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The Truth Shall Set You Free

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They were on vacation, their first together in far too long. Napoleon breathed in the brisk, slightly stale air blowing up from the canal, and grinned at his companion. Illya stood to his right, half tipped over the railing and looking down at something in the water.

They'd flown out the night before to Rome, a direct flight that had taken all of Napoleon's wiles with the fair-haired ticketing agent. It had been years since their first attempted vacation here, and although it was, in retrospect, tempting fate to go back to the destination that ended in such disaster the first time, he wanted to do it right. No Roma or Clara, no THRUSH around every corner, just vacation. Not that they stopped looking over their shoulders; spies who stopped looking for little birdies became dead spies, fast. But their only mission was to enjoy themselves, and it had been a long time since Napoleon felt as free as he did standing next to Illya on that bridge.

Illya looked the part a tourist, dressed in casual clothes that made him look younger than he was, and Napoleon watched him peer over the railing overlooking the canal below; sun-kissed hair rustling about his head like a blond halo. He'd firmly refused to put a hat on that morning. Napoleon's own hair was firmly held under a wool cap. Forty five degrees Fahrenheit may not have been Siberia-like temperatures, but he had no reason to be stoic, not in front of Illya at least. It was colder than he would have liked, not the city's prime season, but now was when they could get the time off. He wasn't about to push Mr. Waverly harder than he had to; it was a small miracle he'd allowed the two of them off-duty at the same time to begin with.

"Give me your bread," Illya commanded him.

Napoleon looked down. A family of ducks paddled aimlessly through the murky water heading for the bridge they were standing on. "You're really going to feed them? They're wild animals, Illya, they'll be fine. They certainly don't need hand outs from--"

There was a blur of motion and his partner, always so damned light fingered, was tossing hanks of his croissant into the water. Napoleon's hands were empty of anything more than crumbs. "Illya!"

Then there was a whistle, a plume of bright orange, and Illya dropped the bread.

"Unbelievable," Illya gritted through his teeth. Both hands were wrapped around a dart lodged in his chest, dead center, and he looked down at it darkly. "We're on vacation!" He pulled the dart with loose fingers. Before Napoleon could reach out to steady him, he listed slightly to the side, catching himself on the railing. "We're on vacation, and... I... Napoleon I don't..."

Napoleon reached automatically for his holster, only to find it missing. They were as much sitting ducks as the damned animals Illya had been trying to feed. He heard a second whistle, and pulled Illya down to the ground roughly. He still couldn’t see anything. A second flash of orange pinged off the railing above and dropped into the water.

There was a shout from some fellow tourists further downstream the canal, and then a flutter of pigeons. With any luck their shooter was made.

Illya’s dart still hung loosely from his fingers. Napoleon pulled the dart carefully away from him, and wrapped it in his handkerchief. Whatever it was laced with, it was fast acting. Illya was already looking glassy-eyed and far too unconcerned with their situation.

They needed to get out of the open, immediately. Napoleon's mind started going through the litany of moves drilled into him first at Survival School, and then by every senior agent in the field. The first, the one his mind latched onto, was, "go to ground." There were a dozen bolt holes a shooter could still be lurking in. They hadn't made it far yet this morning, lingering around the cafes not far from their hotel. They were compromised. Ideally, they would flee and find a new safe house to hole up in, but Napoleon didn't like the idea of dragging Illya across Rome, not without assessing his condition first.

He slung an arm around Illya's waist, and marched him quickly across the plaza towards their hotel. Illya didn't put up a fight, but he didn't offer much assistance either.

"Too much wine with breakfast," he said to the concierge with a wink, and all but punched the button for the elevator.

They were on vacation, for God's sake.

He got them into the room without a great deal of grace. Illya was conscious and breathing fine, a relief, but stumbling and either unwilling or unable to more than be led along. Napoleon kept a firm hand under his elbow, keeping him upright as he swayed.

Cutter's voice swam back into his mind; an unwelcome but potentially life saving echo of Survival School. "Secure your damn room, you idiot." He bolted the door, jammed a chair under the handle, and drew the curtains closed, all while keeping one hand tight on Illya's arm. Even with the curtains drawn, the bathroom was the safest spot, and he piloted the increasingly hazy Illya through the door, and set him down on the closed toilet seat.

