"You are completely depraved, you do know this?" It was hard to speak with his tongue caught between his teeth but it was the only way he could think of to keep himself from moaning, and he knew that such noises would definitely not sound disapproving. The cool glide against his skin was the strangest of tortures, melting slickness between Napoleon's fingers dripping down his hip and lower.

"Of course I am," Napoleon murmured distractedly, his eyes on the ice cube that was currently making its way down the paler skin of Illya's thigh. He managed to tear his gaze from the sight for the briefest of moments, catching Illya's and flashing sharp amusement. "But you're letting me do it, so what, pray tell, does that make you?"

"A fool, I am sure," Illya managed, and the moan finally escaped, a soft plea woven into it as Napoleon lowered his head, his tongue tracing the cooled skin adoringly, his eyes closed as if the taste was too lovely to bear. It made Illya's breath catch, to be the focus of such tender attentions and he might have stirred in discomfort if he could have, if Napoleon hadn't slipped the melting sliver of ice into his mouth and repeated the action.

Mingled heat and chill against his skin, laving its way up against the crease of his hip and thigh. Napoleon's breath stirred in the soft blond curls surrounding his cock, too warm, too close, and Illya found his fingers clutching the back of Napoleon's head, his fingertips begging in a way that his lips refused.

Such a cruel tease, his Napoleon, and the last touch of coolness from the vanishing cube touched softly against the head of his cock with the soft tickle of a tongue-tip. The barest scrape of teeth made him hiss, half-sitting up in protest only to have his hips caught in strong hands, stilling him.

"You are such a bastard," he gritted out, subsiding back against the sofa arm. Dark eyes flicked upward and met his own in amused agreement, but he couldn't regret it as Napoleon's mouth was very much occupied in other things. Soft, sweet suction surrounding him, utterly decadent little swirls of tongue, and of course someone as practiced at running his mouth as Napoleon would be talented at this.

Really, the man had on overabundance of sexual ability, but Illya was not about to protest it so long as he remained the sole beneficiary. And he would, Illya promised, unsurprised at the sudden darkness of his own thoughts as he slid his fingers into Napoleon's hair to hold him still and he could hardly be comfortable, kneeling on the floor, yet he never offered a complaint. Instead, he tilted his head back into the curve of Illya's palms in silent acquiescence, his lashes a dark smudge against his cheeks and his mouth a blush of ruddy color surrounding Illya's cock.

Illya ran a trembling thumb down Napoleon's cheek and for a brief moment he wished he had Napoleon's skill with words, that he might tell him how utterly lovely he looked at just then. He let it pass with a hazy regret, arching upward and thrusting slowly into the sultry, accepting heat of Napoleon's mouth.

"Dear God, Napoleon," he gasped, his voice embarrassingly loud as heat shimmered in front of his eyes, blurring his vision and he was not going to come this quickly, he told himself desperately, no matter how skilled Napoleon was, how he simply accepted Illya's increasingly frantic thrusts into his mouth, the feel of him swallowing against the pressure like a shock of pure bliss.

Napoleon looked completely debauched, lips pink and swollen, and his skin gleaming softly with sweat and Illya could have immersed himself in that expression, lived in it, incongruous as it was topping a still neatly dressed body. He watched with glazed eyes the shift and push of his shaft between those lips, catching the faintest pink gleam of Napoleon's tongue against his lower lip.

His English was deserting him, another shred of humiliation as he found himself babbling encouragement in the language of his birth and he managed to spare a distant, sardonic thought that at least Napoleon would know what he was saying, so long as he kept the words as lewd as possible.

Words finally left him completely, losing the sudden, vicious battle waged by a battalion of inarticulate cries and he would have been completely humiliated by his vulgar shout when he finally came if he had only heard it, instead of being completely engulfed by the crooning encouragement of Napoleon's tongue, swabbing away every droplet he spilled into that wet, wet heat.

He collapsed back against the sofa arm, only just aware that he had been sitting up, practically curled around Napoleon's head and it was a miracle he hadn't accidentally suffocated the man. That would have been a trifle difficult to explain although the expression on Waverly's face would have certainly been noteworthy. He doubted anyone would be shocked that Napoleon had perished in a sex-related incident, only with whom.

It took some considerable effort to crack open one eye and as soon as he accomplished it, Illya regretted it, seeing the decidedly smug expression replacing the decadent loveliness that had been Napoleon's face for too brief a time. He lamented the loss but he had no one but himself to blame for matters ending so quickly, and really, it was better that Napoleon did not wear that expression too often. He had quite enough interest cast in his direction as it was without complete strangers accosting him on the streets.

Napoleon rocked back on his heels, looking silently expectant, and the arrogant curve of a smile to his still swollen lips made Illya sigh in annoyance.

