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Napoleon Solo wasn’t sure what woke him. He reached over snatching his watch off the night stand and squinted as he checked the time. Two-thirty in the morning. He looked at the bed across from his, not really surprised to find it empty, the covers thrown back.
The mission was over. They were leaving the next day, this day actually, to head back to New York. It wasn’t hard to guess where Illya was. He remembered the wistful look on his partner’s face as they left the stadium, having successfully succeeded in stopping a THRUSH plot to complicate the Winter Olympics Innsbruck, Austria.
With a mental sigh, he got out of bed and dressed. Catching a cab at that hour of the morning would not prove easy. His luck held and he was soon at the arena where the figure skating competition had been held. He wasn’t surprised to find one of the doors unlocked. A few of the lights had been left on sending a soft glow to the ice. He stood in the shadow, watching.
A solitary figure, dressed in black, his hands behind his back, his light hair bowed glided slowly around the rink. He skid to a stop near the center of the rink. Then as if to music only he could hear, he started out across the ice again. One foot crossing over the other gradually gaining speed. One arm stretched out gracefully in front of him, the other behind; he fluidly turned to skate backwards languidly maneuvering a figure eight.
Soon he was facing forward again, his arms spread out to the side as if to fly away, his head thrown back, his eyes shut tight. Then ever so gracefully his back leg rose behind him, his back arched as he glided along. He turned, the leg now in front, his body bent into the movement. With elegant poise it swung back behind and with a small leap twisted around to come down on his other leg. He was all beauty and grace, gliding effortlessly, before bringing his arms in close, and spinning faster and faster.
The beauty of the movement literally took Napoleon’s breath away. Gradually the spinning slowed, then Illya was speeding across the ice again. His arms swinging outward as he moved faster and faster around the rink. He leaped into the air, spinning – once, twice, thrice, his blond hair flying around his face.
One leg was elevated behind him, he went to land only to misjudge and fall. His body skid across the ice. Bitterness, frustration, and disappointment were written on his face as he slammed his fist down onto the ice.
It was more than Napoleon could take. It was at that moment that he realized just how much it hurt him to see his Russian friend in any sort of pain. Not caring if he damaged the ice, Napoleon walked across, his heel making clipping noises on the ice. Slipping was not an option, so he didn’t. He squatted down in front of his friend preparing to make some sort of caustic remark. What came out was a softly spoken, “You were poetry in motion.”
The icy blue eyes met his, sending a shiver down his spine. “No. I was clumsy and awkward. I failed,” Illya said harshly.
Napoleon gripped Illya’s bicep squeezing hard. He wanted to shake the man. “No!” he said emphatically. “You didn’t and never could.”
The blue eyes shown doubtful then warmed at the compliment. “Thank you.”
“Come on,” Napoleon said, standing up, his hand stretched out for the Russian to take. “Our plane leaves in a few hours.”
The two men - one walking, the other gliding - made their way off the ice. Illya stopped to remove his skates. He paused and turned back, giving one last look to the rink. Then he followed his partner out into the cold.