Pairing: Illya/Napoleon
Rating: PG
Summary: Napoleon muses over his wardrobe changes through the years.
Disclaimer: Don't own (don't I wish I did??), don't make money (just ask my office), and it is *all* sithdragn's fault! Up one side, down the other, all her fault. All. Her. Fault.
Notes: Sithdragn posted this challenge, and I just had to respond...


Color
by Nicole D'Annais
Copyright 2003


--

He hadn't noticed it, that subtle disappearance of color from his wardrobe. A scarf lost here, a tie misplaced there--it wasn't as if he'd set out to remove each piece. It had just happened. It was nearly a year before he'd realized that he'd lost every bit of red clothing he'd ever owned, right down to a pair of cufflinks with red trim on the edges. Even then he had hardly taken the time to do much more than notice. Black seemed to replace the red just fine, and really, red was getting rather old.

Still, he was a lot smarter now, or so he liked to think. And he couldn't help but notice the red that had crept back into his closets over the last year. He'd tried to ignore it, blame it on the times and changing fashions, and the crazy Russian fashion designer/spy he'd been spending time with again. And while the crazy Russian may have been the cause, it wasn't intentional.

But it was only now, sitting in a dark theatre in London, that he realized the truth. Red. The sixties code word for a Soviet, often followed by commie bastard--but never within hearing distance of Napoleon Solo, at least not if the speaker wanted to keep all his teeth. He knew now, with the clarity of hindsight, that the red had disappeared because it was too painful a reminder of what he'd lost when he walked away, not to mention of why he'd left.

Oddly enough, the black had been comforting, and he was only now coming to terms with just why. Two years ago, he would've cringed at the sappy and slightly terrifying concept of finding comfort just by wearing clothing that Illya would've deemed acceptable. Fifteen years was a long time to run, though, and it had worn him down.

Yet it had still taken a song to bring home other more subtle meanings behind his color choices. Red, the color of desire. Black, the color of despair. The heartfelt words were sung beautifully by a man with hair whose gold rivalled Illya's, and yet Napoleon thought Illya's far more attractive. Another thought that would have had him cringing even a year ago, when he was still finding his new place by his old partner's side.

All those years ago, Napoleon had been the one to leave. And yet he'd brought Illya back, which made it his responsibility to ensure that Illya stayed. Because if Illya left....

But he wouldn't. Unless Napoleon had missed his guess--and he wasn't that far out of his league--he wasn't the only one searching for a new balance in their partnership. Illya sat next to him, absorbed in the performance on stage, and yet Napoleon could still feel *it* crackling between them. That indefinable thing that had made them such good partners. It had made them such good friends. It had torn them apart. It had brought them back together.

And soon, it would make them lovers.

He'd accepted that somewhere between lying to Sir John to get an extra day in London, and agreeing to accompany Illya to this show. If Illya hadn't figured it out for the same reasons, then he wasn't half the spy Napoleon thought him to be.

He wondered if red wine, red roses and a red bedspread would be too obvious, then decided he didn't care. He was too old to mind if he was a bit obvious, and too young still to worry about any of the rest of it. It was inevitable, had been unavoidable, and was completely acceptable.

Someone on stage began waving a large red flag, and Napoleon smiled to himself. That might be a bit *too* obvious, even for him. Still, he might just have to buy a red jacket, or something, just to celebrate.

It was good to have color back in his life.

-----
END


Comments? ndannais@squidge.org