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For Napoleon, sex had always been as much about giving as receiving. Other men might talk of taking their pleasure, but as far as Napoleon was concerned, a true gentleman could only truly accept pleasure when it was entirely and unequivocally mutual. It was as much a matter of predilection as pride; he had always found that the greatest pleasure in bed was to satisfy his companion beyond their wildest imaginings. No momentary passing release could match the thrill of seeing a partner's face transformed in ecstasy, the gratification of touching someone more deeply and completely than anyone before.
For that exquisite experience, Napoleon had studied and practiced, mapping the contours of the female form, and the occasional male, educating himself in the secret truths shared by everyone, and all the delightful differences. Every woman, every man, was an individual under the covers, and one by one he was mastering the infinite ways to touch, to share, to stimulate and to fulfill. He prided himself in his eternal scholarship, always eager to learn more, whether it was proving himself in his first time with a woman, or whether he was striving to surpass his own previous performance.
Napoleon always had liked a challenge. Sex was the best game he knew, and he was an adept, a virtuoso, and a connoisseur.
None of this explained how he found himself on his back now, legs thrown up and head thrown back, biting his lip so hard he was soon going to taste blood—but it was the only way he could keep himself from groaning aloud, and the walls of this third-rate Belgian hotel were too thin to risk it.
Illya rocked into him again, too damn slow, too damn cautious. Napoleon gasped for breath, tried to say, "Faster," but if he opened his mouth he couldn't be sure that any words would come out, so instead he hooked his calves around Illya's back and forced him closer. Illya fought back against that pressure, braced with his hands gouging the mattress on either side of Napoleon, struggling for control.
He growled out Napoleon's name, maybe meaning it to reproof, or to threaten; Napoleon didn't give a damn. He gripped Illya's forearms for leverage and lifted up his hips, driving himself against Illya's length, buried so deep that he saw sparks, flint on steel, friction so perfect it was electric. The ragged panting in his ears might have been his breath or might have been Illya's; Napoleon couldn't tell, didn't care. Nothing mattered except the pure heat of contact, the rhythm of Illya's thrusts, finally, finally accelerating now as Illya moved with him, falling into his demanded pace.
Coming was like catching fire, burning through him, burning him out. Napoleon arched up into it, spine curved like a strung bow; then the metaphoric string snapped and he collapsed back onto the bed. Under him, the mattress's worn springs moaned in protest. Illya almost fell on top of him, pulled down and off-balance by Napoleon's hold, and only just caught himself on his arms.
Illya must have come himself, Napoleon became aware, though before or during or after, he had no idea. No sooner had he realized than Illya pulled out, rolling off his partner onto his side, back to Napoleon, arms hanging off the edge of the narrow mattress. Napoleon lay sprawled on his back, feeling himself breathe, thinking how he ought to get up, else there was going to be a right mess to clean up in the morning...
Illya's elbow jabbed him in the ribs. "Move over."
"Later," Napoleon mumbled.
"Now," Illya said, shoving at his shoulder with one hand.
"All right, all right." Napoleon slid himself a few inches over, then turned onto his side to look at his partner. The bed-stand lamp was still on, the glow of its dim bulb casting Illya's skin gold to match his hair. Hands behind his head, he was gazing into space with heavy-lidded eyes, brow furrowed.
Napoleon watched his partner, the pleasant burn of enervation seeping from his body, leaving a leaden heaviness.
In his years of sexual experience, he had never needed to ask his companions if it had been good for them. Not afterwards. During was one thing; he'd early on discovered that asking when he wasn't sure was far better and easier than not. But not afterwards, not when it was too late to do anything but apologize.
That he would have to ask Illya at all...he and Illya had worked together long enough that they didn't need to speak to communicate, usually. Just last night they had taken out an entire THRUSH satrapy single-handedly—or double-handedly, as it were. They hadn't had to plan it; Illya had gone around the back, and Napoleon had kicked down the front door the exact moment Illya had picked the lock of the rear exit. Like clockwork, automatic; he hadn't needed any signal, hadn't had to time it. He hadn't thought about it; he'd just known when to go.
And once the cleanup was done, once they were back at the hotel—that had been automatic, too, instinctive, without thought. Trying now, Napoleon couldn't figure what he possibly could have been thinking, couldn't remember thinking at all. The adrenaline thrumming in his blood, and the memory of the girl they'd rescued flinging herself into the arms of her grateful fiancé, and Illya stripping off his shirt, fingering the torn sleeve thoughtfully—everything had come together all at once, somehow. Napoleon had put his arms around his partner, tight as the girl's husband-to-be had held her, and Illya had turned into the embrace, and the rest...simply happened.
Now, however, with Illya not looking at him, with Illya's composure as opaque as the shuttered windows behind them...he should have been more careful. To forget himself, to forget all he knew, with Illya, of all people, with his partner...
"What was that, Napoleon?" Illya said at last, addressing the cracked ceiling. He voice was soft, and very dry; not angry, but not especially pleased, either.
Napoleon sat up to hide his wince, made his voice light. "That was sex."
"No," Illya said.
Napoleon blinked. "...No?"
"I have had sex before," Illya said. "Not as frequently as you, but enough. It's not like that."
Though moving his limbs was like lifting sandbags, Napoleon forced himself to get up and make his way to the tiny washroom. He opened the taps, ancient copper pipes clanking, until the water ran clear and hot, and tossed a moistened washcloth to the bed. Illya caught it and started cleaning himself, fastidious and unselfconscious as a cat, as Napoleon wet another towel for himself.
By the time he was done sponging off, Napoleon had steeled his guts to do what he must. He stood at the foot of the bed, said, "Look, Illya, I'm sorry that this...happened."
Illya stopped mid-swipe. "You're sorry?"
"It was the adrenaline, and the...frustration..."
"Of the previously engaged Miss De Smet. Yes, I understood that," Illya said. He gave himself a final rub, folded the washcloth and set aside. "I'm aware of your needs, Napoleon."
Napoleon felt himself flush. "That doesn't give me the right to take advantage of your sympathy."
