud in the blackness.
"Are you hurt?"
"How far are we from the command center? Maybe it’s on a separate circuit."
"Three floors down and a few hundred yards from the electric elevator."
"We only came through the two sets of doors…"
"Napoleon, if they exploded half of what we thought they had then this is the safest place."
After reporting to headquarters, they blindly found the store room by virtue of Illya’s inhuman recall for maps. There were some dusty blankets in a first-aid kit and several barrels of potable water. With no sign of life on the ground floor, the agents made camp.
Two years ago a mission had gone deadly wrong and the agents found physical relief in each other. It had been angry and fast, Napoleon’s face pressed to a bathroom wall. Like dressing one another’s field wounds, it had occurred without calculation or regret.
After the latest exploration they returned to the store room. Napoleon wondered now if boredom was reason enough to run his hands down the length of Illya’s body; if the isolation of sightlessness was enough to demand the scrape of Illya’s stubbly cheek against Napoleon’s own, breath hot on his ear, jetting shivers down his spine... Or was it the circumstances at all? Hadn’t he lately been recalling how Illya had commandeered him, the roughness of Illya’s hand… A sting of warmth started at the orifice where Illya had been and quickly spread. Napoleon realized his eyes had been open only when they slid closed.
He assessed Illya’s breathing: relaxed but not asleep, then groped for a limb. Finding an upraised knee, Napoleon left his hand on it while he settled himself down, letting the hand meander to the inside of Illya’s thigh.
"Napoleon?" Only vaguely reproachful-- his usual tone in fact.
Napoleon maneuvered his head toward the sound of his name until his forehead met with a scratchy jaw. He massaged his scalp against the bristles there, his irregular breathing impossibly amplified. Illya’s had stopped altogether.
With an exhale, Illya tilted his head back sending Napoleon’s head to his throat where Napoleon latched on greedily, licking the warm salty skin and pulling his body against Illya, who, with a choked moan, arched his back further causing Napoleon’s hand to slip lower down Illya’s thigh.
Heavy denim pressed under his hand, tendons under his teeth, Napoleon heard himself sigh Illya’s name, marveling at the two fluid syllables, one tumbling into the other, forcing themselves through his lips.
Napoleon’s hand brushed to Illya’s waist and began to unbutton from the bottom of Illya’s shirt, his mouth nibbling down Illya’s chest. Heavy breathing echoed as fingers and teeth began to unbuckle Illya’s belt and a large hand caressed the base of Napoleon’s skull.
Three days had passed before UNCLE reinforcements, bearing two extra radiation suits and two pairs of medical-issue sunglasses, landed their chopper at the entrance.
The sun rose as they took to the air. In the roar of the machine Napoleon squinted through his dark glasses at his partner. Next time he fucked Illya he was finally going to look him in the eye.