Napoleon Solo was engaged in one of his favorite pastimes. While many considered him to have a roving eye when it came to the ladies, which, in his opinion, certainly was true, it was also equally true that when it came to men, his eye never went any farther than his partner. The stewardess started past him.
"Would you like a blanket or a pillow, sir?"
"No, I'm fine."
"How about your friend?"
"No, give him a blanket and he'll be hot."
"He's hot enough without it." The woman smiled at him and Napoleon bit back the first remark that came to mind.
"I will have to take your word for it. I'm…ah, not really an expert at that."
"Well, trust me, if you were, he'd be the one."
Amen to that, Napoleon thought, glancing over at Illya.
At first, he'd railed against having a partner, not because he didn't like Illya; he just didn't like partners. They tended to get in the way of his style, slowing him down and getting killed in the process. He and Illya had been together for nearly four months before Napoleon just happened to realize that he liked having the Russian underfoot.
They were flying back from a long rather arduous affair in one of the Soviet Bloc states and he had to admit it had been a Godsend to have Illya along. He spoke the language, he understood the customs, and he was right at home. It had given them more cover than Napoleon usually experienced and that gave them greater freedom and had spelled success for them. He'd tried to thank Illya, but his partner brushed the compliments and praise aside, almost as if he were embarrassed by it. So, on that flight back, Napoleon took the opportunity to study the blond and try to wiggle his way into the mind behind those blue eyes.
It was hard though. If Illya noticed, he'd make it a point to divert attention from himself. Napoleon had grinned, thinking that it was as if Illya was afraid close scrutiny would reveal a small crack in otherwise intact armor. He shied from the spotlight, kept to the shadows and carefully remained hidden, even from his partner. That made Napoleon twice as determined to avoid any attention settling upon him for any length of time.
And Napoleon knew from experience that the best place for Illya-watching was on a plane, where there was nowhere to retreat to. It had been on a plane that he'd first realized the opportunity and seized upon it and he smiled as he thought back on it.
The flight wasn't crowded, so there had been an adequate amount of time to chat up one of the lovely ladies serving the passengers, but this time, Napoleon was tired. It took a lot of energy to flirt, to strike just the right balance of engagement and retreat to attract and excite a member of the opposite sex.
He loved the ladies, no doubt about that, but the pursuit of the skirt came with a price tag. He was expected to maintain a steady stream of sincere, if not particularly heartfelt, compliments. There was wining and dining, dancing and romancing, before he got to the part of the evening that was his focus from the start – actual sack time. This didn't always mean sex; more often than not, it just meant the sense of having someone in his arms. Napoleon cherished this more than anything else. It was one of his few weak spots.
For sex, he preferred to look for alternative sources, something that didn't immediately suggest a white picket fence and a happily ever after. For romance, he wanted a woman; for sex, he almost always turned to a member of his own gender. It was fast, it was free of entanglements, and it fulfilled a sense of balance in him. To only face men in battle made Napoleon feel off balance, to face them on and off the battleground gave him a greater sense of achieving his own center. If it didn't work for anyone else, he didn't care. It helped him to focus.
Too tired to engage the lovely stewardess, Napoleon had instead turned his attention to his partner. Illya had nodded off almost immediately after the plane was airborne. Napoleon was still learning his new partner's habits. It seemed that Illya ate and slept the instant either was offered. If given the option of eating or screwing, the Russian picked up a fork. Put him in bed and give him the offer of a bed partner, he'd pass and be asleep before you could turn out the light. Given the option of sleeping or eating, it was usually a dead heat which one the man would pick.
As Illya slumbered, Napoleon studied him. Even in sleep, Illya seemed to be engaged, although in what, Napoleon couldn't tell. Illya was not necessarily a peaceful sleeper. While the man could drop off in a moment, it didn't mean he slept well. Napoleon couldn't help but wonder what sort of demons Illya confronted in his dreams. There were twitches of his facial muscles and his hands. Often, he would sigh deeply and his forehead would furrow, a trait Napoleon knew meant the Russian was lost in thought, at least when awake. He wondered if it was the same for Illya in sleep.
