Blue Water

by sensine

Napoleon barely suppressed a gasp. He could clearly see those small signs on Illya's face which told him how this order upset him. There was the tell-tale tightening of his lips, the tick at the corners of his eyes, and the hint of a flush. It cost now, to keep calm when he could still feel those lips; Illya's mouth around his cock. When he could still taste his own come on his tongue from kissing Illya.

"Separate, sir?" That was all he could come up with for the moment.

Waverly pinned him with his hawk's eyes, scrutinizing him. He must have accepted what he saw, for his gaze softened minutely. "Rest assured, Mr. Solo. It will be temporarily."

"Ah. May I ask what's the purpose, then?" Better not let Mr. Waverly watch Illya too closely until he could compose himself again.

"It's quite simple and prosaic, Mr. Solo." Mr Waverly nodded towards the small bottles on his table and Illya seemed on again; looking his usual, interested self. "These bottles contain Thrush's latest concoction, believed to heal and make the drinker immune to illness and injury."

Illya had already picked up a bottle and turned it in his hands. "Aqua Mirabilis. Miracle water." He looked at Waverly. "Isn't that only a myth?"

The Old Man smiled briefly. "My sentiments exactly, Mr. Kuryakin. But now a Thrush lab in London is producing these bottles by the dozen, claiming they have found," Waverly looked incredulous at this, "that they have found a palimpsest, where the underlying text is a recipe for this miraculous herbal medicine." Waverly shrugged. I have this from an old and dependable source of mine."

When Illya started to explain, Napoleon knew he must have looked lost.

"You know that a palimpsest is a manuscript which has been written upon twice, Napoleon. It was common when writing material was scarce."

Napoleon nodded. Sure he knew that.

"You wonder perhaps about the miracle water, then?"

He wiggled his head and lifted his eyebrows, meaning, not really, but should I?. Besides, if it made Illya use that wonderful voice, then...

"Outside the medical guilds in Medieval Europe, unlicensed practitioners flourished. They preyed on common people's superstitions and fears."

"And how has this changed?" Napoleon had to comment. "It sounds exactly like those New Age people today, Illya."

Illya turned to Mr. Waverly. "I assume a Thrush villain has found one of the recipes that were widely circulated?"

"It would appear so, Mr. Kuryakin." Mr. Waverly narrowed his eyes at the bottles; "our lab has started analysing the contents, but they have not as yet identified all the components." He swivelled his chair to look directly at Illya.

"You must travel to London immediately, Mr. Kuryakin. I want you to assist our London office in the search for the original manuscript. We may need that to compose an antidote. I have received a tip that it may be found in the British Museum. You have contacts in Britain. Use them."

Which made sense, but why only Illya? That didn't make sense. He checked Illya's face. Yes, the little tell-tale tightening around his mouth told him that Illya was confused, too.

"Mr. Solo, you can reunite with Mr. Kuryakin when The British agents have located the Thrush nest. In the meantime, I have urgent need of your services here." So that was it. Cryptic.

Napoleon had volunteered to drive Illya back to the airport, and now they were discussing their fledging relationship in Illya's apartment, while he was packing his suitcase. Napoleon paced, too agitated to sit still. Five steps, wall, turn. Ten steps, wall, turn.

"Napoleon." Illya was eyeing him, letting his gaze roam over his, admittedly, expensive suit. "Homosexual practices are frowned upon where I come from."

Napoleon halted his pacing, zeroed in on Illya, and narrowed his eyes. "When you say frowned upon, you mean as in stopped permanently?"

"Yes." Illya didn't look happy. "Should this come out, I would probably never be able to return to my home." Should this come out? And this from a new member of the Mile High Club?

"You haven't seemed so eager to go back to Russia anyway," Napoleon answered, and instantly knew that was the wrong thing to say. Illya's frown was a good indicator, too.

"Illya!" Napoleon held out his hand. "What I mean is, you'll always have a home here; you enjoy living here, don't you?"

Illya ignored his hand and eyed him as if he was a particularly dense student. "There is a vast difference between choosing to and having to, Napoleon. I treasure my freedom of choice. It has not always been like this."

Napoleon bowed his head and studied the floor. "I know, Illya. It will be horrible if you have to choose between your native country and this. UNCLE. Me." Napoleon kept his head down, still studying the floorboards. "But where's the freedom if you can't choose what you want?"

"Napasha." Illya tugged at Napoleon's hair. That's a very American thing to say. Who knows which is the correct path to choose?" Illya let go of his hair and plucked at the rim of his own turtleneck instead. "It has been only hours since I believed you were unattainable, my private daydream."

Napoleon wanted very much to be Illya's dream come true. He opened his mouth to assure Illya, but his partner of usually few words was not finished.

"My brain is now working overtime, Napoleon. It is reminding me of all the implications of an intimate relationship with you."

Well, that was his clue to bring up the factor that counted. He took Illya's wrists, moved Illya's hands away from the demolition of his clothes, held one fist to his lips. He must convey how sincere he was. "You forget the most important aspect, my friend. We are partners. We are more than married already."

Illya nodded in agreement, but fidgeted, which told Napoleon how disturbed Illya was. He let go of his hands and looked into Illya's worried face. "Illya, I know we cannot be open about this." He placed a quick peck on the furrow between Illya's eyes to illustrate.

"Love between men is not accepted like it was back in the Greek world." Another peck, this time on Illya's proud nose.

Illya just crossed his eyes at him, which Napoleon took for a good sign, so he went on. "We have already proven that we can be discreet, and make the most of the private moments we get."

Illya touched the side of Napoleon's neck; his hand felt so sweet against his skin, almost a contrast to his snort and his words. "I know how to be careful, Napoleon, now even in the claustrophobic lavatory on an aeroplane."

Illya stepped back and tilted his head a little."Napoleon, never doubt that I care about you. Never doubt that this," he waggled a finger between them, "is what I want and need." Illya paused and Napoleon could hear him draw a shaky breath. "But..."

Napoleon felt that sudden ache in his gut which never boded well. Here it comes.

"But, now I have to think, Napoleon. Will you give me time?"

No, he wanted to say. You've known about this, about us, for years. I'm the one who's new to it. No way will I let you go now. Not even for a minute. "Yes," was what he heard himself say. "Yes, Illya." The floorboards really had an interesting pattern.

Napoleon felt warm hands on his cheeks, Illya tugged his face up and met his eyes, crinkling his own so the blue was nearly gone; searching. "Remember, Napoleon." Illya kissed him, lips, tongue pushing into him, exploring. Napoleon wanted to hide away and keep that sweet taste forever.

The next week was agonising for Napoleon. Illya was in Europe, looking for the source of Thrush's knowledge about the alleged healing water. Illya would meet up with his academic contacts from his time in Cambridge, so Napoleon knew it was a good choice to send him. He didn't have to like it, though. With the long distance between them an added factor, who knew what Illya might decide? Napoleon wouldn't be surprised if his protective partner ended their relationship before it had even begun, thinking it would be better for Napoleon to stick to his socially accepted flings with women.

