Alternate Thursdays

by Nix
(crimsonquills AT gmail DOT com)


"My colleagues and I want you to understand, Mr. Solo, that this decision is in no way a reflection on your abilities," Mr. Waverly said, puffing on his pipe a bit. "The new position is being created in all of UNCLE's continental headquarters."

"Of course, sir," Napoleon said automatically. "Mr. Kuryakin has more than earned the promotion." Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Illya shooting him an odd look. Belatedly, Napoleon realized how infrequently he referred to Illya formally, even in the company of their boss.

"You are in a unique position, being partners, but I'm certain you'll work everything out." He gestured a little, emphasizing the implied dismissal.

Napoleon stood, nodded a polite goodbye, and headed for the office that he and Illya shared. That might have to change, he realized. Now that there was no longer a single Chief Enforcement Agent, but two Senior Enforcement Agents, it might be unwise to have them both operating out of the same location.

For that matter, it might be unwise to have them out on affairs together. Waverly hadn't said it, but what was the point of have two Senior Enforcement Agents if your risked losing them both in one shot? The success of his and Illya's partnership wouldn't be much of a deterrent to the policy makers. Out of all the continental offices, North America was the only one in which the former CEA and his second in command were partners.

"Napoleon?" Illya's expression, as he followed him into their office, was openly concerned. "Is this going to be a problem?"

Napoleon perched briefly on the corner of his desk, but quickly gave that up and retreated behind it to sit down. "Of course not," he said, looking up at Illya and smiling. It was a relaxed smile and came to him easily, having been thoroughly practiced.

Illya scowled down at him. "It is past 4:30," he said after a moment. "We could have a drink after work."

A quick twitch of his fingers straightened a few of the papers cluttering Napoleon's desk. "I should go through my files," he replied. "The CEA procedures and such will have to be reviewed, active files divided, the new chain of command established...it's a lot of work."

"We should both be doing that," Illya pointed out. "A working dinner, then."

This was not going well. "Most of those files can't leave the building," Napoleon protested. He could see knowledge of what he was doing in Illya's eyes.

"We can have dinner in," was all he said, though his voice was dangerously even.

Napoleon didn't want to have dinner in, but how the hell was he supposed to get out of the corner he'd just painted himself into? Hell, this was Illya. Napoleon rubbed a hand over his eyes. "I just need a little distance," he said plainly. "Give me a day or two to sort my thoughts out, okay?"

Illya tilted his head and stared at him for a long moment. "No," he finally said, "I think that would be a bad idea." Napoleon had just enough time to gape in surprise, and then Illya had rounded his desk and was lifting him out of his desk chair with a firm hand under his elbow. "I think," Illya went on, hustling Napoleon out of the office, "that if I let you think about this that you will think too much and the next thing I know I will be partnered with some rookie straight out of survival school and seeing you only on alternate Thursdays for staff meetings."

"Alternate Thursdays?" Napoleon managed, bemused. They entered the elevator, rode down two floors, and emerged.

"Alternate Thursdays," Illya confirmed solemnly. "Because no one wants to have a meeting on a Monday, Tuesday is reserved for subordinates who need to see you immediately--but not on Monday, Wednesday is for projects that still need a couple of days work, and people take Fridays off too often for them to be reliable meeting days."

They passed reception and emerged onto the street where Napoleon's car waited, parked in its usual miraculous spot. "Alternate Thursdays isn't enough for you?" Napoleon asked, trying for flippancy. He didn't quite manage it, but Illya seemed willing to give him credit for the attempt.

"No," Illya said, climbing into the passenger seat of Napoleon's car. "If I only saw you on alternate Thursdays I would have drive myself in to work. For which I would have to buy a car. And, not being possessed of your unnatural luck, I would have to park so far from work I might as well have walked in the first place. And all of this while still having to do the same amount of paperwork I do now, since I already help you out with your CEA responsibilities."

Napoleon had never heard Illya talk this much in one go before. It was almost like he was afraid to be quiet. As if Napoleon would run away from him if given half a chance. The former CEA suppressed a wince. For a moment he considered dropping Illya at his own apartment and running, but the mood his partner was in now, he'd just chase the car all the way to Napoleon's building.

"So would you please explain to me," Illya was winding down as he closed the door to Napoleon's apartment behind himself, "why you thought you needed distance?"

Napoleon opened his mouth to reply and was stuck for a moment. He couldn't exactly explain that the fact that it would be extraordinarily inappropriate to become involved with a subordinate was one of the few fragile reasons he hadn't given in to the urge to seduce Illya years ago. Illya, who was studying him far too shrewdly.

