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keelywolfeGlass
By Keelywolfe
Rated R
(Illya/Napoleon)
~~~*~~~
All things considered, Illya would have preferred to take the stairs. A stairwell had dozens of little escape routes while elevators had none at all. He had wavered over the decision on the first floor, tired enough to make the elevator look like a decadent luxury, and he had almost forced himself to take the stairs in admonishment for such a thought.
He'd just started towards the stairwell when a voice in the back of his head teased him for his prudence, a voice that sounded distinctly like Napoleon's, and before he thought about it too much, Illya had stepped defiantly into the elevator.
"I need some rest," he muttered to himself, shaking his head. Hearing voice and now talking to himself; he hoped the cameras in the elevator didn't have sound or Waverly would have him in Medical by tomorrow.
He shifted the package he was cradling to his other arm absently, pressing the floor button. A bottle of Merlot that he had been assured would go well with the lasagna Napoleon was making. He suspected that he was given a preview of the next week's meal to ensure the wine matched. After their first dinner, to which he had brought nothing at all and received a great deal of Napoleon's disapproval, Illya had always brought a bottle of wine.
Napoleon accepted this, especially since it was something Illya didn't have to cook himself, but always, Napoleon had had something similar. In some Château in France, he would say, or a Villa or an out of the way restaurant that had been owned for centuries by the same family, he had had something quite like this wine, but, of course, better, and Illya was oddly determined to please him at least once. Illya had found that trying for his partner's fickle approval was turning from an irritation to a fine challenge.
He looked forward to having this weekly dinner with his partner, he realized with some surprise. If nothing else, Napoleon was an excellent cook.
So when his knock went unanswered, Illya was immediately on guard. His second knock, harder and urgent, again received no response and Illya carefully shifted to set the bottle on the floor, drawing his gun.
He had a key, though he had never used it. There had never been a situation where he'd felt it necessary to invade Napoleon's privacy. In this situation, he'd rather do a cursory check of the apartment himself before calling for backup, just in case Napoleon was in the shower, or performing some other mundane task.
When a quick search of the door revealed nothing out of the ordinary, Illya carefully unlocked it, turning off the security alarms before they could sound. Instead of the warm and comforting smells of tomato sauce or garlic bread, he found nothing but a darkened apartment. Other than the fact that there was no sign of the expected dinner, nothing seemed too out of the ordinary.
Illya didn't holster his gun yet, keeping it level as he carefully palmed his communicator but before he could use it, a soft, familiar voice spoke from the vicinity of the sofa.
"What are you doing here?" Napoleon was slumped into one corner of the sofa, his head resting on the arm as he stared at the ceiling.
Something very strange was going on. Illya holstered his gun and stepped closer to his partner, peering at him through the dimness. "It's Sunday," he said, carefully. "We always have dinner together on Sunday."
A closer look revealed a dark bottle tucked against his partner’s side, a glass dangling loosely from his fingers. Illya wondered why he’d bothered with the glass; from the smell of him, he would have wasted less time and saved on dishes drinking straight from the bottle.
Napoleon blinked at him owlishly. "It is?"
"Yes." Illya sighed quietly and carefully removed the glass from Napoleon's hand before it fell to the floor. "How long have you been sitting here?"
A vague shrug was his only reply but from what he could see, or rather, couldn’t see, his partner had managed to consume most of the whiskey. There was a paper bag sitting discarded on the table, a testimony to the newness of the bottle.
"Here, let me help you." Illya pulled his unresisting partner into a sitting position. "I think you’ve had enough to drink," he added dryly, setting the bottle on the floor.
"Not even one more drink?" Napoleon’s tone, rich with drunken annoyance, made him sigh again. He didn’t bother to reply; instead he helped Napoleon out of his jacket, hanging it over the back of one of the chairs. A glance at his partner revealed that he hadn’t moved more than was required to fiddle with the end of his tie.
"Napoleon, it was not your fault she died."
The explosion of glass and liquor was only inches from his head and both of them stared at the stained wall, droplets of dark liquid trailing downward. A faint stinging told Illya one of the fragments had cut his cheek and he dabbed at it with a fingertip, finding it barely worth notice.
"Guess I can't have another drink anyway," Napoleon said mournfully, staring now at his empty hands as if unable to believe what they had done.
"I suppose not." Illya slid an arm under Napoleon’s and pulled him to his feet, steadying him as he swayed.
"Where are you taking me?" Napoleon resisted being led, stubbornly digging in his heels. "I don't want to go talk to any fucking headshrinker."
Illya noted the profanity with detached interest. His partner was not one for vulgarity even when he was drunk but it certainly didn’t seem to be affecting his obstinate nature. "I'm taking you to bed, Napoleon."