"Talk to me, Illya."

Illya did so, in fast paced, slurred Ukrainian that he recognized but was miles away from being able to understand. Napoleon's Spanish was brilliant, his Russian passable, his Greek acceptable. His Ukrainian? Nonexistent.

"In English?"

He got a blank stare.

He took Illya's face in his hands, batted away the listless resistance, and peered into his eyes. They were a little glassy, the pupils blown wide. "Damn."

They were agents, not idiots. Even on a vacation where trouble was never strictly anticipated, Napoleon traveled with his communicator and his gun. He risked going back into the main room of their hotel, and slunk carefully to his suitcase propped up against the bed. But there were no ominous shadows, and no shots broke through glass of the windows. He hadn't had a chance to unpack it yet, and his laziness was actually in their favor. He grabbed the bag by the handle and dragged the whole thing back with him into the bathroom. Keeping one eye on his partner, he dug through it until he found his communicator, uncapped it, and opened a channel for Mr. Waverly.

"Sir, it's Solo. I have a bit of a situation."

"Ah, Mr. Solo. Rome not to your liking? Places are always so different when one is off duty."

"No, I'm afraid that's not it. I like Rome just fine, but Rome doesn't seem to like Mr. Kuryakin."

There was a pause, and Napoleon could almost see Mr. Waverly frowning on the other side of the world. "Please explain yourself, Mr. Solo. I am a busy man."

"Someone got a shot off at Illya, sir. A dart of some kind. He's been dosed with something, and it's made him plenty talkative, but he's communicating only in Ukrainian."

As if to prove his point, Illya let off a quiet stream of something or other, apparently unbothered by the proceedings happening in another language.

"And how are your linguistic skills, Mr. Solo?"

He chuffed. "Ah, Ukrainian is still on my to-do list, sir."

"Well, I hardly have the resources to send after my agents when they are vacation. I'll notify the Italian government that they have some undesirables running around and the local police should take care of your attacker. However, the dart and its effects are of interest. Keep it, and inform me if your situation changes."

"But, sir!"

"That is all, Mr. Solo. You are neither dying, nor about to. The local authorities will take down your newfound enemy. You are in Rome on vacation. Do try to enjoy it."

There was a soft click as the channel closed, and Napoleon was left staring at a useless piece of metal.

“я голодний.”

Napoleon sighed.


It wasn't actually that bad, considering half the things THRUSH had done to them over the years, being trapped in a tiny bathroom with a partner who couldn't effectively communicate with him while on his first true vacation in years. It wasn't ideal, but they had been in far worse situations.

What of their breakfast hadn’t been fed to the ducks had been interrupted by the fiasco on the street, and his stomach was grumbling. If he was hungry, there was no doubt his voracious partner was. He fed Illya emergency rations from the suitcase. They had each packed several portions of their vacuum sealed rations out of habit. It was rough fare: tough food resembling a meat patty and brittle cookies, but they both had been hungry before, and it was far better than starving.

Illya, for all his bemused stream-of-consciousness babbling in his native language, seemed content enough to patiently wait out the day sitting on the toilet seat. At least, he appeared that way until Napoleon turned his back, and then he was exploring the inner workings of the shower head, and sticking his face in the cabinets under the sink, and trying to sneak into the main room.

"Ah, ah, no, I think we'd better just wait in here, don't you think? Not that I don't trust the local authorities, mind."

He had no idea if Illya could understand him or not, but all indications were pointing towards the communication road block going both ways.

“Ні, я хочу піти додому.”

"I thought not." That said, Napoleon didn't feel right ignoring him or treating him like an invalid or an idiot. He sighed and did a quick once over of the main room. There was still no indication that whomever it was that shot Illya had returned, but it stood to reason they would try again, even with Mr. Waverly's assurances that the police would handle things. "You know, it really is safer in here."

“Ти говориш , як кошеня під час їжі.”

"Fine. Go out and get yourself shot again. Maybe you'll speak English, then."

He opened the door fully and was unsurprised when Illya sauntered out into the room without a care in the world. Napoleon winced and darted out just in time to pull him away from the window drapes.

“No, none of that now. Leave the windows alone, or you won’t get a second dinner.”

“Заткнись . Ви неймовірно дратує.” As he said it he batted Napoleon’s hands away. At least he was less listless, but even in the dim of the curtained room, Napoleon could still see his pupils were unnaturally wide.

