A sequel to A Change of Routine.
Napoleon awoke, feeling disoriented. He kept his eyes shut, letting his other senses clue him in. His legs were cramped, his knees were butting against a hard surface. The press of his Special was a reassuring weight against his ribs. The metallic rumble steadily assaulting his eardrums, the vibrations drumming through his body, the itch of the cheap fabric covering his lap, it all told him one thing: he was aboard an airplane. It was not UNCLE's comfortable jet, nor a heavy, military aircraft. He was sitting in a regular airline plane.
The hand in his felt strong but relaxed. Wait! His eyes flew open. Illya. Sleeping soundly in the seat beside him. Holding his hand under the cover of the grey airplane blanket. It all came crashing back to Napoleon. Rome. Illya dreaming. Kissing Illya. Making out in the shower. Crossword puzzle. He looked up, straight at the crossword now folded in the mesh pocket in front of him.
Napoleon tilted his head toward the window seat and watched Illya, who looked so much younger when he was asleep. Not that Illya wasn't young if he counted the years, but he lived a demanding life. They both did.
The golden bangs, worn longer than strictly regular for an UNCLE agent, were damp, Illya was always sweating a little when he was sleeping. For some reason, Napoleon could usually tell if Illya was conscious or not by the traces of that scent.
The lines on Illya's forehead were smoothed out,; his mouth, his whole face seemed softer. Illya had slept with his face turned toward him, cheek against the headrest. Now that Illya had turned his head a little, Napoleon could trace, even in the dim cockpit light, the thin, red stripes the texture of the fabric had made into Illya's pale skin.
Everything was such a contrast to when they were at work. Illya was always so focused, exploding into violent action when the situation called for it. How many times hadn't he seen Illya fight with and hurt Thrush villains when on a mission? There were few limits to what Illya would do to get the results Waverly demanded.
Other times, too often, Thrush operatives managed to get the upper hand. He, invariably, would have to watch while Illya was bound, held down, and crying out in pain at the hands of a Thrush torturer. The people recruited by Thrush didn't even have the rudiments of a moral standard left, and Illya bore the results of that on his body.
Napoleon shivered and involuntarily clutched Illya's hand. And of course that was enough to bring Illya abruptly back to consciousness. Napoleon observed that it only took Illya a moment and a flicker of his body to adjust, then he blinked his eyes open. Napoleon thought he could see memories and emotions pass through Illya's eyes. He saw the tell-tale way Illya pressed his upper arm against his ribs for a second, to check that his Special was in place.
Napoleon cringed. It had taken him longer to process. Was he getting old? He needed to focus.
"Are you okay, Napoleon? You were not dreaming?"
Hah! Trust Illya to go from sleeping to a hundred percent present in a moment, handing out banter.
Affectionate eyes met his. "You are feeling well, Napoleon?" A worried crease between Illya's eyebrows disclosed his concern.
Napoleon didn't want Illya worried. Without stopping to think, he tilted his head to the right, leaned forward, and kissed Illya. Muting the soft sound of Illya trying to say more. It was just as good as he remembered. He lifted his hand to cover their cheeks and mouths, and deepened the kiss.
Just a few heartbeats, and Napoleon felt his cock jump to life, tight against his pants. He had already come twice this morning, once in Illya's mouth. He closed his eyes at the memory. The second time had been with their cocks pressed together in Illya's hand, during their shower, while he barely succeeded in supporting himself against the water slick tiles.
But Napoleon wanted it again. He wanted Illya's touch like he'd never wanted any other man's. Napoleon stroked Illya's cheek gently, slid his hand down Illya's arm, moved it further down under the blanket and cupped Illya.'s crotch.
Napoleon wasn't the only one who was addicted. He broke the kiss, and sat back. "Illya," he whispered, staring at the nondescript seat in front of him. "I want you now."
"Again, Polya?" Illya murmured quietly beside him, no doubt addressing his own front seat. "I believe you have had me the whole time, you insatiable American."