"All right, you were correct. Ice can be an aphrodisiac," Illya muttered and he sighed again at Napoleon's delighted laugh.

"What was that, I don't think I heard you," Napoleon prodded, still grinning, "Did you just say I was correct? Could I get you to write that do—" His words were cut off mercifully as Illya slanted his mouth over Napoleon's, tasting dark bitterness and brandy, and it never did take much to get Napoleon on his back. Handcuffs would be a little trickier, and Illya reached for them stealthily from their hiding place under the sofa, already plotting on how to get those thin metal circles around his Napoleon's wrists.

After all, if Napoleon had to be correct then at the very least he could allow his partner to test the hypothesis. Whether he wanted to or not.



There was a large mirror on the opposite wall from where he was sitting, and though the bar was smoky and dim, he could just see his own face. Illya turned a little, looking away from the pale eyes reflected at him and instead concentrated on the skilled mouth working between his legs.

He shouldn't be here. Even though he had taken dozens of precautions, a winding route over half the city before coming here, going so far as to buy a completely new set of clothing to eliminate any possible trace that might be on him, it was still a heavy chance to be taking.

The young man on his knees in front of him looked up, his eyes a dark and sultry gleam in the murky light as he ran his tongue in a teasing little circle over the head of Illya's cock. Once, twice, until he earned a restless little thrust and finally took it all in and again, Illya luxuriated in the slick, dark heat of that swollen mouth.

There were places like this to be found even in Russia, if one had enough influence and had the money to back it, though Illya would never have attempted to find one even if he'd had both. The dangers, in his opinion, outweighed the benefit. The idea of being 'cured' of homosexuality was off-putting to even the most persistent of desires, even more so than simply being killed.

But here, in the United States, such places were so much easier to find and far more tempting, too much for him to resist. Just once, he'd told himself the first time, just once, but promises made in the dark were terribly easy to break.

Were he discovered it was doubtful that UNCLE would try any of the Soviet tactics; instead, they could do something far more sinister. They could send him home with a curt explanation on his paperwork and the results of that, his indiscretions embarrassing the Soviet Union, would result in something far worse than death. He knew it, knew it far too well but sometimes the moonless nights called to him, swept him away in a shuddering wind of desire and shame.

Illya trembled slightly, though whether in response to the warm suction surrounding his cock or revulsion at the thought of his disgrace he couldn't say. Either could have caused the surge of adrenaline in his system, fiery and potent, and that too was part of the charm of these nights. Completely addictive in a very familiar fashion and he would not be a very good agent if he didn't crave that rush.

He spread his legs a little wider and the young man eagerly accepted his encouragement, squirming closer and his mouth was wet and deliberate and far too wonderful, and oh, he shouldn't be here, but the pull of it, the need of it scratched viciously inside his veins with razor-tipped nails, a relentless burn that would not be soothed by either the touch of his own hands or the smoothness between a woman's thighs.

Illya slid his fingers into the young man's dark, untidy hair and urged him silently to continue. Such a pretty boy, with big eyes and lipstick-smudged lips, and Illya wondered briefly what he had been doing before he'd attached himself to Illya's side. It hardly mattered. All he cared about was this moment, the flicker of a soft tongue over his skin as if to learn the shape by touch.

This was what he had craved, the simple lewdness of it. Dark shadows sitting in other chairs having the same thing done to them, the smell of sweat and sex mingled with tobacco. The feel of a masculine hand creeping into his trousers, cupping his balls as the blowjob started to get brutal and messy and wild and Illya dug his nails into the man's scalp, a warning, and the chair was digging into the backs of his thighs as he arched and came without a sound, spurting helplessly into that sweet, warm mouth. Orgasm was as sharp as a knife blade, quick and messy, and Illya dimly felt the young man swallow before he pulled away, discreetly taking a sip from the glass sitting on the table.

After a moment, Illya took a drink of his own, the harsh burn of cheap vodka an insult to his palate, before standing shakily and fastening his pants. He didn't say a word to the young man, merely slipped bills in the agreed upon amount beneath the glass, plus a little extra as a tip.

The young man watched him silently, his lips barely curved in a smile and perhaps it was that, or perhaps it was something in those dark eyes that made Illya ruffle his hair softly before he turned to leave. Either way, both parties had forgotten the gesture by the time Illya had stepped back onto the street.

The journey back to his apartment wasn't nearly as complex. There was no need to lose a non-existent tail and even if he had been followed, there was nothing he could hide now. His itch had been scratched, he decided, keeping his thoughts deliberately crude. No use making false promises about never returning. Illya hated lying to himself.

By the time he was unlocking his apartment, Illya's eyes were achingly dry with exhaustion and it was that same exhaustion that made him a split second closer to shooting than he was comfortable with before he recognized the voice.