"Mr. Solo." Mr. Waverly's admonishing voice reached through Napoleon's brooding. "I believe you have worked twelve-hour shifts all through the week."

So, he should have known that nothing went unnoticed by the Old Man.

"I suggest," Waverly continued, "that you take time off tonight. Outside headquarters. I don't want you to collapse before this case is solved, young man."

That was a first; Mr Waverly reprimanding him for working too much. But Waverly wasn't finished.

"Go out, relax, ask a pretty young lady to accompany you. I surmise this won't be a hardship for you, Mr. Solo."

Hardship? Napoleon wanted to protest. "But, sir..."

Mr. Waverly shook his head. "Mr. Solo. I order you to take the evening off. I know how to contact you should there be a new development in the pending case you're working on." He touched Napoleon's shoulder. "If you have trouble finding suitable company at such short notice," what was that glint in the Old Man's eyes? "I'm sure my niece would be willing to undertake the assignment. Apparently she enjoyed your previous date." Yes, he definitely looked smug, as smug as a man with something up his sleeve could look.

But no, oh no. Not Waverly's niece. She would undoubtedly report back to her uncle, and Waverly would instantly know something was amiss. Napoleon was sure he didn't want to know what was up the Old Man's sleeve. "Ah, Mr. Waverly, I believe I shall be able to procure a dinner date by myself." And when had he started using Illya's verbs?

London was its hectic self, like a colorful bubble of life, covered in a blanket of smog. The authorities really needed to implement measures and dust off that old law from 1836. The only place not bubbling with life was his sober little hotel room, Illya thought, as he stood by the window and watched the dark alley outside. It was difficult to sleep, even though he had been working steadily since he arrived. So why could he not sleep? Easy. Napoleon. He was aching for Napoleon. The absence of his partner felt like a physical pain. He wanted to count the minutes, the seconds till he could hear that distinct voice, see that dear face and, most of all; hold that strong body close. They had been on separate missions in the past, but that was before he knew, before possible was an option for them. Illya sat down in the worn chair and picked up the mug of lukewarm tea on the table; sipping and enjoying the sweetness of the drink, musing.

He had made up his mind of course. He had known the very moment he had turned his back to Napoleon at the airport. Their partnership was of the well-tuned kind; a little blink, a tiny nod, and they could read each other's intentions. Most often, they could finish each other's sentences. They ordered each other's dinner. They would die or grow old together. So why not add this extra twist to it, after all, he had yearned for the closeness of a physical relationship for years. Now, that was a wish Napoleon shared, apparently.

All this, and more, had tumbled around in his head for a week now, making him slightly less concentrated than he should be. Making him masturbate in the shower. Even his old friend Adrian Bentley at the London office, had commented. Illya, old chum, don't they believe in holidays at the New York office? Offended, he had replied that he was perfectly capable of doing his job, and in no imminent need of a vacation.

But really, he needed to hear Napoleon's voice, to assure himself that their partnership was in working order. What if Napoleon had changed his mind and realized how much easier it was to entertain women for intimate relations? After all, Napoleon had a lifelong habit of womanizing to think back on. Could Illya begrudge himself one phonecall? Of course, it was he who had asked Napoleon for this time to think; to decide, which meant that he had no right to contact him.

It would be late evening now in New York, the perfect time for ringing, or calling as Napoleon said. Napoleon would be home from work, even home from dinner. He would just have to think up some lame excuse about checking a clue with him. Illya uncapped his pen and tuned in their channel, belatedly remembering it would have been more prudent to use the telephone on his nightstand.

After Mr. Waverly's prompting, Napoleon found himself sitting at a small table, entertaining Livy Malzone. Livy was as close to a friend as anyone outside UNCLE could be. They had dated on a semi-regular basis for some time, whenever her busy schedule as a PR woman for a large hotel chain, and his own irregular work, permitted it.

Napoleon watched Livy eat her lamb cutlet and with large gestures regale him with the more hilarious tales from her work... and let his thoughts drift while his mouth smiled. Why didn't he want this perfect woman instead of a grumpy, cursing, hard, wonderful Russian? She was dark haired, curvy, talkative with a fetching laugh and a good temper. An extrovert like himself. Incidentally, the opposite of his absent partner. And, incidentally, and morbid enough for anyone, he had chosen to take her to Illya and his favourite restaurant. The waiter had ticked minutely with one eyebrow when he arrived, not with a slender blond, but with a full-bosomed brunette, but had refrained from commenting. Much to Napoleon's relief.

"Napoleon, is something the matter?" A manicured hand patted his sleeve. He had been inattentive? That wouldn't do. Time to turn on the Solo charm.

"Sorry, my dear. I've been obsessed by work lately." His thoughts of Illya had been obsessive. He had to get a grip. "I apologize. No more work tonight, with such a lovely lady as company." He directed his practised admire-look at her. "Have I complimented you on your choice of dress? The green matches your eyes perfectly."

She laughed and shook her head, waves flying. "Oh Napoleon. You flatterer, you. Don't avoid the issue. I know the tales of my employees' more outlandish mistakes are not that entertaining, but something is bothering you. Even I can see that."

"Livy. Don't underestimate your importance to me." Napoleon turned his hand and enclosed her smaller one in it. "You are one of the few people outside work I consider a friend." He met her gaze. "I have been...I am enjoying myself tonight. I love to hear your stories."

"Hm." She grinned at him. "You have even let the corner of your mouth twitch a couple of times. A sign of your happiness, no doubt." She tsked at his effort at looking contrite. "My guess is that there's a different story you would like to hear. Who is she?"

It would be so easy. But could he? "There is no other she."

"Oh?" Livy's searching eyes bore into him. "I would have thought..." She blinked. "You want to talk about it?"

Napoleon sighed. Was this a conversation he wished to have? He had supposed no, but now it felt like he wanted to, but should he? Maybe it would help to confide in someone. Someone neutral, outside work. It might spoil his chances with Livy, but..."There's a he."

"It's complicated then." Livy sounded sympathetic. And not at all shocked.

"Yes and no." He gave her hand a little squeeze. "How broadminded are you, honey?"

"Napoleon?" She leaned over the table and lowered her voice. "I'm very broadminded, if you get my meaning."

"You know I work for UNCLE." He hesitated. "Secrecy is paramount. Despite this, I want to pursue this relationship, in all its aspects."

She nodded, as if this was perfectly normal. "And this he, does he care enough about you to be careful?"

"Yes, I believe he does." Napoleon couldn't stop a smile from forming on his lips.

"So that's not the problem, then." She speared a piece of lamb on her fork, popped it into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. "Okay, my friend. Leave this to your secret personal adviser." She put the fork down and rubbed her hands together, looking gleefully at him.

Napoleon groaned. Trust a woman to engage wholeheartedly in the complicated love life of her acquaintances. "Il...eh, he is a very private person, Livy, and this, erm...change, is recent."

"Yes, I guessed that much. And yes, I'm dying to hear everything. Napoleon, I enjoy listening." She held up her hands, letting red-nailed fingers wave between them. "But, wait."

Napoleon sat back, lifted his glass and sipped his dark wine, not knowing what to expect.