Napoleon peeked quickly at Illya through the corner of his eyes. Illya was smiling. "You, you...chipper Russian!"
Illya only smiled broader and fended off Napoleon's attempt at swatting him. "If you accompany me to the men's lavatory, and put your hand in your mouth," Illya paused to let his eyes roam over Napoleon in what seemed a truly assessing way, "I can fall on my knees and suck your cock again. Will that satisfy your greedy needs?"
A blow job in the very public airplane toilet. Napoleon stopped his groan with a cough, hand clamped over his mouth, his other hand going to his groin, pressing down to keep him from coming in his pants. Again.
Lucky for Illya, he managed to suppress his grin, and patted Napoleon's arm, "Come on, moy drog, before they lock the door in preparation for landing."
Napoleon let go of his mouth and touched Illya's hand. It was time for some quick thinking and libido control. He took a couple of deep breaths through his clenched teeth, and relaxed a fraction. "You seem awfully energetic, Illya. I would have thought you were pooped out?"
Illya mimed idiot at him.
"But, Illya, wasn't that what you said last year when we had busted that nut Strago and his girl, miss Direpants...Direpout..."
"Diketon. And you are a party pooper, Napoleon. Could you not..."
"Sorry, Illya." Napoleon interrupted him. "I had to find a diversion to keep me from coming."
Illya turned icy eyes at him. "Well, would you kindly not use memories of me being tortured as a distraction in the future?"
"I promise, Illya." Napoleon could hear the contrite flavour in his voice. He hoped Illya could too.
Apparently, since Illya's eyes warmed again. "That is water under the bridge, are you c..." Illya checked himself, "are you up to it?"
Well, now. Napoleon jumped up and tried to stroll down the narrow aisle. He could hear his idiom spouting partner follow. Napoleon itched to adjust himself; his pants were just too tight. He walked faster, nodded and smiled at the air stewardess in passing. She looked up and smiled back. Any other time he would have engaged in small talk, ending up with her phone number, maybe more. But not now.
He saw the restroom door, vacant sign showing, and continued straight in. He could hear through the door that Illya was talking to the stewardess . Napoleon leaned against the wall, ducking his head a little, and waited. He was about to finally adjust himself, when Illya slipped in through the narrow door.
Illya had to be wanting this as much as Napoleon did, to risk coming in so soon after him. But he wouldn't dream of complaining. With some maneuvering, they managed to close and lock the door.
Plane lavatories, Napoleon thought, were maybe the tiniest rooms he had ever tried to have sex in. Not that he minded, with Illya's slim and strong body tight against his own.
"Napoleon." Illya, drawing back a little, was clawing at Napoleon's fly, the top button already undone. "I must postpone my kneeling." He met Illya's hungry gaze, waiting for him to continue. "There is too little space."
Did it matter? No. Illya was already sitting on the small toilet, pushing Napoleon's linen pants and silk underwear down, and none too gently either. But it was a relief to have his cock freed, it jutted up, ready for action.
What about Illya? "Illya...ah." Illya was already holding Napoleon's aching cock in a firm grip, licking at the pre-come Napoleon could see oozing out from the head.
If that wasn't enough to turn him on completely, Illya was also tugging at his own pants, opening them up one-handedly and whipping out his own erection. Napoleon would never, never doubt Illya's agility again.
Vaguely, at the back of his head, Napoleon could hear a distorted, male voice speaking, and the plane tilted. Insignificant information.
Napoleon concentrated instead on the indescribable feel of Illya sucking him off. Hard, fast and dirty. He wasn't even surprised that Illya was a perfectionist in this field, too. Illya's pale head moved in rhythm to the hand on his cock, this was sex, pure and hotter than anything. Napoleon slid one hand into Illya's hair, fingers tightening in it. The other hand he pressed against his mouth, trying to stop the wordless sounds pushing out of his mouth.
