For all that Illya was less gregarious than his partner, it often seemed to him that Napoleon was the more poorly understood of the two of them. People looked at him, smiling, urbane, charming, well-dressed, single, and they made assumptions. They assumed he was wealthy; Illya knew that he had more money in the bank than Napoleon did. They assumed he was easy going; Illya knew he could be among the most ruthless men he'd met. They assumed his success was born of luck, rather than hard work; Illya had seen the hours of poring over case files and assembling careful plans.
Yet even with all his inside knowledge, Illya couldn't help wondering if he really knew Napoleon as well as he thought he did. After all, those others were most likely as certain in their evaluation as he was. Which is what made the little black book such an irresistible temptation.
They'd finished their latest mission and parted ways to shower and recover a bit of their humanity, agreeing to meet up in Napoleon's apartment for a drink. Predictably, Illya had finished first. Knowing Napoleon was expecting him, he'd unlocked the door and reset the alarm without a qualm. The sound of the shower running was more than ample of evidence of his partner's whereabouts, so Illya had gone to pour himself a drink while he waited.
Which is when he noticed the book. It was lying out on the counter alongside Napoleon's car keys and a pile of miscellaneous items, including a handful of change, a lock pick, and a couple of fuzzy breath mints. He must have emptied out his pockets before tossing his clothes into the hamper in the bathroom.
The book was, stereotypically, small and black. It would fit comfortably into a pocket, even in a pair of dressy suit pants. The cover was simple vinyl, the spine stapled together. It seemed a little...cheap, for Napoleon's usual tastes. Illya wondered how often he went through them that he felt the need to economize. More often than he went through suits? It seemed hard to imagine, although Del Floria had gotten very good at restoring Napoleon's wardrobe.
Illya's fingers itched to pick it up. Did Napoleon really sleep with as many women as the grapevine seemed to think? Illya was pretty sure he didn't, though when Napoleon did strike out it was more often due to the circumstances of their mission than to any deficit in his charm. But to know...that would be different than simply suspecting.
Did he keep notes on each conquest's...preferences? Or just names and phone numbers? How much of Napoleon's success was due to sheer skill and how much to meticulous planning?
The questions burned in Illya's mind. Just curiosity, he told himself, but he knew it wasn't. He wanted to peek into that little black book for the same reason he had so often sabotaged his partner's dates. He was jealous. Illya was honest enough with himself to admit that, if only silently. Jealous of Napoleon's time and his attention. The women had done nothing to earn it. Most of them had little more than beauty to recommend them.
The shower was still running. He had time. Illya knew Napoleon's routine. He'd finish his shower, dry off completely, and put on his dressing gown. Then he'd wash his hands, shave, apply aftershave, and wash his hands again. Chances were he'd take a moment after that for a couple of aspirin. Neither of them really liked the stronger painkillers, but they both ate aspirin like candy.
The book was in Illya's hands almost before he'd finished mentally cataloging his partner's routine. He opened it to a random spot in the middle. To his surprise, each woman actually had her own page. Name, phone number, address. Illya supposed it would be crass to have to ask a woman where to pick her up if he'd been out with her before.
Underneath this basic information was a list of dates. Illya frowned. Dates? They couldn't be future assignations; all the dates were in the past. Perhaps they were past meetings. Illya paged through the book, checking his guess against some of the other women's entries. He seemed to be mostly correct, but there were a few inconsistencies. For one thing, Illya remembered several dates that he'd had to interrupt with assignments, and none of those were listed.
Of course. Illya couldn't help a surge of amusement at the realization. Napoleon wasn't keeping track of when he'd gone out with them. He was keeping track of when he'd gone to bed with them. Illya shook his head. Imagine having so many affairs going on at once that he couldn't even remember when he'd last slept with a particular woman. Bizarre.
Curiously, Illya continued to page through the book. Slowly a pattern began to form in the times. The interval between successive dates with the same woman was never less than two weeks. Never. The shower shut off. Not much longer before Napoleon would be out. With a quick glance toward the bathroom, Illya checked a few more random pages, but the theory held up.
