He loved the rain. There was a cleansing quality
to the rain as it fell. It struck the sidewalk and made it bright and shiny,
hiding the dregs of long-ago chewed gum and other things he didn't want to
The rain cleansed the air, leaving New
York, for the moment, smelling sweet and wholesome instead of the usual odor of
exhaust, cooking fumes and God knew what else.
He loved the rain. He raised his face,
letting drops cleanse him of the residue of the last mission.
The rain washed
the blood off him and down the sewer.
There is fire in his heart. It shows when he destroys a satrap, when he
moves Heaven and Earth to save Napoleon. You might have to get past the glacial
façade to see it, but it burns brightly there nonetheless.
In bed with Napoleon,
the fire leaps into a conflagration. Sparks fly, heat's exchanged and the sex
is nothing sort of incendiary. For they love each other, keeping the embers in
his heart glowing, even if Illya has to bank them during the day. Soon he will
come home to his lover, who will fan the coals back into fire.
Nothing like a good explosion. While Illya had
many things he enjoyed, especially Napoleon, explosions had their attractions.
There was the adrenalin rush as he placed the explosives and scurried for cover.
The noise of the actual blast. The shock wave that accompanied.
Napoleon would sigh, not understanding his
partner, but he did it with an affectionate smile.
To Illya there was something lovely in the
glorious colors of the fire that followed. Something that made him feel
cleansed, even as soot poured on him. He would never be able to explain to
Napoleon, but each explosion was a rebirth.
They used to keep track. Who had the most injuries, who had
the most concussions, the most gun wounds. The count wasn't kept on paper, but
by the First Aid box: the number of bandages, slings and aspirin used.
Somewhere in the middle of the double digits, they
lost count. They no longer knew who had been hurt the most, who had treated
whom, who was in the hospital. It became less about the injuries and more about
the feel of the other's hands, succoring them, giving them love in the healing.
It became just one count. Alive? Two people.
Unlike most men, UNCLE agents hadn't
any use for toys. What was the point if you couldn't be sure you were going to
be alive to enjoy them? Toys, to them, were gadgets like exploding cufflinks.
They did have security blankets - their guns,
which went everywhere with them. Even when the men were using their bed for
something other than sleeping, their weapon was on the nightstand. Their last
defense between an enemy and death, they desired its sense of security. Instead
of toys, they wanted the comfort of a warm body and a cold gun next to them.