Warm and sweaty, Illya Kuryakin stretched out on the wrecked bed. He could hear the shower running, his neat partner was, he snickered, anal about cleaning up. It also was a profitable situation for him. When he emerged from the bathroom, Napoleon would have breakfast on the table.
He waited till he calculated Napoleon to be finished, then he jumped out of bed. His body was aching in places he definitely never wanted to discuss at work. That was as it should be, but one thing was not right. Smell. He sniffed the air. He turned around. He checked the bed and the nightstand.
"Ummmhm." Muffled reply from the bathroom.
Moist, gray air spilled out of the door when Illya opened it. He waved his arms, nearly hitting Napoleon in the chest.
"Whoa, Illya. What?" Napoleon grabbed his moving arms.
"Can you smell it Napoleon?"
"Smell what?" Napoleon narrowed his eyes and wrinkled his nose.
"Me!" Napoleon raked his eyes over Illya's naked body, raising his eyebrows in an interested way. "Oh, no, Napoleon. We are going to work. Smell and tell."
"You smell fine, Illya. Maybe a trifle ripe, which is only natural, considering our previous activities."
Illya swatted Napoleon's arms away and punched, hitting Napoleon in the shoulder. "Very funny," he rolled his eyes. "I am not talking about the natural results of our lovemaking. It's something different."
Napoleon stepped closer, careful so that his crisp, white shirt and sharp pressed suit pants were not touching Illya. He held Illya by the shoulders, holding the distance, and moved his face up and down the front of Illya's body.
"Napoleon. What are you doing? Are you becoming unhinged? Are you sniffing me?"
"What else can I do to answer your question, sugarpie?"
"What! How many times have I told you I will not tolerate those American, so-called endearments?"He paused. "You are avoiding the issue. Why?" Illya glared suspiciously at his well-dressed partner. His partner who had stilled, a strange expression on his face.
"Napoleon. Tell me." Illya tried to sound threatening, not a bad feat considering how naked and dirty he was.
"Um. Ah. Illya?" Napoleon let go of his arms, and backed toward the door. "You remember this morning?"
"Of course I remember this morning, Napoleon, I am not amnesiac."
"Well." Napoleon backed another step. "Then it will not be necessary for me to remind you how you begged me to make love to you? 'Fuck me, or die,' I believe were the exact, romantic words?"
This was annoying. "In what way have your torturous delays anything to do with how I smell?"
Napoleon was on the other side of the door frame now. "It will also, then, not be my task to point out that we were out of lube? Or, that I like being prepared; my Eagle Scout training, probably. "
"But," this was puzzling, "what was it you..." He jumped up. "You did not!"
"What choices did I have? Use Brylcreem or die?" Napoleon mimed his 'backed into a corner' expression, "that's, in popular vernacular, a no-brainer."
Illya raced after the retreating Napoleon. "Otsosi!"
"I'll be glad to Illya," Napoleon barricaded himself behind the kitchen table. "Breakfast first?" His eyes were gleaming, and the corner of his mouth was quivering.
Illya cursed some more in Russian, but there really was not anything else he could do. Napoleon had a point, not that he would admit to that, of course..
"I will not forget this, eagle scout, revenge will be mine." Illya glared at him for good measure.
And why was Napoleon laughing?
Note: otsosi means suck my dick (as far as I have been able to find out, and it's rude)