Napoleon hadn't been writing down the dates because he couldn't remember when he'd slept with his women. He'd been making sure he didn't sleep with any of them too often.
Quickly, keeping one eye trained in the direction of the bathroom, Illya started paging through the book, looking for a woman with a date of roughly two weeks ago. It would be amusing, he told himself, to predict who Napoleon would take out next. A humorous little footnote for his mystique. That was all.
Illya snorted at himself, but kept searching the pages. He came to the end of the book without success. That was odd. Had he missed one? He flipped through the pages again, again without success. Frowning, he started going through the book of women more slowly, checking the most recent date for each of them.
Of them all, there was no date later than a little over three months ago. That couldn't be right. But before Illya could double-check again the book was plucked from his hands.
"I believe that is mine," Napoleon said mildly, tucking it into the pocket of his dressing gown.
Illya refused to feel guilty. He'd left it right out on the counter. "Really, Napoleon," he said dryly, "keeping track of the dates? Isn't that a bit crass?"
"What they don't know won't hurt them," Napoleon said cheerfully, not visibly upset by Illya's invasion of his privacy. "Besides, as you have seen, I have rather a lot of ladies to keep track of."
"But you haven't been keeping track of them lately," Illya commented, keeping an eye on his partner even as he went to pour the drink he'd come for earlier.
The flicker in Napoleon's expression was momentary, but it was there. "What makes you say that?"
Having committed himself to the conversational fork, Illya pushed on, half afraid of the answer he'd get. "The most recent date in that book is more than three months old."
Napoleon took a moment to pour himself his own drink before answering. "Maybe I just haven't been writing them down lately," he suggested.
Illya shook his head, knocked back his drink, and set the glass down so that he could point at his partner. "You are more careful than that," he argued stubbornly. "You would not keep such careful records for months, probably years, and then abandon them."
Napoleon shrugged and turned around to lean back against the kitchen counter, his glass dangling precariously from two fingers. "Even an expert such as myself strikes out on occasion."
"For three straight months?" Illya said skeptically. "I think not. What's going on, Napoleon?"
"Nothing," Napoleon said, but his eyes slid away from Illya's.
Pressing his advantage, Illya leaned over to rescue Napoleon's dangling glass and set it on the counter. "Napoleon," he said softly, suddenly feeling that this was far more important than he'd originally assumed, "what's going on?"
"Ah," Napoleon hesitated and actually blushed a little. It was subtle, just a little touch of pink creeping into the tips of his ears, but Illya could see it. "I realized that there was really only one person I wanted to be with," he confessed, unable to meet Illya's gaze. "I guess I finally realized I didn't have to sleep around like I have been if I didn't want to."
Illya eased back onto his heels, vibrantly aware of just how close he'd gotten to his partner. He was blatantly invading Napoleon's personal space. It was a wonder the man hadn't called him on it. But...he'd just ask one more question before backing away. Just one. "So, who is the lucky lady?" Illya inquired with deceptive easiness. He could feel his heart clench in his chest, waiting for Napoleon's answer. He'd fooled himself into this thinking this moment would never come. Such a fool.
"Why do you ask?"
Illya fought the urge to close his eyes. Did Napoleon have to make this so difficult? The man was impossible. "How am I supposed to tender congratulations," he said tightly, "if I don't know who to tender them to? It's quite an accomplishment, landing Napoleon Solo."
"I haven't actually said anything yet," Napoleon revealed. He wasn't having any trouble meeting Illya's eyes now. In fact, there was something strangely intent about his gaze.
"You haven't told her?" Illya asked incredulously. "Why not?"
Napoleon straightened up a little, bringing them even closer together. Did he even know what he was doing? Illya fought the urge to look away himself, instead holding Napoleon's warm gaze like a man might cling to a cliff edge.
"Would you believe fear of rejection?" Napoleon asked in answer, giving a sheepish little half shrug.