He'd tried to engage Illya on the topic of dreams, but Illya flatly refused to acknowledge he dreamt anything of consequence. Napoleon knew he'd have denied dreaming at all if he could get away with it. Napoleon had just learned to steer clear of his partner in bed, although they always seemed to end up practically on top of each other in the morning. Neither of them could explain it, Napoleon just knew he didn't hate it. The very first time he'd woken up to discover Illya in his arms, he'd been overwhelmed at the sense of rightness and of security. It had been an epiphany for Napoleon.
Up to this point, he'd slept, but not usually had sex, with women; he'd had sex, but never slept, with men. Suddenly, it seemed as if the two came together wrapped in the hard-muscled, blond, blue-eyed package that was his partner. At that point, he'd just barely managed to get to the bathroom in time to avoid climaxing all over said partner's ass. Illya had barely woken up at the time, a fact for which Napoleon was extremely grateful.
It was nearly impossible to deny his partner's sexual attractiveness. Men and women seemed equally drawn to it and Illya seemed equally intent upon dismissing it. Napoleon acknowledged the near siren call it had on him, but never publicly. Instead, he kept up his usual dizzying waltz with the members of the opposite sex, and when the need drove him nearly to the point of distraction, he would seek out someone, now almost always blond and slight of build, for sex. And in his soul, he would count the minutes until the next time UNCLE's budgetary constraints threw them into a single room with only one bed.
In between times, he watched and studied Illya. Illya's sexuality was a bit of a mystery to Napoleon. He was obviously attracted to women and had his pick of them, but would immediately step aside if Napoleon even hinted at interest, almost in delight at not having to follow through with the flirtation. He was attracted to strong women, those who were more of his equal than a fragile blossom he had to tip toe around. Napoleon also had seen Illya do a subtle double take at times when a man walked by, but that was the only indication that he might stray in that direction.
He'd given up trying to talk about sex with Illya; the mere suggestion of the subject was killed more effectively than a single ant doused with an entire can of Raid. Illya did not talk about it, other than to chastise his partner when he felt Napoleon had crossed some invisible line. Napoleon had shared enough rooms with Illya to know that he was comfortable with his own sexuality; he just preferred to not talk about it.
****
The airplane dipped with a bit of turbulence and Napoleon checked both his and Illya's seat belts even before the captain's announcement. Illya frowned and murmured something in his sleep.
"It's just turbulence, go back to sleep," Napoleon said, stroking the back of Illya's hand with his thumb. Almost immediately Illya calmed and the frown vanished. Napoleon smiled and settled back in his seat, his own eyes closing as he pursued old memories.
****
One morning it all came to a head, in a manner of speaking. They were in Mexico, coming off a three-week stint of insanity, tracking a THRUSH scientist who was experimenting with exploding frijole beans. The jokes had gotten tiresome after the first day, but everyone they met seemed insistent upon making them. They'd sat down to dinner that night and been served a platter of frijole beans and a bubble of silliness had descended upon them. Napoleon was certain they had garnered their share of odd looks that night, but it didn't matter. The bad guy was finished, the world was safe, and they would soon be headed up to their room with its single bed. His world was about as good as it could get, or so he thought.
The next morning, he'd woken up in a familiar position, spooned up against his partner. At some point during the night, the sheets had been kicked off and Illya had removed his tee shirt and shorts in an attempt to cool off. Now the coolness of the morning had driven him to seek out the nearest available heat source and that, happily, had been Napoleon.
However, Napoleon had woken up in mid thrust, rubbing his erection deliciously over Illya's lower back. The moment he became aware of his actions, he hesitated and began to think furiously, trying to come up with a suitable excuse, at least until he heard his partner's soft, half strangled threat…
"You stop now and I will have to kill you." Illya rocked back against him and Napoleon nearly groaned, his hand automatically gripping Illya's hip to hold him firmly in place. He pushed back and smiled at the strangled cry that greeted the movement. "About friggin' time." Napoleon didn't know which startled him more, Illya's use of the phrase or discovering his partner's acceptance.
