Apr. 30th, 2017

yumyumpm: Napoleon and Illya (Man from UNCLE)
 Beware of What You Wish For

BY YumYumPM

Originally published in YumYum Collected

Revised 6/10/09

When the two agents find themselves hanging Napoleon makes a, for him, unusual wish.  Then an experiment conducted by a mad scientist while on assignment leaves him with an strange talent and he learns some interesting things about Illya.  Things begin to get interesting and could change their partnership in ways they never thought of.

 

The two agents hung facing each other, eye-to-eye, their bodies less than two feet apart, their bodies swaying slightly.  As usual they were bickering.

 

“Look this isn’t my fault,” Solo insisted.

 

“You picked the restaurant.  You made the reservation,” Illya flung back.

 

Napoleon Solo, the darker of the two, sighed as he looked into the unreadable blue eyes of his Russian partner and wished for the hundredth time that he could read his mind.  The two agents hadn’t even been working when they had exited the restaurant, only to be overpowered and dragged to the vacant warehouse where they currently found themselves strung up.  He was lost as to who the men that had taken them captive were and more important – why?  They hadn’t asked a single question, just strung them up with chains and left them, laughing about the bomb that was planted, waiting to go off.

 

“You wouldn’t by any chance have any, ah…?” Solo arched one brow as he asked.

 

“No.  Do you?” the Russian replied, scowling, his chin coming up defiantly.

 

With a smug smile, the American replied nonchalantly, “As a matter of fact…”

 

“You do.  Where?” Incredulity lit the Russian’s face.

 

“Ah, you’ll have to come closer,” Napoleon said with a twinkle in his eye.

 

“How close?” was Illya’s wary response.  Considering their current predicament, amusement was not what he expected.

 

“Very,” Napoleon purred.

 

Shaking his head, the Russian’s cool blue eyes locked onto Solo’s as he tried to gauge whether he should believe him or not.  Deciding he had nothing to lose, he got a grip on the chain, then the pole, before he carefully managed to inch his way closer toward the darker man.  It was not easy and he was panting with the exertion when he finally stopped within inches of his goal.  He tilted his head to one side and asked, “So, where is it?”

 

“In the tag at the back of my shirt,” Solo replied as he tried to keep a smug smile off his face.

 

“Napoleon!”  The ridiculousness of the placement made Illya tetchy.

 

“Look.  It wasn’t my idea,” Napoleon responded with a shrug, as well as he could despite the fact that his hands were chained above his head.  

 

Illya maneuvered closer to try and reach the lock pick that someone from armory had decided to hide in the tag at the back of Napoleon’s collar.  Why the tag, why not his belt-buckle or the collar itself, he thought?   It made no sense.  However, it was the only thing he had to work with, so he did his best to reach it.

 

Napoleon could feel Illya’s harsh breath on his neck and he closed his eyes as his body started to react strangely to the closeness of his partner.  He breathed in the scent of the Russian as fire started to course through his veins and tremors of desire swept over him while Illya tried desperately to reach the lock pick.  Unusual as it was Illya, and not some gorgeous woman, who was generating these reactions. 

 

In order for Illya to reach the tag, he would have to more or less plaster himself to his partner.  When their bodies came into contact, it felt so good that Napoleon had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from moaning.  Only his professionalism allowed him to mask his reaction to the closeness of his partner.  He blinked and wondered if the Russian had any idea of the effect he was having on Napoleon.

 

As close as they were, Illya still could not reach the back of Napoleon’s shirt and with a growl of frustration, he pulled away.  Looking intently into warm brown eyes, Illya asked, “Do you trust me?”

 

Napoleon nodded, not trusting his voice.

 

Nudging Napoleon’s chin up with the top of his head and using his teeth, Illya proceeded to loosen Napoleon’s tie.   Then he pulled off the top button of Napoleon’s shirt with his teeth.

 

“Careful.  It explodes,” Napoleon murmured with studied casualness.

 

Illya rolled his eyes and with a mischievous glint, flicked his blond head, letting the button fly across the room toward the door of their cell.

 

Napoleon flinched as the bomb exploded, shaking the room and leaving the door in pieces.  He glanced at the Russian’s smug face as Illya again moved close to him to gain access to the lock pick.  He couldn’t help it as his breathing got ragged and his body started to shudder.