"Your friend, is he a homosexual?"

Napoleon squirmed in his chair, and sneaked a finger between his shirt-collar and neck. Was it hot in here? "Eh, he may be. Or possibly he is bisexual like I am."

"That's fine, then." Livy smiled encouragingly at him. "And he wants to have sex with you? Repeatedly?"

Oh god. How could he ever have believed he was the open-minded one? "Yes." His voice was hoarse. Probably the spicy sauce.

"Well, then. What's the problem, Napoleon?" She had lowered her voice, and watched him expectantly.

"The problem is," he looked into her beautiful eyes, "that we can not be open about this, that I...we have to be discreet."

She winked and met his gaze. "Despite your flamboyant ways, mon ami, you are always discreet"

A small hand patted his. "Are you afraid that he will mean too much to you? That this may turn into something permanent?" She grinned. "For once in your life, I might add."

He opened his mouth to speak, but no.

"He's a friend of yours, I guess, and you don't want to risk the friendship you have? Am I right?"

She stopped and drank from her wine glass, and Napoleon breathed. "You've covered most of it, except I haven't spoken with him in a week, and I'm afraid he might have second thoughts."

"Which you don't." She made that a statement. To which Napoleon silently agreed.

Just then, his communicator pen chose to go off, shrilling its little tune from his pocket. Napoleon jumped, making Livy grin at him. "Nervous, Napoleon?"

He knew his answering grin was a bit sheepish, but, well. "Excuse me for a minute, Livy?" He walked quickly towards the exit, uncapping his pen on the way.

"Solo here." He stopped just inside the door.

"Napoleon."

That voice, he would know anywhere. The affectionate tone, though, was new. "Illya." Could he sound more feeble?

"You're not alone?" Napoleon looked back into the restaurant; the waiter chose that moment to approach their table to remove their plates and give Livy the dessert menu.

"No...yes...eh. Waverly. Um, work." Two guests passed him on their way out, talking animatedly...and giggling.

"Sure, Napoleon, a dinner stake-out, with whom?"

"Illya! It's not what you think..."

"You know what I think, Napoleon?"

With that the communicator went silent; Napoleon stared at it, dumbfounded.

He stumbled back to his table, and sank into his chair. "He hung up on me." It didn't even occur to him, till after the words had left his mouth, how revealing they were.

Livy didn't blink, just touched his hand carefully. "Whatever you said wrong, Napoleon, call him up and explain."

"Livy, I...the communicators are not used for private conversations. They are randomly monitored."

The waiter, who had professionally faded into the background, chose that moment to approach them again. Napoleon straightened up. "I appreciate your concern, my dear, but I can do nothing about this tonight." He met her worried eyes, trying to convey how grateful he was for her engagement.

"Really, Napoleon. There's no need for you to pretend for me." She scrunched her face up. "Although I had pictured another end to this evening, who am I to stand in the way of true love?" She grinned. "Besides, this is better than any movie."

Napoleon opened his mouth to voice his choked response, but...

"Joking, my friend, joking." Her grin vanished. "Take my advice, Napoleon. Never go to bed without making up. Go, meet your one true love."

"Easy. He's in London."

"Ouch. Call him tonight, go to him tomorrow. Give me dessert now."

His mind reeled. Women! "The cherry pie, believe it or not, is delicious here."

It had, Napoleon admitted, been an enjoyable evening. Livy had distracted him, and made him relax. He had been able to keep the part of his mind occupied with Illya separate, but now, back in his own bed, Illya was all he could think of. His mind, his body yearned for Illya.

He lifted the modern plastic phone on his nightstand, the one with the numbers on the bottom, which Illya had laughed himself silly at. What's the point, Napoleon, apart from it being a modern phallic symbol...and tried, breaking his promise to leave Illya in peace, to dial Illya's hotel in London. It would be early, very early morning there by now.

Illya answered on the tenth ring. "Yes." His voice was pre-coffee surly. Napoleon could have cried in relief at the familiarity of it.

Better bring out the big cannons at once, or Illya would sulk forever. That was, if he would get forever now. "Lyubimay, laskovaya moya."

"Napoleon. I am not a woman. Have you been drinking as well?"

"As well? What are you talking about, Illya?"

"Nothing, Napoleon, nothing. I guess I was mistaken."

Oh-oh. "Illya. Waverly ordered me to take the evening off. He threatened me with his niece, Illya. I've been thinking of you every minute."

"You should concentrate on your work, not on your delusional daydreams."

"Delusional?"

"Napoleon! You know what I mean."

This conversation was fast becoming something he didn't understand. "Y..." Why did his communicator have to burst into life just when he needed a private moment?

"Napoleon. I must answer my communicator pen." Illya sounded as irritated as Napoleon felt.

"So must I, partner. We will talk, though." Napoleon put the phone down before Illya could answer, afraid of what that answer might have been.

Uncapping his pen, he spoke. "Solo here."

"Ah. Mr. Solo. Something has come to my attention. You must proceed to London immediately. An aeroplane will be waiting for you at the airport. Meet up with Mr. Kuryakin, he will have received all the information you will need."

Okay. He wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. Or whatever. "Very well, sir. I'll leave for the airport as soon as I've packed. Solo out."

Arriving at Illya's small but decent hotel in Bloomsbury, he wondered what to do. It was late afternoon in London, and he was hungry. He had learned two things from the receptionist, a young girl from Italy. Illya was not yet in, and their parsimonious boss expected him to share a room with Illya. That wasn't exactly revolutionary news, but how would his partner take it? Illya had two ways of treating him when he had annoyed him more than usual; the Silent Sulk, or the Furious Fight.

The room was like any other tourist class hotel room, except for the little detail of one large bed, instead of the twin beds which might have been better this time.

Well, he would prepare the best he could. Napoleon Solo wouldn't go down without a fight. He showered, using his own soap, the one with the subtle smell he knew Illya secretly liked. He dressed only in his dark brown silk, decadent my American friend; he heard Illya's comment, robe, belting it loosely. Last, he slung himself on top of the bedcovers, making sure the silk covered very little, and grabbed the copy of The Times Illya had lying on his night stand.

He could almost hear his heart hammering in his chest, while he tried to concentrate on the crossword Illya had started on. How long would he have to wait?

It didn't take long at all. Two words later, he heard the key being turned in the lock, and Illya walked in. Looking exhausted. Like he had slept just as little as Napoleon.

One step, and Illya stood stock still. His eyes lit, a smile tugged at his lips, but then...nothing.

"Illya? You did know I was coming?"

Nothing.

The Silent Sulk, then. That wouldn't do, not this time. "Illya." Napoleon made a pretence of studying the crossword. "Romantic poet, six letters, the third and the last are n."

"James Clarence Mangan, Napoleon." An angry Illya-voice was better than no Illya-voice.

"Ah, that's it. It'll be courgettes down, then."

But Illya wasn't listening to his show off of British vocabulary.

"Mangan should suit you well, Napoleon. He wrote about mirrors and vain people."

"Oh?" Better keep comments at a minimum, lest Illya explode.