But he couldn't stop the thrusts forward, his cock slipping down Illya's throat as he swallowed, mouth stretched around the shaft, tongue rasping against the sensitive skin.
Blue, hot eyes met his and glazed over, and Napoleon could smell Illya coming, could feel Illya's moan around his cock, still buried deep inside him.
Jesus. This was almost better than this morning.
Napoleon groaned louder and banged his head back, hitting the flimsy door, denting something. The pain melted into the pleasure of relief, of coming. He tasted something metallic in his mouth, and recognized blood. He must have bitten down on his hand. Good advice from Illya, as usual.
After a moment, Illya let go of his spent cock, letting it slip from his lips, a trace of come trickling down from the corner of his mouth. Napoleon steadied himself against the sink, and reached out again to touch Illya, letting shaky fingertips trace Illya's flushed face, the moisture there.
Illya leaned back against the wall, breathing hard. Smiling in that wonderful way. His spent cock was hanging out through the opening of his fly; Illya looked as debauched as Napoleon felt. He leaned forward and kissed Illya's soft lips, tasting blood there, too.
Napoleon tugged a wad of paper out of the dispenser over the sink, dried their now soft cocks, and tucked them in again. He grabbed more paper and dabbed futilely at the wet spots of come on Illya's pants and shirt. All the while Illya was still, watching him affectionately. Which Napoleon kind of liked.
"So, Illya. I imagine you never expected to become a member of the Mile High Club?"
"Mile High, Napoleon?" Illya let his eyes pose the question.
Hm. So the word meister wasn't familiar with that expression. Napoleon opened his mouth to explain, but the definite clank from the spoilers and the wing flaps being lowered alerted him to where they were. The same did the knocking on the door behind his back.
The stewardess' tinny voice sounded through the door, far too loud. "We're landing in five minutes."
Illya scrambled forward, an even redder flush spreading on his face.
"Napoleon." Illya bumped into him and reached for the door. "You make me forget where I am."
They stumbled out, Napoleon was not sure who looked the more embarrassed, Illya or the stewardess. He smirked and straightened his jacket, walking jauntily after Illya back to their seats.
They had barely strapped themselves down with the safety belts, before the call for the cabin crew to be seated came, and the landing gear rumbled out.
They were met at the airport by a uniformed chauffeur in UNCLE's employment. "My orders are to bring you back to the headquarters immediately."
The drive in the UNCLE car back to Del Floria's was quiet. Even their communicators were ominously silent. Illya was looking slightly indignant, as if Napoleon had cajoled him into doing something he didn't want to.
"Cheer up, Illya!" Napoleon snagged a quick peck in the changing room, before opening the door leading into the UNCLE headquarters.
Illya pecked him back, giving him one of his rare, open smiles. "I am cheerful, Polya. Perhaps I am not sure yet whether I am dreaming."
"This is as real as it can get, Illyusha, even if we have to be discreet about it here."
Napoleon closed the door behind them, walked up to Tina, the receptionist, and gave her one of his practised smiles. She rose up from her chair to fasten the little triangular badge on his lapel, making a welcoming sound. He accepted it with a flourish, stepping aside for Illya to snatch his badge from Tina's hand.
"How is everything, my dear?" Napoleon used his charming smile again. "The Old Man is at his best?"
Illya nudged his elbow. "Let's go and find out, Napoleon."
Oh, so the Russian had a possessive streak in him. Napoleon suppressed a smirk, turned, and walked beside Illya down the corridor to Waverly's office.
Alexander Waverly was sitting at his round table, surrounded by files and some strange-looking bottles.
"Gentlemen. Please be seated." Waverly indicated the two chairs opposite him. "I trust you had an uneventful journey back to New York?"
They both nodded and sat down. Illya, curious as always, eyed the bottles.
"It seems, gentlemen," Waverly looked serious, "that for the time being, I must separate you two."