A/N: Okay, so this is what happens when you watch all four seasons in under a month and then try to write a little bit of harmless PWP. It sort of escalated and went all plotty on me. I'm blaming Mr Waverly - he should never have got involved at the beginning of Act I - I could have got them straight into bed then - but he's a tough boss and I'm an easily led author XD

It's mine, so it's slashy...eventually.

Disclaimer: No, none of it is mine. I'm at the back of a very long queue for possession of Illya and Naps. Even if they were released to a grateful nation, I'd still be waiting to get my hands on them in forty years' time. Dash it all ;P

The Jealous Partner Affair

Prologue

For once, one of so few occasions he could count them on his fingers, Illya had got the girl. That is, to be more precise, the girl had decided that she had got him, slipping her arm through his as they walked slowly around the edge of the crowded dance-floor. They reached a vacant booth and sat down at the table within.

'Illya,' she said, playing distractedly with his fingers, 'd'you really have to go back tomorrow?'

'I'm afraid so,' he said, rather more bluntly than Napoleon would have approved of, but then he had no intention of having her clinging to him the next day when he had to leave to board the plane back to New York. Napoleon never seemed to have a problem getting away from his entanglements, but then he was used to dealing with females who had locked their arms around his neck. Somehow he could always detach them without actually causing them too much physical or emotional distress. Illya had an idea that if he attempted the same thing, he would either hurt their feelings beyond repair, or possibly, if they were really tenacious, put them in hospital. Much easier to warn her with a little coldness now and, presuming she was...modern enough to give him an outlet for his current needs tonight, he could play the sneaky Russian in the morning and get out before she awoke.

It didn't look as though she was modern enough, however. At his statement she withdrew her hand and sighed dramatically,

'I knew it. Oh well, that's the end of that then.'

Illya glanced at her and felt a little pang of disappointment. Not that he loved her. Not at all, really. On the other hand, she was attractive and sweet enough, and he really could use a little bit of bedroom activity tonight, if only for purely physical reasons. How did Napoleon always manage to get the feisty little things that just threw themselves into his arms and his bed, or, more usually, given the circumstances, their bed?

'You're sure?' he asked, trying not to sound desperate, 'I have some leave coming up, I might be able to get back here.'

'Might, yeah,' she replied, in a voice that said she'd heard it all before.

'Well, at least let us enjoy the rest of our time here. Want to dance?' She nodded a little wistfully and let him take her hand and lead her back onto the floor.

They had been moving slowly among the other dancers for about quarter of an hour, when Illya felt a familiar hand on his shoulder and heard an unnecessarily seductive voice rumble into his ear,

'Wanna come home with me?' Illya turned, his eyes narrowed, and Napoleon grinned at him, 'Well I get the feeling we'll be in trouble with accounts again if we turn in two taxi fares for tonight's little excursion from here to there.' He raised his eyes to the girl still standing, slightly awkwardly now, in the circle of Illya's arm, 'Miss Haviland, can we drop you off anywhere? Or, ah...' he paused, trying to work out whether or not he'd interrupted anything a little more private than he'd expected, 'Ah, you two didn't have plans to go on somewhere else, did you?'

'No,' replied Illya quickly, dropping his hand from her waist and stepping back with a polite click of his heels. He noticed an almost imperceptible raising of Napoleon's eyebrows and glared at him. 'No. Now, Lottie, would you like to be taken somewhere, or do you wish to remain here?'

Lottie glanced around the room and then back at Illya, letting her gaze linger on his neatly combed hair and his lost-boy blue eyes.

'If it's all the same to you, I think I'll stay here. I know a few people I haven't had time to speak to yet and I know I'll find someone to take me home later.'

'Very well. In that case, until we meet again.' He nodded a little bow at her. 'Look after yourself.'

'Goodbye, Miss Haviland,' said Napoleon, cutting in to take her hand and kiss it.

'Goodbye, Mr Solo. Goodbye, Illya,' she said, her tone making clear that she knew it was for good. She took a step towards him and kissed him on the cheek, then seemed to remember something and kissed him for a long second on the lips. She took a step away, her eyes dropping to the floor for a moment before she looked up to wave them farewell.

Illya turned his back and forgot her.

What he did not forget was the look he had seen on Napoleon's face through his half-closed eyes as she had kissed him. A slight sneer of the lips, the teeth exposed, the eyes wide, as if his whole face wasn't sure whether it was laughing or slightly disgusted. He could not pin the look down, and he tried to forget it, but it clung to his brain.