The Times They Are aChangin'

by lila-blue

Illya's first Christmas in America gives Napoleon a first look at his partner's living space which leads to another first for the two agents. Slash be here.

The Times They Are a-Changin'

"There's a party going on down the hall, my Russian friend. Perhaps it has escaped your notice."

The taciturn blond who was the object of Napoleon Solo's current attention was adorned for the season in a white lab coat, hunched over a flock of bubbling beakers that trailed over the counter top like a straggling family of ducklings.

"THRUSH does not take holidays."

"Actually," Napoleon leaned against the door frame still holding his glass and the bottle of whiskey he'd lifted from Waverly's office, "they do. We have long held a Christmas … truce. Our own little handshake across the Flanders trenches, as it were. A bit of peace in No Man's Land."

Illya Kuraykin observed his American partner who took the occasion to take another sip from his glass.

"Does this surprise you?"

"Perhaps." The Russian's accent was musical and classically cultured. "The rules of the USSR do not have such…" The pale forehead furrowed slightly as he searched for the exact word, "…leniency."

"Well then, seeing as it is your first Christmas in America, perhaps you will allow me to be your guide to some of the more… lenient customs."

"No, Napoleon." The slight hands poured a dram from one beaker into the bubbling of another. "I have much work to complete."

"So, it's Kuryakins that do not take holidays."

The dark-haired agent smiled and his teeth worried his lower lip slightly while he appraised the situation. He was dressed nattily in a dark suit, his red tie standing in crimson salute to the holidays, his shoes highly polished, his hands neatly manicured. He was, to Kuryakin, the quintessential American - brash and a bit taken with himself, wearing his sensuality openly. Solo was capitalist temptation personified and Illya had been well-indoctrinated on how to refuse such pleasures.

"If you are not going to drink the Old Man's reserve with me, you can at least go home. It's almost midnight."

"I must chart the reaction time of—"

The American was silently at his side, tan fingers closing around the top of the beaker. "This? I think not."

Illya watched as the chemical mixture was dumped into the New York sewage system.

Only then did Napoleon hesitate, taking in the faint traces of alarm visible on his partner's face. "That wasn't … dangerous … was it?"

"At this point, it would seem to be of little concern," observed Illya resignedly. "For the damage has already been done."

Napoleon's brows drew toward each other. "I can call Section Six."

"That will not be necessary. It was not hazardous, merely a possible new truth serum."

"Ah, so that's nothing to worry about. Unless it gets in the water at city hall. Then it could be a problem." Solo poured himself another drink. "Anyway, you are not spending Christmas here, Illya. I forbid it."

The blond looked at him quizzically. "You do?"

"I do. Waverly does. You, my friend, are on two days enforced leave starting now."

He was viewed by skeptical blue eyes. "You would not mind if I checked this fact with Mr. Waverly."

Napoleon waved expansively in the direction of the phone. "Not at all. Check away."

Solo ran a thumb along the lip of the whiskey bottle as he listened to the one side of the conversation he could hear between his partner and their superior -- and tried not to smirk.

"Yes, sir. I understand. Yes, sir, relaxation is important. Yes, my superiors in Moscow would undoubtedly agree."

"What did I tell you?" When Kuryakin replaced the handset, Napoleon uncrossed his legs from where he now leaned against the lab station. "Come along then, Tiny Tim. I'm taking you home."

Illya graced him with a jaundiced stare. "I am quite familiar with the works of the notable British writers and I, in no way, resemble a waif of Dickens'."

Solo pointedly shut off the lab lights when he could not successfully gesture his charge out the laboratory door, "On that point, I believe you're right, my dear Illya. You much rather resemble Ebenezer Scrooge."

---

"The Village? Now that's a surprise." Solo took no heed of the silence that greeted his observation. "What made you choose the Village, Illya?"

"It felt less … constricted … here." The blond head propped itself against the glass of the passenger seat window as the Russian stared up into the surprisingly clear night. "You can still feel surrounded by the sky."