 

“Hold still,” Illya hissed into his ear and Napoleon’s eyes popped as Illya brought a leg up and around him to hold him steady enough so he could retrieve the lock pick.  Napoleon bent his head forward to allow Illya greater access to the tag, surprised by how good it felt having him this close.  A strange desire to place his lips against that neck stretched next to his swept over him as Illya finally got his teeth on the lock pick.

 

“Boost me up,” Illya muttered around the lock pick once he had backed away from Solo.

 

“What?  How?” Solo was having trouble focusing and found to his chagrin that his thought processes were lagging.

 

Illya glared at him and hissed, “Think of something.  I need to reach my hands.”

 

Napoleon looked up at the hands hanging from the pipe.  In his effort to reach them, Illya had gotten a hold on the chain and pulled himself up.  Even then, he was still short of reaching his goal.  With a mental sigh, Napoleon considered his options and then did the only thing he could.  Trying to keep from swinging too much, he brought one knee up between Illya’s legs, giving him the boost he needed.   This however, caused an unfortunate reaction in the area of his groin.   Looking down he muttered, “Down, boy.”

 

“I can’t.  Not until…I reach…my hands,” Illya replied, unaware that he was not the one for whom the command had been intended.

 

Seconds later, he easily managed to reach his hands.  “You can remove your knee now,” Illya said sarcastically as he reached up to unlock his cuffs before dropping gracefully to the ground and rubbing his sore wrists.  With amusement, he looked up at his partner and said speculatively, “I suppose I could leave you up there.”

 

Napoleon glared down at him and growled.

 

Illya relented with a grin and reached up to let his partner loose.  “Why did you bother to ask if I had anything on me if you had a lock pick on you all the time?”

 

Napoleon, his feet now back on the floor, shrugged as he adjusted his cuffs.  “It seemed like the polite thing to do at the time.”

 

Shaking his head Illya suggested, “Perhaps now would be a good time to vacate the premises.”

 

While racing through the building, Napoleon struggles to banish his recent reaction to his partner.   Once outside the building, they dove for cover, Napoleon protecting Illya with his body, savoring the feeling of the lithe body under his, just seconds before the bomb went off.

 

Once Napoleon shifted away from Illya’s body they found that ‘Solo’s luck’ had stood them in good stead, and only Napoleon’s suit sustained any damage.  As they inspected the damage, Illya said, “Perhaps I should have been the one on top.”

 

Napoleon tapped him on the chest and teased, “There’s not enough of you to protect anyone.” 

 

Illya made a face that clearly said what he thought of that statement.

 

Patting his pockets, Napoleon asked, “Have you got a nickel?”  They needed to get in touch with headquarters and their captors had taken everything of value away from them, everything except the lock pick.

 

Illya turned his pockets inside out.  “Afraid not.  Looks like we will have to call collect.”

 

“Mr. Waverly’s going to love that,” Napoleon muttered, as the two men went in search of a payphone.  With stern effort, he managed to relegate to the back of his mind the feelings Illya’s closeness had provoked.


Not too long after, early in 1965, the two agents once again found themselves captured, guests of a mad scientist whom U.N.C.L.E. had long suspected of conducting extremely unethical research in the area of brain transference.  His delight in having two new subjects to use for experimental purposes was incomprehensible. 

 

Why does this always seem to happen to us?  Illya thought, as the two agents found themselves lying on tables side by side. He turned to look at his partner and remarked.  “I can understand why he’d want to transfer my brain, but why yours?”

 

Napoleon just snorted at the sarcastic remark.  Illya’s smug superiority was beginning to grate.  The hair on the back of his neck prickled as he glanced nervously at the scientist and watched him pull the lever, sending an electrical shock through his body and causing him to arch in pain.  The last thing he clearly remembered before oblivion took over was the sound of Illya’s voice shouting his name.  He was dead to the world in more ways than one when April Dancer and Mark Slate arrived; effecting what they thought was a timely rescue. 

 

When Napoleon woke in the hospital, following this incident, he knew instantly that his partner was nearby even before he opened his eyes.  This shouldn’t have been surprising except for the fact that he also knew that Illya was clearly agitated, though you wouldn’t have known it from looking at him. 

 

“Hi,” Napoleon said groggily

 

“Welcome back,” Illya responded from the chair next to the bed.  “For awhile there, I wasn’t sure you would wake up.”

 

“You miss me?”  Napoleon asked in spite of knowing with sudden clarity that Illya had. 

 

“Of course not,” Illya lied. 

 

“What are you doing?” Napoleon asked.

 

“Writing up our report,” Illya said as his gaze returned to the clipboard on his lap. 

