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Illya’s conduct was faultless; he was a consummate professional from the start. The moment it became clear that the men they needed to win over to their cause were of a particular persuasion, he fixed his gaze on the one sitting across the table in the deserted restaurant and casually laid a hand to rest just above Napoleon’s knee. He left it there for a suitable amount of time for Napoleon to glean his intention, and then, with his eyes still on the embattled THRUSH agent, said, “My friend and I are quite sympathetic to your situation.”
“Are you,” said the agent, with a reasonable degree of suspicion. They were asking a lot of him, after all: to turn traitor, to confirm a most damaging secret.
“Very,” said Illya, calmly, shifting closer. “Aren’t we, Napoleon?”
Napoleon understood the play. He leaned into Illya’s hand as it rose to caress his cheek. He bent his neck in an accommodating fashion as Illya lifted his face to his; he parted his lips as Illya brought their mouths together in a bold statement of a kiss. Napoleon was fine; he was perfectly committed to the task at hand. And then Illya pulled back, and Napoleon opened his eyes to find their faces still scant centimeters apart, Illya staring up at him with that cool blue gaze, pretty and guileless; and Napoleon laughed.
“I’m sorry,” he said, as soon as he’d sobered. He could feel the heat rising to his cheeks. All right, use it: “It’s just—we’ve never admitted it to anyone before now.” He squeezed Illya’s hand and watched as his partner subtly schooled his expression from “irritation” to “loving amusement.”
“I’m honored,” said the THRUSH agent dryly. “However, that hardly convinces me that, were Jules and I to throw our lot in with UNCLE, your agency would be any more…tolerant.”
“Perhaps not,” said Illya. “However, I can assure you that unofficial policy is one of intense—if not calculated—disinterest.”
That proved suitably intriguing to the soon-to-be former THRUSH agent and his partner. However, once the affair was resolved and he and Illya returned to the privacy of their hotel room, Napoleon was not at all surprised to discover “loving amusement” abruptly vanish in favor of a scowl.
“Really, Napoleon,” Illya said, not looking up from sloppily dropping clothing into his suitcase. “I realize that anyone who knows you would likely fall into hysterics at the mere thought of your affections straying from the fairer sex, but must you do the same?”
Napoleon had no fair response, so he fell back on unfair. “You set me off with that doe-eyed look on your face. Don’t you think you were laying it on kind of thick?”
“Hmph.” Illya was always sensitive to critiques of his ruses—he prided himself on being superior to Napoleon at that aspect of the craft. He snapped his suitcase shut.
“Before we head to the airport,” he asked, finally looking up, “do you think we might have time for some lunch?”
So that, Napoleon sincerely hoped, was the end of that.
***
Napoleon could not blame Illya for the next incident either; he chose to blame France. The somewhat looser, continental morals of Paris made it sensible for Illya to assume that two men caught kissing in a darkened alleyway would be treated with more leniency than two men caught housebreaking. And indeed, the gendarme’s amused chuckle was made even more tolerable by its nearly successful masking of the nervous giggle that Napoleon himself emitted.
Officially, they were let off with a warning and the name of a discreet hotel. Unofficially, Napoleon suffered several of Illya’s most withering looks, visible even amidst the shadows of the residence they proceeded, after a sufficient pause, to rob.
To further Napoleon’s torment, Illya waited until they were back on the plane to actually say anything.
“Perhaps my beard tickled you?” he suggested, stoking the smooth apex of his chin. “No. Maybe you were exposed to some devious THRUSH chemical that produces a humiliating Pavlovian response to a mere kiss… I would exercise caution on your next date.”
“Ha ha,” Napoleon said, feigning concentrated interest in the recovered blueprints. He lifted a finger and slowly flicked to the next page. “Although you may be right. I suppose I ought to conduct plenty of experiments, just to make sure. In the interest of due diligence, of course.”
“Of course. Once again I find myself awed by your dedication to the cause.”