"Sympathy?" Illya sounded incredulous. "It was hardly sympathy—empathy, maybe. I have needs myself, if not as pressing as your own. Usually. Tonight, however..."
Napoleon heard the merest hint of a tremor in his partner's voice, and nodded. "Getting shot at will do that to you."
"Not to me," Illya said, but he was still uncertain. "Though if your adrenaline rush usually converts to that—I may be in a better position now to understand your impulses, my friend."
Napoleon ran that through his Illya-translator until he was sure he wasn't misinterpreting, then straightened up, weight falling away as he dared meet his partner's eyes. "So—it was good for you?"
"'Good' is a misrepresentation, by several orders of magnitude. It was—astonishing. Enlightening. Unbelievable. Napoleon, is it always like that for you?"
Smugness was a terrible sin in the bedroom, Napoleon was aware, but it was hard not to preen, seeing the rewarding glassiness in Illya's usually sharp eyes. He hadn't seen Illya's face when he came, too caught up in his own release, but it couldn't have been much different from this glorious daze. "I wouldn't say always like that," Napoleon said, then admitted, "Though adrenaline is more potent than any liquor in the bedroom, I've found..."
"I've had sex after missions," Illya said. "It wasn't like that. It's never been like that, not with any woman I've ever been with."
Napoleon frowned. Illya had no reason to flatter him—nor the will to, generally. Even when he wanted something, he preferred methods that wouldn't (as he had once claimed) bolster Napoleon's already adequately padded self-esteem. "Never?" Napoleon repeated. "Not once? What about your first time?"
"Not the first, not the latest, not any girl in between—and there have been more than a few, whatever you might believe."
Napoleon had seen enough women inexplicably drawn to his partner's standoffishness not to doubt it. "What about on the other side?"
"What do you mean?"
"What's it been like with men? Besides me, I mean."
"I wouldn't know," Illya said. "I haven't any sample to compare against."
Napoleon processed that. "This was your first—I'm your first?"
Illya glowered at him, like he could see Napoleon's ego visibly expanding and was trying to batten it down with sheer will. "The opportunity never presented itself before."
"The opportunity...Illya, has it ever occurred to you that you might be gay?"
Illya's brow folded until its crease ran up the entire length of his broad forehead, disappearing under the fringe of his blond bangs. "No," he said slowly. "It has not."
"You might want to entertain the possibility," Napoleon advised him, then raised his hand to block a yawn. "Now, we ought to get some sleep. Our flight's in a few hours."
He lay down on the little bed next to Illya, leaving as many inches as possible between them, turned his head to feel the solid, reassuring mass of his gun under his pillow, and went to sleep.
* * *
They talked little on the flight back to New York. Illya napped, while Napoleon passed the time watching the movie and flirting with the stewardesses. Once at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, they were busy with their report on the closing of the THRUSH satrapy, no chance to discuss what had happened afterwards.
Nothing was changed from their regular routine. So when Napoleon realized he had no date for the evening, having not anticipated such a quick wrap-up to the mission, he thought nothing of casually asking Illya, "Care for dinner at my place? I could defrost a couple steaks, or else we could pick up Chinese—"
It was a usual enough offer, if he had nothing else scheduled, and Illya rarely turned him down. But this evening his partner said, "I'm afraid not, I'm going out."
"Oh. Sure," Napoleon said, tamping down any disappointment. "Have a good time."
He could have headed down to Translation or Documents to see if any of the girls there were free, but after a transcontinental flight Napoleon always felt cramped and grubby, so he was content returning to his place for a long shower and going to bed early, and alone.
The next day he caught up on paperwork, save a couple hours on the shooting range, overseeing Illya's overseeing of the latest recruits' firearms certifications. This naturally ended in a contest between the two of them, egged on by the new agents, eager to see their seniors' vaunted skills.
Illya could handily outshoot him under heavy enemy fire or in a hurricane at midnight, but in the controlled setting of the range they were more evenly matched, and Napoleon had a reputation to maintain as CEA. Though Illya had his own reputation, and wouldn't cede the marksmanship title easily. Behind them, their neophyte audience traded whispers, along with small bills, against policy but in keeping with tradition.
Halfway through his clip, Napoleon glanced sidelong at his partner, to see Illya braced, his legs spread slightly to center his compact mass, straight arms extended and shoulders squared. He had taken off his jacket, and the black straps of his holster outlined his white shirt, the curve of his back and span of his shoulders underneath, as he fired shot after precision shot. His stance was textbook, as he rarely had time for in the field, and he was utterly focused, sharp blue eyes seeing only his target, the black pistol in his big hands an extension of himself, balanced like he had been born holding it.
It was not a sight Napoleon often got to see, as usually when Illya was shooting Napoleon was as well, or else being shot at, or both; and had no time to look, much less appreciate. Really, it was breathtaking; in fact it took Napoleon's breath such that his next shot went wide. Giving his head a shake, he returned his attention to the range, but it was too late to recover; when they reeled in the paper targets, Illya's single hole perforating the bull's eye made him the clear winner.
While the junior agents cheered or cursed, depending on who they'd put their money on, Illya caught Napoleon's eye to exchange a dubious look—Did you give me that win?
Napoleon shook his head, made a frustrated gesture with his gun that admitted an honest screw-up. Illya smirked at him for a barely visible second, then turned back to the green agents, who were flocking about him like American girls around a British rock and roll star.
Busy as he was on the range, Napoleon didn't get a chance to drop by the lower levels until late in the afternoon, and by then all of the lovely ladies of Sections Three through Six already had plans for the night. So he asked Illya to join him for dinner, but Illya declined again.
"My treat," Napoleon said, which usually were the magic words, but Illya shook his head.
"My apologies, Napoleon, but I have plans."
"Again?" Napoleon asked in surprise. Illya tended to stay in, more nights than not; he frequented the occasional jazz club, but generally he could be found at home, when not on a mission..."Hey, you're not on special assignment, are you?"
"No," Illya said, "it's a personal engagement."
