The Best Medicine

by Nataliya

It is Monday morning, and I am in a mood that will only improve if Del Floria has a *CLOSED* sign on his door. Unfortunately, he and U.N.C.L.E. are open for business and I barely acknowledge the man's presence as I limp toward the changing room. The receptionist is not so fortunate and I scowl at her cheery "Good Morning, Mr. Kuryakin."

Napoleon is at his desk as I walk into our office. "Hello, sunshine."

I plop in my chair with a grunt and begin rifling through a stack of inter-office mail.

Napoleon sips his coffee and I feel him studying me. He ignores my bad attitude. "Say, uh, what did you do with that intelligence on Percy Partridge we were looking at yesterday?"

He can be so helpless sometimes. "The fledgling Partridge should be roosting in those files at your elbow," I say, nodding at the stack on his desk.

"I looked through those," he says as he leans back in his chair. "Nary a canary."

I attack the pile on my own desk. "Here it is." I toss it over to him and the edge of the manila folder nicks his coffee cup, splashing a few drops on his pants.

He blots his trousers with his handkerchief and gives me one of his "it's a good thing I love you" looks.

"Sorry."

"I take it from that rather unsteady gait that you didn't sleep last night," he observes.

"How perceptive of you."

He nods. "That muscle is bothering you again."

"Yes."

"Throbbing?"

"Yes."

"Swollen?"

"Ye——" I look up and he's grinning. "I don't know what muscle you're referring to, but I am talking about the one in my thigh."

He acts as if he's been enlightened. "Ohhh, that one."

My eyes narrow and convey that I'm not in the mood. It doesn't faze him, of course, and he comes over and pulls on the back of my chair, wheeling me away from my desk.

"Come on, lie down on the couch."

"I beg your pardon."

"Let me work on that leg."

I reach for the edge of the desk and roll myself back to it. "I'll go down to Sven at lunch." I know Napoleon hates the idea of another man touching me, but physical therapy is what U.N.C.L.E. pays the man for.

"He's busy wet-nursing the latest recruits," he says from behind me. His hands are on my shoulders now, squeezing.

I am determined to be stubborn. "Holly in Medical gives a good massage. I'll ask her."

He leans down and breathes into my ear. "Doctor Solo gives a better one."

A thrill runs down my spine, and on to other parts. "Napoleon, I am not going to allow anything like that to be done to me here at headquarters."

"Anything like what?" he says, oozing innocence.

"Napoleonnnnn...."

He slaps my shoulders. "All kidding aside, Illya. I can rub the soreness out of that leg muscle. Guaranteed."

I shake my head, but against my better judgment remove my jacket and lie down on our pea-green vinyl couch. Napoleon sits next to me and begins untying my shoes.

"What are you doing?"

"You can't get a decent massage wearing a suit," he says matter-of-factly.

I glance at the door. "Someone might come in."

"I locked it."

I sit up halfway. "Oh, that won't cause any gossip."

"Illya, besides our, ahh, scandalous relationship, there are other matters around here that are top secret," he says, pushing me down again with the flat of his hand. "A locked door is not going to raise a single eyebrow."

I can't argue with that. He unzips my trousers and I lift my hips so he can slide them down.

"Now, which leg is it?"

"The right."

"My right or your right?"

I roll my eyes. "Napoleon—" My annoyance is aborted as warm hands slide up my thigh. And down again. And up again. Each time the pressure is firmer.

"How's that?" Napoleon says, his palms pushing deep into the muscles.

"Mmmm..." It feels so much better than it would have from the therapist or Holly. Odd how a pair of hands can do the same job, but convey so much less or so much more, can be impersonal or lovingly concerned.

His fingertips breach the leg of my briefs but so far he's being all business, and continues thus for a good five minutes.

"Put your knee up now," he says, coaxing.

I follow instructions and now he massages at a different angle. Long, deep strokes. Sometimes it hurts but it's a good hurt.

"It's not just your leg muscle that's tense, you know. Your whole body is keyed up from tossing and turning all night."

I've laid my arm over my eyes to shut out the cruel fluorescent light. "Yes."

"So how about something to relax you?"

I knew it would come to this. Whenever we comfort each other, however unintended, it comes to this. But it's never come to this here at headquarters. I keep my arm over my eyes. "Don't you think we should exercise a little prudence?"

I feel him fingering the waistband of my briefs. "She can get her own lover," he says with a grin in his voice.

I chuckle and know he's watching my belly quiver at the silly joke. The conversation doesn't distract me from the fact that my briefs have been slowly and carefully removed, and I am naked from the waist down.

The massage aroused me and the exposure finishes the task, my cock hard and asking.

"Very impressive," Napoleon says, admiring the effect he's had.

I lift my arm for a moment and look at him. "Is that what they call penis envy?" I say, taking some liberty with the term.

"In this partnership, my dear Illya, you are Number Two in more ways than one."

"Show me."

"Later."

His touch changes from therapeutic to sensual, and I can tell there will be no more joking. I cover my face with both arms now and entrust my body to him.

He is efficient. His hands sweep up my ribs, pushing my starched white shirt up my chest at the same time. They slide down again, skimming over my bare flesh from belly to knees, over, under, caressing, soothing. My center is straining with anticipation but I've learned from experience to be patient. Napoleon knows how to get the job done.

He finally zeroes in on intimate parts. "How does that feel?"

I sigh in response.

"I wish I could do more than just . . . touch you."

So do I, but his touch is more than adequate. My body reacts to every tug, every squeeze. As my spine and hips move with his strokes, the hem of my starched white shirt skims my ribs, adding a sensuous tickle.

"Just a bit more. . ." he murmurs, one hand working my erection as his other roams over my hips and belly.

My torso snaps to climactic attention.

"There it is," he says under his breath. He massages me dry in time with my gasps, then wipes the semen from my belly with his handkerchief. He tucks the handkerchief into his shirt pocket and gives it a pat, then bends down and whispers in my ear. "You should have called me last night."

I mumble regret.

He straightens up and looks at his watch. "I've got an orientation meeting with some visiting Asian agents in five minutes."

Duty calls, and I'm conscious of neglecting my own. "Am I needed?"

"You certainly are," he says, gazing down at me with affection. "But not at the meeting."

I give him a sated smile and reach for him, gripping the fabric of his shirt and pulling him down for a kiss. I whisper, my lips brushing his, "Likewise."

Another kiss and he pulls away from me with a look of reluctance, shrugs on his jacket, adjusts his tie. He's prepared to meet the world, the cool unflappable Napoleon Solo. Unperturbed by Thrush, despots, or surly partners.