...all the forgiveness you're going to get.

by Cord Smithee

As far as I know, these characters belong to Norman Felton and some massive media empire. Any monies should be directed to those people, not me.

Illya was sprawled face-down on the leftmost of the two twin beds when Napoleon came out of the shower. His shirt was rumpled and untucked, his short unstyled hair tousled into little-boy charm. Napoleon, wearing his boxer shorts and not much else, crossed to the window and closed the drapes, then circled the room, shutting off lights and making sure the security system was intact. As he reached for Illya's bedside lamp, the Russian caught his wrist. "Leave it," he said against the pillow. "I thought I might read."

"If you like," Napoleon said, not pulling his hand back. "—Illyushinka."

Illya groaned and rolled onto his back, squinting up at Napoleon. The bruises on his face were nicely livid in contrast to the bits of sticking plaster holding his split eyebrow together. "I will pay you for that, Napoleon."

Napoleon grinned, concealing a moment's concern. The sheer delight of matching wits with his partner never paled. "Should I call you Pussycat, instead?"

"Ask me what's new, my friend, and I shall dine upon your liver. How was the pretty girl?"

"I lose track." Napoleon sat down on the edge of Illya's bed. Illya finally let go of his wrist. "By the time you're done in Amsterdam, I'll be at that conference in Tripoli."

Illya shrugged and reached past Napoleon for the volume of Victor Hugo resting on the nightstand. "You should have thought of that before you got me exiled," he said. "Now, if you do not mind—" Resolutely, he crossed ankles clad in black dress socks, retrieved his glasses, settled them on his nose, and opened Les Misérables.

"Cranky pussycat," Napoleon said, pushing Illya's hair off his bruised forehead.

"I am not a pussycat, Inspector Javert."

"No," Napoleon admitted. "You're a tomcat. A stubborn, half-wild, scar-nosed tomcat at that. The kind who stands on his affronted dignity and washes his paws with disdain at any perceived slight."

"Ditching me with a three thousand year old operatic battleaxe is a perceived slight?"

"I thought you could practice your Russian—"

"I did," Illya said, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Nyet. Nyet. Chyert, Nyet! Perhaps you are more the Chauvelin type than Javert, after all, given your taste for wanton cruelty. Go to bed, Napoleon."

Napoleon smiled. "Not sleepy, Illya?"

Illya didn't look up from his book. "I will be fine—"

"You're still kicking yourself for not finding the diamonds, aren't you?"

"It's a mistake anyone could have made."

Napoleon grinned. "Ah, but you're not anyone, are you? You're UNCLE's finest. Illyushka."

"Napoleon. I will thank you not to call me cutesy nicknames. Please. And stop asking me if I'm sleepy. You know very well that I'm accustomed to late nights."

"And you know very well that I have ways of making you sleepy that even you can't resist."

Illya turned a page, but his eyes weren't quite scanning the text, and the faint flush across his cheeks told Napoleon that his disinterest was feigned. "What do you have in mind?" the Russian asked, idly turning another page.

Napoleon drew one deep breath and laid the palm of his hand on Illya's belly, right above his belt buckle. "I'd planned on asking you that." He smiled calmly when Illya glanced over the edge of the book, raising an eyebrow behind his FREDs. Field-regulation eye devices... or, as Napoleon's sergeant had called them in Korea, Fucking Ridiculous Eye Devices. Durable, shatterproof, and so very ugly that they made Napoleon want to kiss him right then and there. Even moreso because he knew perfectly well that Illya used them as a barrier, a transparent wall to augment the aura of touch-not-the-cat he carried with him like a sword and shield. "I'm at your disposal," he clarified softly.

Illya lowered Les Misérables to rest across his lap. "I guess the girl really was a disappointment," he said, but there was a twinkle in his eye.

"The girl was fine," Napoleon answered, letting his hand slide over his partner's book-holding hand, across his hip and the outside of his thigh. "She was fine." That big hand reached out, collecting Napoleon's own while the other hand laid the book on the bedside table.

"Blockhead," Illya said, taking off his glasses. "Do you remember Rio?"

"Do you think I could ever forget?" Napoleon swallowed. "Is that what you want? Illyushka?"

Illya's eyes shone bright, his flush brighter. "No," he said. "I want you to do that to me."

Napoleon blinked, suddenly hot inside his own skin. "Really?" And then he shook his head. "Stupid question. But—"

"But?" A gentle tug, and Napoleon found himself sprawled on the narrow bed beside his partner, sharing the pillow.

