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There's something at Illya's ear, and it cannot be what it feels like, which is to say, Napoleon's tongue, because surely even sexually voracious Napoleon Solo has enough self-preservation to know better than to distract Illya from making a shot when they're dug in against a THRUSH attack force and have so little ammunition left.
There it is again, a hot, wet flicker, and surely Napoleon wouldn't...
Incredibly, he would. Because that's what is indeed poking at Illya's ear -- Napoleon's tongue. Narrowed to a point, it traces the inner curve, flicking against his flesh, causing an all-too-predictable stirring in Illya's trousers.
He rests the rifle barrel on the window. A cold draft of Canadian air finds its way through the broken window and tickles his ear where Napoleon has licked. "Napoleon," he says evenly, or at least as evenly as possible under the circumstances, "what do you think you are doing?"
"What do you think I'm doing, Illya?" Napoleon's breath is hot against Illya's cheek. The tongue strikes again, hot, wet, arousing. Illya shivers.
"Napoleon..."
"Mmm?" Now Napoleon is nuzzling Illya's neck, right at the juncture below his jaw, biting gently at it.
"Napoleon, stop it! You are distracting me." There are THRUSH agents outside who don't care a toss that he and Napoleon have come all this way for a week's solitude. He wants to teach them a lesson for so forcibly disturbing their vacation; he'd like to remain still and do his job, but instead he's forced to shift his position, giving his burgeoning erection more room. "Stop it. I can't make the shot."
"Forget the shot. Kiss me?"
Illya pulls back sharply and regards his partner. "Are you insane?" Napoleon leers. "Never mind. Of course you are insane. Napoleon. Why would you do this...now, when we are nearly out of ammunition and quite likely to die grotesquely in a matter of minutes in the middle of the wilderness?"
"Because," Napoleon says, leaning in, covering Illya's body with his own, "because we are nearly out of ammunition, and quite likely to die grotesquely in a matter of minutes in the middle of the wilderness." He kisses Illya full on the lips; as always Napoleon's kiss renders Illya breathless. "So what better time than the present, eh?"
"Ah." Illya feels like laughing. Napoleon, the cabin, the ammunition, THRUSH, death, sex -- it's all suddenly absurd. "I concede your point. But please, Napoleon--" He pushes back, toppling Napoleon on his rear. "May I please make the shot first?"
"It's your call," Napoleon says, grinning. "Whatever you want, partner mine."
Now it's Illya's turn to grin. "I'll remember that," he says, giving his partner a speaking look. "Whatever I want...hmmm. Whatever I want. Well, then. Keep that in mind... for after."
It's worth everything, THRUSH, potentially grotesque death, danger, just to see the startled look on Napoleon's face as he considers what Illya might have in mind for him. "Oh, dear," Napoleon says, chagrined. "Perhaps I misspoke."
"Too late."
Illya flashes a triumphant look. Win, lose, live, die. He turns, aims, and fires, feeling nothing but joy in the moment.