Mr. & Mrs. Solo

Love, Love, Love

He remembered the first time he felt it.

She hated waiting. She hated the feeling of not knowing who or what would stagger through the door at two a.m., bloodied or drunk from emotion and whiskey. More than once that night it had been Illya simply coming to check in on the status of a mission, though usually by a telephone call. At Napoleon's word of peril, Illya, too, had disappeared. 

It had been a fairly uneventful mission, the three of them shuttled off to Luxembourg to corrupt the whisper to blueprints of a death machine. Noah had been brought along due to her mechanical advantage over the two of them, able to change numbers and equations so slightly that the new tank would never work. Changing a six to a nine, a two to a five. Nothing too noticeable, or they would have been caught in the act.

Her nerves twitched as she waited silently by the radio, a finger circling the rim of her nearly empty glass until the quiet chime eventually drove her mad. Noah hadn't realized how badly her hand was shaking until she stood to walk to the window, having to shove them deep into the pockets of her robe to calm the tremors. The last radio contact that she had been able to manage with Napoleon had been over four hours ago, followed by the soft moans and noises of sex. It had been his... mission to seduce the wife of the man who was interested in purchasing the plans to attempt to gain more information from her, but in the bedroom, the roles had been switched. Napoleon was no longer the one interrogating.

Noah felt almost dirty listening into the soft grunt of pain as a riding crop hit his smooth skin, the gasp of feigned pleasure and the clink of handcuffs chained too tightly. This was a private affair, one she had no business listening in on so intently to hear a certain word, but was glad she had forced herself to it. Nothing to do now but wait.

As if on cue, the soft click of a door being unlocked and pushed open caused her to turn from her stance at the window, relieved and worried to find Napoleon coming through the door. Blood stained his temple, and his eyes were drained far beyond belief. Had Illya gotten there too late? Hand reaching to turn off the main light, Napoleon suddenly noticed Noah standing in the corner of the room, a worried look on her face. "Oh." He said, attempting to hide the weakness in his voice. "I'm sorry, I assumed that you would have been asleep long before now."

Noah attempted to make light of the situation, bringing her robe in around her waist a little further. "Not much to do other than worry when your partner goes dead on the radio."  Managing a small smile, she took a few hesitant steps to close the room-wide gap between them. "How are you feeling?"

Pointedly ignoring her question, Napoleon turned and locked the door, walking into their shared bedroom. "How much of... the night's events did you hear, out of curiosity?" Noah had no choice to follow him into the bedroom, finding that he had disappeared into the en suite. Both seemed to be struggling to find words to say.

"You said the codeword, and then it was nothing other than interference like someone was trying to stop me from listening." Though she doubted that the bored housewife would possess something to block signal transmission under her pillow, with the witch's secret hobbies she wouldn't put it past her. "That was four hours ago, and I doubt that it took that long for Illya to arrive."

Napoleon's hands gripped the edge of the marble counter with all of the strength he had left in his body. No, it hadn't taken that long for Illya to arrive. It had taken that long for Illya to find and rescue him while in the midst of torture. Though none of the men who had tortured him before had anything in common, they all seemed to enjoy the idea of electrocution. He had spent an hour being fried from the inside out to receive breaks of blows to the stomach and legs with various blunt objects. He was glad that Noah hadn't been forced to listen in on hours of torture. She was new to the field, and a good partner to have in tight situations. Early retirement wasn't something that he planned to encourage. "It was a bit of a way back." Napoleon lied, forcing himself to breathe slowly.

Perched on the edge of their shared bed (due to their "marriage" status, a room with a single bed had been a necessity, though Napoleon had more than once been kind enough to offer to sleep on the couch), Noah stilled her hands on her knees. There was a beat. "Do you..." She stared, not sure as to where she was going with it all. "Do you need anything from me? I've got a medical touch, I've been told." Mechanical, medical. What was the real difference?

"I'd like to stray from the roleplay tonight if you don't mind."

His attention was drawn from breathing to the quiet shuffle of feet on the carpet, sensing her presence and opening his eyes. Noah stood in the doorway, a worried look on her face and robe falling off one shoulder. Dark circles formed by worry lined her eyes, though he would imagine that his were worse. Taking a hesitant step towards him, Noah placed a gentle hand over his. "Let me... Let me take care of you." Her words were genuine, laced with care and fear.

Despite his better judgment, Napoleon nodded.

Gently leading her beaten fake-husband to the edge of the bed she had only just recently left, Noah slowly unbuttoned his waistcoat and loosened his tie, fully aware of the fact that she was being watched. Watching her every move, Napoleon allowed her to touch and care for every inch of him with a silent and calm pleasure. How she had known that it felt like his bones were prepared to rattle apart and how his mind remained trapped in a state of comfortably numb, he wasn't sure. He slowly felt himself being grounded by her quiet presence, brought back to earth with every gentle brush of her hand against his skin. It was night and day to what he had been exposed to earlier.

He felt it, then. The ache of a feeling other than the pain in the surface of his chest. The warmth spreading through his brain and tongue, cracking away at the ice surrounding his heart, though it may be cliché. She was untying his shoes and setting them aside, glancing up at him to make sure he hadn't fallen asleep accidentally. Napoleon blinked slowly. Love would be alright if it meant he was grounded. 

Noah stood, happy with her handiwork of being able to clean him up gently, trading in his button-down for a much more comfortable shirt and ignoring the blossoming bruises that marred his body. Gently leading him to lay down, she adjusted his head in her lap and pulled the covers over his shoulders. She would have to wait and ask Illya about what had transposed in the morning, though from the looks of Napoleon, their mission was over. Her hands carded through his hair gently, allowing herself to accidentally stroke his cheek. 

"Does this hurt?" She asked, carefully running her fingers along the side of his neck. 

"No,"  he said almost silently, monosyllabic as he lay there and relished the innocent touch replacing the pain and violence of the past few hours.

Noah hummed, watching his eyes drift close. "Good." She whispered, spending her night counting the small span of freckles on his nose over and over again. Sleep could wait.