"But I thought you did not care to be—devushka, was that your word?"

"And I thought you preferred to 'bottom,'" Illya answered, mimicking Napoleon's tone mercilessly. "But I would not be devushka to you, would I, Napoleon?"

"No," Napoleon said, propping himself on his elbows. Illya slid down, stopping when they were nose to nose. "Never."

"Even if you do exile me to Amsterdam."

"You can take care of yourself," Napoleon answered, leaning close enough to taste his partner's breath. "Even in Amsterdam. Do you want exactly Rio? Because I think we'll need a bottle of very bad rum, if so."

"Napoleon," Illya said breathily, running a hand along each of Napoleon's upper arms. "I would never dictate to an artiste of your calibre."

Napoleon grinned at him, dissipating the blue fog of dismay that seemed to have been following Illya like an unwelcome stray since that unpleasant incident involving the phone booth, the largish gentleman, and the sap. He'd very nearly blown the mission, and he knew it, and he had no excuses that Waverly would have accepted. Moreover, he had no excuses that he could accept. But Napoleon's scent—toothpaste, Ivory and aftershave (and for once, no bryllcreme)—the closeness of his nearly-naked, shower-damp skin, of those eyes that seemed to catch and concentrate every spark of light in a room, and the amused, malicious, and slightly concerned curve of his smile—

"Kiss me," Illya said roughly, and held on tight as Napoleon did just that, hard enough to pin Illya's head to the pillow and then playful and intense by turns, the quick brush of tongue and its more lingering return, the caress of mobile, muscular lips like a promise of things to come. Illya gave back as good as he got, eyes wide open and fixed on Napoleon's, hands dictatorial on Napoleon's shoulders and neck.

"No, tovarisch," Napoleon said, between kisses. He pulled back far enough to get a breath, sliding one knee between Illya's and then, when Illya opened his legs, moving to cover him with his body. He rubbed his belly against Illya's hardening erection, cloth rasping on skin. Illya pressed himself against satisfying, solid warmth, his calluses catching on his partner's moist skin. "No one would ever mistake you for a girl."

"Not for long." Illya knotted his hands in damp hair, so very silken without its usual dollop of grease. He bit at Napoleon's mouth, kissed the mole on his cheek. "Back up a little so I can get at my shirt."

"Like this?" Napoleon knelt as Illya released him, reaching for the buttons on Illya's shirt, the buckle on his belt, and hindering far more than he was helping. Illya batted at his hands, half a grin twisting his face. Napoleon poked Illya under the ribs, finding the ticklish spots with practiced ease. Illya yelped and grabbed for his wrists, but Napoleon was faster. He caught Illya's left hand in his right one and leaned down, pinning his half-clad partner to the bed. Illya could have locked his legs around Napoleon's waist and reversed the hold with ease and efficiency, but instead he surrendered, turning his head to watch through slitted lids as Napoleon unbuttoned his shirtcuff. One, and then—releasing Illya, but not without an arch look that meant lie still—the other.

Illya leaned forward so Napoleon could slide the shirt down over his shoulders, then arched his hips while his partner dispensed with trousers, underwear, and socks with similar efficiency, dumping them on the floor—quickly followed by Napoleon's boxers.

The air was cool, the hotel bedspread rough against his back. Napoleon's skin was smooth and warm when he stretched himself full-length atop Illya. Illya wrapped his arms around Napoleon's shoulders and ran his hands down the other man's back. Napoleon wasn't heavily muscled; he was strong and slender and quick. His ass was firm and resilient when Illya squeezed it hard, pressing Napoleon's erection against his own. Napoleon made a little noise of amused pleasure as he bent to nibble along Illya's collarbone, almost a humming sound. Illya closed his eyes and relaxed into the attention, forgetting for the moment how badly the side of his face ached. Napoleon's hands were certain and warm, rough with firearm and unarmed combat practice, his manicured fingernails scratching lightly against Illya's skin. His mouth was soft and warm and tracing slow, slick lines across Illya's chest and belly, pausing to investigate interesting landmarks along the way.

Illya sighed and gave himself up to it, as he had failed so spectacularly to do, in Rio. Napoleon brushed his lips across the thin line of almost transparent hair below Illya's navel. Illya felt his smile like a brand on tender skin. "Hmm," he said in that voice that told Illya he was contemplating something.