"Veil not thy mirror, sweet Amine, Till night shall also veil each star! Thou seest a twofold marvel there: The only face so fair as thine, The only eyes that, near or far, Can gaze on thine without despair."

The endearing, Russian accent wasn't as subtle as usual when Illya spat poetry at him. But. "Despair, Illya?" They would discuss vain later. "Perish the thought. Come here."

Illya was still rooted to the carpet, just inside the door.

"Illyusha." Napoleon wriggled a little inside the brown silk, and beckoned to Illya with his pen.

"Do not use endearments on me, Napoleon."

Napoleon breathed in relief. Illya looked less forbidding, he'd better hurry before he noticed it himself. "I'll use pet names on you until you vomit, honey. Then I'll continue till we're old and in a home for retired agents, enjoying ourselves by making daily life a hell for our nurses."

Illya stole a few steps closer. "One more sickening honey, and I will vomit, on you. Gavro!"

Illya raised his arms in the air, probably to show his disgust. But at least he was talking, which he himself should hurry up and do, too.

"Illya, please, let me explain." Napoleon hurried on, ignoring the muttered Russian curses coming from his partner's lips. And wasn't Illya's mouth too cute for that language? "In a few, clear words. Waverly ordered me to take the evening off. He threatened me with his niece. I called Livy. We had dinner. We talked. Then I came here."

Illya furrowed his brows. "Don't you usually bed her after dinner?" He took the last steps and stopped and glanced down at Napoleon.

"Not anymore, Illya. I told her I was getting serious with a man."

"You what?!"

"She's a friend, she's open minded, and, she knew something was bothering me."

"Bothering you?"

Napoleon reached out, and finally, finally touched Illya, the warm skin just under the hem of his woollen jacket sleeve. "I was worried you would end our life together before it had even begun."

He was rewarded with an armful of Illya, and hid his triumph in the silvery hair.

"I knew five minutes after boarding the jet to London that I did not want to live without you, you annoying American." Illya's kiss was everything he had dreamed of the last week, and more. "I worried you couldn't live without your women, Pasha, and could I live with that?" Illya jerked his robe back from his shoulders. "And, as you say, lose the skimpy silk, Napoleon."

It was wonderful to see the hungry grin on Illya's face, and hear that dark voice: "Do not think, even for a moment, that I don't know what you are trying to do."

Napoleon tried to control the predatory smile he felt forming on his own lips, but to no avail. "You like it?"

"Da."

Napoleon grinned wider and tried to tug at Illya's clothes, managed to loosen his bow tie, rip a couple of tiny shirt buttons.

"No, Napasha, let me. You can undress me later."

With Illya's lips and fingers on his nipples, it was impossible to protest.

Illya's very English tweed jacket itched against him, which was a relief. It would be embarrassing to come within seconds. But it was oh so good when Illya moved down his body, wet lips making lines on his skin.

"You can come if you want," Illya looked up from licking Napoleon's balls. "I can see you want to." Illya probably wanted teasing material for years to come.

"Come now, Pasha," Illya's warm hands closed around Napoleon's painfully hard cock. "And I might suck your beautiful erection later.

Napoleon's cock jerked at that memory, filling even more.

"You liked that?" Illya sounded far too smug for his own good. "Or, perhaps I could enter you, while you watch, in the mirror, while I watch you."

Napoleon groaned, while his mind supplied a reason. Illya was seeking affirmation of his love.

He watched Illya, still fully dressed in tweeds, hair mussed, and, God, mouth hovering over his cock, held straight up with Illya's hands.

What could he do? At the first lick of Illya's agile tongue, the first suck of that mouth, he yelled and came. He vaguely felt Illya swallow around him, keeping his spurting cock in his wet mouth till Napoleon stopped jerking. Then a warm tongue licked him clean, and, finally, inexplicably, a naked Illya pulled him into his arms.

He must have fallen asleep, because the covers were tucked up around him. Under his ear, he could hear the calming lub dub of Illya's heartbeat. He raised his head and kissed the dark nipple peaking up under his lips.

"I am hungry for food, Napoleon. Have you eaten?"

Had he? "No. Order room service."

"The food that passes for dinner here is appalling, Napoleon. Wake up, and I will take you to a good place."

"This is a good place." Napoleon strengthened his hold on Illya, never wanting to let go. "Besides, don't you want to..." He nudged and felt Illya's flaccid cock. "Illya! I'm either thoughtless or boring." He stretched his neck backwards and watched Illya's face. Which reddened mysteriously.

"Uh. There is no need, Napoleon."

"No need?" Was Illya sick? Napoleon sat up, knees on both sides of Illya's hips.

"No, I..." Illya's eyes stole towards the bedside, and Napoleon followed his glance. And grinned.

"Why, Illya, my controlled friend!" Napoleon took in the rumpled tweed suit lying in a heap on the floor, added it with Illya's blushing face, and came up with a sum. "You came in your decent, British pants!"

" I could not stop myself from ejaculating, watching you." It was pressed out through closed lips.

Napoleon filed away the effect of his silk robe, though he refrained from showing his glee, but was rewarded with one of Illya's harder swats.

"Mock me, and I will have my revenge." Illya pushed him off and rose from the bed. "But our bickering will have to wait, Napoleon. I suspect you came here to work"

Napoleon jumped up. "Yes, Mr. Waverly promised me you had some new information on our water drinking friends?" At Illya's questioning look, he halted. "Although, I'm beginning to suspect the sneaky Old Man has a hidden agenda somewhere."

"So do I. I could easily have conveyed my findings to you via our communicators." Illya triggered the lock and opened Napoleon's suitcase, handing him his toilet bag. "Why haven't you unpacked, Napoleon? " Illya waved a hand at the bed where the brown robe lay rumpled. "Apart from that I mean."

"I wasn't sure of my welcome."

"Really, Napoleon. You know I will not let our private life interfere with work."

"Nor with UNCLE's expense budget," Napoleon couldn't refrain from teasing. The relief was making him giddy. That, and hunger. "Tell me what you have achieved over dinner. I'm starving. Plane fare does that to people."

Illya nodded in agreement. "It does. Fortunately for you, I know the perfect place." He indicated walking out the door. "It is not far."

That probably meant at least a half hour's walk, but what wouldn't he do to accommodate his partner tonight? That of course, brought to mind entirely different activities he would agree to without protest.

He was right, naturally. After a brief stint along Oxford Street, still dense with tourists at this late hour, he had trotted after Illya through a labyrinth of streets and alleys, ending up outside "Molly's pub". "It's a pub, Illya. Not a rare commodity in London."

"Spare me the sarcasm, Napoleon. They make excellent steaks and the service is good."

Actually, Napoleon had to admit, despite the rundown, ugly interior, the food was excellent. Solid British food. Both Illya and he fell on their steaks and potato chips like starving men.

Lifting his beer, Napoleon checked his surroundings, and carefully put his glass down again. "Illya?"

"Yes, Napoleon?" Illya sounded deceptively innocent.

"What kind of pub is this, anyway?" Not only were his eyes drawn to the clientele, the posters on the wall ticked his imagination too.