"Oh, yeah?"
The predictable leer made him roll his eyes. "To sleep," he clarified. Napoleon wilted visibly but allowed himself to be led to the bedroom. He stood docilely and allowed Illya to undress him, not even making the expected sly remark when Illya knelt at his feet to finish removing his trousers.
A gentle shove had Napoleon on his back and moments later he was tucked into the blankets, watching Illya as he silently straightened the room.
"How old was she?" Napoleon asked softly.
"I..." Illya hesitated uncharacteristically. "She was nine."
"Nine. The Chinese associated dragons with the number nine, did you know that?"
"Yes."
"There were nine muses in Greek mythology too. Lots of...lots of things with the number nine."
"Yes, there are. Napoleon," Illya bit his lip, not wanting to deal with another tantrum but... "It was not your fault that she ran out into the street. Sometimes innocents die."
There was a long moment of silence. "Illya?" Napoleon's voice was small and something in it made an ache start in Illya's chest. "Are you leaving?"
"No," he soothed, gently brushing a dark lock of hair from his partner's forehead. "I won't leave you." Yes, he thought, sometimes innocents die. We both knew that from the beginning, but we still chose to be agents.
"All right." A drowsy yawn and moments later, Napoleon was asleep.
Illya left the room only once that night, cleaning up the shattered glass in the living room and retrieving the mostly forgotten bottle in the hallway. He returned with a glass of decent Merlot and sipped it quietly as he watched his partner sleep.
-finis-
By Keelywolfe
Rated R
(Illya/Napoleon)
~~~*~~~
All things considered, Illya would have preferred to take the stairs. A stairwell had dozens of little escape routes while elevators had none at all. He had wavered over the decision on the first floor, tired enough to make the elevator look like a decadent luxury, and he had almost forced himself to take the stairs in admonishment for such a thought.
He'd just started towards the stairwell when a voice in the back of his head teased him for his prudence, a voice that sounded distinctly like Napoleon's, and before he thought about it too much, Illya had stepped defiantly into the elevator.
"I need some rest," he muttered to himself, shaking his head. Hearing voice and now talking to himself; he hoped the cameras in the elevator didn't have sound or Waverly would have him in Medical by tomorrow.
He shifted the package he was cradling to his other arm absently, pressing the floor button. A bottle of Merlot that he had been assured would go well with the lasagna Napoleon was making. He suspected that he was given a preview of the next week's meal to ensure the wine matched. After their first dinner, to which he had brought nothing at all and received a great deal of Napoleon's disapproval, Illya had always brought a bottle of wine.
Napoleon accepted this, especially since it was something Illya didn't have to cook himself, but always, Napoleon had had something similar. In some Château in France, he would say, or a Villa or an out of the way restaurant that had been owned for centuries by the same family, he had had something quite like this wine, but, of course, better, and Illya was oddly determined to please him at least once. Illya had found that trying for his partner's fickle approval was turning from an irritation to a fine challenge.
He looked forward to having this weekly dinner with his partner, he realized with some surprise. If nothing else, Napoleon was an excellent cook.
So when his knock went unanswered, Illya was immediately on guard. His second knock, harder and urgent, again received no response and Illya carefully shifted to set the bottle on the floor, drawing his gun.
He had a key, though he had never used it. There had never been a situation where he'd felt it necessary to invade Napoleon's privacy. In this situation, he'd rather do a cursory check of the apartment himself before calling for backup, just in case Napoleon was in the shower, or performing some other mundane task.
When a quick search of the door revealed nothing out of the ordinary, Illya carefully unlocked it, turning off the security alarms before they could sound. Instead of the warm and comforting smells of tomato sauce or garlic bread, he found nothing but a darkened apartment. Other than the fact that there was no sign of the expected dinner, nothing seemed too out of the ordinary.
Illya didn't holster his gun yet, keeping it level as he carefully palmed his communicator but before he could use it, a soft, familiar voice spoke from the vicinity of the sofa.
"What are you doing here?" Napoleon was slumped into one corner of the sofa, his head resting on the arm as he stared at the ceiling.
Something very strange was going on. Illya holstered his gun and stepped closer to his partner, peering at him through the dimness. "It's Sunday," he said, carefully. "We always have dinner together on Sunday."
A closer look revealed a dark bottle tucked against his partner’s side, a glass dangling loosely from his fingers. Illya wondered why he’d bothered with the glass; from the smell of him, he would have wasted less time and saved on dishes drinking straight from the bottle.
Napoleon blinked at him owlishly. "It is?"
"Yes." Illya sighed quietly and carefully removed the glass from Napoleon's hand before it fell to the floor. "How long have you been sitting here?"