"A date?"
"You wouldn't call it a date."
"What would I call it?"
"'None of your beeswax,' I believe is the common parlance," Illya said.
* * *
The next evening Napoleon had a personal engagement himself with the delightful Amber Allen of Accounting, but curiosity compelled him to make no mention of it to his partner. Instead he casually asked Illya that afternoon, "So, have any plans for tonight?"
And was unsurprised when Illya replied, "Yes, I do."
Napoleon signed the last form in the right-hand pile, dropped it onto the top of the left-hand pile and capped his pen. "Real plans?" he inquired. "Or 'I don't want to have anything to do with you' plans?"
"Real plans," Illya said, raising his eyebrows and blinking with genuine, or possibly assumed, surprise; with Illya it was never easy to tell.
"This doesn't have anything to do with—what happened in Belgium, does it?" Napoleon asked, recalling barely in time that their office was monitored, like all rooms in U.N.C.L.E. "You're not trying to avoid me?"
"If I were trying to avoid you, I could pick another place to work than our shared office," Illya pointed out. "Really, Napoleon, if I didn't want to spend time with you, don't you think I would just tell you so?"
True, Illya never shied from speaking his mind, especially when he was annoyed. Still, Napoleon couldn't help but wonder what might have changed. He studied his partner's inscrutable face. Usually it didn't bother him, not being sure what Illya was thinking; he trusted himself to accurately infer his partner's feelings, and trusted Illya to tell him when he got it wrong, if it were important.
Whether this were important—was a matter of opinion, he suspected. Whose opinion, now, was the question...
"So this has nothing to do with Belgium?" Napoleon asked finally.
Illya sighed. "If it will put your mind at ease, I can cancel tonight's engagement. Where would you like to eat?"
"No, thanks," Napoleon said. "I've got a date already."
"Then why..." Illya rolled his eyes in exasperation. "No, forget I asked." He rustled together a stack of papers and dropped them into the basket on his desk, then stood and picked up his jacket from his chair's back. "That's it, I'm finished for today. Good evening, Napoleon, I hope your date goes well."
"Yours, too," Napoleon answered, then looked up from his desk. "Illya?"
Illya turned from where he was making the day's final entries in the check-pad at the door. "Yes?"
"About...Belgium."
"Napoleon—"
Napoleon shook his head. "Hear me out. Even if you're not worried about it, I want to assure you, what happened then, that was a...matter of circumstance. One that won't be repeated."
"You can guarantee such circumstances will never arise again?" Illya inquired skeptically.
"No, but if they do, trust me to have a little self-control," Napoleon said.
Illya looked still more skeptical. "So, even if another opportunity presented itself, you'd refuse?"
"It won't happen again," Napoleon promised.
"A shame," Illya said, and left the office before Napoleon could drag up his dropped jaw to articulate a reply.
* * *
In spite of Illya's well-wishes, Napoleon's date did not go well; he was distracted throughout dinner, spending more time looking at his plate (a fine filet mignon with roast asparagus) than into Amber's eyes (well-done brown, with specks of green almost the shade of the asparagus). Amber, considerate girl that she was, gamely made conversation; Napoleon laughed politely at her accounting jokes (more comprehensible than Illya's physics riddles) while he went over in his head all the New York jazz clubs and private libraries he had ever known Illya to visit. There were quite a few; as with most Section Two agents, Illya was too cautious to settle at any particular haunt, and rarely went to any given place more than a couple times a year. And Illya hadn't dropped a hint about what he had been going out for, music or research or something else...
By the time dessert came, Napoleon had reached no conclusions, save that he was in no frame of mind to be good company. He waited until after he had paid the bill to proffer his apologies, excusing himself with mention of a headache (neglecting to cite said headache's name; Amber was friendly with Illya, and might mention his preoccupation to his partner.)
He paid for a cab for Amber, then drove himself over to Illya's apartment building. It was only nine, but the lights weren't on in his rooms, and there was no movement behind the drawn shades—out after all, then. Not that he had thought Illya had been lying, but...
This is absurd, Napoleon thought, as he parked across the street from the building, at an angle to see both the main front entrance and the fire escape in the side alley (Illya didn't always trust front doors, even his own.) If he really wanted to get hold of his partner, he only needed an excuse to radio him. Go back to HQ, look up one of the THRUSH project evaluations and ask for Illya's advice. Waverly would appreciate his initiative. Or, hell, he could make something up, too short a communication to be commented on—a brief question about biochemistry, or German syntax.
Napoleon left his communicator in his pocket, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he stared out the window, thinking about where on Illya's person might a tracking beacon be surreptitiously placed. Which led, naturally, to thinking about Illya's person in general, the yellow silk of his hair, that utterly distinctive jaw, the broadness of his hands, so at odds with his trim build...
Or he could turn his engine back on, drive home and watch TV or read a book and pretend he was as sane and self-controlled as he had assured Illya he was this afternoon. That was the best plan, clearly the only rational recourse.
By two A.M., Illya had not yet returned home, and Napoleon found himself shivering with cold, his breath misting the windows over. Rather than explain to Medical how he got pneumonia on an unauthorized and unwarranted stakeout, he drove back to his apartment, to spend the rest of the night in quiet contemplation, meditating on the nature and definition of "a shame."
* * *
The next morning found Napoleon and Illya on a plane to Bangkok. Illya put his seat back before takeoff, in blatant defiance of the captain's instructions, shut his eyes and did not open them again until they served lunch, somewhere over the Rockies. "Late night?" Napoleon inquired, at Illya's jaw-cracking yawn.
His partner regarded him with sleepy insouciance. "Early morning." Waverly had contacted them at 6 A.M. sharp.
"But you haven't been getting much sleep," Napoleon said, taking a stab in the dark. "Something keeping you up?"
Illya gave him A Look, undefined yet paradoxically definite.
"Or someone?" Napoleon asked.
"Wake me when we reach Honolulu," Illya said, shutting his eyes again.
