Napoleon opened his eyes and was immediately, completely awake. It was a learned reaction, overcome only by drugs or physical injuries. He sometimes wished he could drift up through the layers of sleep as he'd done in his childhood, but mostly he was grateful for that instant awareness. Aside from the many times it had saved his life, it allowed him to enjoy moments like this.

Illya was spooned up behind him, one arm slung over his waist, his morning erection prodding Napoleon in one buttock. He was over-warm where they pressed together and his skin uncomfortably sticky with sweat as a result. Still Napoleon lay quietly and enjoyed the soft wash of Illya's breath across his skin.

Over the years, he'd woken up with more women than he cared to name. They'd all been different, an intriguing variation that often sharpened his interest the night before as he wondered what this woman would be like when she first opened her eyes. At the same time, they'd all been the same.

The very strangeness of Illya's body against his had been exciting, at first. Napoleon smiled to himself, remembering how startled he'd been that first morning to wake and know with absolute certainty who his bedmate was. There was no mistaking the slender, firm planes of Illya's body for a woman.

Illya had woken at Napoleon's slight twitch. He had kissed his partner on the shoulder, rolled out of bed, and proceeded to brush his teeth with Napoleon's toothbrush while Napoleon watched through the open bathroom door.

When the strangeness had faded, he worried that he'd grow bored with the familiarity. When Illya was home he had a very definite morning routine and he stuck to it regardless of whose apartment they woke up in. Though Napoleon had managed to distract him, once or twice...

He'd kept worrying about it until he'd woken in a hotel room one morning and caught himself waiting for the kiss on his shoulder, despite the fact that he could hear the shower running. Napoleon had laughed at himself then, and gone to join Illya in the bathroom, if not in the shower. Not on an affair.

This morning he lay, not minding the sweat, and ignored the growing pressure in his bladder, waiting for Illya to wake up. The moment was not long in coming--it rarely was. There it was: a soft sigh and the rasp of stubble on his back.

Neither of them spoke for a moment. Mornings free of the beeping of either alarm clock or communicator were rare. At last Illya shifted a little and lifted his head away from Napoleon's body. "What are you thinking about?" Illya asked quietly, fingers ruffling the hairs of Napoleon's belly.

"Waking up," he murmured, contemplating the curl of his own hand where it lay on the pillow.

"Would you like to go to sleep so that you can try again?"

Napoleon grinned to himself. "No. I think I got it right this time."