Episode Epilogue 13 - Bright is the Color of Love	  Episode Epilogue
13 - Bright is the Color of Love by ChannelD  
 

They walked Bryn home through the dark London streets. She didn't request
it, and maybe didn't even want their company, but both men felt obligated,
so they followed her home. Nobody spoke until they were saying goodnight
at her door. Napoleon thanked her on behalf of UNCLE and the civilized
world, and Illya said that it had been both a pleasure and an honor to
work with her. She smiled, and said, "Well, I never have been able to turn
down that particular dance partner," and opened her front door. Then she
looked again at Napoleon, who was right behind her. 

"All members of the same club," she said, and shook her head. Napoleon
turned without a word, and walked away. 

Illya, who had seen his face, moved in on her fast, his own face right in
hers. He snarled, in a soft whisper, "You don't know him!" Then he turned,
passing Napoleon and continuing on. 

Napoleon hadn't been able to hear the words, but had seen the move and
seen, too, Bryn's recoil. He smiled, bemused, and hurried to catch up with
his partner. "So fierce," he said when he did, and rumpled Illya's hair.
"Like a mama bear with her cub. I'm all right, Illya. I am ..." Then he
stopped talking. He stopped walking, too. Illya turned and came back. He
looked at Napoleon questioningly, but didn't speak. He only waited and,
after a few minutes, Napoleon began walking again. Illya followed. Back in
the small, rather dark hotel room, with its two twin beds and shabby,
battered desk, Napoleon struggled with his coat Then he gave up and let
Illya help him. He adjusted the sling, wriggled his fingers. Illya took
them in his hand, and smiled. 

"Nice and warm," he said, and kissed them. The sweetness of the gesture
made Napoleon's eyes sting. He reached out and touched Illya's face. 

"We are not in the same club," he said. "Not at all in the same club.
Because Sully is alone. He even turned away from that glorious woman, to
work alone. But I have you." 

"Yes you do. Absolutely." 

"And you have me, Illya." 

"Yes." Illya thought of all the things that could - and probably would -
interfere with their partnership over the coming years. He said nothing,
and after a moment Napoleon went on. 

"What a life, Illya. He isn't just returning to active duty. He's living
the life of, inhabiting the persona of, a monster. A conscienceless,
greedy, mass murderer. For the foreseeable future, that is who he will
have to be, except when he is alone. And even when he is alone - it's not
so easy, to drop a mask." 

"No. I know." 

"But he preferred that to peaceful retirement. That life he was living
when the three of us called on him was such purgatory that he embraced
what seems to me hell. The only so called friends he will ever have are
people like ... like ..." 

"People like the ones we met today. And like the ones we have met before,
on other assignments. Yes. I know. Do you want to hear something funny?" 

"From you? Always. But let me get out of this suit, first. It's pulling my
arm. And ..." but Illya was already helping him out of the jacket,
unbuttoning the shirt for him. Napoleon sighed, and relaxed. It was nice
to have somebody take care of him, worry about him. "This right here," he
said aloud. "This is what he didn't have. We're different." 

"Yes," Illya said from his current position, down on his knees, helping
Napoleon off with his shoes, then easing the pants down and tossing them
aside. Napoleon shivered with anticipation because surely, surely, and
sure enough the briefs were next, and then he was the recipient of what
was quite simply the best blow job of his life. 

There was nothing fancy done, no artful tricks used. Illya simply took him
in and sucked him to climax because he loved him, and wanted to bring him
pleasure. And they had been together for long enough that Illya knew very
well what brought him, Napoleon Solo, pleasure. At the end Napoleon
groaned aloud, and after the end, he fell. He fell straight down. and if
Illya hadn't leapt to catch him he would have hit the floor, doubtless
reinjuring his arm. But Illya did catch him, as Napoleon had known he
would. It was bliss, to be held so securely, cradled so lovingly. Opening
his eyes, he smiled up at Illya, sitting on the floor holding him. 

"Didn't you say you had something funny to tell me?" 

