Two o'clock in the morning and the edge is still here, Illya thought, rubbing his neck with one hand. The other kept a firm grip on his glass. True, it wasn't good vodka, but it was vodka and if he was going to get any sleep tonight, he suspected it would be with the help of his old friend.
The threadbare curtains were still open and Illya was still looking out into darkness as everyone in the city slept. Well, everyone except him, of course. His jacket, holster, belt, shoes and socks were off and his shirt, partially undone, hung out of his pants. It was as casual as he was likely to get on this assignment, but even this freedom felt good.
The collar hadn't gone strictly to plan. At the last moment, De Mente, whether alerted by a sixth sense or one of his own people, detected them and made a run for it. Adrenaline, sexual frustration, an over-abundance of inactivity, Illya wasn't sure which, but De Mente's attempt was just enough to earn him a bullet in the thigh and another in his shoulder, gratis Illya's P-38.
Good thinking, Illya Nickovich, why not just put one between his eyes and cut to the chase" he chastised. Now De Mente was in surgery, and although his prognosis was good, they were still stuck here until he was able to travel.
Illya dropped the glass onto the particle board table and sighed. His libido was pulled so tight it made his wisdom teeth hum, but at this time of night, there were very few options left open to him. He glanced down at his hand and sighed again. It wasn't quite the scenario that had played out in his mind as optimum. He was UNCLE; it wasn't like he could stroll up to any streetwalker and go from there. At this time of night, it would take time to track down a suitable partner …
Partner. Illya's mind tripped on the word and the uncomfortable interlude earlier in the evening. He didn't know exactly what game Napoleon was playing at, nor if it even had a name. He'd learned early in their partnership to never take the dark-haired agent at face value. Some thought the man cavalier and reckless, but Illya knew all too well the sharp mind and intellect hidden behind that casual façade. They both hid, for very different reasons, but they were, in the end, two of a kind.
Illya snorted at his choice of words and grabbed the vodka bottle. It was more than half full, even though he felt like he'd been working on it for hours. A tap, then a rhythmic series of knocks told Illya immediately who was on the other side of the door, but he still drew his gun and stood to one side as he opened it.
Napoleon Solo was leaning against the door frame and held up a half empty bottle of Scotch. "You, too?"
Illya gestured back with his bottle. "Me too." He led the way back into the small hotel room and sank down into a chair. It was under-stuffed and even that stuffing was worn away to nothing. It didn't matter to the Russian; it was just another room in a countless number of hotel rooms.
Napoleon followed, sinking into the other chair and stretching his legs out. He looked weary, not sleepy, there was a difference and Illya knew he carried a similar expression. Too wired to sleep, too tired to do anything about it but drink.
"I got a call from the Rome office. De Mente is out of surgery and should be ready to travel in a couple of days. Until then, they have him under twenty-four hour guard down in Medical."
"Do they really think THRUSH would be so reckless as to attempt a rescue from a fortified…no, forget I asked that. Of course they would, if it behooved their purposes. I can't help but think, though, that they are as anxious to relieve themselves of De Mente as we are to obtain him."
It amazed Illya that the two of them could just settle into conversation so easily, feel so immediately comfortable with one another that they could drop all the window dressing and breathe as normal humans.
"I'd agree with you on that point." Napoleon swirled the alcohol in the bottle. "Do you have another glass? I seem to have misplaced mine."
Illya reached backward over the chair, stretching to grab the remaining glass and was aware of his partner's attentive stare. Illya's shirt gaped open, but it didn't matter. It was only Napoleon. It wasn't like Napoleon hadn't seen his stomach before. He set the glass down in front of Napoleon, who sat back, sharply, as if startled from a daydream. He smiled and poured a measure into it, then held it up to Illya.
The Russian held up his own glass in return, drained it and began to study the simulated wood grain of the table. It was amazing what you would find interesting after enough alcohol. He felt Napoleon's eyes on him again and he glanced up without moving his head. "Something?"
"You…ah…never answered my question."
Illya's mind began a quick backtrack. There were always rhetorical questions shouted in the heat of battle: Did you get him? Are you all right? What happened? But one didn't stand out for him.
"Which question, Napoleon? I am drawing a blank."
"The one I asked back in the hotel room…before."
A slight buzz hummed through his mind and Illya thought, replaying the scene until… "Oh the one about whether or not I had…"
"Yes. That one."
"Napoleon, I was stuck on a ship with a couple hundred testosterone driven, women-deprived young men. What do you think? Realistically?"
"You're not going to give me a direct answer, are you?"