“Can you understand me?”

“Хто ваш капітан? Яка вечірка тебе послав?”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no.’”


Desperate, Napoleon tried a different route. “What about Russian?” he said in the language, fully aware his accent was atrocious.

Illya froze in place, opened his mouth, then closed it again. “You speak Russian?” He spoke quickly, but for all that Napoleon didn’t speak it fluently, he understood it pretty damn well.


He hadn’t realized how much his inability to speak with Illya was affecting him. The rush of relief at being able to say something, anything, and have the man understand was overwhelming, and Napoleon was not a man to be overwhelmed easily. He reached out to touch Illya’s arm.

Illya, in turn, leaned in towards him, apparently just as relieved to have found a method of communication.

“Good,” he said, voice even quicker than before. “These socks are incredibly itchy, and I feel as though I haven’t had a full meal in days. Why are the walls painted yellow?”

“I... what?”  

“I think you might taste good, but I also want to drink wine. Could I taste you and wine as well? I think this place smells overly flowery, is it духи?”

Napoleon didn’t know the last word, but got the general idea. He cleared his throat. “Hold that thought, will you. In fact, hold all your thoughts.”

Keeping both eyes on Illya, who appeared happy as a clam to wander the room and be thunderstruck by pencils, he uncapped his communicator again. He opened a line of communication and hissed into it.

“Mr. Waverly, it’s Solo again. I’m pretty sure the drug is a truth serum, but it’s not one I’ve run into before. We’re communicating in Russian now. He seems to be growing more lucid, but he doesn’t know who I am, at least not yet.”

A long suffering sigh made its way from New York to Rome via the pen-sized device. “Mr. Solo, I thought I made myself clear that you are not on a mission. Please handle this on your own unless your situation becomes medically dire, and report your findings to medical along with the dart when you return.”


“Goodbye, Mr. Solo. And have a lovely vacation.”

The line fell silent again, and Napoleon with it. Illya, on the other hand, decided to continue his litany of observations. “We’re in Europe, yes? It smells different, the flowery духи aside. I can always tell when I’m in Europe by the smell.”

Napoleon puts his head in his hands. “Dare I ask?”

Illya shrugs. “I don’t know what you dare. But I’m happy to tell you. In fact it feels very good to tell you everything, why is that?”

“You’ve been drugged. Whoever did it probably hoped to learn UNCLE’s secrets. Little did they know they’d just get... this.” He was tired. This was supposed to be a relaxing vacation, a chance to catch up on some R&R that they both dearly missed in their day-to-day lives. Instead, they got their day to day lives, only without UNCLE support. Sometimes life just wasn’t fair.

“Ask me more things, it feels so good to answer them.”

Napoleon looked up and shuddered: Illya had a look of euphoria on his face that was, frankly, obscene. Illya laid down on the bed and looked up at him, open as a book. “Please. Ask me anything.”

“No, no I think I’m going to read a magazine. Would you like one?”

He sighs, deep and sensual. “No, I don’t want one. That felt good. Another question?”


He couldn’t take this. How could any man take this?


Christ.” He was swearing in English, which was his only saving grace from Illya calling attention to his distress. “Why are you doing this to me?”

Illya beamed up at him, white teeth and a smile that could light up the Eiffel Tower. “I don’t know. My chest hurts from where that thing bit into me, and you’re here, so it could either be that or you. Either way, I like it. Another?”

God help him, he wanted to see that smile again. Illya would kill him for this when he came back to himself, provided he remembered any of it. “Does it really feel good?”

There it was again, another blissful, euphoric smile, sleepy and satisfied and almost orgasmic. “Yes. It’s as if my mind is kissing me. Have you ever been kissed like that? So completely that your mind lights up? It’s like that.”

Napoleon swallowed. “I’m a better kisser than kissee.”

And then Illya was up off the bed and in his arms, kissing him until bright spots appeared in his vision, and Napoleon thought he’d rather die than pull away. Illya pulled back, just for second, to lick his lips, now pink, and then he was back again, arms braced around Napoleon and possibly the only thing keeping him from melting down on the bed. Napoleon had done the ravishing plenty of times, but this was the first time in a long while he had been so thoroughly ravished himself. He should stop Illya; he wasn’t in his right mind after all, but he tasted so good, and felt even better.

