Debriefing
by elfin


Locking the door, setting the alarms, Napoleon helped himself to a scotch a made himself comfortable on his partner's couch.

When he heard the shower stop, the bathroom door open and a string of Russian expletives, he called out,

"Are you okay?"

No reply for a moment.  And then, "I stubbed my toe."

Napoleon chuckled to himself.  "I'm not talking about that."

His blond bombshell of a partner appeared in the bedroom doorway, naked as the day he was born but definitely not as innocent.  He was rubbing his hair with a white towel.

Napoleon's mouth went suddenly dry.

"I'm fine."

"Mark told me you were hurt."

Illya considered that.  He leaned against the doorframe, utterly unaware that his partner was practically drooling.

"I'm always hurt when you're not covering my back."  Running the fingers of one hand through his damp, blond mop he turned on his heel and vanished into the bedroom.  "I don't like working with other people."

Napoleon felt inordinately proud.  And something else that he didn't want to think about right now, even if the rest of his body certainly did.

Illya had poured himself into an obscenely tight pair of faded denim jeans and thrown on a white shirt - even if he'd failed to fasten it - by the time he reappeared.

"There was a time you were shy about your appearance," Napoleon muttered, mostly into his scotch.

Illya glanced down at himself and saw nothing to be ashamed of in his taut belly and smooth, shaped, if not muscular, chest.

"You taught me that in this business there is no room for false modesty."

Napoleon watched him surreptitiously over the rim of his glass as he disappeared yet again, this time into the kitchen.  He heard the icebox open and close, the clink of glasses as a shot glass was selected for the iced Stolichnaya.  Then Illya padded back across to the couch and dropped down next to Napoleon, his knee brushing the other's.

Napoleon did his best to fight the heat that seared through him at such a brief touch.

This infatuation with his partner was starting to drive him a little crazy.

"Want to talk about it?" he offered, impressed that his voice was so steady.

Illya poured himself a vodka and placed the bottle on the carpet.  Leaning back he closed his eyes, comfortable in Napoleon's company.

"There really is nothing to talk about."

"Still...."

Piercing blue eyes nailed Napoleon with a quizzical stare.  "What is wrong?" he asked suspiciously.

"Nothing."  With a dramatic sigh, he turned so that he could face Illya.  "I don't like you going out there with other people either."

As far as confessions went, it was a big one for either of them.  Illya smiled a little, something that did nothing for Napoleon's nerves.

"Good."

When nothing further was forthcoming, Napoleon prompted, "So...."

"So?"

"About today?"

Illya shook his head, obviously accepting that his partner had lost it.  In the next moment he decided he was too tired to do anything but go with it.  He lay his head back against the cushions, staring up at the ceiling.

"The usual.  Chained by the wrists to a meat hook by a hooligan weighing three times what Carlson in section five weighs.  Slapped about by a crazy women with designs on her obviously homosexual employer.  Interrogated by said homosexual employer.  A wonderfully daring escape, assisted by the very able Mr Slate.  A quick firefight in the parking lot.  And back to HQ in time for debriefing and a hot cup of tea."

Napoleon almost laughed.  Instead he reached over and with one finger tucked a lock of golden hair behind his partner's ear, following up with a stroke of his thumb through the spun silk strands.

Illya started, lifting his head.  But Napoleon kept up the light, soothing caress, and accepting it as a gesture of comfort, he accepted it and settled back.

"Honestly, Napoleon, the worst injury I sustained was a knock to the head and brief unconsciousness."

Solo nodded, smiled.  "This... homosexual employer," he started softly.  "He didn't take too much of an interest, I hope."

Illya moved his head, side to side, careful - Napoleon noted - not to interrupt his touch.  He smiled to himself, a glimmer of hope tweaking his lips.

"I don't think I was his type.  Too vicious.  I believe he liked his men more docile."

"You mean not trying to kick him in the balls whenever he gets close enough to touch?"

It was a guess but it made Illya smile and Napoleon knew he was close to what had happened.  

"Precisely."

Illya brought the vodka to his mouth and tipped the remainder of the clear liquid down his throat.  When he opened his eyes, Napoleon was there with the bottle, refilling his glass.

"What's with you tonight?" the Russian asked cautiously, unsure if he really wanted the answer.

Napoleon hesitated.  "This afternoon, this evening... waiting for you, knowing you were late checking in, knowing something had happened to you and not being there."

He expected a teasing, taunting retort but instead Illya reached out and touched the fine dark hair at his temple, smile mesmerising.

"I have the same concerns when you are out there without me."

Napoleon turned his head, realised he was about to kiss his partner's wrist, and stopped himself just in time.

"I never go into the field without you, not any more."

Illya's eyebrows rose slightly and Napoleon watched him try to remember the last time he had had to worry about Napoleon being out on a solo mission.

"Then why am I sent on missions without you?"

Napoleon's expression creased.  "I expect Mr Waverly's preparing you for the day I take over his desk job, in his own way."

But Illya shook his head.  "I do not want another partner.  When that day comes, Napasha, I will also resign from the field.  I will settle happily into my labs and cherish the idea of a nine-to-five job which will not involve me getting shot at or tortured on a regular basis."

Despite his surprise at Illya's resolution, Napoleon found a weight lifted irrevocably from his shoulders, a weight he hadn't known was there until his partner had ridded him of it.