"Yes. When we were at his apartment, and he was hurrying around tidying up
and apologizing, I was envying him. I thought it looked like such a nice
life, with his newspapers, his books, his tea kettle. I could see myself
in my retirement - assuming I live that long, of course, and stay out of
the clutches of my government - making tea and reading the paper, and
being very surprised to see Mr. Waverly at my door. And meanwhile he was
hating it, and envying us." 

Napoleon stood up, then, and walked over to the window. He stared out at
the dark streets, noted that it was raining, then turned. Illya was still
sitting on the floor, and watching him anxiously. "Napoleon? What ...
what's wrong?" 

"It's a pretty picture," Napoleon said. "Am ...am I in it?" He hadn't
meant that to come out the way it did, but seeing Illya's face light up
with joy made him feel better. A lot better, a whole lot better. Illya
rose and came to him, standing right in front of him, looking up into his
eyes. 

"Of course you are, Napoleon. You ...you're in the kitchen, making dinner.
In another moment you're going to come out and ask Mr. Waverly to stay and
eat with us. For as long as you want to be there, Napoleon, you're in my
picture. Always." 

He exhaled with relief, and pulled Illya in. "See how sane we are?" he
said into that soft blond hair, and inhaled deeply, savoring the scent.
"Not mad at all. " 

"Not mad at all," Illya echoed, and smiled. "Napoleon - I hate to say
this, but I'm very hungry. And the facilities for preparing meals in this
room are not promising." 

Napoleon groaned. "Really? You want to go back out?" 

"Yes. I'll pick up dinner for us both. Don't be like that. You got yours,
didn't you?" 

"Yes, but I was looking forward to making sure that you got yours, and
then some. " 

"Well." Illya kissed his cheek. "Aren't you nice. I'll hurry." 

"Be careful," Napoleon said, suddenly anxious. The mission was over, but
were they ever? Was any of it ever over? "I should get dressed and come
with you." 

"Thank you, but not necessary. There's a pub right next door to this
hotel. Surely I can manage that on my own. What do you want?" 

"Whatever you're having. I still think I should -" 

"Now who's being a mama bear?" Illya said, and was gone before Napoleon
could even begin to get dressed. So he dragged the battered desk in front
of the TV, and wiped it down. He shoved the twin beds together, and
untucked the sheets and blankets on the facing sides. He hurt his arm
doing that, and sat on the wobbly desk chair, wishing he had asked Illya
to bring back something to drink with their meal. He wished Illya would
hurry. He hated feeling weak, needing help even to dress, unable to make a
bed without pain. He scowled, and looked at the clock, and the door;
pulled out his communicator to be sure it was working, and worried. 

But within the hour Illya was back, carrying two paper sacks laden with
good smelling things, and with a carton of stout wedged under his arm. It
wasn't Napoleon's drink of choice, but he accepted it with good grace,
helping Illya set up the food, arguing over who should get the one chair -
an argument ended when Illya sat cross-legged on the bed and refused to
budge. Napoleon took the chair, opened two bottles of stout, passed one to
Illya, and drank. The dark, strong brew poured over his tongue and down
his throat and before the second bottle was empty he couldn't remember
what his complaint had been. The stout was fine, the food was fine, and
Illya was in uncommonly good spirits; teasing him and stealing food off
his plate, laughing and flirting until Napoleon set the tray aside, got to
his feet, and pulled Illya to his. Pulled him in. 

He made love to Illya with a fervor that spoke of the loneliness avoided,
the empty years now filled with promise, the clear, perfect beauty that
was their love. When things became urgent there was no hesitation at all.
Illya rolled over onto his back and opened his legs wide, and Napoleon,
who never traveled with Illya without lubricant now, just in case, just in
case of a moment like this, used it. He used it with skill and delicacy;
making it foreplay, making Illya frantic with need - of him. Of he
himself, he, Napoleon Solo. Illya needed him. So he answered that need,
filled Illya with himself and was in his turn filled, his echoing need
filled with Illya, by Illya, for Illya ... for them both. For them both,
because there was nothing mad about either one of them, and together - for
once he looked fate in the face and defied it - together they would have
it all; throughout their careers, throughout their lives, throughout time.
Together. 

The End  


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