As if catching himself, Illya straightened against the seat. "Ahead, it is there. On the right." He turned his head sharply as Napoleon drove past the building's door. "Where are you going?"

"To park."

The Russian frowned. "Dropping me off is quite sufficient."

"No it isn't. I want to see this hep pad in the Village."

In truth, what Solo wanted was to know a little more about his enigmatic partner. The location itself was enough to tweak his interest, but the thought of seeing the interior of his partner's private space was too great a temptation to ignore. Besides, he could probably clean out the betting pools when he reported in about the true nature of things Kuryakin.

When he got there, he didn't know whether to be disappointed or not.

Napoleon fingered the threadbare curtain hanging from a bent rod. "I must get the name of your interior designer."

"It is a place to sleep, Napoleon. Nothing more."

"No it's something more," murmured the American. Clearly it was that. Threadbare and worn and underfurnished and showing no signs of capitalist taint, it was still something that was probably not in the graces of Kuryakin's Soviet managers.

"I have never had … guests," said Illya, turning up the old floor radiator to dispel the chill in the room. "I have nothing to offer but Vodka."

"Vodka is good," replied Solo. There was a card table accompanied by flimsily constructed folding chairs and a small, neatly made bed. He chose the dubious comforts of the thin mattress. As he sat down his foot struck a box tucked beneath it.

"What's this?" He slid the cardboard grocery box from its hiding place, not noticing his partner had frozen mid-act of pouring and rivulet of vodka now made its way down the dingy cabinet facing.

"Napoleon!"

He looked up at the sharp rebuke and saw the Russian paled beyond his usual Nordic coloring. Then he looked back down at what the Russian had been hiding.

They were records.

Jazz records.

"Charlie Parker, Bessie Smith, Miles Davis." Napoleon paused in his recitation to look over the empty shelves of the lone, leaning bookcase. "So, where's the record player?"

"Please, Napoleon." The request was barely whispered.

"Hmm?"

"Please. Put them back."

Not entirely attending, Solo still surveyed the room for the missing hi-fi equipment. "You don't have a record player?"

The blond head shook. "No. Just put them back, Napoleon."

"Illya," chided Solo as he laid the recordings out on the bed. "There's nothing to be afraid of. There's nothing illegal in listening to—" He bent down to snag the next jacket. But what he came up with, what he now held in his hand, was a Japanese magazine. And on its cover was an exquisitely drawn nude male.

"Fuzokukitan," recognized Napoleon.

A patch of dark pink had colored each of Kuyrakin's pale cheeks.

"I've been to Tokyo, Illya. Many times. I've even picked up a few copies myself." He thumbed the pages open, obvious viewing causing them to fall on a particular black and white image. "I would ask where your interests lie, but I can see--"

"Please, Napoleon."

Looking up to meet the blue eyes he saw … fear. Something he'd never seen on the stoic Russian features despite calls these past months that had been close enough to make him occasionally ponder his own career choice.

"Illya, I'm not going to turn you in to the Soviets for preferring your bed partners be male, if that's what you're worried about."

"They are not. I have not—." Illya seemed to take an inordinate amount of interest in the floor tiles. "In the line of duty, yes, but that is different."

"In the line, out of the line, this is none of their concern, Illya."

"You do not understand."

"Oh, but I do, tovarishch. You should know that. There was that double-agent in the Kasbah. The informant in Greece. The ambassador in Berlin. They were all male.

Do you think I just lay back, grit my teeth and think of my UNCLE?"

"You … enjoy—"

"Of course, Illya." Napoleon's tone was soft, confidential. "I take pleasure in all manner of bodies." He rose and moved toward his partner, his hand skimming a pale arm, moving to rest on the jutting collarbone. "Even skinny Russians who'd rather be playing with their Bunsen burners."

"You will not seduce me, Napoleon."

"No?"

"No."

Napoleon couldn't help smiling at the determination radiating from the smaller man. "You have slept with a man, Illya?"

"Willingly?"

Napoleon's hand dropped as if burned.