"Hmm?" Idly, Illya ran his fingers through Napoleon's hair again. It was lovely to have the freedom to tousle his partner. "You are plotting, Napoleon."

"Oh, nothing, Illyushinka—"

Illya propped himself up, ready to protest the childish nickname. The words stopped in his throat, blown back on an inwards gasp as Napoleon tightened one hand mercilessly around the base of Illya's cock and plunged half the length into his eager mouth.

"Oh," Illya said, curling forward at the shock of wetness, warmth and pleasure. It was an utter act of will not to knot his fingers in Napoleon's hair, not to arch himself into that tight, willing mouth and spend everything on a half-dozen brutal, relentless thrusts. Napoleon's mouth was enough, he thought, to make him believe in God. Sometimes it was enough to make him see God. He tried to relax into sensation, to uncurl his hands and let them lie open on the sheets, to relax his body into the pleasure Napoleon gave him so willingly—

—until Napoleon reached out blindly with his free hand and caught Illya's wrist and placed Illya's hand on Napoleon's head. He curled Illya's fingers into his hair, encouraging him to clutch, to cling, making soft, wet, coaxing noises deep in his throat. Illya didn't need a second invitation. He reached out blindly, palming Napoleon's head, damp silk of his hair and the hardness of bone. Tenacious, lost, thrusting hard and deep enough to feel the flutter of Napoleon's throat as he fought his gag reflex and never let up, never backed off. Napoleon's hands were on Illya's hips, lifting them off the bed, urging him—higher, harder. "Napoleon, I can't—"

The flex of powerful fingers on his ass, the hummed urging through lips pressed wickedly tight against Illya's cock, the heat and suction and fluttering tongue-tip pressure said yes. Yes, you can. Give it to me. Give me everything— Napoleon as much as purred at him, utterly competent, utterly in control.

Not yet— Illya thought, but his body had other ideas. He threw his head back on the pillow and hissed through gritted teeth, eyes tight, his hands locked in a deathgrip on Napoleon's skull, white light flashing behind his eyelids. He fell back against the bed, gasping, his jaw and fingers aching as he unclenched them. "Oh—" All he could get out around the heaving breaths that filled and emptied his lungs.

Napoleon slid up to cover him again, kissed his mouth, kissed his throat. "There," the American said, a wry grin twisting his mouth—delight in his own power, and Illya knew the expression well enough. How do I manage to do these things? "Now you're ready for me."

"In case you hadn't noticed," Illya said, quieting his breath with concentration, not even capable of opening his eyes, "I've more finished without you—"

"Au contraire, mon ami," Napoleon answered. "We have only just begun. I wouldn't want you too eager, after all. And I had a head start with the young lady."

"The man has never heard the term, 'refractory period,'" Illya said to the air, between returning Napoleon's idle kisses. "Did your torch singer do that to you, then?"

"Of course not." Napoleon looked affronted. "Nice American girls don't do such things." He chuckled, and kissed Illya on the nose. "Nice American girls use their hands."

"I see," Illya answered, insinuating one of his hands between their bodies and running it down Napoleon's belly until it reached the satin-smooth cock that rubbed against the crease of his thigh. "Then how fortunate for me that I have a nice American boy in my bed."

"Mmm," Napoleon said, his eyes half-lidded in pleasure. He drew reluctantly away. "Roll over. Get comfy. I'll be right back."

Illya had taken him at his word. He returned to find his partner sprawled bonelessly on the bed, face down, knees parted, a pillow stuffed under his hips and his arms folded under his head. "I thought you couldn't sleep," Napoleon said, swatting Illya lightly on the ass. Illya's relaxation was so complete that Napoleon could see the contact ripple up to the small of his back. His partner didn't even mumble a protest.

"That was before you had your wicked way with me. You should have thought of the dangers of my drifting off on you before you wore me out so thoroughly."

"I have not yet begun to have my wicked way with you," Napoleon answered. He ran one hand down Illya's back, more possessively than he would ever have admitted. It was a beautiful back, muscular, the edged lines of his shoulderblades crisp under pale skin. "Fortunately, you can sleep in tomorrow."

"Before I drive to Amsterdam." Illya's voice went sweet when he was sleepy and sated. It was the only time.