He bit his own tongue to snap himself out of it, and pushed Illya away.

“Stop that.”

Illya stopped. “That felt good, didn’t it? Almost as good as answering questions.”

Jesus. “I’ll ask you questions, all right. Just...don’t do that again. Not until you’re to yourself again, at least.”

Illya smiled and slipped down onto the bed again, rumpling the sheets and denting the pillow. It hadn’t been made up from last night yet. It wasn’t the first time they’d shared a bed out of necessity or UNCLE's fastidious budgeting, but Illya lying there like that made it look as though they’d shared a very different night. Napoleon couldn't look away from his lips. If he were to bend over and kiss Illya now, he would taste himself. He swallowed, hard, and looked away.

“What do you want to know?”

And how many times had Napoleon imagined asking him a whole laundry list of questions, pressing deep some night when they were both punch-happy from lack of sleep or too much drink. But never like this, never looking at Illya’s wide, languid smile, watching the way his hand drew little circles in the bedsheets. He swallowed again and sunk onto the chair beside the nightstand, as if sitting down would offer any sort of normality to the situation.

“How much will you hate me later?”

Illya frowned. “I don’t know. That wasn’t a very good question.” And then his frown turned into a pout, and Napoleon had to remember to breathe.


“You keep saying that. I don’t know what it means.”

“It doesn’t mean anything.” Fine, if he had to ask questions, at least they could be questions Napoleon knew the answer to. “What’s your name?”


Somehow that was worse. “Where do you work?”

“UNCLE headquarters, New York City, New York, in the United States of America.” A relieved sigh pushed through his lips and ruffled the hair that was hanging near his face. “That one felt very good.”

“I’m sure it did.” Lord help him, his voice went airy. This drug was diabolical, providing bliss for answers. Far more effective than pain for silence.

“And who do you work with?”

“Napoleon Solo, Number One, Section II. You.” Illya closed his eyes and licked his lips, and, god above, moaned. “Please ask me a secret. I think it would feel so good to tell a secret.”

“You really don’t want me to do that.”

“Yes, I do. Please?”

Napoleon closed his eyes and tried to imagine what would have happened if he hadn’t spirited Illya up to the hotel room quick enough, if THRUSH had gotten their hands on him right away. It wouldn't have taken them long to find a Russian or Ukrainian speaker to act as a translator. Illya would be some blissed out husk, and they’d have no secrets left at all. He was still CEA of Section II, even if he was on vacation. He had to know just how effective this drug was, if Illya had any control over himself, and what risk other agents currently in the field posed to their organization. He hated himself. Hated knowing what he had to do to his friend, but mostly, hated himself for being just a little bit, secretly, excited.

“Illya, I have to know if you can resist this. I’m sorry.”

Illya smiled, completely relaxed. Napoleon wasn’t sure he’d seen that smile more than a handful of times. So often it was hampered by stress, pain, or worry. Not now, though. Not it was so unencumbered Napoleon’s heart clenched.

“I’m not sorry at all, does that help?”

“No, not really.” There was no turning back, now. But he had to know how much danger their active agents were in, how much risk UNCLE was exposed to. “Tell me a secret, Illya.”

“Ohhh.” Illya’s eyes fluttered and his neck flushed pink. “I have a sister.”

It hit like a sucker punch. He was expecting UNCLE secrets, not something so dangerously personal. He put it away in his mind and tried not to think about it. It wasn’t his secret to know, not even now that it was birthed from Illya’s mouth. “Another one. Tell me a secret about UNCLE.”

“Their cafeteria food is the same that is served as lunches to children in New York public schools.”

He blinked. “Really?”

“I cannot lie.”

“No, I suppose you can’t. But you can tell me secrets that aren’t what I’m looking for.” Which was, frankly, a momentous relief. “But if I ask you a specific question, you have to answer it, don’t you?”

“Well I don’t have to. But it will feel so good.”

Napoleon sucked in a deep breath, suddenly glad for the distance between them. He leaned forward in the chair until his knees brushed the bed. Illya met his eyes gladly.

“How do I kill Mr. Waverly?”

The sleepy smile was gone from Illya’s face. “I don’t like this game anymore.”

“Answer the question.”

