Episode Epilogue 12 - Make it Magnificent Episode Epilogue 12 - Make it Magnificent by ChannelD I would have torn the clothes right off of his back if that schoolteacher hadn't intervened, but of course she did. She is a schoolteacher, after all. She's not standing by watching two men - or `boys, now boys' as she put it - engage in fisticuffs in her presence. And Illya knows that; of course he knows that. He has been taunting me throughout the mission about my thing for blondes, although, as I have pointed out (more than once, I have pointed it out more than once,) brunettes and redheads attract me. too. But he is blond, and so is Angelique, and just last Saturday ... blast. He's going to make me pay for that until I get my own back on him, which I would have already if it were not for his irritating habit of making his most pointed remarks in front of witnesses. When we're alone he's all business, and I'm certainly not starting a fight out of nowhere. I can't. I'm his senior partner. I can't just bully him, and he knows it. So he bullies me - subtly, but it's there. But next time we're alone - oh, what I won't do to him. What I won't do to you, I tell him silently over Lavinia's shoulder. He grins back at me, that unexpectedly disarming, almost goofy grin that knocked my socks off the first time he used it, and does to this day. It's embarrassing. No wonder that when an opportunity to do something outside of that, something where I feel I am in charge, arises (so to speak) I take it. Angelique was in town, she called me. Neither of us was working, so it was a delightfully wicked, deliciously sensual encounter, and a rollicking good time was had by all. I expressed my appreciation as I knotted my tie, and she purred something back at me about next time, and I left. And damn all if Illya wasn't standing in the hallway outside her hotel room door. Leaning against the wall, in the way he has that looks casual, and isn't. I couldn't even speak. I stared at him, then turned and walked away, towards the elevator. He followed. I punched the button with more force than necessary, and bruised my hand. He didn't exactly smile when I exclaimed in mingled pain and anger - he knows his - and my - limits - but the carefully expressionless expression he wore looked less careful for a moment. Or more careful. Whatever. I got onto the elevator and, rather childishly, tried to close the door before he could get on, but I couldn't, so then we stood side by side, staring straight ahead, and saying nothing. In his car, however, which he had double parked out front, he said something. He got into the driver's seat, waited for me to close my door, said, "Stupid," and turned the key. "Jealous," I snapped back, and that ended the conversation. He dropped me off in front of my building, and drove away. I went inside, and sulked. I fumed, I paced, I engaged my absent partner in multiple dialogs in which I said all the things I wished I had, and he had no good reply; ending by admitting wrongdoing and regret. This was very satisfactory as far as it went. The problem came when he had a reply. Because I knew what it would be. I knew why he was there, and maybe jealousy was part of it. Illya is jealous of my women, I know that from the bitchy snarky way he acts around them, but I'm jealous of his, too. No, Illya was there because it wouldn't take much incentive for Angelique to ensure that I never left her apartment upright. I know that. I'm not stupid, whatever Illya says. That's why I never sleep over, never eat or drink anything on offer there. I bring my own toilet paper. I'm serious. I fold some up very neatly just in case. The things I've seen ... but that's why Illya was there. If I hadn't emerged, or if anybody else had shown up, Illya would have rescued me. Just because I recognize that doesn't mean I like it. It pisses me off. But not seriously, and I know Illya isn't seriously angry either. We had had our little spat, we would let a few days go by without contact, and then when contact was made, all would be well. Except that contact was made the next day, in Waverly's office, getting our assignment for this mission. Which has a lot of blondes actively engaging with us, and is therefore a golden opportunity for Illya's barbs. But now the mission is over, and all we have to do is wait for Lavinia Brown to leave. Which happy event Illya has delayed by provoking me, and giving her the chance to leap into schoolteacher mode. She is fussing at both of us, but particularly me because she is still protecting Illya from my attack, and he is grinning at me over her shoulder, waggling his eyebrows as she scolds me. Then ... then! He invites her to join us for dinner. And she accepts. So we eat, and talk, and laugh, and Illya drinks a little more than usual, which heats my blood to an astonishing degree. He is deliberately provoking me, has been throughout the mission, and all of a sudden the trust that implies strikes me full force. With all the issues Illya has with what we do together, he is now demonstrating plainly that they do not apply to me. He trusts me - trusts us. I look at him searchingly, sitting there, glass in hand, eyes sparkling with mischief and pleasure and ... and anticipation. He is, like I am, just waiting for the moment when Miss Lavinia Brown leaves our door to get into that fancy car and drive to Paris. And the delays, the extra cup of coffee he is even now pressing upon her, are heightening his anticipation. He is enjoying himself thoroughly, and it says a great deal about our relationship that he is. But I'm not. I'm done, so I give Illya a smoldering look that flushes his cheeks, and makes him put his glass down hastily. I rise, and place Lavinia's mink coat around her shoulders, talking easily and charmingly about the lateness of the hour, the distance ahead of her, the pleasures awaiting. She is out the door within ten minutes, and I turn the bolt and fasten the chain behind her. Illya has taken up his original position, fists slightly raised, body poised for combat. He grins at me, and there is no schoolteacher between us this time, so I am on him before he can move. My momentum sends both of us onto the bed, Illya on his back, me on top, tearing at his jacket. He tears at mine, too, and it all devolves to a sweaty, thrusting, striving, noisy blur. We roll over and over, first me on top, then him, then me again. I make no attempt to open his legs, and when he does, when he wraps them around my hips, I only shift enough to bring our organs together through what fabric remains. He still has his turtleneck on, and I have my socks and shorts. It is glorious. We are both screaming aloud by the end, mouths fastened onto one another's mouth, trying to contain the sound, trying to hold the other closer, closer and harder, faster and harder and oh, there is nothing like this. None of the innocents and the agents, the Deirdres and the Angeliques, are anything like this, and furthermore ... I hold him harder and he holds me, too, and there is no more thought. I have recaptured it now, though. After the long gasping recovery, after the bathroom trips and the snack - Illya often wants to eat afterwards, when I used to only want to sleep. Now I want to feed him; to watch him, hair tousled, eyes drowsy and happy, enjoy something I have prepared, or purchased. So we sit and eat and smile at one another, and then we go back to bed. He falls asleep quickly and I lie there and find my train of thought, that train of thought which had left the station without me earlier. There is nothing like this, and furthermore ... furthermore now, after the sex; after the conversation and the laughter and the sex, I have my partner, my best friend, the other half of my soul, in my arms; trusting me and loving me, and that is such a splendid thing that there is nothing else to say. To think, rather. Nothing else to think about and only this slow, sweet slide into oblivion to complete. I move a little closer, and Illya does too, and then we sleep. The End Please post a comment on this story. Read posted comments.