 

It was obvious to Napoleon, though he wasn’t sure how, that Illya did not want to write that report - that Illya had never liked writing reports.  “You don’t have to write it.  I’ll take care of it.”

 

“Napoleon, I’ve already done the part you were conscious for and you don’t even know what happened next.”

 

“So you could tell me.”  Napoleon reached over and pulled the clipboard from Illya’s hands.  “Okay, let’s see.  Oh yes, Dr. Klyber pulled the switch and…?”

 

You almost died… you were dead…..you had stopped breathing. 

 

Napoleon looked up, surprised at the aggrieved tone in which the words had been uttered.  The obstinate Russian never voiced his concern, why was he doing so now?  Somehow, Napoleon knew in an instant that Illya had not actually said what he’d just heard.

 

“I’m not dead,” Napoleon stated quietly.

 

“Of course not,” Illya repeated gruffly in his usual manner.   Thank God.

 

Somehow, the thought that his partner cared made Napoleon feel good.  He had felt the worry emanate off his partner with an insight he had never had realized before.  He remembered wishing he could read his partner’s mind and now it looked as if he could.  Napoleon knew better than to let on about this to his partner.   He knew number one, Illya would probably kill him and two, U.N.C.L.E. medical would have a field day if they found out.  That was something he was not looking forward to, so he kept his silence. 

 

When he was finally released from medical, he noticed he could perceive thoughts emulating from the stoic Russian when they were in close proximity and the closer they were the better the reception.  Entering Illya’s office shortly afterward, he was surprised to learn that Illya really, really did not like doing paper work.  It wasn’t anything the Russian said, but Napoleon had the distinct impression that he only did it because it was his duty.

 

Over time he gradually learned other things he hadn’t known about his partner.  Odd little things kept popping up, like the realization that Illya enjoyed reading poetry.  Napoleon had been sitting at his desk when lines from a piece of poetry kept popping into his head. 

 

 

Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

 

He vaguely recalled reading this particular poem when he was younger and was wondering why he was thinking about it now, when Illya wandered in, a book in his hand.

 

“What are you reading?” Napoleon asked.

 

“Oh nothing,” Illya said as he tried to hide the title from view. 

 

Napoleon looked at him. “Poetry?”

 

Illya looked embarrassed.  “How did you know?”

 

“Lucky guess.”  It wouldn’t do to tell Illya that he could recite word for word the poem he’d been reading.


 

It was surprising to find that the impervious Russian had a romantic streak and Napoleon couldn’t help but wonder how his partner felt about being kissed.  Why it was important to know that about his partner he wasn’t sure.  The answer came as he happened upon Illya, who was receiving a thank you kiss from one of the secretaries for helping her with a problem she had been having with her computer.  At least, Napoleon had picked up the feeling that Illya had enjoyed the kiss; however, he was not prepared to test the kissing theory, in case this was only wishful thinking on his part.  It puzzled him how much his thoughts of Illya in a sexual way were occurring.  He realized that as head of Section Two, thinking about kissing his partner was somewhat inappropriate, especially when it led to his thinking about doing other things to the stoic Russian.   It got to the point that he even gave serious consideration to resigning as head of Section Two until he realized Illya would be his replacement, which put him right back at square one.

 

Napoleon gradually got used to having Illya in his head. In fact, there were times when it came in downright handy. 

The See Paris and Die Affair


It was while on assignment in Paris that he also learned that when Illya was extremely angry, his thoughts reverted to Russian, almost impossible to read, and at the moment Illya was angry now. 

 
“And you told him.”

 

“Now, Illya, you wouldn’t want me to lie to Mr. Waverly, would you.”

 

“You…..you…blockhead,” Illya sputtered

 

To make matters worse, Solo whirled away with Mary Pilgrim, the innocent they had manipulated during this affair, as he called back to his angry partner.  “Dance with the lady, pussycat.”  The look Illya sent Solo needed no translation.

 

One way or another, Napoleon somehow managed to get back to the room they were sharing before his partner.  He felt a little guilty about the trick he’d played on his partner, but the Russian rarely made a mistake, so he hadn’t been able to resist.  He was just getting ready to slide into bed when the door flew open and an extremely irate Russian entered the room.

 

“You left me alone with that…that…”  Illya stammered as he slammed the door behind him.

 

Napoleon regarded his partner in shock before starting to back away.  Illya was so furious that he was thinking in Russian and Ukrainian and Napoleon couldn’t make out a word of it.

