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I couldn't stand waiting any longer. I had to tell Illya how I felt. It was already affecting my sleeping patterns, not to mention interfering with my day-to-day office duties. If things didn't change, I was afraid I would start to lose my sharpness out in the field, and that was an absolute no in my book. I could never explain a screw up to Mr. Waverly by saying, "Oh, I was just entertaining sexual fantasies about my partner." It just wouldn't do.
I decided to nip this one in the bud, and do something about it.
All these years of being partnered with Illya left me with definite ideas of what worked and what wouldn't work. For example, he wouldn't care about going to a nightclub or seeing the latest movie, but he would be interested in food, in a good bottle of wine. So that was what I was going to do: pick up a meal at a place that Illya would love but never actually go to, open the best bottle of red I had in the house and find a record that I knew would speak to his soul.
Now, the only thing left to do other than purchase all of these things was to ask Illya to join me for dinner on Friday evening.
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He walked into the office. He was wearing a navy blue turtleneck and a pair of impossibly tight tan corduroy pants. I wondered if he knew how incredible he looked, if he knew that every step he took fed into my desires.
"So, my friend. What are you doing this evening?"
He looked up from the report he was reading, took his glasses off. "Nothing. Why do you ask?"
"I was wondering if you would like to come over for dinner."
He absentmindedly chewed on the end of his glasses, tapped his fingers on his desk for a moment. "That sounds good, Napoleon. Are you opening a can of soup again?"
"No. I thought we'd do something special. You know, celebrate."
"Celebrate what?"
"Another week of being alive?"
He grinned, a slow, simple smile that shot electric sparks that I felt down in my toes. "Only an American would think of such a concept. But I will be happy to join you for a meal this evening."
I didn't realize I had been holding my breath until I started to breathe again.
That afternoon, I left the office, making the rounds at all the places I needed to go to set up my dinner date with Illya. He had decided to stay behind, run a few labs, since he would not be coming into HQ on Saturday. And I was going to make damn sure that he didn't.
First stop was a record store. I knew the kind of music that Illya preferred, but I wanted something that I would also be willing to listen to, as well. At the very least, I could give it to Illya as a gift if things didn't quite turn out. I looked around for a few minutes and found a suitable album. I hoped my friend didn't have it already.
Second stop was The Palm. The menu for tonight's seduction would be simple: a dry-aged New York strip with a simple brandy peppercorn sauce, steamed asparagus, wild mushrooms. The perks of being a man about town was that I knew one of the chefs at the Palm, and was able to have the meal packed to go.
I went home, put the meal in the oven on low, rummaged through the wine rack, and found a lovely Beaujolais and a particularly nice Côtes du Rhône. I opened the bottles to allow the wine to breathe, then quickly took a shower and put on a nice pair of slacks and a crisp, white shirt, no tie, open at the collar.
Illya came to the door as I was putting the finishing touches on the table.
"Just a minute!" I called out, running to the record player to put the record on. I turned the volume down low, and went to open the door.
He had obviously gone home himself, and changed clothes. I lamented the fact that he had taken off those pants that left nothing to my imagination, but I had to admit that he looked very nice, indeed. His hair was so shiny, and I knew it would be soft. So very, very soft. My fingers ached to touch it, but instead, I asked him inside.
"Napoleon! What's all this? Wine? A clean shirt?" he raised a questioning brow. "And the Dave Brubeck Quartet on the record player. This seems more like a date than a celebration."
"Let me celebrate in my own way, partner. Would you like a glass of wine to start?"
He nodded in acceptance and took a seat on a chair in my living room. I poured him a glass of the Beaujolais, took one myself. He drank deep from the glass. I watched as he swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing sensuously. His pink tongue flicked out, licking his bottom lip to catch an errant drop of the wine.
I wanted to lick the wine from his mouth myself, and taste the fullness of it on his tongue.
The sounds of "Strange Meadow Lark" was surrounding us. It seemed that Illya was on his way to a feeling of pure bliss, and that made me happy. He so rarely openly took pleasure in anything that when he did, it was almost as if everyone else felt the same pleasure he did. Or was it just that I was so in tune with his thoughts and feelings that I was the only one who felt that way?
I shook myself out of the reverie. "Come, Illya. Let's have our meal and enjoy this night together."
He smiled, a genuine smile, the kind that he so rarely gave. "Let's."
I walked into the kitchen, plating the food so that it would look as artful as it would surely taste. I was a little nervous, which was ridiculous; after all, I had known Illya for years, knew almost everything about him. I knew he would love the meal, the wine, and he obviously loved the music, since he was softly humming along with it. I brought the Côtes du Rhône to the table and poured two glasses, then came back to the kitchen to grab the meal.
Illya was not necessarily a gourmand, as he enjoyed a pastrami sandwich or street vendor hot dog as much as anyone, but he knew what he liked, and had a surprisingly sophisticated palate for someone who would (and could) eat almost anything you sat in front of him. When I set his plate in front of him, his eyes became huge, and you could almost see the twinkle in them.
He stabbed a piece of asparagus, chewed appreciatively. When he took a bite of the mushrooms, closed his eyes and moaned a little, I knew I had done well. The almost ecstatic pleasure he took from eating gave me goosebumps.
When he was finished with his meal, he looked at me with a gleam in his eye that I had never seen before.
"So, Napoleon. What's for dessert?"