"You're back sooner than I expected."

His partner seemed supremely unconcerned about the gun pointed at his head, sprawled lazily across the shabby sofa, and Illya couldn't make himself lower it at first, his heart rabbiting painfully in his chest.

"Napoleon?" Illya managed, his voice hoarse from hours of nonuse. He cleared his throat and started again. "Napoleon, it is nearly," A glance at the clock. "Three a.m. What are you doing here?"

"You're quick on your feet," Napoleon's voice was very soft, not a good sign. "But I wanted to let you know, you aren't fooling anyone."

"What do you mean?" A useless question and he could see the answer in Napoleon's eyes. Not careful enough this time, it would seem. Perhaps they had known all along and had simply been waiting to see any developments before they confronted him. Illya realized he still had his gun leveled at Napoleon's temple and he hastily let it roll down to rest on his index finger before setting it carefully on the side table, trying to convey with every movement that he was not a threat.

"I mean, I know where you were tonight." Napoleon stretched, sighing deeply and stood, crossing his arms over his chest as he regarded Illya. The silence seemed to last an age, hazel eyes on blue before Illya finally looked away.

"Why are you telling me this here? Why you?" Illya asked tightly, the cheap vodka from earlier churning in his stomach. He stepped into the kitchenette and poured a glass of water, trying to ignore the red lights strobing behind his eyes. Not fear, certainly not, but something closer to shame, to disgust, that it was Napoleon speaking to him, and he was completely unmanned by his partner's knowledge.

"Because I am your partner and CEO, and why not here? If I did this at headquarters, I'd have to drive home, too."

The water was cool and oddly soothing, and Illya drank deeply, resting the damp glass against his cheek. There was a sound behind him, the quiet shuffle of paper and he turned to see a folder laying on his coffee table with pink and white documents spilling out.

"Your personnel file," Napoleon explained and his lips quirked in a smile. "Well, part of it."

Unspoken was the order to look at it and Illya obeyed mechanically, skimming over the blunt, sterile glimpse of his life. Credentials, commendations, a single reprimand for the time he'd broken another agent's arm while they were sparring. Napoleon was obviously waiting for him to find something, and it took him a moment to see it. In the middle of first page, beneath his designation as Section 2, was one neatly typed sentence.

Sexual orientation: bisexual.

It did not make sense. The papers were handled enough to not be newly made, which meant...Illya wasn't sure what it meant. "Why...?" he whispered, confused.

"UNCLE can't afford not to know everything about their agents." Napoleon shrugged lazily. "Everything. Any little detail that might be a vulnerability is documented. If we didn't, we'd be handling blackmail threats left and right, and Accounting hates spending frivolously, you know that," he drawled, flapping one hand negligently. "We protect our agents. It would be an even bigger waste of resources to lose an agent over something so trivial as sexuality. Do you know how much it costs to train one agent?"

Illya ignored that, still puzzling over this new knowledge. "So why are you telling me this now?"

"Because if you don't know that we know, you're still vulnerable," Napoleon exclaimed, clearly exasperated. "Besides, as amusing as it is to watch you shimmy down a drain pipe, and it was," Napoleon's eyes glittered with amusement and Illya felt himself flush in a painful mixture of embarrassment and anger. "I thought you'd like to know you can just take the stairs from now on."

"Thank you for the information," Illya said, handing back the file with exaggerated courtesy. "Now, if you're quite finished, I am very..."

"What did he look like?" Napoleon broke in, softly, and Illya choked on his own words, coughing painfully and glaring at Napoleon who was watching him with great interest. "I'll bet he was pretty. You look like you'd go for the pretty type."

"I am not about to discuss this with you," Illya said icily, turning away from the dark curiosity glowing in Napoleon's eyes.

"I was afraid you'd say that," Napoleon replied mournfully. "Well, then, I'll see you tomorrow." He brushed a few imaginary wrinkles from his pants before turning to go, stopping abruptly after only a few steps. "Oh, I nearly forgot. Here."

Napoleon retrieved another folder that had been sitting, unseen, on the sofa, tossing it and its mate on the table before walking out the door without another word.

It was almost too much of a shock to the system; after years of preparing for at the very least death, at the most a series of electric shock treatments, to be told merely to use the stairs was, in a strange way, a letdown. Illya let the folder rest on the table for nearly a half hour out of sheer spite while he ate the remains of the Chinese takeout in his refrigerator before his curiosity got the best of him.

Napoleon's personnel file. Part of it, he amended. His list of degrees and certifications was pathetic in comparison to Illya's, and his list of commendations was nearly as long as his list of reprimands, though not quite. Some of the reprimands were quite interesting and Illya raised his eyebrows so high they had nearly climbed off his forehead by the time he finished. How had this man ever managed to get promoted to CEA?