 

“Damn you, Napoleon.”  There was murder in the Russian’s eyes as he advanced on the American with intent to do major bodily damage.

 

Solo used to a certain cool, collected Russian, knew what he had done was irritating yet he was unable to understand the reason behind all this… anger.  Sure, he’d baited Illya, but he’d done that before many a time and never managed to get Illya this mad.  Unfortunately, Illya evidently didn’t see it that way.  In his opinion, this was the last in a long line of grievances he had against his partner.

 

The two men circled the room, Napoleon being somewhat hampered by the fact that he didn’t want to hurt Illya.  Illya, on the other hand, seemed under no such restraint. The small room ended up taking the brunt of the damage as Napoleon pushed objects in the way, which Illya violently sent crashing to the side.   Illya finally managed to manhandle his partner onto one of the beds before he leaped on him to thwart any idea Solo might have of escaping his punishment.  Illya was out of control and Napoleon had no idea what he planned to do, furthermore, he realized that there was nothing he could do to stop him. 

 

“Illya, I realize you’re mad,” Napoleon said desperately as he sought to placate the deranged Russian.

 

“Mad?   Mad is not the word for what I am.”  The normally icy blue eyes blazed with fire.

 

Illya’s thought patterns were so loud that they were beginning to give Napoleon a headache.  Napoleon grabbed his head as the pain intensified and managed to gasp out.  “Not so loud… in English… in English.   I can’t understand you.”  Napoleon, after he managed to open the eyes that he hadn’t known he’d shut; found himself looking into his partner’s glacial eyes.  He watched with relief as they changed from anger to questioning.  He knew that Illya had no idea what he was talking about, since Illya hadn’t actually said anything.   His head was pounding unmercifully and he covered his eyes with the palms of his hands trying to lessen the throbbing.  “Why… are you so… mad?”

 

Illya’s breathing slowed as he abruptly moved back to the foot of the bed.  As he sought to gain control of his temper, he asked himself, Why am I so angry?

 

Napoleon lay panting on the bed, his arm covering his face.  “That’s better… what do you mean you have no idea why you’re so angry?”

 

Illya’s eyes became suspicious slits as he pondered that statement.   “How did you know what I was thinking?” he asked aloud.

 

“Umm, Illya, there’s something I should have told you,” Napoleon said reluctantly.

 

“And what would that be?”  Illya was willing to listen now that he had control over his emotions.

 

Napoleon cleared his throat and sat up to look his partner in the face.  “Remember that deranged scientist six months ago?”

 

Illya nodded.

 

“Evidently the experiment wasn’t a complete failure,” Napoleon stated flatly.

 

Illya blinked. “Exactly what does not a complete failure mean?” he asked apprehensively, his mind racing through the possibilities.

 

“Could you please slow down,” Napoleon gasped, gripping his head.  “I’m having a little trouble taking it all in.”

 

“You can read my mind?”  Illya backed further away in shock before asking indignantly.  “How long have you been in my head?”

 

“Hey, it’s you that have been in my head, tovarish.  It’s not like I have any control over it,” Napoleon responded with a glare.

 

“Don’t tovarish me.  How long?”

 

“About six months now,” Napoleon admitted and taking a deep breath, went on.  “And there’s something else I need to tell you.”

 

“Go ahead.”

 

“Well, Illya, it’s like this,” Napoleon said hesitantly.  He wasn’t sure how Illya was going to take this.  “For some time now… I’ve found myself… harboring certain…ummm…feelings.”  He paused.  “Toward you.”

 

“What kind of feelings?”  Illya asked apprehensively.

 

Napoleon massaged his forehead with one hand.  “Do I have to spell it out for you?”

 

A stunned Illya looked away.  His mind went over the implications and coming to a decision, he pushed Napoleon back down on the bed and straddled him, his face inches from his partner’s.  “Read my mind now, Napoleon,” he dared him.

 

Solo concentrated before breaking out into a delighted grin.  “Why you devious Russian.” Napoleon looked at his partner in surprise - he’d finally caught it.  “I didn’t know,” he said positively elated, then he looked away puzzled.  “Why didn’t I know?”  

 

“If you had known, I assumed you would have wanted a new partner,” Illya said, despondently.

 

“No.  If I’d have known, I would have done this,” Napoleon said as he grabbed the delectable blond by his tie and pulled him close to claim his lips in a slow and tantalizing kiss.  As the kiss grew deeper and more lustful, Napoleon virtually ripped the clothing from the willing Russian, before covering the slighter body with his own.  The pajamas Napoleon was wearing vanished as if by magic and the two men ground their bodies together, creating a friction that all too soon drove them both over the edge, as they tried to muffle their moans of pleasure.