"But you are going to say something," Illya prompted, despite the little voice in the back of his mind that was screaming at him. Here he was encouraging Napoleon, and he couldn't seem to stop himself.
"Actually," Napoleon murmured, so quietly that Illya caught himself leaning in a little more, "I think talking might be overrated. I believe I'll do something instead."
The next thing Illya knew there was a firm hand curving around the nape of his neck and warm lips pressing his open and a soft touch on his hip. He made a momentary, helpless sound of surprise and pleasure before plunging into the kiss. Napoleon yielded to him easily, wrapping his arms around Illya's waist.
Napoleon's mouth, Illya thought hazily, was damn near addictive. He pulled away with difficulty, absently registering his grip on the counter behind Napoleon and the way they were plastered together. "Three months?" he managed after a moment.
"And six days," Napoleon confirmed, stealing another brief kiss. "I...ah!" he broke off to pant for a moment when Illya turned his head to nibble on his neck. "I...Christ...I wasn't sure how you felt."
Illya took a moment to smirk at him. "I trust you are feeling me quite clearly now," he said, pushing aside a fold of the dressing gown to rub intimately. Napoleon simply moaned agreement.
If he really had been celibate for three months, Illya reflected, he ought to be feeling rather desperate by now. When he all but bucked into an unembellished, teasing stroke along his cock, Illya knew that he really had been waiting. Waiting. Napoleon. That deserved a reward.
Illya spared a moment to be grateful for the thick carpet of Napoleon's apartment as he sank down onto his knees, untied the belt of the dressing gown, and pushed it open. Napoleon's cock was hard and flushed dark with need. Illya felt a pulse of arousal race through him as he regarded it, curving up toward Napoleon's belly.
"Illya," Napoleon moaned softly. Illya looked up to find brown eyes molten with desire looking down at him. Holding Napoleon's gaze with his own, Illya reached out and ran his fingertips along Napoleon's cock. Mouth rounding in a silent cry, Napoleon's eyes drifted closed.
Eagerly, his hand guiding Napoleon's length, Illya leaned forward and took the head of him in his mouth and sucked hard, just for a moment. Napoleon cried out, his hips bucking forward a little before he got hold of his control again. Illya moved his hands to cup Napoleon's ass as he slowly, steadily took his cock deeper.
The sobs and cries he drew from Napoleon had gone completely inarticulate. Illya sucked hungrily, drawing air in through his nose, intent on the hard length that filled his mouth. Napoleon was shuddering in his grip. Experimentally, Illya gave his ass a little squeeze.
Napoleon shouted and thrust so hard he actually choked Illya for a moment. The blond pulled back just in time to catch Napoleon's seed on his tongue. He swallowed and started kneading Napoleon's ass with his fingers. By the time Illya let Napoleon's cock slide from his mouth he was already starting to show signs of hardening again.
Illya climbed back to his feet and claimed another kiss, intending to give Napoleon a moment to calm down. Judging from the way Napoleon kissed him back, his tongue searching out a taste of himself in Illya's mouth, calming down was not the effect. Illya pulled back and touched Napoleon's cheek lightly with his fingertips. "Napoleon," he murmured.
"Hmmm?" Napoleon answered, nuzzling into his neck.
Illya let his hands slide down Napoleon's arms to pry his fingers out of their death grip on the counter. "Bedroom," he prompted.
"Right." Napoleon seemed to take a moment to pull himself together. Then he gripped Illya's hand in his own and led his partner to the bedroom and the generous queen size bed within.
Impatiently, both men shed their clothing and crawled onto the bed, coming together in the middle with soft murmurs of satisfaction. After a moment lying on their sides, exploring with unhindered hands, Illya pushed Napoleon over onto his back and climbed on top of him. He rubbed their bodies together, watching avidly as Napoleon arched his head back and whispered out his pleasure.
The heat surging through Illya's own veins seemed to be winding into a ball of tension in the pit of his stomach, slowly sinking down into a hot ache in groin. It would be good, so good, with Napoleon pushing against him, hot and hard and smooth, sliding over his cock.