He moved again, relishing the feeling, but he also knew he wanted more. He leaned closer to Illya's ear and whispered. "I'll be right back."
The loss of the warm body against him hurt, but Napoleon was a man on a mission. He nearly ran to the bathroom and grabbed his kit. Inside was a small container of petroleum jelly, good for 1001 uses, although Napoleon only had one on his mind at the moment. He grabbed the jar and was back in bed before his erection even had a chance to realize there had been a change in location.
Illya was in the same position as he had left him and Napoleon slid back into position, pressing his front up to a welcoming back. He began to move again, but now let his free hand explore the body against his. He stroked Illya's stomach, feeling the flesh tremble at his touch and he smiled. He moved the hand lower, brushing against coarse pubic hair and then down to cup Illya's testicles. The vocal encouragement offered up by the blond was fuel to his fire.
"Illya, would you let me…" Napoleon's penis arched, slipping into the crevice of Illya's ass and the Russian pressed back.
"If you don't, I will..."
Napoleon grinned happily. "Roll over onto your stomach for me."
"I want to see you."
"Not now, next time." Napoleon paused, wondering if there would be a next time. "We need to talk," he started, but Illya interrupted, rolling onto his stomach and spreading his legs.
"Talk later, sex now."
That was all Napoleon needed and he scooped out two finger's worth of the slick ointment and smeared his thumbs. Kneeling between his partner's legs, he separated Illya's cheeks and began to massage that tight band of muscle with his thumbs, slipping in first one, then the other, then both, taking Illya's groans as his impetus.
When he couldn't stand it any longer, he pulled Illya up to his knees and exchanged his thumbs for his penis, nudging in carefully and then stopping.
"All of you or nothing, don't tease." Illya's voice was strangled and muffled by the pillow. Napoleon took him at his word and slid forward until his pubic bone rested firmly against warm flesh. One of his hands found Illya's penis, hard and slick with pre-seminal fluid, and began to work it, matching stroke for stroke.
It didn't take him long to climax, not that he expected it to. He'd taught himself to climax quickly in this situation, never knowing how much time they would be allotted for completion. He had the sneaking suspicion that he was going to have to unlearn that habit as he worked Illya towards his own ejaculation. By the time the Russian was ready, Napoleon had gone from erect to semi-flaccid to rock hard again and plowed through his second climax, not as soul shattering, but just as satisfying.
He felt himself slip out of Illya's body, but he didn't move anymore than to roll to his side and pull his partner along with him.
"And they call me Russian," Illya muttered. "Are you always in that much of a hurry?"
"Usually, but I don't know what you're complaining about."
"You wouldn't, but I have to sit on a seven hour flight in a few hours."
"Should have thought of that earlier," Napoleon said, sweeping his fingers through Illya's hair and smiled as Illya leaned into the caress.
"I did and dismissed it as inconsequential. Had I known then what I know now…"
"What did we just do, Illya?"
"This is a rhetorical question, yes? It seems to me rather apparent as to what we just did."
"I mean, in the overall picture."
"Nothing wrong." Illya reached out and took Napoleon's hand, kissed the palm and set it down over his heart. "Nothing wrong at all."
****
The captain came back on the loudspeaker, mumbling something about approaching their destination, but Napoleon knew that from the change in the pitch of the engines. He reached over and ran a finger across the back of one of Illya's hands.
"Illya, you need to wake up." That was all he needed to say; his partner was instantly aware. "We're getting ready to land."
Now that he was able to ascertain the situation, Illya permitted himself to blink sleepily and stretch. "Short flight."
"Not really, you just slept well. Some of us have all the luck." Napoleon smiled cryptically and Illya grinned back.
"I know something that will make you sleep very well." Illya met his eyes and arched an eyebrow and Napoleon ducked his head grinning at the shared thought. His eye might roam, but Napoleon Solo knew that his heart didn't. It, as well as his soul, was happily and joyously entangled with that of his partner's. And he knew that, no matter what else might occur, he would be loved tonight.