He had read nearly the entire file before he returned to the first page, his eyes seeking out the line he had deliberately avoided. There, under sexual orientation.

Bisexual.

Illya stared at that single word until he could see it behind his eyes when he blinked. Then he returned the papers to the folder, stacked it neatly with his own file and went to take a shower.

He tried not to think of what he might be doing next Sunday; he did need his sleep.



He's never done this before, and it's more a relief than a burden because you can't expect expertise from a virgin.

Virgin. A ridiculous word; he's no more a virgin than he's blonde or blue-skinned but there's no other word in the English language that applies better. Inexperienced, inexpert, innocent, the thesaurus could supply a dozen words that didn't quite fit, a square peg trapped in a round hole.

So virgin is all that is left, both true and false because sex is as natural to him as breathing, and the warm feel of a body against his own is familiar but the lack of softness is not. Passing the smoky taste of brandy between their lips, a liquor of compromise for Sunday dinner, has been done but never with whisker-burn scraping his cheeks raw.

It had still been too easy to skim those dark pants down, past lightly haired legs and strong ankles, to find Illya wearing nothing beneath them. To push him backwards on the bed, grateful for the darkened room, and he hasn't done this, has never even really thought of doing it and it's terribly strange and more awkward than he's ever felt, sheer disbelief that he is even trying it lurking in the back of his mind.

Illya isn't circumcised, another note of strangeness that he can't even compare it to his own, and what did you do with it anyway? He can't recall ever discussing the topic. Nothing more than a little loose skin, wasn't it, and when he wraps his hand around Illya's cock the sudden rush of heat against his palm makes him forget anything else. Jesus, it is incredible, suddenly making this more real than anything else has that night, reality dropping on his head like Dorothy's house on the Wicked Witch of the East. Or was it West? He can't remember, stupid to be thinking it anyway when he is more naked than not and on his knees and holding his partner's erection.

Think about something else then, like foreskins and what to do with them. A minute shift of his hand reveals that yes, it does move and pretty easily at that, and he knows in his head it can't possibly hurt but he glances up anyway because it simply won't do to mess things up this early in the game.

Illya is watching him. Of course he is. Can't just drop his head back and close his eyes like any normal man about to get a blowjob would and though he can't see much in the dim room, Napoleon is fairly sure if anything hurts Illya will tell him promptly.

Well, fine then. He can do this. The feel of a dick in his hand isn't so strange that he doesn't know what to do with it. He slides his hand down again, watching with detached fascination as the foreskin went with it, letting the darkened head peek out from beneath. A gloss of moisture shining at the tip, alien and familiar and he ducks his head down to lick it away before he loses his nerve.

The tang like nothing he's expected, even though he has tasted himself before on soft, feminine lips. No second-hand taste here, only pure, clean salt, sleek dampness against his tongue and Illya whimpers, his fingers kneading the blankets beneath them desperately. So typical of him that Napoleon can't help but smile and repeat the tiny little lick, watching him squirm. A low tolerance for pain and pleasure, it would seem, and if his own heart hadn't been aching in dizzy fear, he would have teased him for it.

Illya is already arching up, rubbing hopefully at the seam of Napoleon's lips and he can feel more of that dampness on his mouth, slick and inviting. Parting his lips is almost a defense, tilting his head just a little and letting that heavy warmth coax its way inside.

God, it is nothing like he's expected; harder, stretching his mouth brutally as Illya cups Napoleon's face in his hands and holds him still, fingertips and cock rudely insistent, ignoring the faint sound of protest hovering at the back of his throat. Nothing more than that, easier to let Illya guide him and all the uncertainties of false virginity are soothed by this, a roadmap to follow into unknown territory.

A few slow, too-deep thrusts before it occurs to him that maybe he should try sucking and does, hard enough to feel pressure behind his eyes and Illya quivers, that universal oh-god-yeah-do-it-again signal and he does, until his jaw aches and his lips are sore and wet with spit, and this is dreadfully messy, would have disgusted him if someone did it to him but Illya doesn't seem to mind. Indeed, he's nearly sitting up, almost curled around Napoleon's head as if afraid he'll pull away, make some dry, teasing remark and brush it aside.

A reasonable fear; he's done it before in different circumstances, deliberately misunderstanding a word or gesture but hell, there is no mistaking your cock in someone's mouth. Too many years of foreplay between them and Napoleon had gotten tired of running, the path of least resistance shifting into surrender and god, he is on his knees, with Illya's hands at his temples, stroking in obvious encouragement. He wants that touch, somehow, more than he's expected and at this moment he'd be happy to have Illya rub all over him, mark him somehow with touch or scent and just be claimed by him.