He slept until Hawaii, ate lunch, then napped through the layover and dozed on the second leg of their flight. Napoleon would have suspected him of deliberately avoiding conversation, but airplanes tended to have such a soporific effect on his partner. The engine noise, maybe, or else it was the pressurized air. Though it was a bit suspicious that when Napoleon nodded off himself, he woke up to find Illya, seat back upright and glasses on his nose, absorbed in their mission brief.
Rather than broach a topic that might put Illya back asleep, Napoleon discussed the mission with his partner in discreet whispers until they landed in Thailand. They were met at Don Mueang Airport by Section Two Agent Petchara Chaibancha, a vivacious young woman with the bright dark eyes and delicate build of a sparrow, dressed in colors to rival a peacock. She brought them to U.N.C.L.E. Bangkok, near the American base at the city's edge, where they heard the crucial details that hadn't made it into the brief.
Two days later, with Petchara's able assistance, they had successfully thwarted THRUSH's plans to convert the one-hundred-fifty-foot-long Reclining Buddha with its gold plating into a giant computer processor, and averted a coup in the doing. "Postponing the coming of democracy for another few years," Napoleon remarked; Illya wryly retorted, "Unless they choose something better."
They celebrated their success at the local agents' favorite nightclub, where the music and menu were an eclectic fusion of East and West, and Illya's natural blond hair was an even bigger hit than Napoleon's obvious American prosperity. Distracted as Napoleon was by Petchara's charms, he didn't pay much attention to the glittering and gorgeous creature sharing a drink with his partner, until Petchara rose on her toes to murmur in his ear over the music, "Mr. Kuryakin—he has visited to Bangkok before?"
"Once or twice," Napoleon said.
"He's learning Thai well."
Napoleon nodded. While he couldn't wrap his tongue around the language himself, Illya's facility with Chinese dialects gave him a leg up on mastering the five tones.
"Does he know kathoey, do you know?"
Napoleon frowned. "Maybe? I don't know the word myself, but Illya might. What is it?"
"Who is he," Petchara corrected. "Dancing with Mr. Kuryakin, Tong is kathoey. In English, maybe you say, 'ladyboy'?"
Napoleon blinked. "...Or maybe we don't." He turned to check out Illya's new friend. Taller than Illya in stiletto boots, statuesque, long dark hair and longer legs—and shoulders as broad as Illya's, and flat pecs under the tight, sparkling dress.
Though Illya was certainly close enough that he wouldn't miss that detail, and he didn't seem put out by the lack.
"Tong is my friend, Mr. Solo," Petchara said. "I don't want him to be hurt, if Mr. Kuryakin doesn't understand."
"Don't worry, Illya wouldn't," Napoleon said. "Hurt him, I mean."
"Good." Petchara smiled, blindingly bright. The typical Thai smile came at a wattage to light up rooms, and Petchara's could power Manhattan. "Tong is enjoying here."
"Illya's enjoying himself, too," Napoleon assured her. Tong's arm wouldn't be going around Illya's shoulders if Illya didn't want it there, and Illya wouldn't be tipping up his face as the taller Thai leaned over him...
Petchara's hand on his shoulder drew his ear down to her lips again. "I am enjoying here, too, Mr. Solo."
Napoleon turned away from the bar and his partner's evident enjoyment, pulling on a smile to match hers. "Please, call me Napoleon."
* * *
The next morning Illya met Napoleon at the airport in a timely fashion, and seemed in a pleasant enough mood himself, looking as relaxed as if he had been on vacation—though not too rested, considering how quickly he fell asleep once they boarded.
Napoleon could use sleep himself. Petchara had proved as skilled at dancing as she was at THRUSH-thwarting, and had kept him up for most of the night. But whenever he closed his eyes, he kept seeing the sheen of sweat glittering on Illya's pale pink skin and Tong's bronze, the contrast as vivid through the club's changing lights and smoky air as if he had been standing next to them, near enough to touch.
He gave up and paged through the in-flight magazine instead, reading about how to make the perfect seafood pasties and ignoring it when Illya leaned against him. Napoleon had served as a substitute airline pillow before, and it felt no different now, Illya's head the same heavy weight bearing into his shoulder as always.
There was a moment when his hand rose of its own volition to brush Illya's hair where it was tickling his cheek, but Napoleon caught himself and just shook his head as usual to cast it off. Illya roused at the motion, mumbled a casual apology and shifted over to slump against the window instead, and Napoleon went back to his magazine. The cryptogram didn't get any harder to do in his head the third time through. Not up to THRUSH standards, much less U.N.C.L.E.'s.
In Los Angeles they checked in with the local U.N.C.L.E. HQ, verifying reports on dubious THRUSH activity in the area at Waverly's request. A Section Two man met them on the way out of the office, stopping them with a wide grin. "Illya! Good to see you!"
"You, too, Harry," Illya replied, shaking the younger agent's hand with evident affection. "Napoleon, this is Harry Williams, we worked together a bit ago—"
"Ah, yes, that mess with THRUSH infiltrating the Survival School, I remember," Napoleon said, adopting a friendly smile.
"And this is my usual partner, Napoleon Solo," Illya introduced him.
"Of course, honor to meet you, Mr. Solo," Williams said, pumping Napoleon's hand firmly before turning back to Illya. "Are you here on a mission, or just stopping by? And have you eaten yet? That amazing Tex-mex place I told you about is only a couple of blocks from here..."
The food at the White Dog Grill might have been amazing, but Napoleon made it a point not to eat at establishments with canines in the name, and stuck to the beer. Illya seemed to like it, though, stuffing himself with burritos and chili with relish. And Harry Williams seemed to like...that Illya liked it, eagerly jumping up to get him another plate of nachos or another bottle of beer.
Napoleon might have assumed he was merely another up-and-coming junior agent looking to curry favor, except that coming back from the gentleman's room, he happened to see Williams ducking his head as Illya leaned across the table to him. Though Illya was speaking too quietly to be overheard, Napoleon wasn't CEA for nothing, and he had seen enough of his partner's lips to read them easily.