"Uh, Napoleon." Illya smiled brightly. "It is just a pub frequented by homosexuals. It's quite common in Soho." Illya didn't blink. "I hope you don't mind?"

Did he mind? Probably not. "But Illya, what about those posters?"

"Posters?" Illya's smile faltered a little. "That is Miss Lola Penny. If we are lucky, she will be performing tonight."

Napoleon squinted at the poster again. "They have transvestite men acting for entertainment?" He shuddered, his imagination providing images of Miss Lola Penny all dressed up, make up in abundance, doing a Barbara Streisand imitation. And telling rude jokes involving body parts and movement.

"Only on some nights, Napoleon. They also have sing-along nights, the pianist plays evergreens and invites the guests to sing their favourites."

This was suspicious. "Don't tell me you have warbled one of your suicidal, Russian ballads, and thereby earned yourself free meals forever? For not doing a repeat performance?" He ducked and avoided Illya's left hook. Maybe because Illya was laughing.

"You spoiled American. Not all entertainment comes through a television set, you know."

"I do know that, my friend, I have travelled the world with you. Several times, actually."

Much to his relief, it was neither Miss Lola night nor sing-along night. The only sound he really heard was Illya's voice, explaining the tradition of using herbs and spices for medicine. Relating the work of the London office in their search for the Thrush nest where they believed the production took place.

When they left the pub, it was dark, but Napoleon didn't feel cold in his summer suit. Perhaps it was the company, he thought, then chided himself for such sappy thinking. He applied his training as an agent to concentrate on Illya's shop-talk, but it was hard; he was unexpectedly distracted by the hot action taking place on the sidewalks, in the alleys; the sheer freedom of it.

"So I have spent most of my time in the reading room at the British Museum," Illya said.

Napoleon watched the rhythmical movement of a pale head moving over the crotch of a military looking guy down the alleyway they were passing.

"Looking for the original manuscript matching the palimpsest Thrush has," Illya continued.

Napoleon heard the loud groan as, predictably, Military Man climaxed.

"My friend Edward from Cambridge, now working here in London, tipped me," Illya confided.

Napoleon wondered whether it would be possible to drag Illya into a convenient alley.

"The hotel is so close to the museum that I save time and walk," Illya explained.

Could he rip Illya's jeans off, expose him to the humid night air?

"But I do not understand why you had to come, going through dusty manuscripts isn't your forte, Napoleon?"

And then he would bend down, sucking Illya i...

"Napoleon! Are you even listening to what I am saying?" Illya had stopped and was regarding him, curiosity glinting in dark eyes.

"Wuh, ah, Illya, I..."

"I thought as much." Illya turned around in a half circle, scrutinizing their surroundings, gripped his hand and tugged. "Come here."

Napoleon was yanked into the nearest alley, thankfully not the one with Military Man and his pale-haired friend. Illya pulled him into the darkest corner behind a large dumpster. They would be impossible to spot, Napoleon's brain noted, lest someone stumbled over them. Literally. Sadly.

"Stand still." Illya pressed him up against the hard brick wall, making Napoleon's excitement soar.

"Nuh, let me, Illya." Why was it so hard to explain? Where was his usual suave self?

Grateful, he could see understanding dawn in Illya's suddenly hungry eyes. "You want to reciprocate Napoleon?

Yes, yes, he sighed in relief. Illya always understood.

Sinking to his knees and turning, he was suddenly close, so close, to Illya's groin, the bulge there already straining against his jeans. The nook in Napoleon's brain still rational, told him that this would have to be fast and dirty. Well now. He could do fast and dirty with the best of them. Inexperience be damned.

Napoleon held Illya firm against the wall, using his hands to soothe the tremors already running down his thighs. He mouthed the clear outline of Illya's erection, letting his breath dampen the stretched fabric, and nearly fainted from the musky smell and the feel of Illya's button fly against his lips. Oh, yes. Illya wanted this. He hurried on, and scraped his teeth over the bulge. Illya moaned mucho satisfactory. Could he make him scream louder that Military Man? He thought so, despite the tight schedule.

Napoleon bit lightly all the way up to Illya's waist button, feeling Illya slide his hands into his hair and tug him closer. Good. Sneaking both his hands up, in between his mouth and the fly, he opened the top button and jerked the rest of the metal buttons up in one go.

Ah. Illya's wet and ready cock jutted out, knocking into his nose. He squinted up quickly through his eyelashes, recognizing immediately the expression on Illya's face. He was trying to hold back both his snicker and his acid comments, and lucky for Illya, arousal won out. But he didn't doubt even for a second that he would hear all about his inexperience and ability to provide comic relief later.

"Laugh it up, Illya. I, personally, will swallow this up." With that he sucked Illya's cock in as far down as he was able to, and swallowed for good measure. And got his revenge.

Illya's half-choked laughter mingled with a satisfyingly substantial yell, as he came and came, in hard spurts, down Napoleon's throat. Napoleon swallowed as well as he could, and hoped Illya wouldn't notice the gagging sounds or the come spilling from the corner of his stretched mouth.

Falling back, Illya's limp cock swupping out from his lips, Napoleon grinned up at him. Jesus, Illya gave debauched a new meaning. Large cock hanging out of the V of his trousers, flushed, satisfied face, sleek body against the dirty wall.

Illya grinned weakly back, looking faintly shell shocked. "Uh...I...Napoleon." Illya swallowed visibly. "You are magic. I had no idea I was able to come this fast or this often."

Napoleon allowed himself a tiny satisfactory grin, nothing near a gloating one. "Beginner's luck."

Illya kicked him. "Do not gloat, Napoleon. It suits you too well."

A booming shout and feet running interrupted their tender moment, jolted time to start running at a normal pace again, and Napoleon scrambled to his feet. Apparently Illya noticed too, he jumped straight up, tucked himself in and brushed his sweaty hair back.

"Let's go!" They grinned sheepishly at each other. When had they started talking simultaneously, like in a bad play, Napoleon wondered?

Back on the sidewalk, they were nearly run over by Military Man, who was cursing and waving his arms, sprinting after the pale-haired one. Oh-oh.

"Lewd and lascivious behaviour, Napoleon?" Illya raised an eyebrow. "It is just as well we were not indulging in anything like that."

"Yeah. Let's go, I'm suddenly longing for bed." Napoleon touched Illya's hand briefly. He wished he could keep the strong hand in his, under the lights and among the people, here out on the sidewalk. But no.

Raised eyebrows were his only answer.

The next days were as tiring as Illya had promised. But despite their lack of success in locating the manuscript, Napoleon found he enjoyed his time with Illya even more than usual, despite the dusty papers and the inaction. When he wasn't out on the streets, cooperating with the London office, he could observe an eager Illya at work, with his reading glasses on.They were more of a turn on than he wanted to admit.

"Yes!"

Napoleon jumped out of his chair. "Illya! Warn a poor guy. My heart isn't as strong as it used to be." Napoleon sank down into his chair again, grinning helplessly at Illya's triumphant expression. A quick look around told him that the other academic-looking researchers in the library were not smiling.