He shies away from the thought before it's fully formed, nearly jerking back but fingers suddenly clench in his hair, a plea and a warning and suddenly he can't, he can't do that, can't go that far and he pulls off in near terror, feeling strands of hair tear away in Illya's hands when he shakes them off but it's already too late, self-preservation kicking in at its usual two minutes too late and there is warm wetness against his face in quick, luxurious spurts. He can feel it dripping slowly down, flicks his tongue out without thinking and yes, it's harsh, bitter salt though not as unpleasant as he's expected.

He expects a horrified apology and perhaps Illya would leap from the bed and get him a wet cloth, scrubbing it away himself and leaving nothing but clean, pink skin.

There is only silence and after a moment Napoleon opens his eyes and finds Illya looking at him, something odd and absurdly tender in his eyes.

Slowly, Napoleon raises a hand and touches the wetness on his cheek, already drying into tacky smears and he notices his hand is shaking, fingers trembling against his face as he carefully touches each damp spot.

It occurs to him that he is marked now, in a way that only he would ever be able to see. Marked, yes, claimed, yes, and he's dimly surprised he's not whimpering, terror shivering beneath his skin, shifting in sinuous waves down to his bones.

Illya leans up, moving with odd grace to kneel in front of him and Napoleon can't look at him anymore, bites his tongue and closes his eyes and it's a wonder the whole bed isn't shaking beneath them.

The sudden wet touch of warmth against his cheek startles him so much he nearly collapses, tastes a warm blurt of blood as he bites his inner cheek but the next touch is more soothing, less frightening and he sits perfectly still, the tremors fading as Illya carefully licks away every streak of dampness from Napoleon's cheeks, even the fresh, unfamiliar lines seeping from his eyes, virgin tears.



"Well, well, what have we here?"

Napoleon groaned silently at sound of his partner's voice. Ordinarily, he would have been quite relieved to have the cavalry ride in, or walk through the door as the case may be, but not this time. Not like this.

"Once again, it would appear that I have been doing all the work while you have been...enjoying yourself? You always did despise working on the weekend." Illya flicked one dangling earring with a fingertip and Napoleon jerked away from the touch.

"Illya, this isn't what it looks like and you know it. Now get me loose."

"No? How terribly awkward for you." He didn't smile but the smirk showed in his eyes. He sat down on the floor, his back against the wall and his ankles crossed, obviously settling in. "Never fear. The situation is in hand and our backup should be here soon to clean things up."

A frisson of true fear shot up Napoleon's spine. Backup. Dozens of agents flooding into this room and seeing him like this. He squirmed hard, uselessly, metal scraping his already sore wrists raw. He gave up before he managed to knock the chair, and himself with it, to the floor. Bad enough that Illya was seeing him like this without letting him see the bloomers beneath it, too. His partner hadn't moved, watching the scenario with cool amusement in his eyes. "Uncuff me, then, so I can get into my own clothes," Napoleon finally said through gritted teeth.

"I do not have a key."

"Since when do you need a key!" he spluttered, the chair rocking dangerously back on two legs before settling back to the floor.

"Really, Napoleon," Illya tutted. "Someone went through a great deal of effort to make you that lovely. Shouting ruins the illusion; it makes your face quite red."

Harsh words were hot as embers on his tongue but Napoleon swallowed them forcibly. If he made Illya angry he really wouldn't get free, and teasing from his partner would be infinitely easier to take than from an entire team of agents for the rest of his life.

"I would not have thought eyeliner suited you," Illya commented idly, tapping one finger against his cheek. "But I must say, it does bring out the color in your eyes."

Napoleon said nothing, seething inwardly and promising Illya would see some color around his own eyes when this was over with, in every shade of black and blue.

Drawing up a knee, Illya folded his hands around it as he tilted his head and regarded Napoleon thoughtfully. "Even with the makeup and the clothing, you still do not resemble a woman. Perhaps a wig would help."

There was a collection of styrofoam heads crowded into a corner, each bearing a cloud of brightly-colored nylon hair and Illya studied each one leisurely, finally selecting one with long, dark curls.

Napoleon allowed him to settle it on his head, physically shaking now in his growing rage and this was beyond joking, his partner, bastard son of a dog that he was showing himself to be, was going to pay for this, in fucking spades.

"There." Illya artfully arranged the curls around his face before stepping back to study his handiwork. "That is just about perfect." Very softly, hardly more than a breath and at the look in his eyes Napoleon felt his anger drain away, leaving him disturbingly empty and confused. What was going on here?

"Beautiful." Illya's breath was suddenly warm against his lips, brief and sweet before they touched, slick lipstick smearing between them and it was an odd sensation that it was from his own mouth.