"The last time we met," Illya was saying, "you made a suggestion—"
Williams shook his head, but Illya raised a hand to stop him. "No, it's all right, Harry. As I told you then, I wasn't offended. And as for now—if the offer still stands..."
Illya's eyes, automatically scanning his surroundings as always, happened to fall upon Napoleon then, and the poor concealment of the potted cactus he was standing behind. Before Illya could arch a critical eyebrow, Napoleon turned to the bar to strike up a conversation with the pretty senorita at the beer tap. It was, as Illya had informed him before, none of his business.
So when Harry gamely invited Napoleon to join him and Illya at a nearby jazz club, Napoleon cited jet-lag and told them to have fun without him. The relief on the younger agent's face was unmistakable; Illya, not nearly so green, was not so obviously read. Though he didn't call Napoleon on the flimsy excuse, which was telling in itself.
* * *
Lying in his empty hotel bed at one o'clock that morning, Napoleon was starting to wish that he hadn't been trained out of jet-lag. If he counted the one thousand, four hundred and eight divots in the ceiling tile one more time he might suffer a psychotic break...
Fortunately that was when Illya showed up, letting himself in and quickly and quietly shutting the door behind him, then creeping across the shadowy hotel room. He was almost to the bathroom when he stopped, turned, and said in a normal voice, "Napoleon."
Napoleon was sure he hadn't moved. Probably his breathing had given him away; it was difficult to imitate his typical sleep pattern when he couldn't know exactly what he sounded like, asleep. He sat up and switched on the bed-stand light, shading his eyes against the glare. "Hello."
Illya frowned at him. "I was surprised to hear you'd come back to the hotel alone," he said. "I'd thought the girl tending bar at the grill was attractive enough."
"Valeria? Oh, yes, very," Napoleon said. Indisputably beautiful, with curving hips and soft lips, and he had considered it, but she hadn't been what he was looking for, not tonight. Her brother Jorge, now, with lashes as long as his sister's, and his waist not much wider, but his shoulders broad and his arms thick from labor on the docks...and Napoleon had caught the boy looking at his table, even after Illya and Williams had left.
But his hair was too short, and his eyes were green instead of blue, and he might have been strong but he wouldn't have had the control of a man trained in the fighting arts of half a dozen cultures.
And besides, it had been too difficult to give Valeria or her brother the attention they deserved, when Napoleon kept having to stop himself from reaching for his communicator pen.
"How was the club?" Napoleon asked. "Good jazz?"
"Excellent," Illya said.
"So you had a good time? You and Williams?"
Illya met Napoleon's gaze, fearless; his eyes could hold as many secrets as the sky had stars. "A very good time. At the club, and afterwards."
"I didn't expect you back tonight," Napoleon said. "Not this early, anyway."
"Harry has a briefing tomorrow morning, and we have a flight," Illya replied, unabashed. He brushed his teeth in the bathroom and changed into his blue pajamas—he'd showered already, by the damp curling of his hair—and got into the other bed next to Napoleon's.
Napoleon switched off the lamp, lay back down and stared up at the ceiling again. His eyes soon adjusted enough for him to see the divots in the tile, black dots against the charcoal gray shadows. One, two, three..."I thought you weren't gay," he said.
"Napoleon?" Illya's sleepy confusion might have been feigned or authentic; Napoleon couldn't tell.
"Before," Napoleon said into the dark room, "in Belgium. You told me that you'd never...that it hadn't even occurred to you."
"I'm entertaining the possibility," Illya said. "As you advised."
"But I meant...what I mean is, you could entertain it with me. If you wanted."
Illya rolled over toward him, so Napoleon could just make out the glimmer of his eyes in the darkness, reflecting almost like a cat's. "You said it wouldn't happen again."
"Only because I thought that you weren't. Looking. For that. If you are, then...I'm here. And available, as it were."
"Napoleon," Illya sighed, "you aren't the only man in the world, you know."
"Obviously not," Napoleon said. "You're here, aren't you?"
"Good night, Napoleon," Illya said firmly, turned back over and went to sleep so fast Napoleon wondered if he ought to be insulted.
Or else envious, he thought hours later, when the glow of dawn started creeping around the edges of the curtains, listening to Illya's steady soft breathing as he counted the ceiling divots for the fifteenth time.
* * *
Exaggerated rumors of his ego to the contrary, Napoleon very well knew he was not the only man in the world. Not even the only good-looking one. But he perhaps hadn't been quite aware how many there actually were on the planet, until this last month.
His partner, on the other hand, seemed very aware, and somehow knew where to find all of them. In any city, in any country, Illya never wanted for companionship. While on assignment he was never out later than midnight, often back at their hotel room before Napoleon. Otherwise he might be gone all night, depending.
He was, of course, scrupulously discreet. He let Napoleon follow him twice, once to a hole-in-the-wall jazz club in the Village, the other time to an underground bar in Paris with an entirely different theme—the bouncer would have let Napoleon in, but after taking a peek inside at the hard, half-naked (if admittedly attractive) bodies entwined on the dance floor, he declined the offer. After that, Illya apparently decided he had made his point, and though Napoleon attempted to tail him, his partner lost him every time.
But there was always the next day—the fellow agents who would sidle up to Illya in the lab, or catch him at the entry desk come quitting time. Or those men not from U.N.C.L.E., who could be found loitering with a cigarette by Illya's car at lunchtime, or would just happen to be strolling past their hotel in the evening.
Illya handled all of them, agents or others, the same: he would take them aside for a moment of quiet conversation, and then bid them a fond but final farewell, sometimes having to disengage a companionable arm around his shoulders, or apply a discreet bit of force to a pressure point.
There was no question as to the nature of his new acquaintances; to a man they were recognizable by their looks of hopelessly dazzled shellshock as Illya walked away from them. Napoleon might have had a shred of sympathy for the poor bastards, if such shreds didn't instantly immolate in the flames of unreasonable jealousy that roared up whenever he saw any of them.
