Chapter Text
As soon as the closet door shut behind them, Napoleon found himself shoved against the wall and pinned in place by 140 pounds of relentless, eager Russian. Yesterday’s kiss was tame by comparison. As Illya took possession of Napoleon’s mouth, his hands seemed to be everywhere at once, restraining Napoleon’s wrists, combing through his previously-immaculate hairstyle, loosening his tie, opening the buttons of his shirt…
Napoleon hadn’t done much actual thinking before he’d hastily ushered Illya into the broom closet, but he definitely hadn’t been planning on anything more than a little passionate smooching before leaving Headquarters for a more private venue. With Illya in charge, though, things were taking a different turn.
Illya tossed Napoleon’s tie on the floor and began yanking up the hem of his now-unbuttoned shirt. Napoleon’s knees started to buckle. He couldn’t do anything except brace himself against the wall and moan needfully into Illya’s mouth as he felt nimble fingers impatiently tug open his belt…
Just then, a bar of light fell across Napoleon’s face. In the same instant, Illya sprang away from him.
“Oh! Mr. Kuryakin. I didn’t realize you were already checking this closet for unauthorized electronics.”
It was young Hector Blighton, one of Illya’s not-overly-gifted Section Eight lab assistants.
Illya’s hair was mussed, his face was flushed, and he was breathless, but compared to Napoleon he looked reasonably decorous.
“Ah. Hello, Hector. Um, yes…Mr. Solo and I will finish checking this closet on our own. You can continue to the one down the hall. Thank you.” He moved to close the door, but Hector was already opening it wider.
“Oh, Mr. Solo’s in here, too?…Say, Mr. Solo, what happened to your clothes?”
Napoleon was still leaning against the wall, jacket off, shirt open and untucked, belt undone, panting helplessly. He knew he ought to do something, anything - turn away from the door, start straightening out his clothing, invent some plausible excuse…But somehow he couldn’t seem to move or make his brain connect to his vocal cords.
Illya put on his most Slavic frown. “I am checking Mr. Solo for bugs,” he said solemnly.
“Oh, gee!” exclaimed Hector. “How did Thrush manage that?”
“It seems his garments were last cleaned by an out-of-town tailor with Thrush connections,” said Illya conspiratorially. He shook his head and narrowed his eyes in vehement disapproval of Thrush-connected tailors. “But we have the situation under control. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Hector…”
“Mr. Kuryakin, do you want me to take over checking this closet for electronics, while you finish checking Mr. Solo for bugs?”
“NO…thank you, Hector. Please, go now.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Kuryakin,” said Hector cheerfully. “I’ll just be down the hall, so let me know if you need any help!”
Illya slammed the closet door shut and just stood there for a moment with his back against it, running his hands through his hair and breathing hard.
“I think we got away with it, Napoleon. Hector is reasonably competent at his job, but he is not exactly renowned for quick and independent thinking. Unfortunately, though, this means I really am going to have to check this closet for Thrush electronics before we can leave.”
Illya sighed and began taking various items of specialized equipment out of his pockets.
Napoleon still hadn’t moved.
“Uh, are you sure you don’t want to finish ‘checking me for bugs’ first?”
Illya stared at him. “Napoleon.” He said sternly. “We were nearly caught in flagrante. Now please pull yourself together and help me search this place, so we can get out of here.”
Napoleon reluctantly picked up his tie from the floor, and began rebuttoning his shirt.
“Why is Section Eight checking the broom closets for Thrush electronics, anyway?”
“Ah…You recall my mentioning that there were some unknown Thrush infiltrators working here at Headquarters?”
“Yes…”
“The nine persons named in Thrush’s files were our entire janitorial staff.”
“Wait a minute. Our janitors were all Thrush?”
“Yes. Although to be precise, they weren’t actually janitors. They were a team of highly skilled electronics engineers and espionage experts masquerading as cleaning staff…”
That explains why the bathroom floors were never properly mopped, thought Napoleon.
“...Which is why I gave the order this morning that Section Eight do a specialized electronics sweep of all janitorial closets around the building, as a follow-up to Security’s earlier post-intruder-alert checks,” Illya continued.
Napoleon froze in the process of putting his tie on. “Hold on a second. YOU ordered this sweep, and YOU knew the closets might be full of state-of-the-art enemy spy gadgets, and you were still going to…?”
Illya shrugged. “I am not proud of myself. But I didn’t exactly hear you complaining, Napoleon… Now, are you going to help me, or not?”
Napoleon nodded glumly, pulled out a pen-sized flashlight, and began searching through the strands of the nearest mop.
After a while, he paused and snuck a glance at his beautiful, cranky partner.
“I love you, Illya.”
Illya was intent on tracing the walls inch-by-inch with what appeared to be a sophisticated multimeter disguised as a pocket protector.
“Later, please, Napoleon.”
Napoleon turned over a mop bucket and examined it carefully with his flashlight.
“Illya…do you love me?”
Illya sighed in exasperation.
“I would have thought I made that fairly obvious a few minutes ago.”
“I just need to hear you say it.”
Napoleon’s voice came out nasal and pleading. He knew he sounded pathetic, and he didn’t care.
Illya paused long enough to lean over, stroke Napoleon’s cheek, and press a quick kiss to his forehead.
“I love you, Napoleon. Now please let me concentrate so we can finish the job and go home…And then, I can show you that I mean it,” he grinned.
Napoleon smiled at him contentedly, one of those rare, full smiles that reached the corners of his eyes.
This was already the best day of his life, and it was only going to get better.
~END~