His hands were resting on Napoleon's stocking-clad knees, the heat bleeding through thin, woven silk and, dear god, his tongue was soft and sure as it teased its way past Napoleon's teeth. He gasped, inhaling Illya's taste and his mouth was slick and cool against Napoleon's, and he was kissing back before he could even consider, sucking on the tip of the tongue invading his mouth and tasting clean sweetness.

A sudden bite made him yelp, the sound muffled by Illya's lips as he soothed the tiny hurt he had caused, the tinge of blood tainting the kiss which was hardly as sweet as he'd imagined at first. Gentleness shifted, tilting sideways into lust and, suddenly it was all he could do to keep up, Illya's mouth frantic against his own and god, god, god...

The sudden rush of air left him gasping like a fish when Illya jerked away, his head tilted as he listened carefully. "Helicopter," Illya said succinctly and he pulled away, walking quickly out of the room.

It was only after he was gone that Napoleon realized the cuffs were open and they fell to the floor with a clatter. He lost precious moments just sitting there stupidly, one trembling hand pressed against his mouth. Then he lunged to his feet, snatching off wig and clothes and scrambling into his own. He didn't bother making things tidy, using his last crumbling moments of privacy to scrub his face clean and thanking whoever was looking out for him that there was a small jar of cold cream on the table that magically melted away the last traces of eyeliner.

He was just straightening his tie when he heard voices approaching, looking completely presentable and revealing nothing of the emotions writhing beneath his skin like lava, and his last fervent wish of the day was to hope that Illya had forgotten to wipe the lipstick from his mouth before he met the helicopter.



All things considered, Illya would have preferred to take the stairs. A stairwell had dozens of little escape routes while elevators had none at all. He had wavered over the decision on the first floor, tired enough to make the elevator look like a decadent luxury, and he had almost forced himself to take the stairs in admonishment for such a thought.

He'd just started towards the stairwell when a voice in the back of his head teased him for his prudence, a voice that sounded distinctly like Napoleon's, and before he thought about it too much, Illya had stepped defiantly into the elevator.

"I need some rest," he muttered to himself, shaking his head. Hearing voice and now talking to himself; he hoped the cameras in the elevator didn't have sound or Waverly would have him in Medical by tomorrow.

He shifted the package he was cradling to his other arm absently, pressing the floor button. A bottle of Merlot that he had been assured would go well with the lasagna Napoleon was making. He suspected that he was given a preview of the next week's meal to ensure the wine matched. After their first dinner, to which he had brought nothing at all and received a great deal of Napoleon's disapproval, Illya had always brought a bottle of wine.

Napoleon accepted this, especially since it was something Illya didn't have to cook himself, but always, Napoleon had had something similar. In some Ch'teau in France, he would say, or a Villa or an out of the way restaurant that had been owned for centuries by the same family, he had had something quite like this wine, but, of course, better, and Illya was oddly determined to please him at least once. Illya had found that trying for his partner's fickle approval was turning from an irritation to a fine challenge.

He looked forward to having this weekly dinner with his partner, he realized with some surprise. If nothing else, Napoleon was an excellent cook.

So when his knock went unanswered, Illya was immediately on guard. His second knock, harder and urgent, again received no response and Illya carefully shifted to set the bottle on the floor, drawing his gun.

He had a key, though he had never used it. There had never been a situation where he'd felt it necessary to invade Napoleon's privacy. In this situation, he'd rather do a cursory check of the apartment himself before calling for backup, just in case Napoleon was in the shower, or performing some other mundane task.

When a quick search of the door revealed nothing out of the ordinary, Illya carefully unlocked it, turning off the security alarms before they could sound. Instead of the warm and comforting smells of tomato sauce or garlic bread, he found nothing but a darkened apartment. Other than the fact that there was no sign of the expected dinner, nothing seemed too out of the ordinary.

Illya didn't holster his gun yet, keeping it level as he carefully palmed his communicator but before he could use it, a soft, familiar voice spoke from the vicinity of the sofa.

"What are you doing here?" Napoleon was slumped into one corner of the sofa, his head resting on the arm as he stared at the ceiling.

Something very strange was going on. Illya holstered his gun and stepped closer to his partner, peering at him through the dimness. "It's Sunday," he said, carefully. "We always have dinner together on Sunday."

A closer look revealed a dark bottle tucked against his partner's side, a glass dangling loosely from his fingers. Illya wondered why he'd bothered with the glass; from the smell of him, he would have wasted less time and saved on dishes drinking straight from the bottle.

Napoleon blinked at him owlishly. "It is?"

"Yes." Illya sighed quietly and carefully removed the glass from Napoleon's hand before it fell to the floor. "How long have you been sitting here?"