"Are you getting old, Napoleon?" Illya pointed at a frazzled sheet on the desk in front of him. "This document, written on vellum, may have the solution to your worries."

"Ah, if I were so lucky, my friend." Napoleon lined his chair up beside Illya's and tried to read the faded letters. "What is this language, anyway?" Could he blame his ignorance on the lack of reading glasses? Probably not.

"This is Latin, an old European language." And god, was Illya gloating today. "You have heard of the Roman Empire, Napoleon?" Illya's smile was scary. "It started in what today is known as Italy."

"Careful, or I'll withhold certain services tonight, partner." He whispered. And how childish was he able to sound? Fortunately for him, Illya only laughed good-naturedly and patted his cheek.

"Listen to this, moi droog." Illya scrunched his eyes and nose together the way he did when he focused on something. "This Roman writer, a physicist, refers to an older, Greek recipe; a miracle cure, for enhancing the body's resistance to illness and decay."

Illya watched him, possibly to check that he understood the importance of this revelation, so Napoleon nodded seriously at him.

"The list of herbs he refers to is similar to the ingredients our lab assistants have found in the sample they have analysed. There are also unidentified chemicals in our sample, but this is the basis." Illya pushed his glasses up on his nose, and put on what Napoleon called his expectant expression. He never knew if Illya expected him blunder or contribute something intelligent, though.

"Ah, wow!" Did this mean that they could get out in the field together again? "Let's send it off to New York and intensify the search for the Thrush lab, then."

"Well, Napoleon, I would not be so eager if I were you." Illya was skimming down the text again, using his forefinger to mark the lines. "To want an artificially long life is hubris, as you well know."

Napoleon sat back in the chair he had half risen from. "I merely wish to age in grace and good condition, Illya."

He didn't blush at the dubious glance Illya sent him before bending down and reading through the rest of the lines.

"Well?" Napoleon couldn't wait to get out of the musty room, which had a really scary semblance to a purgatory he wouldn't want to visit.

"Well, indeed, Napoleon." Illya looked even more gleeful. "According to this source, there were some side effects, like serious poisoning and, huh, death. When this became known, the Greeks stopped using the mixture, and executed the producer."

"How? By making him drink his own, eh...drink?" This sounded like the Thrush villains were doing their job for them.

"Probably." Illya smiled his scary smile again. "Thrush have outsmarted themselves, this time. There is no need for us to tell them, is there?"

"Cold, Illya. Cold."

"Perhaps, especially since two of the other ingredients are lead and mercury."

"Why hasn't our lab found out that?"

"I wondered the same, Napoleon. They may not have been expecting that, or Thrush may have substituted them with other ingredients."

"I'll go out and check with Mr. Waverly." Napoleon plucked his communicator pen up from his front pocket, and looked around again. The irritated faces around them were a clear sign that their whispered conversation was annoying the shit out of the tweed-people present. And wasn't it a sure bet that the pen would start beeping just then?

He sauntered out, uncapping it as he walked. "Solo speaking."

"Ah, Mr. Solo." The Old Man himself. "There has been a most curious development in the case you are currently assigned to."

"So," he told Illya in the car. "All we have to do is drive over to Hercules Road, help our local office clean up the remains of the Thrush nest, and return home."

"They're all dead?" Illya sounded annoyed at this.

"I thought that would satisfy your bloodthirsty mind."

Obviously not. "Napoleon. I cannot question dead people."

"Of course you can. We'll send them to autopsy, and get answers. Besides, we have their lab." Illya brightened at this thought.

As it turned out, the local UNCLE office had answers to give them.

"They wanted to become immortal supermen!" Adrian Bentley, field agent, looked stunned. "But the poor sods only lived long enough to tell us that they had sloshed down bottle after bloody bottle, believing it would boost the effect." He paused dramatically. "Then they died. Like this." He knapped his fingers, making a startling smack.

"Only comfort, from a humanitarian point of view, was that they were all drugged out of their minds. I received the latest analysis of the bottled elixir from our lab just this morning."

"Oh? " Napoleon felt vaguely irritated that he hadn't been privy to this.

"Yes. I'm sorry, I was about to inform you when all hell broke loose earlier today." Bentley looked politely contrite, but secretly Napoleon suspected he was satisfied that the London section of UNCLE had managed on their own.

"Anyway. The results give evidence that THRUSH has added large quantities of one of the drugs popular in the youth culture nowadays. PCP I believe it's called."

Oh, yes; phencyclidine, one of the most dangerous drugs sold for recreational use on the streets." Illya turned blue, guileless eyes at Napoleon, "Remember the Angel Dust affair in California last year?"

"Sure," what else could he say?

"So, Adrian," Illya scratched his neck," those who do not die in the near future, are assumed to be drug addicts?"

"Absolutely, Illya." Bentley grinned. "And if they think they're supermen and able to fly...who are we to gainsay them?" He spread his arms, as if to include them both. "So. Case closed. What about a celebratory dinner tonight?"

Napoleon didn't much care for the glance Illya and this Adrian-guy exchanged. Had they been more than friends, maybe even lovers, long before Napoleon had discovered these possibilities? Had Adrian Bentley known Illya intimately, the way he wanted nobody but him to do? Napoleon sighed. He needed to get rid of this new possessiveness he felt towards his partner. He couldn't think clearly anymore.

"Napasha?" Illya touched his arm. It was not casual; everything in that touch would tell those watching what kind of relationship they had. That Napoleon hoped they had. "Are you still feeling jet-lagged?"

Dizzy with relief, he wanted to say, confused; what did this mean? "Yeah, maybe a trifle, Illyusha. I've been jumping continents like fences lately."

Obviously this was the correct answer in Illya's book, because he did his little half-grin; "Then I believe we shall have to say our farewells, Adrian. Perhaps next time?"

Napoleon knew a polite turn-down when he heard one; so he smiled his most sunny smile, shook hands, and suddenly found himself outside, out on the sidewalk, touching Illya's sleeve with a finger.

"Illya. Does this mean that you have another sort of celebration in mind?"

Illya gave him, not the half-grin, but that warm, open smile Napoleon loved. "I most certainly do, Napoleon mine. Let's find the car."

Illya Kuryakin felt slightly irritated that he hadn't reached the satrapy before the unfortunate Thrush villains had killed themselves. He would have preferred to question them about the process they had applied when brewing the fatal elixir. In stead they would have to retrace it, starting with the result. He knew he was sulking, perhaps even pouting. The covert glances Napoleon threw his way, in the middle of navigating his car through London rush hour traffic, told him as much.

Illya swallowed, blinked and drew a deep breath. There was nothing more he could do here; the more thorough analysis would have to wait until he could access his lab in New York. Here and now he had other, pleasant matters to attend to. He had promised Napoleon acrobatic activities of the personal kind, and he could already feel his cock lengthening uncomfortably inside his trousers, just from the anticipation. He squirmed unobtrusively in his seat. What would it feel to slide into Napoleon's proud body? Tight, most surely, since no-one had penetrated him before. He would have to be very, very careful. Hot, hot and slick, surely. And Napoleon's prostate, would he manage to hit it with each thrust, making Napoleon lose control and scream? Napoleon was an incessant talker most of the time, maybe this would make him babble or even better; groan dirty words? Oh, oh, Illya reached down and lirked his zipper half-way open, hoping Napoleon would not notice.