Try though Napoleon might to read his partner, he couldn't figure out how Illya had originally selected any of them. Every time he turned around Illya seemed to be talking to a different gentleman: tall, short, dark, light, boyish, manly; Illya didn't seem to have a type, other than a certain degree of aesthetic appeal, and that Napoleon would rate himself within that spectrum was hardly a comfort. Not when no specimen of this wide array of masculinity apparently could hold Illya's interest for more than one night.
Knowing that he had been the first of a trend was not a particular comfort, either.
Other than the interruptions of these strangers, their work continued same as before. Professionally committed as ever, Illya always kept his communicator on him, and responded to Waverly's summons without delay, though he tended not to answer Napoleon's when they were off the clock. They had a few emergency codes, but those were strictly for dire straits. Napoleon, having been told the story of the boy who cried wolf at an impressionable age, wouldn't have dreamed of using them without good reason, and only honestly considered getting himself captured by THRUSH a couple of times.
Still, while U.N.C.L.E. customarily looked the other way when it came to the proclivities of its top agents, officially there were strict rules governing their behavior. Napoleon went so far as to look up the regulation form for filing a statement of Conduct Unbecoming, but before he could write the first letter of Illya's name in the box marked "Agent Accused," the hypocrisy turned his stomach so hard he almost threw up. He ripped the form into ragged half-inch squares, then took the pieces home and burned them in his fireplace.
Near the end of the month, Mr. Waverly called Napoleon into his office for a private conference. Pipe lit and smoking, the old man proceeded to beat around the bush most uncharacteristically for half an hour before finally harrumphing, "Mr. Solo, you know I've never issued any formal reprimand on your, ahem, extracurricular activities. Agents by their nature are active, passionate men, and I've always believed we should make allowances for this. However, if that nature begins to interfere with the performance of an agent's duties..."
"Mr. Waverly," Napoleon said hastily, "I don't believe Illya is in any way compromised—"
Waverly's bushy eyebrows rose. "Mr. Solo, I'm not talking to Mr. Kuryakin here; I am talking to you. Your recent habits aren't conducive to efficient operation, and I want to see you adjust them accordingly."
"Me, sir?" Napoleon repeated disbelievingly, then swallowed under Waverly's stare and said, "I'll do my best."
"See that you do." For a moment Mr. Waverly's iron core softened. "Do take care of yourself, Mr. Solo."
Later, Napoleon stood looking at himself in the bathroom mirror, thinking how unfair it was that he would be reprimanded, when Illya was the one who was spending his nights off so profligately, wearing himself out, associating with complete strangers and potentially endangering his person, rather than resting in the safety of his home like Napoleon.
Though, he conceded, seeing the dark circles under his eyes, it might help his case if when he lay in his empty bed he slept, rather than spending his nights studying the ceiling, trying not to imagine what was going on in whatever bed Illya was in.
Mr. Waverly was right; his habits had changed. Accordingly, Napoleon made the promised effort to adjust, or readjust, and called on his rain-check with the lovely Amber Allen. He took her to a restaurant twice as expensive as before, and kept both his eyes and mind on her throughout dinner. Neither was a chore; she was as clever as she was cute, and Napoleon found it easy to lose himself in her green-speckled eyes and ready laugh.
After they ate, he escorted her home, and gave her a goodnight kiss on her stoop. She put her arms around him and opened her mouth, welcoming him, sure and experienced. She had dabbed on perfume, not too much, just enough that the subtle scent enveloped him with her embrace. Usually that would have been intoxicating, but tonight he sneezed, his arms tightening, and he realized all of a sudden how small and slender the body he held was. However closely she wrapped her arms around him, he could break free with but a shrug.
Pleasuring her would be an art and a privilege, playing that beautiful body with the reverence of a violinist lent a Stradivarius, letting her lead him to her sweetest secrets. And she would be happy to return the favor; already one of her hands was fingering the button of his slacks, and her tongue was promising more to his than any number of words could. It would be wonderful, and he would sleep soundly tonight. Mr. Waverly had been right; this was just what he needed.
But it was not what he wanted.
Amber realized it at the same time he did himself; she broke from their kiss, looked up into his eyes and whispered, "Napoleon?"
"I'm sorry," Napoleon said, "I've got something on my mind. Work—you know what we Section Two men are like." It wasn't entirely untrue; Illya was his professional partner, after all.
"I do know," Amber said, "but weren't you saying you needed distraction?" And she didn't mind being one, her second kiss made clear. She'd told him herself that she wasn't looking for a relationship at this point in her career, but all work and no play makes Jill as dull as Jack; she needed this as much as he did.
But she wanted it, too, and that was unfair to her.
"Yes," Napoleon said, "but, no—I'm sorry. You deserve better than what I can give you, tonight. Some other time, maybe?" and he kissed her one last time and departed.
Later, it didn't feel like such the right choice; it was another long and sleepless night, and his ceiling wasn't any more interesting than it had been the month before.
* * *
Section Two Agent Geoffrey Carlisle was Oxford-educated, with exquisite cheekbones and an accent comparable to Illya's, minus the subtle Slavic overtones. He met Napoleon and Illya in the U.N.C.L.E. locker room as they were finishing showering off the residue of THRUSH's latest chemistry experiments, ostensibly just dropping by to say hello—"How's it going, chaps?"
'Chaps' implied a greeting to both of them, but his eyes were fixed on Illya, taking their sweet time traveling from his slender but sturdy shoulders, down the gold hairs glinting on his chest to the towel around his sharp hips.
"Hello, Geoffrey," Illya replied, his eyes mapping a similar route on the other agent, though faster, less a scenic drive than a business commute. Probably because Carlisle was in a suit, though he'd taken off his jacket, in deference to the steamy humidity, or maybe because he knew how his tailored silk shirt clung and molded to his biceps and chest in said humidity.
"When did you get in from London?" Napoleon asked, his voice coming out a little too loud, echoing on the tile.
"Just this afternoon," Carlisle said. "And with you two having this little affair tied up, I'm probably heading back tomorrow. A wasted trip. Though," and his eyes swooped up to Illya's, "I was wondering if you might share a spot of supper with me? Or something else tonight?"