A vague shrug was his only reply but from what he could see, or rather, couldn't see, his partner had managed to consume most of the whiskey. There was a paper bag sitting discarded on the table, a testimony to the newness of the bottle.

"Here, let me help you." Illya pulled his unresisting partner into a sitting position. "I think you've had enough to drink," he added dryly, setting the bottle on the floor.

"Not even one more drink?" Napoleon's tone, rich with drunken annoyance, made him sigh again. He didn't bother to reply; instead he helped Napoleon out of his jacket, hanging it over the back of one of the chairs. A glance at his partner revealed that he hadn't moved more than was required to fiddle with the end of his tie.

"Napoleon, it was not your fault she died."

The explosion of glass and liquor was only inches from his head and both of them stared at the stained wall, droplets of dark liquid trailing downward. A faint stinging told Illya one of the fragments had cut his cheek and he dabbed at it with a fingertip, finding it barely worth notice.

"Guess I can't have another drink anyway," Napoleon said mournfully, staring now at his empty hands as if unable to believe what they had done.

"I suppose not." Illya slid an arm under Napoleon's and pulled him to his feet, steadying him as he swayed.

"Where are you taking me?" Napoleon resisted being led, stubbornly digging in his heels. "I don't want to go talk to any fucking headshrinker."

Illya noted the profanity with detached interest. His partner was not one for vulgarity even when he was drunk but it certainly didn't seem to be affecting his obstinate nature. "I'm taking you to bed, Napoleon."

"Oh, yeah?"

The predictable leer made him roll his eyes. "To sleep," he clarified. Napoleon wilted visibly but allowed himself to be led to the bedroom. He stood docilely and allowed Illya to undress him, not even making the expected sly remark when Illya knelt at his feet to finish removing his trousers.

A gentle shove had Napoleon on his back and moments later he was tucked into the blankets, watching Illya as he silently straightened the room.

"How old was she?" Napoleon asked softly.

"I..." Illya hesitated uncharacteristically. "She was nine."

"Nine. The Chinese associated dragons with the number nine, did you know that?"

"Yes."

"There were nine muses in Greek mythology too. Lots of...lots of things with the number nine."

"Yes, there are. Napoleon," Illya bit his lip, not wanting to deal with another tantrum but... "It was not your fault that she ran out into the street. Sometimes innocents die."

There was a long moment of silence. "Illya?" Napoleon's voice was small and something in it made an ache start in Illya's chest. "Are you leaving?"

"No," he soothed, gently brushing a dark lock of hair from his partner's forehead. "I won't leave you." Yes, he thought, sometimes innocents die. We both knew that from the beginning, but we still chose to be agents.

"All right." A drowsy yawn and moments later, Napoleon was asleep.

Illya left the room only once that night, cleaning up the shattered glass in the living room and retrieving the mostly forgotten bottle in the hallway. He returned with a glass of decent Merlot and sipped it quietly as he watched his partner sleep.



Illya was, without question, one of the most flexible people he knew. Tangled into a net of limbs and linens, he gripped the sheets beneath him and accepted any new angle, shifting to meet every thrust without a single protest.

Which wasn't to say he wasn't demanding.

"There, there, there!" Illya gasped, his legs suddenly brutal around Napoleon's waist as he tried to force his partner to repeat the movement, a slow, liquid roll of his hips as he pushed back inside. Napoleon let his fingertips slide gently over the head of Illya's cock, laughing softly at the demanding push upward against his hand.

This was the best way to have sex, without any of the complications of dating countless women, juggling blondes and brunettes and redheads in an exhausting balancing act. With Illya, it was merely a matter of taking what was offered, when it was offered. No sugary coating shining over it and that suited them both just fine. Lust was as pure and clean as a flame, utterly simple and honest.

Illya arched beneath him insistently, his body clenching tightly and dragging a gasp from Napoleon who couldn't help but follow Illya's unspoken lead, flexing his hips and thrusting agonizingly deep. A soft hiss of perhaps pain leaked from between Illya's teeth but there was no room for concern or apology, not with Illya squirming beneath him, writhing like he was made for this, making deep, sweet sounds deep in his throat.

Simple, uncomplicated, just a twist on vanilla ice cream-type sex, and Illya was sweating and cursing and, oh, so lovely.

Just simple.

Sometimes he could hate Illya for showing him this and not allowing him to keep it.

His vision blurred with sweat, Napoleon finally put his greater weight to some use and pinned Illya beneath him, giving him the fierceness that he was snarling for in hard, deep lunges. It was easy to ignore the short nails digging into his shoulders when he was lost to the feel of Illya surrounding him, keening and yowling, and Jesus, who could have guessed that fucking the rumored 'iceman' would be like trying to hold a rabid cat?