But there was one slight problem. If he was being completely honest, it was probably too early in their relationship to attempt penetration. He knew Napoleon's libido was strong, but anal sexual acts would make a strong impact even on him, being a heterosexual man up until now. So. What to do, without making Napoleon insecure and possibly hurt?

It wasn't as if he didn't want to. Jebat-kopat! Just day-dreaming about performing such intimate acts with Napoleon made him want to ejaculate in his trousers, again.

A pat on his head jarred Illya out of his brooding. Trust Napoleon to rent a decadent Jaguar when in London, making the drive as comfortable as sitting on his sofa. He hadn't even noticed they had arrived at the hotel.

Walking towards the entrance, he was painfully aware that he had to hatch a plan within moments. But first, he had to control his erection and his erratic breathing. Gavro!

"C'mon, Illya." Napoleon's scorching hand at the small of his back did not help his higher brain functions.

"Napoleon." Illya decided to talk it out the minute they had closed the door to their room behind them. But he didn't get any further before Napoleon surrounded him with his body and his enticing scent. Searching out his mouth, touching all his weak spots. Oh god, how was he to survive this? Illya tried to push Napoleon a fraction away, enough to let him speak. "Listen, moi drog."

"Umm?" Napoleon crossed his beautiful brown eyes at him, making him weak...no, weaker.

Illya sighed. This was almost impossible already. Better to just get it out before he lost all control of himself. "Napoleon." His voice sounded not the calm urgency he aimed for, but desperate and shaky. Fuck and shit as the Americans said. "We need to slow down, you're not ready for everything yet." Did he even believe that himself? "We must set the parameters for our intimacy."

Napoleon smiled. "Why, Illya! Such sweet pillow-talk from you."

"We have not reached any pillow yet, Napoleon. Why are you talking about bed clothes?"

Napoleon laughed "On the contrary, Illya. I'm overdue for everything. With you. Between bed clothes."

Oh, gavro. He could feel the fabric tightening around his erection, and hoped the zipper would hold.. "Guh, I don't believe penetration will be prudent, yet, Napoleon. Earlier this month you had only experienced sexual acts with women." He swallowed, trying to make his voice work. "Even were you to penetrate me, it would be an act that would change you for life."

Napoleon looked sternly at him. "It's not just your decision. I want my say in this matter, Illya."

Oh yes, he could guess what Napoelon's say would be. As much sex as possible, preferably now.

"Nap..."

"No, Illya. We both want this, I know myself; I know you." Napoleon's hand over Illya's erection only confirmed his words.

And that was the truth of it, wasn't it?

"But...shouldn't we wait till we're back home?" He heard it himself—how pathetically futile it sounded. Who was he to resist Napoleon Solo, the most important man in his life?

Napoleon only regarded him with those dark, glorious eyes, looking both patient, amused an affectionate. Illya sighed. "We should still agree on some rules, Napoleon."

Napoleon nodded, signalling, Illya thought, impatience.

"We stop if either of us lose his nerve, Napoleon."

"That's sensible."

"We do not hurry."

"I can accept that."

"No matter what, we can stop and stay partners and friends."

"Don't fool yourself, Illya."

Well, it was worth a try.

"Illya?" Napoleon barely touched his cheek with his fingertips, making him dizzy. "What do you want, Illyusha? Your choice?"

Lie and run? Tell the truth? There was only one option.

"Napasha, my... I want to make love to you till you scream and forget every woman you have ever taken to bed." Napoleon gasped, so he continued. "I want to touch you so you feel it every time you try to sit the next week." Illya stepped closer to Napoleon, as close he could get. "And I want to start now." Napoleon looked faint, so Illya took pity on him and led him to the sagging bed.

"Lie down, Napoleon, I want your clothes off." If Napoleon's moan was a measure, he liked the idea. Very much. "But first..."

Illya undressed himself with economic movements, as usual, but dropped his clothes haphazardly on the floor, instead of hanging them in the closet. After all, there was a time for everything. Naked, his hard erection standing out from his groin, he turned to Napoleon, still lying on top of the made bed. He wanted Napoleon to see, really see what he was getting himself into. Or getting into him, as it was. Now was the time if they were going to stop. Once they had started, it would be difficult.

But Napoleon didn't look like he wanted to stop. He was, Illya focused his sight, drooling, panting, mouth open, eyes dilated. He wanted this. Probably as much as he himself wanted it.

"Illya...c'mon. I'm more than ready." Napoleon beckoned him with one hand. "I want that. You in...inside me."

"Napasha, we can not hurry." Illya could no more than whisper. "A moment. Wait." He ran for his bag in the closet, grabbed the little tube of lubrication he had bought in a particularly hopeful moment, and raced back to the bed. The bed with Napoleon in it, clothed still, but ready to be undressed and opened. Illya knew he would probably regret this, but there was a limit to even his control, and that limit was approaching...fast. But he would be thorough, he would not hurt Napoleon more than was unavoidable.

"Napoleon. I want to be careful, that means doing this slowly." Illya stroked Napoelon's wool-clad leg, "but I...I do not know if..."

"Careful? Fuck careful, Illya." Napoleon's voice was even deeper than usual. "Fast and hard now, slow later." He beckoned with one shaky hand at Illya. "Now Illya, while we're still middle aged."

"It will hurt, Pasha, I will try to be considerate."

He kneed his way up to Napoleon's side and was grabbed by strong arms. Trust Napoleon to take control even when he didn't know what was about to happen.

But it was wonderful to indulge Napoleon and share soft kisses...for awhile. "Undress yourself, Polya. You want to be naked for this, and I don't trust myself," he whispered. Why was he whispering? There would soon be screaming if he had his way.

"Yes, Illya." Napoleon swung his legs over the side of the bed, jumped up and faced Illya.

He looked shy, Illya thought, not a usual expression for the normally extrovert Napoleon Solo. "Napoleon, it is only I, and, if you have not noticed it, I am already undressed."

Napoleon grinned, a glimmer of his assured self showing. "Yeah, I can see that, Illya. It's just..." Napoleon shut up and tugged at his collar.

Illya gave Napoleon the smile reserved for him, and sat up to watch him, his lover, remove his clothing in his precise way, neatly folding the garments over the chair by the drawers. If Napoleon's hands were shaking, Illya would not be the one to comment.

Finished and ready, Napoleon stood before Illya, mirroring his own stance from moments before. There was a slight blush in Napoleon's cheeks, but a challenging sparkle in his eyes.

"Well? Will I do for a lover?" Napoleon struck a pose, hard erection jutting out in front of him.

Illya couldn't have stopped himself had world peace depended on it. "Possibly. I will have to take the merchandise for a test drive, naturally." He jumped up from the bed and grinned at Napoleon.

