|dusty (dustandroses) wrote in dustyrydersrecs,|
@ 2005-10-27 21:14:00
|Current music:||Couldn't Stand The Weather - Stevie Ray Vaughn|
The Man from UNCLE
Fandom: The Man from UNCLE
Author: Ardent (ardent_muses)
Genre: Slash, Angst
Notes: Napoleon has a nice arrangement with his partner. He's comfortable with the level of commitment, or lack thereof, but at the same time, he wants more from Illya. But Illya is not happy with things the way they are, and he sends Napoleon packing, to find his "comfort" elsewhere. But is that really what Napoleon wants?
Poor Napoleon...he just doesn't know what he wants. It's a simple story, straight-forward, and I find myself coming back to it time and again. It's short enough to almost call it Smut. But there's a lot of emotion and a rather large chunk of self-discovery going on here in this small fic, so it's not at all what it first seems.
He'd started it in a hotel room just as shabby as this one, only it had a double bed. It had been a sweltering Honduran night and they had been reading -- Napoleon sprawled in his boxers across the foot of the bed with a newspaper and Illya propped up against the pillows speed-reading one of the cheap paperback mysteries he loved, this one in Spanish.
Illya's thin cotton bathrobe had shifted, exposing one golden thigh, and the fair hairs had glinted in the lamplight. It had been . . . distracting.
Napoleon had tried to focus on his newspaper, but all he saw was Illya. He could almost feel Illya's tanned skin under his fingertips, still damp from the shower. He told himself he felt grateful to the man who had once again saved his skin. That was all. He felt loyal. Like partners felt. Partners who were both men.
Only . . . the reckless voice in his head told him to pursue something that was decidedly different from a collegial pat on the back.
Napoleon had put the newspaper down and reached out. Caressed Illya's calf. Illya had jumped at the touch and put down his book, frowning, but Napoleon didn't draw back.
"Napoleon?" Quiet, although the walls were not particularly thin. Not angry. Just . . . puzzled.
Napoleon had moved his hand up to Illya's knee. And beyond. Hot smooth skin over hard muscle and bone.
Without looking at Illya's face, Napoleon had continued to slide his hand up the thigh, feeling the heat and a slight trembling. "Let me?" he'd whispered.
I rate this fic: Pretty Dann Good