"Illya," Napoleon gasped, squeezing his shoulder for a moment. "Illya."
It took him a long moment to pull out of the fog of ecstasy. "Yes?" he managed at last, though his voice had gone deep and rough.
Napoleon visibly swallowed, heat flaring in his eyes, but he didn't allow himself to be distracted. "I want you to fuck me."
Illya almost came right then. Closing his eyes, he scrambled for control and found it just in time. "How do you want me?" he asked, even more thickly than before.
"Lift up for a second," Napoleon instructed. Illya eased up onto his hands and knees. Beneath him, between his thighs, Napoleon squirmed around onto his stomach and opened his legs as much as he could.
Illya sucked a breath in through his mouth and let it out slowly. "Do you have anything we can use?" he asked. It was less precise than he meant to be, but Napoleon understood, because he pointed Illya toward one of the pillows. Beneath it he found a jar, the contents partially used. "Why...?"
"Christ, Illya," Napoleon mumbled into the bed. "I've been celibate for three months. Figure it out!"
"Oh," breathed Illya, "ohhhh." He let his head fall forward to rest on Napoleon's shoulder, momentarily overwhelmed by the thought of Napoleon lying here, in this bed, jerking off thinking about him. "You're going to kill me," he muttered.
"You are killing me," Napoleon said, strain audible in his voice. "Would you please get going?"
"Impatient," Illya chided him, but he coated a finger with the contents of the jar. Napoleon opened up for him far more easily than he expected. Unbidden, the image rose in his mind of Napoleon, on his back, fingering his own ass.
It was all Illya could do to hold onto the threads of control. He couldn't help rushing a little, but Napoleon, moaning and pushing towards Illya's touch, didn't seem to care. Quickly, Illya scooped two fingers full of slick stuff out of the jar and smoothed it over his cock, biting his lip hard to help himself cling to his control.
Napoleon was no help to his teetering control. Eagerly, he spread his legs wider when he felt Illya moving from straddling him to kneeling between his thighs. Illya took a couple of slow breaths before he moved to press against Napoleon, only slowly pushing inward.
The hot grip of Napoleon's body closing around him was impossible. Incredible. So much... Illya panted as he slowly sank deeper and deeper. Beneath him, Napoleon was moaning continuously, his ass hitching up against Illya, unevenly, helplessly. Finally Illya felt himself completely sheathed. He lay down on Napoleon's back for a moment, breathing in the scent of sweat and musk.
"Illya..." Napoleon moaned. "More?"
"Yes," Illya hissed softly. After a moment he found the strength in his legs to move, giving Napoleon a short, rough thrust. Napoleon cried out, despite the lack of artfulness in the movement. Illya tried again, thrusting longer and deeper this time, and found himself riding his partner as Napoleon bucked eagerly beneath him.
But what a ride. Illya didn't even try to control Napoleon's enthusiastic movements. Instead he met them with his own deep strokes, bracing himself on his hands to plunge into his lover ever harder. They came to climax in a wild collision of limbs, both of them slick with sweat and shuddering with the intensity of it.
Illya collapsed onto Napoleon's back and lay there for a moment, catching his breath, before it occurred to him that he must be making it hard for Napoleon to breathe. Reluctantly, Illya rolled off of him, wondering as he did why there wasn't even a murmur of protest.
Napoleon's face, turned towards him, answered that question. The man was damn near unconscious. Illya couldn't help a smug grin. He reached out with one shaking hand and pushed a sweat-damp lock of hair out of Napoleon's eyes. "Napoleon?"
"Give me second to recover before you ask me to think," Napoleon mumbled, dragged his eyes open a little ways.
Illya chuckled and kissed him softly. "Worth the wait, I hope."
"Mmmmm," Napoleon answered, and hooked an arm over Illya's waist.
Illya smiled and scooted in closer to Napoleon's side. "I'll take that as a yes."