The next few minutes were passed in silence, no distraction outside the window but cloud cover and the occasional glimpse of the blue Atlantic.
Eventually Illya let out a sigh. “Put those away and have a drink with me, Napoleon. The plans will wait.”
“Oh, well,” said Napoleon, eagerly dropping the blueprints back into their case. “If you insist on setting professionalism aside.”
To Napoleon’s very great relief, Illya did.
***
He had fortunately returned to his usual level of professionalism when, some months later, the drug lord gave the order for Napoleon’s immediate execution, for the grave offense of attempting to seduce his wife.
Napoleon, for the record, had made no such attempt. Also, for the record: if he had had any intention of seducing the woman, she would have damn well been seduced. But he had been a perfect gentleman. Knowing the Don, however—as Napoleon had recently come to have the distinct displeasure to do—he had likely mistaken basic courtesy and the lack of disparagement and abuse for a masterful seduction attempt.
Fortunately, there was Illya stepping between Napoleon and the henchman with the gun. Having spent the last few days somewhat gleefully playing up his ruthless streak, his partner had done much more to win the Don’s favor than Napoleon had. For one thing, Illya made the concession of referring to the Don by his chosen name of “Don Julio,” even though Don Julio was, quite obviously, a white man from Cleveland.
“Don Julio,” Illya said now, fixing their host with his steely, untroubled gaze, “I can assure you, this is not necessary.”
“I think it extremely necessary!” proclaimed the Don in a Spanish accent that made Napoleon’s efforts with French sound like those of a native. The Don gestured again to the man with the gun.
Illya held up a hand. “Had my troublesome friend made any sort of overture to your innocent wife, believe me, I would be the first to suggest he be shot down like a dog.”
“Thanks,” muttered Napoleon, so only Illya could hear.
Illya ignored him. “But I know for a fact Napoleon has no interest in your woman. Napoleon has no interest in any woman.”
Napoleon, having already been forced to his knees with a gun barrel abutting his skull, did not enjoy being the object of Don Julio’s sneer.
“Are you saying he is a maricón?”
“I am saying,” said Illya, with a defiant lift of his chin, “that he is my lover. And I believe it would be beneficial to our promising business arrangement for you to return him to me unscathed.”
“You too?” said the Don, incredulously. “Am I surrounded by maricónes, then?”
Even from his awkward position on the ground, Napoleon could see the man holding the gun on him emphatically shaking his head.
“All I can tell you,” Illya said carefully, “is that you are face to face with a man who can help you acquire an arsenal beyond your wildest imaginings. But also a man who has an unfortunate tendency to become…temperamental. When his patience is tried.”
There was a suspicious glint in the Don’s eyes, which he covered with a blustering laugh. He stepped forward and thumped Illya roughly on his unmoving shoulder.
“Let him up,” the Don told the assertively heterosexual henchman with the gun. “Unless,” he added, turning his gaze on Illya, “you prefer him on his knees?”
“Later, certainly,” said Illya smoothly, a filthy hint of promise in his voice. Napoleon rigidly denied his body its desired shiver.
By the time they next won a moment of privacy, Illya seemed more himself. He also appeared harried. Following the flick of his partner’s gaze, Napoleon trailed Illya into the bathroom of their suite, where Illya turned all the taps to their highest setting. Water rumbled into the sink and the tub.
Illya turned to him and spoke in a soft hiss. “He does not fully believe us.”
Napoleon’s feet shifted before he could prevent the involuntary action, but he didn’t think his face betrayed much. “So we have to convince him? What do you suggest?”
“I would propose an unguarded moment, in full view of his surveillance.”
“All right,” said Napoleon, with he hoped not too much hesitancy. His poor past performance was weighing on him; he could feel himself already overthinking the necessary maneuver.
“If you can manage to keep your wits about you this time,” Illya drawled, which didn’t help.