"I'm sorry, Illya." The American slumped into one of the folding chairs. "I would never …"

"No, my friend, you would not." The blond dipped his head and hugged his skinny arms against himself. "What I …" It was almost as if it was a struggle to say the word. "…*want* has never been an issue, Napoleon."

"It is with me. This is a free country, Illya. You should feel free to … choose to follow any desires you might have."

The Russian peered out at him skeptically from beneath nearly ivory bangs.

"Within reason," modified Solo. "Do you … want to be with a man?"

"What I want--"

"Isn't an issue. Yes, you said that." Napoleon rose again to stand beside his partner. He brushed back the silky pale strands of hair from the Russian's high forehead. And when Illya leaned lightly into his touch he felt the weight of his partner's trust, suddenly heavy and warm against his fingertips.

"Do you want this?" he whispered, then he leaned in for a slight brush of his lips against Kuryakin's.

The breath released warm and moist from Illya's mouth.

"This?" inquired Napoleon, moving the kiss to the jawline.

The American moved his attention to the buttons of the white shirt, tweaking them open to get at skin beneath. He curved his spine, tonguing a pinked nipple. "This?"

"Napoleon."

At Illya's entreaty, the exquisite press of tongue and flesh was immediately withdrawn.

The younger agent's face was screwed up in a grimace that looked half-ecstatic and half-painful. "Are you sure?"

Napoleon frowned. "Am *I* sure?"

"Da."

"You think I'm doing this for my UNCLE, Illya?"

"No. I just…"

"Quiet, then," shushed Napoleon. "Let me concentrate."

Napoleon didn't exactly notch his bedpost, but he did keep a kind of count. Women. Men. On-the-clock. Off. The best. The worst. He'd fucked friends. And enemies. In both cases, mostly just for the pure pleasure of it. Even on UNCLE's time. But he'd never fucked a male partner – until now.

Illya tasted of vodka.

Napoleon divested the rest of the Russian's unremarkable wardrobe to get at the enticing warmth beneath. "Ti takAya krasIvaya."

"Napoleon." Illya chuckled roughly. "Your Russian is abominable."

"Ah," replied Napoleon concentrating on what he'd revealed when he'd tugged down the plain white briefs his partner favored. "But my German is impeccable. Perhaps I should say my goal is "jemandem einen blasen."

The Russian's eyes rounded.

"If you want me to stop," offered Napoleon, looking up from where he knelt.

"Nyet."

Napoleon smiled and placed a kiss on the head of the Russian's penis, which elicited the first of many low moans of appreciation.

---

As they lounged, entwined under the thin bed's meager covers, sharing body heat in the Christmas morning chill, Napoleon held his relaxed partner.

"How did you like your first Christmas in America?"

"The gifts are most …generous."

"Not generous, tovarishch. My pleasure." He nuzzled in the fine hair on Illya's crown. "Quite literally."

"And now?"

"Now?" echoed Napoleon.

"Now that we have …"

Napoleon considered this. "Eggs Benedict would be good right now."

"Napoleon?"

The American placed a kiss on the back of the pale neck. "Don't worry. It is almost 1965 and this is the Village in New York City. Four thousand six-hundred miles from Red Square."

"I am afraid the KGB lives much closer."

"Right down the block?" inquired Napoleon lightly.

When there was no reply Solo hugged the thinner body tightly. "You are severely underestimating the power of your new UNCLE."

"It is not that I do not believe you, Napoleon."

"But you don't believe me."

"I do. It is just … I have been … free before. In Paris I…"

Napoleon waved a tan hand around the frosty efficiency. "This is not the Sorbonne, Illya. I assume you've noticed."

"This could be…" Illya smiled oh-so-shyly at the expanse of bare, tanned skin before him "…Paris."

"Is that a come-on, Comrade Kuryakin?"

"You Americans are always trying to get me to try new things."

"Then by all means," Napoleon rolled over. "There are Christmas presents we haven't even begun to open." He turned his head to look back at his partner. "And you wanted to stay in your lab…"

~end~