'Napoleon, why don't you wear jeans more often?' Illya asked.

Napoleon was bent over, engaged in stripping off those very jeans as his partner spoke, revealing rather sedate white boxers which showed just a pleasing curve of muscle beneath as he bent.

'Oh, I don't know, perhaps because I'm not a beatnik,' Napoleon said casually, his smile broad and easy. He flicked his head round as Illya started to strip off his own jeans, then did a double take, and stared. 'Why, Illya, I didn't know you cared!'

Under his own more form-fitting black briefs Illya showed a distinct ridge of arousal.

'Of course I care. I always care,' the Russian growled, throwing his own jeans aside into the pile of dark clothing. He was angry. The dress rehearsal had been disappointing, they'd both been killed, in theory, and Illya hated failure. They had precisely forty-five minutes to clean off the dark camouflage paint, change, grab their gear, and get to the airport in time for their plane. Not long enough. It couldn't be long enough.

'Napoleon, I love you in suits,' Illya continued, a slight hint of neediness in his voice, 'but in those jeans – god, you send me over the edge...'

Napoleon was rubbing cold cream onto his face and scrubbing at the dark paint with a cloth. He looked over his shoulder and asked, 'Really?'

'Really,' Illya said in a voice Russian and dark-edged with need. It was a dangerous voice, a voice that presaged fighting, killing, or other equally visceral actions. Napoleon picked up his discarded jeans and held them for a moment against his body, as if considering the thought of wearing them for other pastimes than trying to crack into vaults in the dead of night. Then he dropped them again, and very deliberately slipped his boxers off onto the pile on the floor.

With a growl he was pushed against the wall of the communal showers by a hundred and forty pounds of slim, muscled Russian. Illya reminded him of a panther at times, and no more than at this time. Lips were pressed against his, hard and urgent, and Illya's broad hands ran up his back, touching every muscle, tracing his spine, pulling him close. He was hardening too now, but he tried to move his head away from Illya's, muttering, 'Illya, we don't have time!'

But his partner had the pot of cold cream in his hand, he was reaching behind Napoleon, and he gasped aloud as those slick, chill fingers touched him between the cheeks, seeking his hot entrance. There was no preparation, no slow stretching; just the quick plunge of a finger loaded with cream, the urgent brush against the prostate that made him weak at the knees.

And then Illya grabbed him, one hand still slick with cream, turned him to the wall, kicked his legs apart. He had no doubt that Illya now was laving his own stiff cock with the cream and he tried to look over his shoulder, desperate for that sight. But Illya's arm was hitching around his waist, pulling his hips backwards so he stood bent, parting his cheeks with the other hand, and then driving in, the full length of him, until his pelvis was pushed hard against Napoleon's ass, his chest against his back. Napoleon gasped, moaned, and then ever so carefully slipped down onto his knees. Illya never came out of him, just travelled down with him, hooked his arm under his belly again, pulling him close as Napoleon tilted himself up like a common whore, so close and tight that he could feel Illya's balls against the broad flat space below his, brushing against them so softly the sensation made him dizzy. The air smelt of cold cream and grease paint. His eyes flicked to the unlocked door of the locker room, but then Illya moved inside him, and he couldn't think at all.

Any coherent thought dissolved into oh god oh god oh god ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod as Illya withdrew, making him sob; drove home, making him gasp aloud, making him bite his own lip as he tried to keep a lid on the sounds he needed to make. Illya's hand, slick with cream, came around to catch hold of his own burning cock, a poultice of ice, and he all but cried out aloud. Illya thrust and pumped, thrust and pumped, and then Napoleon was coming in hot spurts over Illya's hand and Illya was jetting inside him, the cry of his orgasm muted to a desperate animal grunt as he fell slack over Napoleon's body.

And then he pulled out, before he was even soft again, was turning on the showers above them, and when Agent Burrows came in Illya was innocently turning his face up to the steaming water and Napoleon was diligently scrubbing his own chest with soapy hands.

'Better get a move on,' Burrows called over his shoulder as he went to the lockers. 'Plane's in thirty minutes.'

Napoleon raised a grateful hand, cut off the shower, and grabbed a towel.

'You have a smudge of greasepaint, right here,' he told Illya, wiping it from his nose.

Illya's eyes burned with fire and ice as he towelled himself off and pulled on his shirt and tie and suit. He looked ready to take on the world. Napoleon ached as he dressed, but he had never felt so sated. Thirty minutes later they sat on the Boeing 707 and enjoyed glasses of scotch as they went over their plans for cracking Anton Korbel's vault. And as Napoleon had known it would be, Illya's mind had been set alight with that quick, rough, very necessary sex. They would make their plan in the four hours flight time. They would get to the casino. And they would come home triumphant.