Napoleon turned to his locker, scrubbing his hair with his towel, but it didn't help; he still could clearly hear Illya's answer. But to his surprise it was, "No, I'm sorry, Geoffrey."
"Ah, well," Carlisle sighed. "Maybe next time, then?"
"Maybe," Illya said, noncommittally.
Napoleon dressed as the other agent left, waiting until the locker room door closed before turning to his partner. "So, where are you going tonight?"
Illya pulled on his shirt. "Home, I was thinking."
"Oh, you've already invited someone over?"
"No," Illya said.
"No?" Napoleon echoed. "But, Carlisle—we haven't seen him for months..."
"Almost a year," Illya confirmed.
"But in that case...he hardly could have been more blatant, and it's not like you've had any objections to other agents. And he's not exactly repulsive."
"Far from," Illya agreed, bending over to pull on his socks.
"So what are you doing tonight, that's so important...?"
"Nothing in particular." Illya shrugged. "I was planning a quiet evening to myself."
Which Napoleon supposed he could understand. Illya didn't look particularly stressed—far from; there was a sort of hale contentment to his calm lately, like a cat who was getting a daily bowl of cream to supplement its mice. But by Napoleon's count he'd had company for all but two of the last thirty nights, and both of those they'd been a bit tied up with stopping THRUSH.
(And if Napoleon considered it, not that he intended to, but it was a fact that both of those nights Illya had been separated from him for some few hours, and THRUSH boys had the same taste for vice as the girls, and that second time Illya had been decidedly vague about how he had gotten the key for the padlock...not that Napoleon was considering it, of course.)
So it was a small wonder that he wanted a break. Napoleon cleared his throat as he fastened his tie clip. "That sounds like just what the doctor ordered, after today—would you mind a little company for your quiet evening? A light dinner, maybe some chess?"
Illya looked at him. "I thought you had a date with Miss Bakke."
"Cancelled," Napoleon said immediately, omitting to clarify, as soon as I see her. "Though if you'd rather—"
"No," Illya said, "that would be fine."
* * *
They picked up a bottle of Chardonnay and a fresh salmon at the market, and Napoleon saw to grilling it and cooking up some wild rice, while Illya taxed his culinary skills putting vinaigrette on the salad. When they first sat down Napoleon felt as tense as if he were at dinner with a girl's parents, but Illya was as he ever was, not prickly or flirting or making sly innuendo—at least not more than usual—and they fell into their usual give-and-take as if nothing had changed between them.
And nothing had, in truth, Napoleon realized; Illya might have a new hobby, but he was the same man as before, the same dry wit, the same incisive mind behind the same sharp blue eyes. The same strong hands, holding his wineglass with the same effortless dexterity with which he wielded a weapon, or gesturing with more feeling than he allowed his expression to betray; the same voice, deeper than expected, enriched by the cultured cant of his accent...
"...Napoleon?" And the way he said Napoleon's name was the same, too. Napoleon gave his head a shake and devoted himself to his salmon. Nothing had changed, so there was no reason to talk about it; no reason to ask whether Illya had noticed how unchanged everything was. They had never talked much about their personal lives—well, Napoleon had, sometimes at length, to Illya's amusement or irritation depending on his mood; and Illya occasionally would get in a confessional mood. But they had never pried, and Napoleon was not going to change anything by starting now.
This resolution lasted until halfway through his fourth glass of wine, in the middle of their second chess game. "Did you really not know? Until we...until last month?"
Illya looked up from the board. He studied Napoleon's face for a moment, then shook his head. "No, I did not. Such behavior isn't encouraged in a Soviet citizen."
"It's hardly 'encouraged' here, either—what does encouragement have to do with it?"
Illya picked up a captured pawn, rolled it idly between his fingers. "For most of my life, since my teen years, I was aware that I found men more interesting to look at, to be with. More stimulating. It simply never occurred to me that this interest might translate to relationships beyond the platonic or fraternal."
Napoleon knew it was rude to stare, but it was impossible not to. "It never—how could it never occur to you?"
Illya sighed and set down the pawn. "Napoleon, not every man is as...devoted to their wants as you."
"Are you calling me a hedonist?"
"I'm saying that you are more self-aware than most. More sure of what you desire." Illya paused, then flashed a glittering knife's edge of a smirk. "That is to say, yes."
"Well, you seem to have been satisfying some desires yourself, this past month," Napoleon said, sweetening any bitterness with a lascivious smirk of his own.
"Mm," Illya said, noncommittally, and his eyes dropped back down to the board.
"You certainly have looked satisfied," Napoleon said, unable to help himself.
Illya glanced up and then down again, extended his arm and moved his queen. "You want to know if you were more satisfying."
Yes! "No, I'm just curious what it's like, to be truly enjoying lovemaking for the first time," Napoleon said, moving his knight to block the attack.
"You, I suppose, have always enjoyed it, from the first," Illya said, positioning his rook to take the knight.
"Pretty much," Napoleon said. "And certainly I don't sleep with the likes of Angelique to curry Mr. Waverly's favor." Cautiously he slid his queen into play.
Illya hesitated, hand poised over the board. "There is something to be said for a THRUSH agent's...dedication to corruption and vice."
Napoleon nodded. "Not to mention their creativity."
Illya snorted, blond bangs hiding his eyes but perhaps a hint of pink in his cheeks, and took Napoleon's queen with his rook.
Napoleon was careful to bite back his smirk until after Illya had taken his hand off the piece. Then he triumphantly moved his knight. "Check," he said, "and mate in two."
Illya looked at the board for a long moment, then raised his head to meet Napoleon's eyes. "Is that an offer, or a promise?" he inquired, his baritone dropped to a purr that ran down Napoleon's spine like an electric shock.
"A suggestion," Napoleon said.
Illya's eyes across the board were twilight dark, unreadable. "One of your desires?"
