~Anniversary, cont'd~

Napoleon leaned over his partner to open the drawer, returning with a small box wrapped in green paper. They both sat up in the middle of the bed.

Illya tore open the paper, then opened the box, revealing-- a ring. A simple silvery-pewtery ring, words in tiny gothic script carved around the broad band.

His pulse skittered, his breath halted, he felt like his brain was about to explode, and his chest was starting to hurt. Worst of all, it looked like he was going to start crying.

"Vous avez mon coeur entire pour ma vie entire... Oh, Napoleon, you--"

"I wasn't sure if you'd like it, but-- well, I mean, I had to get it for you. If it's too much too soon, I could--"

"No, I love it." He smiled up at his lover, eyes wet. "I love the man who gave it to me."

"It's not that much. I mean, it's hardly the kind of thing--"

"--that a decadent westerner would wish for, perhaps, but I like it very much. It is simple, heartfelt. It is perfect. In fact," Illya blushed. "It is much in the same spirit of my gift to you."

He pressed a small pouch of worn mauve velvet into Napoleon's hands. When the drawstring was opened, a very plain, aged gold band slid out into Napoleon's palm.

"It's-- it's a real wedding ring... I-- Where did you--?"

"My father's." Illya nodded. "My eidetic memory began when I was not quite three years old. I remember when it looked like the war, or something just as bad, would come, my father took everything valuable from our house-- not like silverware, but-- photographs, some books, and his pocket watch and wedding ring. He buried them in a box in the field behind our house. When I finally returned, it was-- my family had been dead for many years, but I recovered the few pictures we'd had. The only things I had of my family were those that had been buried. Books we were never supposed to have, a picture of my mother and father on their wedding day, one of my mother holding me as a baby... and this." He closed his eyes for a moment, regaining composure.

Napoleon nodded, speechless, and touched Illya's hand, urging him on.

"Mother never took hers off... someone took it when she died, I imagine, if not before." He shrugged the painful thought off. "I have few memories of them, it was so early when I lost them, but-- I do remember some. I know they loved each other very much. Those early years, the little time I do remember, was all I knew of love, until finding you. My father's ring I used to wear, as a-- a sort of a link to my past, to my family. A reminder, and-- perhaps, if such a thing as luck existed, to bring it. That someday I could find a love of my own. Now I have, and..."

Illya blushed even deeper, and Napoleon stroked his cheek gently. "Yes?"

"I wanted you to have it. Because it is my past, and you are my future. If you would wear this ring-- when it is not professionally inconvenient for you to do so, of course-- Well, it's just that it's-- symbolic, and--" He gestured ineffectually, aware that he was babbling now.

"I'm honored, Illya." Napoleon whispered, softly kissing the spot his fingers had just brushed. "Your father's wedding ring... you know, when I first saw it, I thought you were married."

Illya snorted.

"Well, in any case, I was glad to learn you weren't." He grinned, before looking down at his hand, awestruck. "His ring fits me perfectly."

"Better than it ever fit me. I think it's a sign. I think it's fate."

"Good. I like the thought of being fated to you. I like to think that, wherever they are, your parents approve of us."

"I imagine that if there is a heaven-like existence after this, once you reach it, little things like gender seem less important than they do on earth, and the dead woud just be glad that their living loved ones are happy. Then again, God knows I've never been a spiritual man." Illya mused, gazing at his own ring.

"You've made me a very happy man, Illya Kuryakin."

"And you, Napoleon Solo, have accomplished the impossibly, and done the same for me." He smiled warmly, sinking into his partner's arms.

Entwined, they sank back down to the mattress, where they lay together until lunch.

---/-/---

The night of their anniversary, with dinner and a bottle of wine polished off, Napoleon and Illya returned yet another time to the bed. While the small house they were staying in had two equally nice bedrooms set up for them, they only used the one, and the second hadn't been so much as glanced in on.

Napoleon undressed his lover for the third time that day, kissing his way from chin to navel and back up again. Once Napoleon had reached his mouth, Illya snuggled tightly against him, keeping him from moving away.

"Nyet. Stay here... kiss me." He breathed, rapidly divesting his partner of his shirt.

Napoleon complied happily, his hands continuing to roam over the Russian's body. They made love as slowly as their bodies would allow, focusing on long kisses as much as on anything happening below the waistline. It couldn't be said whether the wine had gone to their heads, or the earlier exchange of rings, but the room spun with each kiss, and their evening of passion seemed to pass all-too-quickly. Napoleon fell half-on and half-off of Illya's body, spent.

"Sorry..." He grinned, getting his breath back. "I'd meant for that to last a little longer."

"Don't apologize to me, it was wonderful." Illya smiled back. "You are always--"

"You're tipsy."

"So're you."

"Mm. I'm in love, too."

"Really? So'm I." He laughed, kissing Napoleon soundly. "Ah, we're a pair."

"That we are, Illyushka mine."

"The night doesn't have to be over just because we've made love once."

"No, not over. A little quieter, perhaps."

"Happy anniversary, Napasha."

"Happy anniversary, love."

---

This page is an unofficial site that exists only for the fun of it. All characters and situations from the television show "The Man from U.N.C.L.E." are property of Norman Felton and Warner Bros. Nothing ill is intended by this use of any television characters in these amateur efforts. Any fiction linked to these pages is the intellectual property of the amateur author who created it and is not presented here for profit.