"Illya!" An armful of outraged Napoleon made it impossible to stay on his feet, so Illya just let himself fall backwards on the bed again.

But it was so good to sink down and feel, a heavy and warm Napoleon covering him, grinding their soft-hard erections together in the wet that was collecting between them. To just bask in the attention Napoleon was focusing on him, with his hands and his mouth.

"Illya." Napoleon let go of his mouth with a quick bite to his lower lip, and gazed into his eyes. "I appreciate that you are trying to make me relax. I'm a tad nervous." He kissed Illya softly before continuing, "But if I can trust you with my life, partner, I can trust you with this."

Who was Napoleon trying to calm? He would never get an answer to that, because Napoleon flopped down beside him, on his back, looking expectantly at him. Illya leaned up on his elbow, let his gaze linger over Napoleon, feeding his growing hunger.

And they were on. On and going. No stopping.

Licking and kissing. Touching everywhere. Who knew that Napoleon liked to be licked inside his elbows? To be kissed at the back of his knees?

The actual preparing of an invitingly spread Napoleon was wonderful and unbelievably arousing. Illya tried to insert his lube-slick fingers slowly, the way he liked it himself. Napoleon would have none of it; "Fast, Illya. Uh, hard, Illya."

But he managed to tune out Napoleon's words and instead pay attention to Napoleon's inexperienced body. He stretched Napoleon with small movements of one finger, withdrew and just watched him. Napoleon's opening was so impossible small, and he was so impossibly eager, spreading his legs wantonly for him, that Illya had to bend down and taste. He licked thoroughly from Napoleon's balls, down to the still tight ring of muscles, and in. Inside, where the taste was dark and musky, the skin quivered; making Napoleon tug at his hair and groan what are you doing and please. Illya continued his exploration of Napoleon's hole with small bites and sucks to the rim, thinking: why, has nobody loved him before?

He pushed in two more fingers beside his tongue, moving and stretching, and Napoleon was so ready, he opened to him so naturally, that Illya had to withdraw, sitting up on his knees, just watching again. "Polya." He stroked Napoleon's quivering thighs, feeling the soft hairs move under his palms, traced his hipbones with his fingers, all the time following the movement of his hands with his eyes. Illya searched for words to give to Napoleon, words that would tell him how important he was, how he was loved.

He looked up and met Napoleon's dark eyes. They told him he knew. No need for those difficult words then. He bent down again and licked slowly, wetly, up the underside of Napoleon's ready cock. He circled the glistening head and pressed the tip of his tongue against that little seam on the underside of the head, feeling fresh drops seep out. It tasted like hea...

"Illya...no waiting...Torture is for Thrush." Napoleon reached down and tugged pleadingly at his shoulders. "Now."

Before he knew how, Illya had his cock, smeared with pre-come and more artificial lubrication, nudging at the opening. The opening to Napoleon's body! He sobbed. What if he came just from the feeling of Napoleon's wrinkled skin against the tip of his cock?

A hard pull at the base, just over his scrotum, helped. Napoleon linking his ankles behind his back, clutching his elbows, and pushing up...up, did not help.

"Polya. Stop that or I will come this moment."

"Ah, no you won't. Uh. This time we'll come together." Napoleon using his number one voice?

Perhaps, this time only, he would obey. He pushed a little more, and he was half-way inside. It was like drowning and he could not breathe. Needy, Illya looked up at Napoleon, his anchor.

Wrong move. Very Wrong Move. Napoleon looked undone, like he too was on his way to drowning. Sweat was shimmering over his body, making him look almost ethereal. But there was nothing delicate or otherworldly about his Napoleon.

"Pasha..."

Napoleon groaned in reply, reached up and gripped Illya's shoulders, pushing himself up again.

And Illya was in, in all the way, and he couldn't stop. It was impossible not to move now. He pulled out as slowly as he knew how, then pushed in, aiming carefully.

Napoleon screamed. In pain or arousal, Illya could not say.

"Good...Illya...more." Arousal, then.

Most satisfactory. The prostate obviously worked on previously heterosexual men too.

Illya could feel his heart thundering...no that was knocking on the wall over the headboard of the bed.

"Get a room, wankers!" The knocking stopped, and Illya could not make himself care; after all, he had more urgent business to take care of.

They set up a steady rhythm. He would give Napoleon his fast and hard, as long as he got his moans and yells in return. As long as he knew in the part of his brain functioning, that they would do slow and thorough later.

"No wait, get another room, you bloody fuckers!" More thundering on the wall.

Illya met Napoleon's eyes, matched his feral grin, and thought: fuckers indeed.

"No stopping now, Lusha, ah." Napoleon shuddered and clenched around his cock, sending waves of sensation through him. Illya wanted desperately to stop this, freeze this moment, but the momentum drew him forward. They were coming, coming, screaming and it was perfect. Cliches of stars and firing nerve endings danced through Illya's mind, a musical crescendo filled his ears, and even if the drum-beat was out of rhythm, he had never imagined he could feel so complete.

"Buggers! Fuck off!"

Illya ignored the muted swearing and collapsed, managing somehow to curl to the side and land with his head on Napoleon's sweaty shoulder, cock still inside him. Napoleon's strong arms safely surrounding him. He was not the only possessive one, then.

His next thought was what...who

"Ssh, Illyusha, it's me." Napoleon's restraining hand on his chest pressed him back. Illya could feel the rumpled sheets itching at his back, and something soft gliding over him. Oh.

"I'm only cleaning you up a little." Napoleon was washing him with a warm cloth. "You are quite sticky, you know."

"And whose fault is that?" Illya struggled up, feeling momentarily indignant. At Napoleon's smirk, he felt sheepish instead. "Uh, sorry Napoleon. Thank you."

"Now, that's better, partner mine." Napoleon leaned in and kissed him, making Illya's answer an involuntary moan.

"While you were out for the count, Illya, and it pleases me to no end that I managed to bring you out of control by the way, I spoke with Waverly."

"And?" This was the end of their little respite from the real world, then.

"Our boss was kind enough to let us stay the night," Napoleon's grin showed the layers of meaning he put into that sentence. "We're booked on a plane tomorrow morning."

"Very well, Napoleon. Shall we give our neighbour some more x-rated entertainment, then?"

"Why, Illya! I didn't know you were such an exhibitionist."

"Perhaps I haven't had anything to show off before, Pasha."

Back in Waverly's office, they were met with an arched eyebrow. "Gentlemen." Waverly studied them as they walked carefully over the floor and seated themselves awkwardly at the round table.

"What is this nonsense I hear about someone being expelled from their hotel room prematurely?"

Illya looked down, not daring to meet either Napoleon or Waverly's eyes. This, he would leave to Napoleon to explain.

"Err, well, um...sir."

Oh for..."Napoleon and I, we celebrated the case closure, sir. Perhaps we became a trifle loud." Illya risked a peek at Waverly, who looked his gruff self. "Uh, the walls were thin."

"Gentlemen." Waverly sounded impatient. "I fail to see how that is relevant to this case. Explain."

And Napoleon did.

"Well sir, you see Illya and I..."