"Only if it's yours as well," Napoleon said, honestly. He wanted this second chance, wanted it badly. Last time he'd been taken by surprise, caught off guard by his own lust; this time he was prepared, all his considerable talent and skill marshaled. There was no desire of Illya's that he could not satisfy, of that he was sure. The important question—the only question—was if Illya wanted anything more of him. And that only Illya could answer.
Honestly, but he'd never been so happy to see Illya's quicksilver grin. "It is."
* * *
In Napoleon's educated opinion, a good blowjob was one of life's great pleasures. It was one of the advantages to men, and THRUSH agents, because a nice girl would rarely offer, and it wouldn't be gentlemanly to ask.
And like most matters of sex, Napoleon had always enjoyed both giving and receiving them, and until this moment he wouldn't have been able to say which he preferred. Until this moment, he hadn't known that there was absolutely nothing in the world like a blowjob given by Illya Kuryakin.
It was overwhelming, the heat of Illya's mouth, the lightest scrape of his teeth, the calloused fingers on his balls, while Illya's other hand closed around his hip, strong fingers digging in, holding him in place, as if Illya would not permit him release until his work was done—Napoleon couldn't breathe for it. Which was to his advantage, because none of the unvoiced words his mouth was shaping would have made any sense anyway. Seated on the edge of the bed, his spine was arching, tilting his head back so he was gazing at flat white planes of his bedroom ceiling but seeing nothing, and every nerve in him was afire.
He was suspended in that unique, unending moment of intensity that comes directly before climax, as heart-pounding as standing balanced atop a cliff, about to let go and fall; but never had the cliff been so high and exquisitely steep, and Napoleon could almost hear the howl of the wind in his ears.
The tips of Illya's long hair tickled Napoleon's inner thighs as his head bobbed, and Napoleon wound his fingers through that silken mess, needing to hold onto something. Illya made a muffled noise, head jerking as his mouth closed, and with that sudden increase of pressure Napoleon was coming, quite as unexpected as a blast from a shotgun with a hair trigger, and with a shout almost as embarrassingly loud.
Illya didn't pull back or choke, however, keeping his mouth sealed to the bitter end, and then slowly drawing away, letting Napoleon's softening cock slip from his shining lips. He rocked back on his heels, looked up at Napoleon and swallowed, deliberately, before wiping his lips with two fingers, delicate as a kiss.
Napoleon stared at those lips as he struggled for coherency. His hands had dropped to Illya's shoulders, half-bare and half-clothed, unbuttoned shirt hanging on one sleeve. Abstractly Napoleon recalled that his own slacks were around his ankles, not yet kicked free, and would be irretrievably wrinkled by now. Quite a portrait they must make, were there a mirror at the proper angle to see it.
"I'm, um, sorry," Napoleon finally managed.
Illya arched an eyebrow, blue eyes as equanimous as always. "Are you."
"For not giving sufficient warning," Napoleon clarified. "Usually I'm not so...distracted."
Illya's eyebrow stayed cocked, but his lips—still wet and dark and impossibly erotic—twitched with humor. "Ah," he said. Putting his hands on Napoleon's knees, he pushed himself smoothly standing, so he was looking down at Napoleon, standing between his spread legs. "For that, do not concern yourself," and he leaned down and kissed Napoleon hard. The lingering sea-salt bitterness on his tongue was enough for Napoleon to feel heat pooling in his groin, even so soon after.
"Acquired taste?" he asked when they broke apart, gasping only a little.
Illya's lips quirked again. "You might say that," he said, then passed his hand over his head, smoothing down his tangled hair. "I would appreciate, however, if you'd refrain from trying to uproot my hair, next time."
Napoleon felt his cheeks warm. "I am sorry," he said, and reached up to stroke those blond locks in apology, only to pause mid-motion, his hand hovering beside Illya's head. "Next time?" he repeated slowly.
Illya coughed, his gaze sliding off Napoleon's like oil. "If you'd be interested," he said.
"Interested?" Napoleon gaped at his partner. "Illya—that—that was...it's not like this. Never. Not with women or men. No wonder you've been out every night!" He'd always considered himself gifted, but if he'd had talent like this—well, he might never have made it as a secret agent; he might never have made it out of his first lover's bedroom. Certainly a part of him now was tempted to lock the door now and swallow the key, so that Illya might never escape...
But Illya was shaking his head. "No," he said. "It's not like this. This past month, I've done so many things, tried so many things..."
"I can do many things," Napoleon said hastily. "Maybe I haven't given you the best showing, especially compared to the variety you've had of late, but I assure you, my repertoire extends beyond—"
Illya's kiss was gentle, hardly more than a press of his lips to Napoleon's, so it must have been the unexpectedness of it that made his pulse race. He'd been on crashing planes, had wrestled leopards, had saved the world on more than one occasion with seconds to spare; yet a mere touch was enough for his heart to skip a beat. He stared up at Illya, dazed, and wondering hazily how he was ever going to prove himself, when all it took was a kiss to turn him back into a trembling and awkwardly ignorant virgin.
"I have a definite preference for men," Illya said, and Napoleon wondered if it was just his imagination, that faint tremor of desire in Illya's even tone, "which has a significant effect on my physical and emotional responses, as well as my partners', compared to intimacy with women. But now I've collected a sufficient sample size, and the empirical evidence is clear."
"Significant effect?" Napoleon repeated. "Empirical evidence? Sample size?"
"You did tell me to entertain the possibility," Illya reminded him. "I had no way of knowing whether my response was specific to you, or to your sex."
Napoleon hardly dared breathe. "And...?"
"And it was indeed an entertaining experiment," Illya said. "Through which I've gathered enough data to support the hypothesis."
Napoleon pushed the remaining sleeve off Illya's arm, let the shirt fall to the floor as he wound his arms around his partner's bare waist and drew him closer. "So what's the conclusion, Dr. Kuryakin?"
"Here," Illya said, climbing onto the bed, on top of him. His eyes were dark and his lips were wet and Napoleon wondered, in a vague and indifferent way, if he'd been born the luckiest man alive, or whether this was just an accident of statistics. "The conclusion's right here."