"My Grandmother always said to trust your first impressions. Later our opinion may become clouded by fear, rationalisations, confusion; but your first impression always remained true."
Napoleon frowned slightly; Illya's adage did have some merit. He took a long, slow sip of his bourbon, rolling the glass about in his hand, listening to the sharpened chink of the ice cubes. He'd always prided himself on his instinct, on being able to trust his own first mpressions, on acting on them and knowing they were always right. But surely information gleaned later, data that may qualify earlier suppositions should never be dismissed entirely. Straightening his tie with one hand, the other signalling the waiter for another round, he turned the question over again in his mind; had he always acted on his first impression, or had let later known facts distract him?
"Napoleon?" Illya's voice cut through his slight reverie. "Your first impressions of Miss Marlowe?"
"That she's a very beautiful and intelligent young lady," he knew his voice sounded distracted, the reply coming out automatically, his standard pat response. He tipped the waiter as he brought fresh drinks and downed half the measure in one go. If you did not act immediately on your initial instinct, he pondered, did it naturally follow then that all later chances to do so were then forfeit?
He could see that Illya was looking at him with concern and he mustered up a small smile. "I would also say that she is not to be trusted, and should be treated with the caution you would give to all potential little THRUSH-birds."
Illya nodded, seemingly with satisfaction. "I concur. Also she has been in the bathroom now for well over ten minutes…"
"Probably more to do with her being an attractive lady than with wherever her allegiances may lie," Napoleon broke in, his fingertips drumming out a soft staccato rhythm on the tabletop.
"Napoleon," Illya began, his voice low, soft, confidential, "are you all right? You seem somewhat preoccupied."
Napoleon looked to where Illya's hand came to rest on his arm, the pale skin white against the grey weave of the fabric. A few small, faded scars were visible, darkened pink imperfections; crescent moon curves from deep clawing nails or the slash of a knife, faint cross- hatching at the wrist, reminder of ropes lashed too tight, where blood had ran slick and red. He thought about touching that hand, feeling the fine bones beneath the soft skin, the sparse calluses, the strength there. He took another sip of drink. "I'm fine, Illya, just fine."
They spotted Miss Marlowe sashaying her way back to their table, all smiles and invitations. She seated herself, laying a hand on Illya's thigh as glanced coquettishly through her eyelashes at Napoleon. "Hope you boys didn't miss me too much."
Illya removed her hand with undisguised disdain. "We survived."
"Ah, but surviving isn't really living, is it now, Sweetie?" She blew him a kiss, giggles bubbling out of her. She turned to Napoleon, who had been so very attentive before; "Won't you ask me to dance, Napoleon? This is such a deliciously slow song, just perfect for whispering sweet nothings."
"Perhaps later," he replied shortly. It was unlikely that if she knew anything she was going to let it slip on the dance-floor, and he just didn't feel like humouring her tonight. He turned his eyes from her sculptured mass of bleached blond hair, near white and brittle looking to the soft, unkempt golden bangs of Illya's. The difference was startling, one glowed and reflected the lights about them, the other was unnatural in its rigidity, nearly crisp with hairspray.
The evening seemed interminable. The mindless chatter of Miss Marlowe was anything but illuminating, giving the UNCLE agents no more information on their current assignment than they had already possessed. Finally she excused herself to find a cab, disappointed not to have received an invitation to a hotel room or two.
Napoleon, with a wave of his hand, ordered them another round. He rubbed his forehead lightly, tired of the fluorescent lights and continual noise from the resident band. Pointedly looking away from Illya he drank his bourbon in one neat gulp. "I think I might turn in for the night."
Illya remained silent, but downing his own vodka, he rose and followed Napoleon as he made his way out of the bar and up the stairs to their rooms.
Stepping into his room, Napoleon left the door open for Illya to enter behind him, as he knew he would. He walked across to the window, staring out at the lights of a typical mid-western town, and the dimmed stars above them. He heard the door click shut then lock.
"What is the matter with you? Napoleon, what's wrong?"
He sensed Illya step up close behind him, his footfall silent in the deep pile carpet. Warm breath fluttered against the back of his neck. He turned and looked into the cool blue eyes of his partner.
He took a deep breath.
His mouth parted slightly as if to speak.
He stepped forward, closing down the distance between them to nothing.
One hand slipping around the narrowness of Illya's waist, finding the small of his back, the other moving higher, cradling his head, thick blond hair glossy and soft between his fingers, Napoleon leant forward and kissed him.
A soft, trembling heat. The feel of Illya against him. Sharp, slender hips pressed into him. Small firm muscles beneath his touch. A muffled gasp of astonishment. Blue eyes wide and guileless. Napoleon's world seemed to contract to nothing but his senses, and a feeling of how right this truly was.
He pulled back, his large hands gripping Illya's shoulders steadily, holding him still.
"What are you doing?" Illya panted, his breaths coming short and sharp.
"Acting on first impressions." He kneaded Illya's shoulders, fearful of the tension rising there.
"What?"
Napoleon smiled. "My first impression of you, the first thought that popped into my head when I saw you was that I would love to make love to you."
Illya just looked lost for a moment, then asked "what was your second impression?"
Napoleon pulled Illya a fraction closer, their thighs moulding against each other, hips bumping. "That I loved you."
The slightest smile started to creep across Illya's face. "And your third?"
"That I was never going to let you go."
Napoleon's hands snaked about Illya again as their lips met for a second time. Tightening his grip, holding him, as close as humanly possible, he smiled in to the kiss as Illya responded in kind.
***