Napoleon spared a quick glance to his right and smiled. His lifemate was hard at work doing crowd control; the voice still carried the authority that had once caused the most experienced agents of THRUSH to back down. Napoleon's smile widened: once an UNCLE agent, always an UNCLE agent. "Get ye along now!", the other man commanded in a perfect Scottish brogue. Five tourist obeyed without question.
Napoleon chuckled but was not surprised. After all, the Russian spoke about fifteen major languages fluently and God knows how many dialects. "Ah, we're a bit heavy on the brogue there, aren't we, partner?", he quipped, without turning.
"Aye, Mr. Solo. It is, after all, my native tongue." came the immediate reply.
It wasn't the amusement in the voice that caught Napoleon's attention, but the 'Mr. Solo'. The voice was oddly familiar, and yet..... He turned, fully, to face his companion and stared into blue eyes that regarded him intently. The face, although 99.99% identical to his lifemate, was not, yet was just as recognizable. He swallowed hard. "Uh, please forgive me, sir...." he began, blushing with embarrassment at his boldness.
His companion smiled. "Don't give it another thought, Napoleon, if I may be so bold. It was entirely my fault. Realizing the striking resemblance I thought it would be great fun. Besides, he needed his rest." The intensity in that blue stare grew as those eyes scrutinized the American. "Come to think of it, so do you," he added, his tone brooking no argument.
"Yes, sir." Napoleon replied humbly, still in a mild state of awe. "May I ask a question before I leave?"
"Of course."
"What are you doing here?"
The Scotsman smiled but there was no humor in it. "I cannot resist being where the action is. Now off with you."
Napoleon nodded in perfect understanding - this man was a great actor whose career was still going strong - and went off in search of the Russian. He found him curled up on the running board of a fire truck, sound asleep. Seating himself beside the sleeping man, Napoleon drank in the sight of his beloved: the once golden hair now streaked with gray; the features, though showing signs of age, were still beautiful; the eyes were still blue and filled with mischief. Yep! There was no doubt about it - the older the blond got the sexier he looked.
Napoleon leaned closer until their faces were inches apart. "Wake up, sleeping beauty!" he whispered
Illya stirred, stretched, opened his eyes and smiled up at his lover. His smile widened at the mock exasperation on the still handsome face. "Guilty as charged." he admitted. "What form of punishment do you decree?"
Napoleon leered at his lover. "Oh, I'm certain I can come up with something very appropriate."
Illya shivered at the naked desire in Napoleon's voice. "Of that I have no doubt," he retorted. "Am I to understand that 'come' is the operative word?" he asked, the echoing desire evident in his voice.
The arrival of a Fire Chief saved them for public embarrassment. "Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin?" he inquired.
"Yes?" they answered as one.
"Sir John asked me to find you and have you report to him."
Both men nodded. "Thank you, Chief." replied Illya.
The Fire Chief nodded and left to rejoin his men.
"Well, 'Polya, you heard the man."
Napoleon needed no further encouragement. Standing, he stretched, then reached down and pulled the Russian into a loose embrace. For several minutes they remained that way, looking at the ruins of the fallen Towers, and paying silent tribute to those who perished. That done they left to find Sir John, make their report, and begin the long walk home.
UNCLE911UNCLE911UNCLE911UNCLE911UNCLE911UNCLE911UNCLE911UNCLE911