"In that case," Napoleon swallowed as Illya finished his second drink and licked his lips, "I'll tell our boss to stop sending you out on suicide missions with anyone other than me."  'Can I do that?'  He hoped the thought had remained inside his head.

"It would be appreciated."

Illya's hand had dropped from Napoleon's hair, a loss that Napoleon was trying to work out how to get back.  Would it be so bad of him to just... lean forward?  To close the gap?

He picked up the bottle of vodka again, poured Illya another measure.

"I'm still not sure what I've done to deserve so much of your time tonight," his partner told him as he drank half the glass.  "I am not injured."

"Can't a man take care of his own partner?"  Napoleon leapt to his own defence, relying on Illya's mile-wide loyalty streak to douse his suspicions.  

"I honestly do not need 'taking care of' this time, Napasha.  I am fine."

Napoleon groaned inwardly.  Illya tossed out the Russian diminutive of his name as if he used it all the time and not just when the two of them were alone.  Had he any idea how erotic it was, spoken with just a hint of Russian accent that made Illya seem even more like forbidden fruit.  As if Napoleon's being his partner, his superior and the same sex weren't taboos enough.

"Then accept that I want to," he ground out, watching the rest of the vodka vanish from the glass.  

Without thinking, Napoleon moved his hand from Illya's hair to his lips in a flash, pressing one single finger to them, catching the wide-eyed expression with an inward grin.

"My turn," he murmured hotly, and leaned forward.  Not quite touching his mouth to Illya's, he extended his tongue and licked the thick vodka from his lips, slowly, savouring the commingled taste.  He could feel Illya so close now, taut as a G-string, waiting to find out what his insane partner would do next, and whether he'd have to fight for his dignity.

The vodka gone, Napoleon sealed his mouth over the other's and slid his tongue inside Illya's hot mouth.  The intoxicating taste was stronger here and he savoured it like a rare, expensive wine.

Illya still wasn't responding, but he wasn't kneeing his partner in the groin either and that was a good sign.

Eventually Napoleon had to back up a little, give Illya the chance to consent or slap him around the face and ask him what the hell he thought he was doing.

He swallowed, still tasting Illya on his tongue as he sat back slowly, moving only a couple of inches so that he could see the blue eyes and the open mouth.

Illya licked his lips again, holding Napoleon's desperate, questioning stare.

"Why?" he asked finally, voice small, desire warring with anger.  The 'fuck or fight' reaction as Napoleon had once described it to him after far too much vodka and way too many close calls during a firefight.

Napoleon recognised it immediately and did his best not to exalt in it.  "Because I want you," he explained simply and truthfully.

"Why?"

He laughed softly, affectionately.  "Because you're beautiful and I love you very much."

Illya frowned.  "Oh."

He waited for a heartbeat.  "So?"

Taking a deep, steadying breath, his partner shrugged as nonchalantly as he could manage.  "Why not?"

~

Mr Waverly looked around the table at the three agents hanging on his every word.  April Dancer, Mark Slate and Illya Kuryakin.  Only Napoleon Solo seemed distracted today.  

Waverly noticed how his two top agents were sitting a little closer than usual this morning and how Solo kept glancing at Kuryakin.  

The Russian agent had been slightly injured during his and Slate's mission yesterday.  Solo was keeping an eye on his partner.  He approved wholeheartedly.


Napoleon couldn't keep his eyes off Illya this morning.

He couldn't help but remember the skilful fingers playing over his body, the wicked tongue tasting him everywhere.  Illya's mouth had been magic, and not just on his cock.  Last night he'd discovered that there was nothing more erotic than hearing Illya breathlessly utter strings of Russian words he couldn't hope to understand and knew he didn't need to.

Usually stoic and withdrawn, once Napoleon had reassured Illya with kisses that he was loved and could trust the man opened up like a flower in bloom.

Now Napoleon wanted more.  No one had ever made him scream in bed before.  If another woman never gave him a second glance he wouldn't have cared.  Finally he'd found his perfect partner.  The fact he was male, Russian and very dangerous if pushed, made it all the more exciting.  All the more intoxicating.

Illya glanced at him and there was something in those stunning blue eyes that told him he needed to be paying attention to the boss right about now.


Waverly pushed the files out across the table.

"Mr Kuryakin, you'll be accompanying Mr Slate...."

Attention well and truly caught, Napoleon sat forward, one hand on the arm of his chair, the other reaching out, finger pointed at his boss.  "Ah, Sir... if you don't mind?  Illya is my partner.  Sir."

Waverly's eyebrows rose a fraction.  "About time you staked your claim, Mr Solo," he said, and then stopped, open-mouthed, as he realised he'd said that out loud.  He coughed once, ignoring the surprised expressions on the faces of all four agents.  "Of course, you're right.  Miss Dancer, you'll be accompanying Mr Slate on the inside.  Mr Solo and Mr Kuryakin will cover the Hamburg angle.  Your plane leaves this afternoon, gentlemen."

Napoleon grinned at Illya and was amazed to see his partner grinning back at him.  Suddenly thoughts of a lavish hotel room and a queen-sized bed, along with a walk-in shower and huge hot tub, were foremost in his mind.

He was on his feet in a second.  "We'll be packed within the hour, Sir."

"I'm sure you will be, Mr Solo."  Luckily, Waverly managed to keep his next thought strictly to himself.


fin
elfin