"Such is life," Napoleon said, and kissed him between those beautiful shoulderblades. He knelt over his partner and touched him softly, here and there. "If you really want to sleep—"

Illya snorted against the pillow. "Get on with it," he said, the words brusque but the tone teasing. "Before I die of old age."

"Get on with it," Napoleon grumbled. He ran both hands down Illya's back again, brushing old scars, caressing dense muscle, outlining his tight ass. "Artistry will not be rushed, my fine slumbering friend."

"M'not sleeping."

"Just nearly." The insides of Illya's thighs were creamy and soft as buttermilk poured over the back of a spoon; Napoleon indulged himself in touching as he rarely got to, memorizing his friend's body with his hands. Illya relaxed further, very nearly asleep now to judge by the artless tumble of his neck and arms. His partner's trust was enough to leave Napoleon breathless with a complicated heartache that wouldn't resolve into clear emotion no matter how he squinted at it, and to be honest, he didn't squint too hard. "You told me I was beautiful, in Rio," he said, and reached for the bottle of lotion he'd dropped beside the bed. "Do you remember, Illyushka?"

"'member. You are beautiful—oh." A soft sound, not a startled one, but accepting, as Napoleon smoothed the cool, creamy fluid down the crease of his partner's ass. "No fair to wear me out so thoroughly first—"

"Hush," Napoleon said. He slipped one slick finger inside Illya, smiling at the sudden flush of heat and the brief flutter of contraction. "No apologies. I'm having my wicked way with you, remember?"

"Mmmm." Illya lay unmoving, breathing in, breathing out again. With his left hand, Napoleon reached between Illya's legs, rubbing the overflow of lotion into his balls, into the hot, sweaty skin of his perineum. The right angle, the right pressure—

Illya sucked in a breath and held it as Napoleon found firmness under the soft, soft skin. Napoleon pulled his right hand back enough to add a second finger, pressed forward, pressed down, laughed in low delight when Illya suddenly squirmed under his touch, hips rocking helplessly and very very slightly, trapped between two excruciating pleasures and unable to move too far from either one.

"nnnnnhhhh-—"

"Shhh," Napoleon said, moving his hands in slow circles, counter to each other. "You are sleeping, tovarisch." A tremor swept Illya's body; Napoleon felt him compose himself, relax himself, settle himself to roll with whatever Napoleon did. "You're sleeping, and I've, ah, I've crept in to ravish you—" The fantasy was suddenly captivating, the gilded line of Illya's shoulder, the lamplight gleaming on his hair, his unconditionally offered abandon. Napoleon bit the inside of his own cheek to steady himself. We have all night. And who knows when he might be in the mood to offer like this again.

"The ravishment is proceeding in a rather stately fashion." A trace of dryness, but still half-drowsy, smooth and relaxed.

"All good ravishments do," Napoleon countered. "Don't even try to tell me this doesn't feel good." He reached down left-handed and stroked Illya's cock just once, from base to tip, loving the shiver that followed his touch. "Because you're already hard again, Illyushka. At least something's not sleepy."

A glass-edged chuckle, then Illya's voice rough and a little breathless as Napoleon anointed him with more lotion, sliding his fingers in and out, in and out. "I'm stuck with that nickname forever, aren't I?"

"Until I get bored with it."

"If I had the energy to roll over, I would kill you."

Napoleon's turn to laugh. "If you killed me, I would have to stop doing this—"

"That would never—oh. Yes, like that, thank you."

Napoleon would also never tell his partner how charming he found it when Illya said please and thank you in bed, proper as a Catholic-school boy. Instead he rewarded the request more physically, drawing a low, soft whimper from his partner's throat. "Beautiful Illya," he said. "What do you need?"

Part of the game, and Illya played along, moaning and shaking his head just slightly, as if a tremendous lassitude still weighed him down. "Wicked ways," he moaned. "You're ravishing me, remember?"

"Oh, silly me," Napoleon said. "Of course you're right." He freed his hand with one quick gesture and, without missing a beat, shifted his weight forward and pressed the just the tip of his cock into Illya's softness, his lubricated heat.

"Oh," Illya said, and went utterly, utterly still. Breathless—no, breath held—waiting for Napoleon, letting him set the pace and the agenda and make the decisions. Napoleon, who gritted his teeth, breathing through his nose, waiting for control to return. All night, he coached himself. All god-damned glorious night.

A gift this rich, you didn't spend all at once.