A vague shrug was his only reply but from what he could see, or rather, couldn’t see, his partner had managed to consume most of the whiskey. There was a paper bag sitting discarded on the table, a testimony to the newness of the bottle.
"Here, let me help you." Illya pulled his unresisting partner into a sitting position. "I think you’ve had enough to drink," he added dryly, setting the bottle on the floor.
"Not even one more drink?" Napoleon’s tone, rich with drunken annoyance, made him sigh again. He didn’t bother to reply; instead he helped Napoleon out of his jacket, hanging it over the back of one of the chairs. A glance at his partner revealed that he hadn’t moved more than was required to fiddle with the end of his tie.
"Napoleon, it was not your fault she died."
The explosion of glass and liquor was only inches from his head and both of them stared at the stained wall, droplets of dark liquid trailing downward. A faint stinging told Illya one of the fragments had cut his cheek and he dabbed at it with a fingertip, finding it barely worth notice.
"Guess I can't have another drink anyway," Napoleon said mournfully, staring now at his empty hands as if unable to believe what they had done.
"I suppose not." Illya slid an arm under Napoleon’s and pulled him to his feet, steadying him as he swayed.
"Where are you taking me?" Napoleon resisted being led, stubbornly digging in his heels. "I don't want to go talk to any fucking headshrinker."
Illya noted the profanity with detached interest. His partner was not one for vulgarity even when he was drunk but it certainly didn’t seem to be affecting his obstinate nature. "I'm taking you to bed, Napoleon."
"Oh, yeah?"
The predictable leer made him roll his eyes. "To sleep," he clarified. Napoleon wilted visibly but allowed himself to be led to the bedroom. He stood docilely and allowed Illya to undress him, not even making the expected sly remark when Illya knelt at his feet to finish removing his trousers.
A gentle shove had Napoleon on his back and moments later he was tucked into the blankets, watching Illya as he silently straightened the room.
"How old was she?" Napoleon asked softly.
"I..." Illya hesitated uncharacteristically. "She was nine."
"Nine. The Chinese associated dragons with the number nine, did you know that?"
"Yes."
"There were nine muses in Greek mythology too. Lots of...lots of things with the number nine."
"Yes, there are. Napoleon," Illya bit his lip, not wanting to deal with another tantrum but... "It was not your fault that she ran out into the street. Sometimes innocents die."
There was a long moment of silence. "Illya?" Napoleon's voice was small and something in it made an ache start in Illya's chest. "Are you leaving?"
"No," he soothed, gently brushing a dark lock of hair from his partner's forehead. "I won't leave you." Yes, he thought, sometimes innocents die. We both knew that from the beginning, but we still chose to be agents.
"All right." A drowsy yawn and moments later, Napoleon was asleep.
Illya left the room only once that night, cleaning up the shattered glass in the living room and retrieving the mostly forgotten bottle in the hallway. He returned with a glass of decent Merlot and sipped it quietly as he watched his partner sleep.
-finis-
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2003-07-15 04:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-07-15 05:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-07-15 10:17 am (UTC)You'll convert me if you continue this way !
no subject
Date: 2003-07-17 08:09 am (UTC)While I couldn't check your LJ,
Date: 2003-07-16 09:48 pm (UTC)Your Illya is very cool and Napoleon is so cute!
It's new to me and I like your Illya and Napoleon :)
What's next Sunday?
Re: While I couldn't check your LJ,
Date: 2003-07-17 08:10 am (UTC)*sniff*
Date: 2003-08-07 09:51 am (UTC)Ok so I am a bit of a Hurt/Comfort whore.
I confess.
Re: *sniff*
Date: 2003-08-23 07:07 pm (UTC)Re: *sniff*
Date: 2003-08-24 12:12 am (UTC)Yeah...girl Napoleon on the other hand...la la la.
NO no I kid...but dress him up occasionally and I'll adore you.
(icon applies to you)
Date: 2003-08-21 05:57 am (UTC)I really like the way you handle hurt/comfort in this fic. You avoid all the histronic cliches, and show how the issue isn't one sided, when Illya thinks that he knew this would happen. Napolean isn't just some innocent victim of a horrendous activity--he knew this would happen.
Yet that really only deepens my sympathy for him.
And this:
"Nine. The Chinese associated dragons with the number nine, did you know that?"
"Yes."
"There were nine muses in Greek mythology too. Lots of...lots of things with the number nine."
I found that particularly moving. Just... gyahh. Very good work, Keely.
Re: (icon applies to you)
Date: 2003-08-23 07:08 pm (UTC)I like to see the more human side of Napoleon from time to time, aside from the 'slut' image that he has. (Although I happily exploit it myself). He does care, often a little too much for his line of work...and Illya cares very much for Napoleon. :)