 

Napoleon turned to his side, breathing heavily, as his hand skimming ever so gently down the body of the man beside him.

 

“I cannot believe…”  Illya gasped in disbelief.

 

“That this just happened,” Napoleon finished as he pulled Illya back down and first used his hands and his mouth to soothe the trembling in his partner before changing it to a more sensual touch that brought shivers to the body beneath him.  No words were spoken as the voice in his head told him which ways were best to please his partner.  A touch here, a touch there soon had Illya moaning with pleasure. Once having gotten to that point, Napoleon relinquished control.

 

Napoleon sighed when they had finished for the second time. He gently turned toward Illya and lifted the other man’s chin with one finger.  Napoleon leaned forward, preparing to renew the sensations once again when he chanced to look at the clock on the bedside table.  “Damn, we have planes to catch,” he said regretfully as he leaped out of the bed to get ready.  

The Children's Day Affair 

One year later, they were on a train together heading back to the Geneva office after doing a security check for an important conference of U.N.C.L.E. heads.   Napoleon was somewhat relieved that, over time, the connection between them had faded.  Now as far as sex was concerned, the two agents approach to it was as different as night and day.  Kuryakin viewed sex the same way as one would an itch, if it bothered him enough he took care of it, if not he ignored it.  Solo, on the other hand, viewed sex in the same manner as he viewed a good wine or a good meal, an experience to be savored and enjoyed.  It had at times proven most embarrassing when Illya would finally relieve his ‘itch’ at the same time Napoleon was savoring his ‘wine’.”

 

During this last mission, Illya had been brutally whipped by a sadistic woman who called herself Mother Fear, his back a mass of bloody stripes when Napoleon had found him.  In spite of all that, they had managed to escape and stop her and Dennis Jenks, the head master of a nearby boys’ school, from assassinating the top level U.N.C.L.E. heads.

 

It had been a long day and Waverly decided they should spend the night at the lodge before heading back to New York.  Napoleon sat looked out the train window, trying to get comfortable, as he reflected on how much things had changed over the last year.  After Paris, the two agents had decided to play it by ear, with Solo never actively initiating their encounters, preferring to leave the when and where to his partner.  He could still count on one hand the number of times they had gotten together and enjoyed each other.  Take last night for instance.  When Illya normally initiated anything, he did more or less apologetic- last night he had been… demanding.


 

Napoleon had been unable to sleep because of all the tossing and turning Illya was doing in the other bed, evidently unable to find a less painful position.  Finally, Napoleon sighed and asked quietly.  “Does it hurt?”

 

“No,” had come the sharp reply.

 

“Don’t lie to me, Illya.”

 

There had been a pause of minutes before Illya replied reluctantly.  “It is merely… uncomfortable.”

 

Napoleon had turned and propped himself up on one elbow, asked, “Did you take the pain medication?”

 

“Yes.”  Illya snapped.

 

Napoleon had gotten up out of his bed and reached over for the jar of cream the doctor had prescribed. He had gone to the other bed and sat next to Illya who was currently lying on his stomach.  “Why don’t we apply some of this to your back?  It might help.”

 

Illya turned and looked at his partner.  He grabbed the jar from him and slammed it back down on the nightstand.  “No.  I don’t need that.”

 

“What is it you need then?”  Napoleon had asked, more than a little exasperated.

 

The next thing Napoleon had known, his slight partner had turned and pounced on him, driving him down on the bed and ruthlessly taking possession of his mouth.  There was no gentleness, just an urgent hunger and he felt like his tonsils were being sucked out of his throat.  The younger man’s mouth trailed down Napoleon’s neck, sharp nips and kisses down to his chest.  He had let up just long enough to rip open Napoleon’s pajama top, sending button’s flying.  

 

Napoleon was breathing hard as Illya ran his hand over his broad chest, tweaking the nubs of his breast before running his tongue over one than biting down – hard.  Napoleon had arched off the bed and panted.  “Illya, you’re killing me here.”

 

Illya had then backed away, his eyes burning with need and Napoleon had no problem discerning what.  Illya’s body had been trembling and he demanded, “Napoleon…”

 

 “Oh no, no, no, no,” Napoleon had said, shaking his head.  Of all the ways they had come together, that was one they had not done.

 

“Napoleon, please?”  Illya had begged.  The two men stared at each other for what seemed like ages.