Napoleon came into him gently as snow falling over a fertile valley, and as deep. His partner had his weight behind the long, slow, silken thrust, and controlled it so lightly and so perfectly that all Illya noticed was the warmth stretched against his back, the incredible sweet-hot fire within his body, until he set his hands and tried to push back against the thrust, and he realized that Napoleon was lying full-length atop him, cock buried in his ass to the root.

"Shh," Napoleon said against his neck, drawing a luxurious shiver. "Relax. Let me take care of you this time."

Inch by inch, Illya relaxed. He let his head fall forward again, his body fall slack against the pillow. Napoleon squirmed, edging in little circles that made Illya's breath go ragged, nudging Illya's legs apart until he somehow pressed himself even closer, even deeper. He ran a hand down each of Illya's arms from shoulder to fingertip and tangled his hands with Illya's. They fisted their fingers together, arms spread wide, Napoleon's weight holding Illya's hands to the bed.

Illya wanted to rock against that weight, press against it. Wanted to feel Napoleon moving inside of him, feel Napoleon lose control. It wasn't going to happen. Napoleon bit his neck instead, grinding his hips against Illya's ass in tiny, taunting circles. Illya groaned, the penetration deep and sweet and hideously, tormentingly unsatisfying.

"Please," he said. "More—"

"In time." Breath so hot on his ear. He arched into the penetration, offering himself, opening himself. Napoleon snuggled closer, edged a little higher as Illya got his knees braced at least and settled himself, lifting his hips, taking every relentless inch of pleasure Napoleon had to give. So slow, so painstaking. Like cutting diamonds, like—

Like nothing at all in the world. Slow, and graceful, and generous, and maddening. Illya strained against him, wanting rhythm, wanting fierceness, craving the harshness and passion of Napoleon at his most intense, and Napoleon gave him none of it. Gave him gentleness and subtlety and a rolling pace like deep ocean swells—until Illya relaxed again, boneless against the bed, accepting and accepted, a warmth growing in him that had nothing to do with any purely physical pleasure.

Napoleon edged upwards, only an inch or two, pulling Illya's hands down to flatten his chest against the bed, moving faster now, and both of them so accustomed to the long slow tease that it was simultaneously pleasure sharp as a bolt of lightning, and not quite enough to push either one of them over the edge.

"There," Illya moaned. "There, Napoleon. There." Almost too much, too hard, too sweet....

Napoleon gave him back his hands, moving unstoppably now as Illya pressed back against him, locking his feet over Napoleon's calves, reaching back to claw at Napoleon's thighs as Napoleon clutched his hips and swore, droplets of sweat spattering Illya's back. He's inhuman, Illya thought. Impossible that he could keep this up, and the need in his own belly was too much to ignore—and then Napoleon leaned forward again, and Illya needed both hands to support the weight, but Napoleon had his cock now, in one strong, slippery hand, stroking hard, in counterpoint to his thrusts, bringing Illya to the edge of something that yawned bright and unyielding before them—

"Come for me, Pussycat," Napoleon whispered in his ear, as he had whispered in Napoleon's ear one drunken night half the globe away. "Come for me, Illya, Illyushka, right now, let me feel you—"

It peaked in him with a cry that might have been a sound of despair, except for the way Napoleon caught him, and held him when his arms would have gone out from under him, and lowered him gently, gently to the bed. Napoleon still moved, slower now but no less driven, and Illya gathered his scattered wits and pressed back against his partner.

"So close," Napoleon hissed, his voice so strained, so very close to pain, and Illya answered, "Give it to me. Give me everything—"

—Napoleon, even Napoleon, lost his words at the very end, and Illya felt his partner's orgasm and his brief, choked cry as the same thing as they slid down onto the bed.

"Yuck," Illya said clearly, moments later.

"Am I sticky?"

"You're wonderful," Illya answered, squirming until Napoleon rolled away and let him up. "I, on the other hand, am disgusting and I want a shower. And we're sleeping in the other bed."

"What will the chambermaids think?" Napoleon asked, rolling onto his back to watch his disheveled partner walk toward the bathroom.

"One presumes the same things the chambermaids always think," Illya said tartly, pausing with his hand on the doorknob, his strong body shiny and wet. He couldn't quite hide his smile, but he was trying. "'Thank god it isn't blood,' most likely."

He shut the door crisply behind himself. Napoleon laughed low in his throat. It was enough.

It was all the forgiveness Napoleon would get, and he was perfectly content to have it.