But in the end, Napoleon had to bear sole responsibility for sinking them. “My dear,” Illya had begun, once they’d positioned themselves in the ideal spot in the bedroom. He reached up and grabbed Napoleon roughly by the back of the neck, hauling him down with an insistent hold on his hair. “Sometimes you are more trouble than you are worth.”
His pink lips were parted, teeth bared as he eyed Napoleon’s mouth. Napoleon understood what he was doing, anticipated the sharp snag of teeth on his own lower lip, the calculated aggression of Illya’s claiming kiss.
Helplessly he broke away, lost to a deeply undignified snort.
“Is it the idea of kissing a man you find so ridiculous,” Illya asked, following an embarrassing and unfortunate interlude in which their interrupted embrace was further interrupted by the swift arrival of a once again enraged Don Julio and his men. Fortunately, their current position—bound back to back—spared Napoleon the full force of Illya’s glare.
He could feel it, though. “Or merely,” Illya continued, acidly, “the idea of kissing me?”
“Now, Illya,” said Napoleon, with an easiness of which he was unworthy, “there’s no need to make things personal.”
They spent a couple minutes in rather stultifying silence, intent on examining the strength and alignment of the cuffs.
“Is it my turn to dislocate a thumb or yours?” Napoleon asked after a moment.
“Yours,” said Illya definitively.
Napoleon did not feel in a suitable position to argue.
***
Illya was much more gentle on Napoleon in his report than Napoleon deserved, and Napoleon tried to show his gratitude with a steady stream of snacks, favorable distribution of duties, and first choice of driver or shotgun. He even refrained from making love to willing—and very eager—feminine participants in their affairs on two occasions running.
However, he still didn’t feel like he had quite made it up to Illya—not to mention there was the niggling wound to Napoleon’s professional pride. He found himself hoping for another mission that would necessitate he and Illya fake a passionate kiss: he would do it so much better if given just one more chance—with complete conviction and even style. He only needed the opportunity to present itself.
Alas, it did not.
There were, however, certain advantages to being Number One, Section Two—namely, he was granted some say in the distribution of assignments, particularly the less critical ones, unworthy of Mr. Waverly’s attention. So when a likely case file came across Napoleon’s desk, he didn’t look so much as glance at this gift horse’s mouth.
Illya’s eyebrow rose quizzically less than a minute into Napoleon’s briefing, somewhat softening the bounce in Napoleon’s toes. “This seems rather beneath our pay grade.”
“I know it’s simple surveillance of a possible THRUSH drop site,” Napoleon said in a level tone. “But there’s a slight situational difficulty that makes me reluctant to pass the assignment further down the ranks.”
“Any agent who’s too uncomfortable to conduct surveillance at a boy bar does not deserve to be among the ranks at all,” said Illya plainly, without ire.
“Of course, of course,” agreed Napoleon quickly. “But a good leader guides by example.”
“Well then,” said Illya. “I’m dying to see yours.”
Napoleon, equally eager, presented himself at the nightclub appropriately—but not too flashily—attired, and wearing the same openly appraising and appreciative expression he’d turn on a room full of eligible women. He felt perfectly at ease, and not the least prone to laughter.
Illya was arriving separately, so Napoleon positioned himself at the bar to wait, and to watch the room. He allowed a slightly older man to buy him a drink—and, even in spite of his suitor’s highly regrettable mustache, suffered no compulsion to laugh in his face. Napoleon scanned the crowd, searching for Illya—for Illya, that is, and for their target. When his partner arrived, they would feign a first meeting and pretend to hit it off with one another, thus deflecting any further undesirable or distracting attention. And if in the course of maintaining their cover, they had to make manifest their newfound attraction, then Napoleon would put in a breathtakingly believable performance and finally prove—
The communicator in his pocket bleeped, and Napoleon took himself to a discreet corner to answer it.
“Napoleon. Meet me in the alleyway around back.”
Illya sounded smug, not distressed; still, Napoleon was surprised to emerge from the club and find his partner waiting by his car with a slightly bruised THRUSH agent already in custody. “I made him almost as soon as I stepped inside,” Illya said. “I told you this affair was below our pay grade.”