He moaned, a different sort of moan now, and breathed hard through his nose. The hand that was drawing sleepy circles on the sheet was now clenched. “Kill Lisa Rodgers and send a ringer in her stead. Add ricin to his coffee creamer; only she has access.”

He closed his eyes. “Damn it.” When he looked up, Illya was panting on the bed, loose limbed, eyes all but rolling in pleasure. He had his answer. “We have to figure out how to beat this. This could destroy us.”

Illya looked at him, dead serious once again, face tight for the first time since this whole nightmare began. “Ask me how to beat this, Napoleon.”

Napoleon froze. “That was English.”

“Ask me, Napoleon. Please.”

“How in control of yourself are you?”

The flush of pleasure that was incandescently lit Illya before was gone, replaced now with a clammy pallor that Napoleon suspected was related to his attempt to direct the conversation. “Not very.” And then the thin veneer of control was gone, replaced by a shudder that Napoleon had to look away from. “Ask me, Napoleon! Ask me, or I’ll--”

“How do we beat this, Illya?” Napoleon cut him off, fast and realized as soon as the words were out of his mouth that he was near to shouting. He tempered his voice quickly. “What do I do?”

“Touch me.”

It knocked the breath out of him. “Illya, you’re not yourself.”

The glare that followed was so much the old Illya, the not-blissed-into-stupor-Illya, that Napoleon began to believe.

“Shut up for once in your egotistical life and touch me. This serum works on pleasure, if we can override it--”

“Short circuit it, you mean?”

“Precisely. Now please, will you just get on with it?”

Napoleon looked down at him. He was dressed in the clothes he'd worn to explore Rome. Casual, for him; it wasn’t often that Napoleon saw him in plain brown pants and a polo shirt. Only they weren’t out on a veranda somewhere having coffee, Illya was sprawled on the bed and drugged to the gills. And apparently incapable of lying. If he weren’t already sitting down his knees would have gone weak.

“How much will you hate me for this?”

Illya glared at him. “You already asked me that one.” Napoleon realized they were speaking in Russian. It did nothing to bolster Napoleon’s sense of confidence that he wasn’t about to assault his partner, his partner who possibly didn't know what he was asking for.

“So answer it again!” He hadn’t meant to shout, he really hadn’t. The only saving grace was that Illya didn’t flinch. Instead he reached up, took Napoleon’s hand.

Napoleon let himself be led out of the chair and to the bed, let Illya pull him until Napoleon was kneeling above him, straddling his partner’s hips. His hand still captured in Illya’s, he brought it down to lie on the warm chest below him.

“I will never hate you, Napoleon,” Illya said. In English, with that crystal perfect pronunciation that caught his attention the first time he heard him speak all those years ago. Napoleon’s hands found the buttons of his shirt, high near his throat, and Illya shuddered under him.

“Is that a lie?”

“I cannot lie.”

The words rushed through him, and Napoleon lost himself. The room was still darkened by the drawn curtains, and although there was still a thrill of unresolved danger in the air, it was a familiar rush, tuned from years spent in the field. Years spent with Illya.

Illya took his hands and urged them along faster, apparently uncaring of the damage he was doing to his clothes. When this was over, Napoleon had no doubt that he would be the one responsible for sewing on any popped buttons.

The thought brought back the reality of what they were doing, stilling his fingers mid button and threatening to bring him out of the moment completely. Illya reached for him again and this time pulled him low, until their faces were pressed into the same air, their lips touched. “Touch me,” he said again around Napoleon’s lips, his tongue, his teeth. He whispered it breathily, and Napoleon could taste him, could feel the air against his cheek.

So Napoleon did what he always did when he got in a sticky situation. He listened to his partner.

Illya’s shirt came off quickly, aided in no small part by his partner’s eagerness in the matter. Napoleon was used to taking things slowly in the bedroom, sensually, and enjoying foreplay as much as the act. In his experience, every part of the dance was an important one, and flinging clothes to the ground for a quick romp hadn’t been in his arsenal of seduction in quite some time.

Touch me, Illya had commanded him. Napoleon was a soldier before he was a spy. He followed his orders. He let his hands run down Illya’s chest, his fingertips ghosting over his skin. It sent a shiver through Illya first, which then rippled up through him, too, until they were both prickling with gooseflesh.