He swore he could feel it on the inside when Illya came, dizziness swimming behind his eyes as he quickly followed and nothing was quite as simple as an orgasm. One pure burst of hot pleasure surrounded by wordless cries and then it was over, leaving nothing but the sticky aftermath.

Napoleon didn't realize he was biting his lip until Illya touched it softly, soothing the bruised skin. Something about the sweat gleaming on his cheeks, the curve of his mouth with only a suggestion of a smile made Napoleon want to kiss him and he did, sighing in weary pleasure when Illya allowed it.

In a moment, Illya would rise, slip back into his clothes and leave without so much as a kiss goodbye. He had never asked to stay the night, and Napoleon never offered.

Just simple, uncomplicated sex, nothing more. Simple.

He wondered how many times he'd have to tell that to himself before he believed it.



With all his various degrees and years of training, Illya Kuryakin was more than a little annoyed that his designation for the day seemed to be chauffeur. Spending the day protecting a young debutant who had simply seen too much was a ridiculously easy assignment, hardly worth the talents of the two men who'd been given it but he and Napoleon had been available and willing to sacrifice their day off, and so were trapped for at least one rounding of the clock.

Not that Napoleon seemed to be minding.

His partner was in the back seat, of course, reassuring their temporary ward and, again, of course, offering the occasional solicitous pat on the shoulder. She melted beneath his sultry cozening with nauseating ease, batting her painted eyes and Illya imagined that all too soon she would be accepting whatever falsely sweetened promises his partner offered. From the sound of it, a lovely caf in little Italy was already on the table and perhaps a nightcap afterward.

The only good thing about being in the front seat was that neither passenger could see him attempting to break a world record for eye rolling.

That Napoleon never lied to his conquests was possibly his only saving grace as far as Illya was concerned. He chose them perfectly, that much was true; ones that would be happy to offer themselves without damaging Napoleon's tattered nobility any further. Brainless, twittering creatures that only had hair color and breast size to mark them as different. All of them were just waiting for the chance to thread their tentacles into any available wealthy man until he proved less prestigious as first thought. Then they would drop all contact with him except to titter about his downfalls with their equally dim friends while waiting carelessly for their next target.

His partner was merely a bump in their gold and diamond-studded road; to spent the night with a real spy nothing more than a gossipy story to be told after too much champagne.

It disgusted him, these little games. Sex for the sake of having sex was one thing; Illya was hardly the icy predator he knew he was called in rumors and he enjoyed sex as much as any man. Perhaps not quite as much as his partner, and a memory niggled at him, hardly as vague as he wished it, of his partner in a shower, thinking himself alone, and Illya hadn't meant to watch him but the mirror was only partially fogged and Napoleon had been touching himself, slowly and surely and he'd looked...he'd been so exquisite...

Blinking, Illya shook the memory away. It wasn't about that, regardless of any temptation or distant lust. That Napoleon was attractive was hardly up for debate. It was simply his tastes that were in question, these tawdry paste-jewels that called themselves ladies.

His partner offered himself far too cheaply.

Illya knew he shouldn't let it bother him. When it came down to it, he was the one who would be seeing Napoleon come Monday morning. What bothered him was that their pretty, foolish little debutant probably wouldn't know, or even care, exactly who had swept in and out of her life.

Worse, this one was bolder than most, her hand resting inappropriately high on Napoleon's leg as though their 'chauffeur' was both blind and dumb to anything occurring in the backseat. When he saw it was drifting still higher, the tenuous grip he had on his temper slipped from the moorings that held it and Illya found himself speaking before he could haul it back, reckless, thoughtless words spilling free.

"Taking two ladies to the same restaurant in one week?" Illya asked loudly, shaking his head in mock dismay. "What will the waiters think?"

It took a moment for his words to filter through to the couple in the back, but Illya could almost feel the sudden chill entering the once-cozy atmosphere. He could hear their charge moving back to her own side of the car and the heady satisfaction of knowing that nothing Napoleon could say would salvage his dinner date would be worth any vengeance his partner might seek.

He met Napoleon's eyes in the mirror, briefly, and hid a wince at the real anger lurking in their depths. Even knowing Napoleon would be furious hadn't quite prepared him for seeing that temper aimed in his direction as it so rarely was. Illya held the stare, widening his eyes in deliberate innocence. Perhaps, well, it was more like a certainty that he had been a bit unfair, but it had still been the truth and through the mirror the anger in Napoleon's gaze melted into a rueful 'touch'.

He was to be forgiven then, as he had known he would be, although Illya would not be at all surprised if Napoleon chose not to speak to him for most of tomorrow morning. A little spitefulness was more than deserved.

But he also knew Napoleon would be there, with him, and nowhere else.