Napoleon found he had very little to say to that, other than, “Oh.”
After they’d guided the unfortunate THRUSH agent to his lovely new accommodations at UNCLE headquarters, Napoleon settled himself at his desk to desultorily pick at his report. It should have been a simple enough endeavor—he had, after all, done nothing but stand around sipping a Gibson while Illya did all the work—but he found himself taking nothing but two-fingered stabs at the keys.
“Napoleon,” said Illya, breaking off from a rather more rapid-fire burst of typing and eying Napoleon from across the suddenly too-narrow gap between their desks, “are you sulking?”
“No,” said Napoleon, sulkily.
“For how long are you planning to continue being ridiculous? I want to know if I should fetch a sandwich before settling in.”
“I’m glad I’m amusing to you.”
“Hardly as amusing as I’ve apparently been to you,” said Illya, without heat. He stood and moved closer, perching himself on the edge of Napoleon’s desk. “Is the most minuscule amount of homosexual behavior really that uncomfortable for you? We’ve both suffered the need to perform far more repellant actions in the line of duty.”
“It’s not—” Napoleon let out a sigh. “I wish I could explain it. I’ve never had this type of problem before.” He chanced a glance up at his partner’s face: Illya was regarding him openly, without judgment. “I’m embarrassed by my behavior, honestly.”
Illya tapped a finger thoughtfully on the desk. Then he said, “Perhaps some practice would be helpful? You may respond more naturally outside the pressure of a mission.”
This bit of laughter was far more bitter than giddy. “Only you and I, Illya, would find ourselves in enough situations that require…operational kissing to necessitate practice of the correct procedure.”
“Well, you don’t get to be a top agent without making sacrifices.” He bent down.
“Now?” said Napoleon, startled enough that his shoulders made sudden contact with the back of his chair.
“Would you prefer dinner first?” Illya inquired. “Romantic music? Candlelight?”
“It’s cheating if you make me laugh before we’ve even started.”
“All right,” Illya said. “Then please allow me to kiss you with complete seriousness.”
It was surreal from the start: tilting his head up to reach Illya’s lips. The firm press of his partner’s mouth, the coaxing sweep of his tongue. Illya rarely gave one cause to think of him as a sexual creature, so great was his reserve; but now, slipping into whatever character was guiding Illya through this practice, passion radiated from his every pore. He made a hungry little sound against Napoleon’s mouth, and Napoleon felt the echo of it sweep like wildfire through his body. His fingers clutched too tightly at the soft strands of that fine blond hair, and when Illya broke for breath—and presumably, the conclusion of their practice session—Napoleon had to force himself to let go.
Illya pulled back, regarding him with cool blue eyes. “You’re not laughing,” he remarked.
Napoleon, gaze fixed on his partner’s swollen lips, swallowed. “I can’t say it’s really all that funny.”
There was another moment of heavy silence; Napoleon felt Illya’s audibly labored breathing like the air was struggling to move through his own lungs. Then he was the one who leaned forward, gently brushing his partner’s lips. Illya hesitated for a heart-stopping second before responding with a hunger that was all his own. Napoleon had never experienced something so tender and yet so desperately ardent at the same time.
“Illya,” he found himself whispering, clutching greedily at his partner’s rumpled shirt.
“Napoleon,” said Illya, in rather a different tone. “Napoleon!”
Napoleon broke off, heart pounding, arousal embarrassingly evident, and faced his partner’s gaze with something like real fear.
But Illya only said, “Not here,” gently. He ran a hand down Napoleon’s disheveled tie, eyes full of promise, and pressed close to Napoleon’s ear. “It’s not that I don’t enjoy the idea of having you on your desk, but until I can be assured that you won’t suffer any further hysterics, the privacy of the bedroom seems prudent. Don’t you agree?”
“Funny,” Napoleon said, because it was: hilariously, impossibly, wonderfully.