Hesitatingly, his fingers found flat, pink nipples, and he teased them gently until Illya took his hands and pushed them down, hard, until he felt muscle move under his palms and the nipples, firm now, push up against him. Illya shuddered under him again. For all his commanding of the situation, he lay perfectly still on the bed and let Napoleon fondle him.

Illya guided one of Napoleon’s hands to his lips. He kissed the palm, slowly, and then drew Napoleon’s thumb into his mouth. He tried to pull away, but Illya locked him into place, his tongue darting out to explore the join of skin and fingernail, and encircle the digit in warmth. All the while, blue eyes stared up at him with rapt attention, watching his every move. It was one of the most erotic things he’d felt.

“Jesus, Illya,” he all but stuttered.

Illya’s hips bucked playfully, rising up to rub against Napoleon’s hardening groin through their clothes. He groaned, and reluctantly pulled his hand away from Illya’s mouth to tackle their pants. He slid his fingers down smooth skin, leaving slick trails as his still-wet thumb traced a line down Illya’s abdomen, pulling down cloth ungracefully, until Illya was down to his shoes. Those he pulled off without even untying the laces; some of his partner’s haste was catching.

He sank back to his kneeling position above Illya, realizing only once he settled there that he was still completely dressed. Illya was as naked as the day he was born, stretched out underneath him, and Napoleon was missing only his shoes. He reached to start undressing himself as well, but Illya grabbed his hands firmly and brought them down to the skin of his belly once more.

“Touch me,” Illya said again, flushed pink.

Napoleon shook himself and lowered his lips to the taut skin of his belly, kissing one rib and then the next, from his collar bone down to his jutting hip bone. He shuddered under him, his erection growing until it pressed up against Napoleon’s own.

“Ask me a question,” he said in breathless English, tangling his fingers around Napoleon’s head and rubbing slowly, perfectly, at a spot behind his ears that sent a shudder down his spine and then lower.

He nipped at the tender skin under Illya’s belly button and felt his stomach muscles contract against his face. “What color, ah, are my eyes?”

Illya moaned and his hands spasmed around Napoleon’s head. “Blue!”

It was working! Somehow providing a pleasure stimulation outside of the drug was allowing Illya to lie. Either that or his partner was considerably less observant than he gave him credit for. “Smart Russian,” he said, and nipped again, leaving a hickey cresting one hip bone, and then a matching one on the other. It was a weight off of Napoleon’s shoulders knowing that, at least armed with this knowledge, agents in the field stood a fighting chance of resisting interrogation.

“More. Ask me more.”

“Aren’t we demanding.” There was a push and a tug, and the hands rubbing slow circles at the tender skin behind his ears were now pressing his head downward, away from the more innocuous features of his partner, and down to the one very particular thing that made him different from the majority of Napoleon’s bedmates.

It wasn’t his first time with a man, although it had been some years, and it wasn’t the first time he’d imagined doing this with Illya. But somehow the scenario was never quite like this in his mind.

Illya, for all his average-sized frame might have indicated otherwise, was very well proportioned. And Napoleon, for all his female companionship might have indicated otherwise, was very flexible. He let Illya push him down and dictate the speed and direction, which seemed to be ‘very fast’ and ‘now.’ He stroked the long stretch of thigh muscle from hip to quad. Illya was trembling.

“Where do you live?”

Napoleon began kissing his way down towards Illya’s knee, intent on giving him a full experience, when the tug at his ears firmly kept him pressed between Illya’s legs. Illya’s legs which then wrapped around him, heels digging into Napoleon’s back, and holding him in place. He smiled around bristly blond pubic hair.

“Only if you answer, partner. We’re trying to beat this thing, remember?”

Another moan sounded from above, and Napoleon risked a glance upwards to see Illya’s head thrown back into the pillow, and the flushed expanse of his bared throat. It sent a rush through him, and he gripped Illya’s hips, hard. Illya bucked a little, squirming until he had Napoleon’s hands exactly where he wanted them, pressing into his skin until he felt bone.

“I live,” a groan, “in Shanghai.”

Napoleon bent down and kissed the tip of Illya’s penis. It was a pretty cock, robust and already straining for attention. It flushed to match his neck, and Napoleon’s breath caught in his throat at the realization of what he was about to do. About what they were about to do.