"A lot of things are going to change," Napoleon managed at last. "I just need to wrap my head around some of thing."

"No, that's not it," Illya mused. "I think you're afraid."

"Afraid?" Napoleon bristled.

"Mmmmm. Afraid," Illya confirmed.

"Of?" Napoleon asked, lifting his chin a little.

"This."

Illya's hands were on him, pulling, and Napoleon sucked in a breath to protest, but that breath was heavy with the scent of his partner, warm and aroused. The objection died in his throat, drowned in the tide of lust that overtook him with the first touch of Illya's lips to his own. Illya's mouth was soft and strong. Napoleon allowed him to coax his tongue inside to taste. They parted only slowly, reluctantly.

"You're afraid of this," Illya murmured, gently stroking Napoleon's temple and the curve of his ear. "You're afraid of letting go, and there's been no one to lead you out of it. If you came to me it would look like harassment. If I went to you, it would look like I was being mercenary."

"But--"

Illya put his fingers against Napoleon's lips to silence him. "But none of that is true anymore," he said, brushing his thumbs over Napoleon's cheekbones. "Let me show you how good you can feel, Napoleon."

"I have done this before," Napoleon said wryly, and just like that he knew that this was going to happen. He was going to let it happen.

"You have done this for other people," Illya corrected him. "No one has done this for you in a very long time."

Napoleon was still considering that as Illya drew him into the bedroom and began undressing him, starting at the top and working his way down until he pulled off bunched pants, underwear, socks, and shoes in one lump. It occurred to Napoleon, as hot blue eyes encouraged him to watch, that it had been years since a lover had undressed for him. He was always peeling clothes off amid giggles and squirming and the fluttering of shy hands covering intimate places. He'd enjoyed it, of course, enjoyed it thoroughly, loved it when shyness turned to need and intimate places were unveiled and offered.

But there was something deeply, viscerally arousing in the way Illya pulled off his clothes, briskly and without any trace of body modesty. I want you, those movements said. I want you so much that I don't want to waste time teasing either of us. Napoleon felt himself respond on a level far below thought, his cock hardening and thickening, eager for what Illya promised.

Illya climbed onto the bed and lay down, holding out his hand. "Come here," he said.

Napoleon crawled onto the bed and into Illya's arms and shared a long, languid kiss with him. Their bodies kissed at a dozen points, light, isolated touches rather than the uncomplicated press of expanses of skin. Eventually Illya rolled Napoleon onto his back and proceeded to map his body with his tongue.

Gasping for breath like a swimming sliding through the water, Napoleon clenched his eyes shut and rode the warm, surging ache that rolled thought him again and again, birthed at the point where Illya's lips met his skin. He hung onto smooth strong shoulders for as long as he could, but Illya soon slid too low on Napoleon's body for him to reach.

He fisted his hands in the sheets instead and pressed his hips up towards that hot, wet touch. He pressed his thighs into the uncompromising grip of broad hands. Napoleon let thought go. There was only sensation. Smooth cotton sheets against his skin and slick caresses that made him whimper helplessly, a sound no one else had ever drawn from him. Not because he hadn't felt it, but because he'd never let it out before.

There was pressure on his body, and Napoleon followed it mindlessly, rolling onto his belly. Illya knelt between his thighs, an intense, familiar presence, trusted with this vulnerability. Napoleon's mouth rounded in a silent 'O' when Illya touched him with slippery fingers, a momentary warning before he was prepared with gentle and inexorable efficiency.

"Illya," Napoleon moaned richly.

"Napoleon," Illya acknowledged breathlessly, and then he was moving inside. Napoleon moaned and clutched at the pillow beneath his head, feeling himself filled by the thick, hot length of his partner. Each thrust seemed to travel up his spine, lighting up each nerve along the way. He rocked with them, grinding his cock into the bed sheets.

Illya lay down so that they were pressed together, back to chest, from shoulder to ankle. "Napoleon," he said, nuzzling at the skin of his throat below his ear, "let go."

As if he had only been waiting for permission, Napoleon felt his climax roll through him on the heels of Illya's very next thrust. It turned his spine to water and crashed down on him like a breaking wave. He lay gasping, buoyed up by Illya's arms around him and the twitching of Illya's cock inside him as he, too, came.

When he felt a little less liquid and more mobile, Napoleon squirmed around in Illya's arms so that they lay face to face. "It seems," he mused, pausing to lick a bead of sweat from Illya's shoulder, "that we will be working together even closer than before."

Illya snorted softly, a kind of aborted laugh. "No alternate Thursdays?"

"Promise," Napoleon murmured, going after another drop of sweat.

--End--