"No." Illya reached for the bottle, only to have his hand intercepted by Napoleon. "What? Are you cutting me off?" He grinned. "I'm far from drunk, my friend."
Napoleon's thumb started to trace a circle on the back of Illya's hand, and he swallowed. He knew Napoleon was tactile, always had been, but Illya, short of actual torture, would never admit that he enjoyed the contact. Americans were usually so reserved, so reticent about casual physical contact that Illya had thought he would scream the first month he was in New York. And then along came Napoleon and things got better. He smiled at the thought and realized Napoleon's hand had stilled.
Glancing over, the look in Napoleon's eyes sent a message straight to Illya's groin. No, this was his very heterosexual, albeit constantly horny, partner. Napoleon wasn't that way…hell, he wasn't that way, normally. And someone should mention that to his penis because it was getting all its signals crossed.
Napoleon lifted a hand to Illya's face and he eluded it easily, gently.
"Illya, it's only me."
"I know, Napoleon and thereby hangs the problem." Illya sighed. "This would be…unwise, for both of us."
"Don't you trust me?" Napoleon shifted closer and this time Illya wasn't able to, didn't attempt to evade the caress.
"Always," Illya admitted, closing his eyes. "That's the trouble." If he just concentrated hard enough…hard, wrong word, wrong word, diligently enough, Illya was sure he could ignore the softness of Napoleon's hand as it trailed across his jaw, tickling its way through his whiskers, the way Napoleon's thumb traced his lips.
"Why?' The question was softly posed.
"This is wrong."
"Why is it wrong? When two people find each other…" Napoleon's lips brushed against his and Illya frowned, vainly trying to remember that this was his partner, his superior, his…
"Convenient?" Illya managed the word after a moment, half hoping, half terrified it would quell Napoleon's fire.
"Attractive, arousing, necessary, but never convenient." Napoleon's tongue flicked across Illya's lips. Okay so what's the problem? his mind argued. He wants to, you want to, some parts of you more than others. Just let go. But Illya was afraid to let go, he'd kept his own feelings in check for far too long to just let them play out now at the first sign of interest. For all he knew, Napoleon was testing him. No, Napoleon wouldn't do that. He's always been fair in love, if not war.
The kiss deepened and Illya surrendered to it and all the feelings it drove to the surface. To have another body in his arms felt so good. That it was Napoleon was merely icing on a very desirable cake. He tilted his head back as Napoleon's mouth began an exploration of his throat. His own mouth moved, trying to form the words that swirled about in his head, logical, rational, well-thought- out reasons as to why this needed to stop here and now.
He felt Napoleon's fingers undoing the few remaining buttons on his shirt, of Napoleon running his hands ticklingly light over his ribs, his chest, rubbing calloused fingertips over his nipples.
Napoleon's mouth traveled back up, towards an ear. "You were saying…"
"Um…" Shit, what was he saying? What was he thinking? One of Napoleon hands strayed to the waist band of Illya's pants and then lower. Illya's head tipped back, completely involved in the sensation of his partner stroking him through the material.
"For someone as articulate as you are normally, I'm finding your inability to communicate rather … stimulating." Napoleon's hand worked smoothly and confidently, obviously experienced.
And there you have it, Illya Nickovich, his brain argued. Napoleon isn't some shrinking violet who's momentarily over come with need. He knows what he's doing. Instinctively, Illya thrust up against Napoleon's hand and he felt Napoleon's lips curl on his cheek.
"That's my boy," Napoleon purred, his fingers working to undo the top button and carefully slide down the zipper. Illya's breath caught at the first moment of skin-to-skin contact, his sensory network already firing at double time. Illya moaned and Napoleon chuckled. "A little anxious, are we? You shouldn't let yourself get into such a state, Mr. K. It would never do to be so…" His head dropped and his tongue flicked over just the very tip of Illya's penis, feather-like. "…distracted. I think we need to take a bit of the edge off, what do you think?"
"Yes…no...what?" Illya's head bobbed back up. Napoleon laughed again, rich and low, then dipped his head back down. "Stop," Illya mumbled, even as his eyes were starting to roll back.
Obligingly, Napoleon did, although he didn't move far from his target. "What's wrong?"
"I'm too close…I don't want…not yet."
"Illya, if you wait much longer, your heart is going to explode."
With a deep breath, Illya reached down grabbed two handfuls of cloth and heaved, tossing Napoleon back onto the bed. He followed a heart beat later, grinding his pelvis against Napoleon's "It's far too late for that, my friend…"