His hands spasmed across Illya’s hips. He looked up to find a satisfied little smile lingering on Illya’s lips. “Imp.” He ran his tongue down the underside of Illya’s twitching, hot cock and grinned at the little hip thrusts as he tried to escape Napoleon’s hands. “Not yet.”

He took Illya’s cock into his mouth slowly, first just the head, running his tongue around it fully, teasing. It had been years since he’d done this, but he prided himself both on adaptability in the field and his commitment to sexual prowess. Then he pulled away, slowly, intentionally, savoring the tremors running down the man in front of him.

With the taste of him still in his mouth, Napoleon asked, “Where is the agent’s entrance into UNCLE headquarters in New York?”

Just as Illya began to open his mouth, Napoleon opened his, too, and took Illya in, completely. His partner shuddered under him and, hands still tangled in Napoleon’s hair, held him perfectly in place and began to thrust into him. Napoleon let him take control and just held onto his hips, keeping them on place and providing suction and heat.

“The cafe down the street! Napoleon!”

There was a shudder that Napoleon felt run from Illya’s hands, down into his hips, until finally, it made its way out of his cock in a wet, hot rush. Napoleon held on, sucking the deflating member and swallowing everything up.

Illya all but melted back onto the bed, covered in a perfect sheen of sweat and satisfaction. Napoleon gave himself a moment of triumph before worry began to gnaw at him in its place.

“Illya?” Napoleon asked, when he pushed himself up and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He’d left fingerprints splayed across his partner's hips, and they were entrancing now; red blossoms that crested one hip bone and then the other. He traced them until Illya caught his hand and kissed it again.

“Napoleon.” There was a teasing in his voice that sent a wave of relief through Napoleon. “I believe this has been the most interesting start to a vacation.”

“Feeling yourself?”

“Quite. You have the dart, I presume? It was a...very interesting compound. One that will need a great deal of study.”

Illya appeared perfectly comfortable naked on the bed with a still-dressed Napoleon hovering over him. Napoleon pushed himself up and then scooted to lay beside him, side to side and both on their backs. “Ah. Yes.”

Illya licked his lips, and Napoleon felt his face heat up watching the pink tongue dart out and then back in. “Of course, we still have several days left of our vacation. We will have to test for residual effects over the course of the week.”

His breath caught in his throat. “Of course.”

His communicator trilled and Napoleon groaned, reaching down off the bed to fish for it where it had taken up residence on the floor in the melee. “Ah, Napoleon here.” He hoped he didn’t sound breathless.

“Ah, Mr. Solo,” Mr. Waverly’s voice warbled out of the speaker, fresh as always and frightfully awake for the time it still must have been over there. Not for the first time Napoleon found himself grateful that Section VIII hadn’t yet implemented video capabilities for field communicators. He trusted himself to explain his way out of nearly any situation, but this might have proved beyond even his skills. Thankfully Mr. Waverly didn't catch on to his apprehension and continued on. “The Italian police have apprehended your attacker. Seems he was a rogue THRUSH agent who happened to spot Mr. Kuryakin, but he was acting alone and has been taken care of. Nasty coincidence, that. Have you dealt with the situation at hand?”

“It. Ah. Yes, sir. Everything’s under control.”

Illya was grinning at him, still licking his damned lips. Napoleon did his best to glare at him as he flopped back onto the bed, but he couldn't wipe the smile from his own lips either.

“Very good. See you back in New York in a week, then. You gentlemen have a good vacation.” The line clicked off and they were left with dead air, a secure hotel room, and an entire week of uninterrupted time with only themselves to worry about.

Napoleon was capping the communicator when he felt the bed dip, and then Illya was rolling onto him, pinning his forearms to the pillow above his head in a smooth move. In a different situation that move would have been the prelude to ruthless and efficient violence, and the role reversal sent a flush through him. Illya's eyes were clear now, the cloudy haze of Ukrainian and Russian replaced with sharp, perfect English and sharp, perfect everything else.

“Tell me, Napoleon, do you have any secrets?”

Illya pressed a hot, biting kiss to his collarbone, teeth pulling at the buttons of his shirt. With his hands still engulfed in Illya’s larger ones, Napoleon willed himself to stay still as blue, impish eyes looked down at him.

Napoleon swallowed. “I think, ah, we might have to find out.”