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The Hobsons Choice Affair Final Chapter.
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Disclaimer
This is a work of amature fiction, no contravention of copyright is intended and no profit is made from this endeavour.
"*Jesus*!" The gangly young delivery man stood there in the doorway, face
blank and pale with terror, as the door was violently flung open and he came
face to face with a Luger pointed at him by a slight, tuxedoed blonde with
angry, blue eyes. "But-but...what-I..." He clutched the long, white box in
his hands almost tightly enough to crease the package.
"Who sent you!" Illya snatched the suspicious package from the youth, still
pointing his weapon.
"I-I-I...a man," came the stammered reply. "He-he paid us -the doorman and
I- a really huge t-t-tip to--"
"Describe him!" the Russian snapped. "What did he look like!"
"Well - I - he--"
"Illya..."
"A moment, Napoleon. This is important."
"Uh huh. Illya...if you'd look at this card...
Illya sighed in thinly veiled exasperation -Napoleon was going to take a lot
of training. Didn't he realize that everything had to be treated with a
measure of suspicion, that facts had to be gathered as quickly as possible?
Casting a glower at the trembling delivery man, Illya looked towards his
dinner date. Napoleon was grinning (quite smugly, he thought in puzzlement)
and was waving a small, elegantly scripted card under the Russian's nose.
The card, the writing familiar, read: "A gift to start the evening off on
the right note. I concede that the better man won." Signed "Mark." There was
a 'P.S.' that made Illya's eyes widen: "Break his heart, Solo, and I will
kill you."
In the opened box were a dozen roses; red, long-stemmed, and perfect.
Blushing despite himself, Illya tucked away his weapon and released a heavy
sigh of relief as a chuckling Napoleon gave the shaking youth at the door a
tip that was probably more than what he made in a week before shooing him
away and shutting the door.
Once again, they were alone.
"Well..?" Napoleon purred.
"What?" Illya retorted.
The taller man shrugged, the coy smile not leaving his lips. "You *were*
about to blow that kid's head off -perhaps you could do with learning
to...relax?"
"Napoleon..." Illya shook his head wearily. "You have to understand -this is
what I am. This is what the world I live in does to a man...and what what
one has to be to survive."
"What -paranoid?"
"Durog..." the Russian muttered under his breath. "You are too trusting for
your own good, 'Polya." He hesitated and then stroked the other man's
olive-skinned cheek. "Are you *sure* this is the life you want to live?"
Napoleon gathered the smaller man to himself, surprised at the lack of
resistance, his hands spanning Illya's narrow waist. "I was bored,
Illya -bored with life- before that night fate thrust us together. Something
clicked for me even then and it wasn't just the excitement of risking life
and limb...and realizing that I wanted to live." Chocolate eyes met and
locked with questioning ice-blue ones. "It was *you*, my paranoid Russian.
You made me feel again."
Illya blushed again, red reaching his ears as he tried to turn his face
away, only to have Napoleon abort the attempt with a warm, gentle hand
against his jaw. "You do not know what you are saying." Was that *his*
voice, Illya wondered, that sounded so breathy and...scared?
"You're wrong, Illyusha." Napoleon tilted the Russian's face up towards his
own. "I *know* that I want this life and more than that, I *know* that I
want *you*. The question is: do you want *me*?"
"'Polya, I am no prize. My past could be considered...sordid."
"Hmmn..." Napoleon luxuriated in the human warmth he held against him. "I'm
no angel myself. There were these girls in Burma that--"
Two pale fingers pressed against his lips, silencing the confession. "I do
not wish to know." Finally, lips met lips, touching, tasting, exploring with
uncertainty at first and then, with greater assurance. At last, Illya pushed
himself away, but not very far, his chest heaving. "Are you *sure*?" he
ground out.
Napoleon could read the double meaning in the question and in the lingering
uncertainty in the Russian's eyes. "Yes. Of this I am *very* sure."
**********
She watched the scene playing itself out from the top of a building across
from Napoleon's secondary residence (the other destroyed in an explosion),
seething. The gauze-like curtain were drawn and all she could see through
the binoculars were dark shapes -familiar ones- like shadow puppets
performing a well-known play. The touch of hands against bodies, exploring
even as clothing was removed...the embraces growing increasingly passionate
as the two forms gradually became one.
Rain dripped from Angelique's moisture-matted bleached blonde hair, barely
noticed as she imagined what she could not see -*her* Illya and that dark
American, not just fucking, but making love. She could almost imagine the
whispered endearments, words of passion, and then -finally- their joined
cries of completion. And it made her twisted desire boil over into white-hot
hatred.
If Illya could not belong to her, he could belong to *no-one*.
She hefted the high-powered rifle, peering through its site at that damned
apartment across the way, her finger tightening on the trigger.
No-one.
The muted pop of a silenced rifle being fired troubled the relative
stillness...
...and Angelique du Chien fell forward, blood oozing from the hole between
her wide, dead eyes.
"Good shot, luv."
April Dancer shrugged and placed the spent weapon into its case. "Yeah, it
was, wasn't it? I *had* to give them something -you sent them roses."
"So sue me for being the romantic of this partnership, pet." Mark grinned
and extended his hand. "My apartment for cocoa and romantic movies?"
April slid her arm around his waist. "Ehh, why not?"
***The End***
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