 

“Damn…did you have to say please?”  Napoleon had sighed as he sat up and started removing the rest of his pajamas.  “How do you want me?” 

 

Illya hurriedly removed his own clothing, a wolfish grin on his face, before he had turned a reluctant Napoleon over on his stomach and positioned several pillows under his hips.  Then he had reached over for the jar of cream, not planning to employ it for its intended use.

 

Napoleon had buried his head in his arms and felt his rear cheeks parted and a finger piercing him, the sensation decidedly unusual, though not unpleasant.  He couldn’t help squirming as the finger was joined by others stretching and massaging his inner passage before hitting a spot that sent waves of pleasure up his spine.

 

Illya had removed his fingers and slapped Napoleon sharply on his ass, growling, “Be still.”

 

His erection was hard as a rock and it had been all Illya could do to hold back enough to carefully prepare Napoleon.  Hurriedly coating his straining erection, he slid into the body of his partner’s body with one swift thrust, a sigh of relief escaping his lips.

 

For Napoleon, the merging of their two bodies was more electrifying as he felt not only himself being entered, but the urgency and pain of Illya’s need centered in his mind.  The sharp pain of being entered had quickly been replaced with pleasure…pleasure doubled since it was not just his own, but Illya’s as well.  It had not been a gentle possession either, what with Illya slamming into him, hitting the right spot on every stroke.

 

Somehow both men had managed to keep their moans and growls of pleasure to a minimum and when Illya made his final thrust, they both managed to swallow the loud cries that wanted to escape.

 

Illya had collapsed across Napoleon’s back and muttered, “Are you all right?”

 

“Yeah,” he’d mumbled in reply.  Though in fact, Napoleon wasn’t sure if he was all right.  He was trying to sort through all the sensations he had experienced.

 

“Good,” Illya had said just before falling asleep.

 

The next morning Napoleon had woken, a sleeping Russian still plastered to his back, and the phone ringing. Total contentment radiated from the slumbering Russian.  Napoleon reached over to grab the phone, trying not to disturb him.  “Solo,” he’d muttered.

 

“Good morning, gentlemen.  Be prepared to leave in exactly one hour,” Alexander Waverly had announced before hanging up the phone on his end.

 

Napoleon had hung the phone up with a groan.  Nudging the man on his back, he said, “Wake up, sleepy head.  We have one hour to get to the train.”

 

“Don’t wanna,” the drowsy man had muttered.  It’s comfortable here, he thought.

 

“I know you’re comfortable, but we have to get ready to leave,” Napoleon had urged.

 

Illya had considered that statement and moved just enough so he could see Napoleon’s face.  “Is there something I should be aware of?” he’d asked apprehensively.

 

Napoleon waited a moment, debating on Illya’s state of mind.  “Possibly.  Let me sort it out first…okay?” 

 

“Damn, you’re reading my mind again.”

 

Napoleon hadn’t denied it.  “Will you just get off me?  We don’t have time for this.”

 

They had somehow managed to meet Waverly at the station in time.



Illya, at the back of the train, watched Napoleon squirm in his seat and moved to sit down across from him.
  “Does it hurt?” he asked.

 

“No,” was the sharp reply.

 

“Napoleon, don’t lie to me,” Illya said sternly, trying hard not to smile.

 

“It is merely…uncomfortable.”  Napoleon turned his gaze to his partner, unable to resist repeating Illya’s comment from last night.

 

Napoleon could clearly hear the laughter that Illya was generating, even though his face showed no signs of it.

 

“Napoleon, I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to…” Illya said quietly with a sigh.

 

“Don’t…” He didn’t want an apology.  “I was looking forward to a repeat performance,” Napoleon answered as he gazed affectionately at his partner.

 

Illya moved to sit next to his friend.  “Perhaps tonight we can see just how much you retained of last nights’ activity.”

 

Napoleon turned a worried glance to his friend.  “Are you sure?”

 

Illya shrugged as he leaned closer to his friend and whispered, “After all you have an advantage.  You can read my mind.”

 

Glancing at the blond Russian sitting next to him, Napoleon couldn’t help but notice a glint of mischievousness in Illya’s eyes.  Hopefully, that look meant what he thought it meant and surprised himself by again wishing that his partner could read his mind.  Illya tilted his head to one side and winked, causing Napoleon to think Ohhhh boy, as his features slowly changed to a heartwarming smile.   Maybe one need not beware of what they wished for after all.

 

Fini.

 

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