Things had come to a head in Caracas, when he’d known, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Illya was dead.
He’d endured twelve hours of feeling like someone was trying to scrape out his chest with a dull coffee spoon before Illya had limped in to their hotel room, covered in grime and smelling like year old fish, the consequence of exiting an exploding building by way of a sewer pipe.
Illya hadn’t made it to the shower. Tackled to the carpet, Illya had stared up at him, a small smirk forming. He’d kissed that smirk right off Illya’s face before giving him head, both for the first time.
He’d woken up alone on the carpet, taken a shower and dressed and then tracked Illya to the hotel restaurant where he was eating a substantial breakfast. He’d been disappointed, but not surprised, by Illya’s apparent amnesia regarding any event beyond the completion of the previous day’s mission.
He’d made his move, even confessed his feelings in halting whispers in the sanctuary the dark hotel room had provided, his fervent hope that he wasn’t alone in this. He had nothing to regret, no ‘what if...?’ left to torture him. He excused himself to go and call Waverly from their hotel room.
He’d just put away the communicator when Illya walked in to their room.
“I am hungry, Napoleon.”
“But you just...” his words faded as Illya wrapped one hand around the back of his neck and tripped him up, controlling their fall to the carpet.
“Now where were we? Ah, yes.” Illya bent down and kissed him before sitting back up to work on Napoleon’s tie and shirt buttons. “You are an idiot, Napoleon, we are partners and you are never alone in anything.”