"Are you going to share any of those blankets?" Napoleon asked, warily, tucking his hands under his arms to keep them warm. The freshly lit fire was crackling happily but the room was still far too cold for his comfort. A small bed in the corner offered no comfort, lying forlorn and stripped bare of all its coverings except for two musty smelling feather pillows. Clothes draped over a makeshift line were casting ghostly shadows over the room, adding very little to its appeal.

The blanket-draped form next to him shifted, one sullen work escaping from the folds. "No."

"Come on, it's not my fault we got lost."

His partner didn't reply, but his silence spoke for him eloquently. Napoleon scooted as close to the fire as he could get without actually becoming a part of it and tried again, this time with a touch of his own pique. "You were the one driving, you know. I was asleep! If anyone is at fault, it's you."

"You were in that car," Illya muttered, tightening his hold on the blanket. "I never get lost unless you are with me. You are a curse. I should have made you ride in the trunk."

Well, there was no way to argue his way out of that. Napoleon gave it up any thought of a blanket as a lost cause. At least his front was warm, even if one of his best features had been sacrificed to the cold. If he weren't careful, his butt was going to freeze to the floor. Why didn't they ever get missions in nice places, like the Bahamas or Hawaii? For all its intentions to rule the world, THRUSH certainly wasn't picking the best places to start.

They'd been lucky that the rooms in this old bed and breakfast had fireplaces. The storm had knocked out the power hours before, to both the town and apparently to their car. He did have to admit to some grudging appreciation that they didn't have to camp out in snow. Their car had chugged to an unhappy stop just after they'd passed through this little town and a little backtracking was infinitely preferable to a miserable frozen death.

Of course, they'd had to trudge through the snow for twenty minutes before they'd gotten here, and for all of Illya's impatience over him insisting on bringing their luggage, Napoleon was glad they had. Otherwise he'd be cold and wet, and cold was bad enough. Even with the fire sending out lazy waves of heat, it was still difficult to keep his teeth from chattering.

A loud sigh came from the depths of the blanket shroud surrounding his partner, and a grudging, "Get over here before you die of hypothermia and I am forced to explain to Waverly how you managed to perish without THRUSH involvement."

Leaving aside the issue that it wasn't his fault that they were lost, Napoleon scrambled over to his partner, only to have him shy away when he tried to pull the blankets open to get inside.

"No, you don't! Strip first. If I have to warm both you and your clothes, then I will be cold again."

Blasted stubborn Russians..."Can I keep my socks on?" he asked sweetly, shivering as he quickly skinned out of his clothes. Illya grunted sourly, only his shadowed eyes visible inside his nest. The call of that warmth was like a siren song, and Napoleon surrendered his sense of aesthetics for once and left his clothes in a crumpled pile on the floor, including his socks.

The chill of the wooden floor was quickly becoming unbearable and the very moment Illya opened his haven to allow him inside, Napoleon scrambled in. He ignored Illya's yowl of complaint as he wrapped his arms around him, tucking his icy hands against hot skin.

Bliss. It was like cuddling with a living furnace. After a brief struggle, Illya seemed to have resigned himself to his fate and allowed Napoleon to bury his cold face against his shoulder. As well he should, Napoleon thought uncharitably. It was Illya's fault he was so cold, after all. He felt Illya tucking the blanket around both of them, repairing the cocoon of warmth before taking one of Napoleon's hands in both of his, chafing feeling back into his frozen fingers.

"I'm sorry, Napoleon. I didn't realize you were this cold." The rare, and sincere, apology in his voice thawed Napoleon further, and nodded a little in acceptance. It seemed to satisfy Illya, who released his hand and instead pulled Napoleon's feet into his lap, gently massaging warmth into his toes.

It felt...strange, Illya's deft fingers sliding over his bare feet. It should have been ticklish but instead it was...perhaps a little too warm. Napoleon shifted awkwardly, trying to pull back a little. One of Illya's hands tightened warningly around his ankle and Napoleon relented. Better to just let Illya do what he wanted instead of getting tossed back out with the icicles.

"You have such soft skin," Illya murmured, his fingers slowly trailing higher, seemingly oblivious to Napoleon's quickening breath as they lightly tested the muscles of his calves.

"I moisturize," Napoleon said weakly, trying and failing for his usual flippancy. Illya fingertips dipped into the curve behind his knee and he gasped in surprise. All right, this was getting too strange and way, way too warm. He started to pull away, accidentally taking the blanket with him and a crack formed in their barrier against the cold.

"Hold still," Illya scolded, tucking the blanket back into place with one hand. The other was still creeping up Napoleon's thigh and he forgot to breath, biting his lip on a groan and then...Illya stopped. He blinked hazily, feeling oddly betrayed.

"Do you want me to keep going?" His breath was as hot as a flame against Napoleon's ear, the soft brush of his lips punctuated by the delicate sweep of his tongue around the curve. Napoleon couldn't speak, shivering helplessly as Illya blew softly on the damp skin. "Are you still cold?" Illya whispered teasingly, his fingers moving in slow circles on Napoleon's thighs but staying maddeningly exactly where they were. "Napoleon?"

God, was this how women felt when he seduced them? Needy and helplessly wanting, vulnerable to every touch, and he couldn't seem to find a way to say the words Illya obviously wanted to hear. Illya, who was...seducing him? Wanted him? Trying to keep him warm? Whatever his intention, Napoleon just wanted more. Yes, keep going, yes, touch me, yes, yes, oh yes, fuck me if you want, just don't stop.

"Yes," he finally sighed, tilting his head back so that Illya could kiss his way down the line of his jaw. Blunt teeth sank lightly into the base of his throat in primal triumph, dimly felt as Illya's hands finally, finally moved, cupping his balls and cock in their heady warmth.

They sighed in unison, their breath mingling as Illya pressed his cheek against Napoleon's. "Oh," Illya murmured, a low sound of wonder. "You feel so..." Napoleon shuddered as Illya touched him in a too-gentle exploration. He measured Napoleon's cock against his palm curiously, sliding lower tested the weight of his balls and then returning, his fingertips lightly exploring the exposed crown of the shaft, smoothing a drop of satiny moisture over the tip.

Napoleon bit his lip, closing his eyes tightly. It was torture, sweat prickling his skin in a fine sheen as Illya made no attempt at rhythm or even to take him fully in hand. He seemed content with his mild explorations and every nerve in Napoleon's body screamed for him to grab his partner and force him to do something. But Illya had told him to be still, and still he would be because if he wasn't, Illya might stop and that didn't even bear considering.

"You're so smooth," Illya's delight was obvious in his voice and his touch, sliding lower again and caressing velvety skin. "How can you be so smooth?"

"I...oh..." Napoleon's tongue refused to form words, his nails biting into his palms as he tried to brace himself for another round of torture. Christ, THRUSH was kinder than this.

"How am I to tell if you are a true brunette?" Illya teased softly. Napoleon couldn't reply, thoughts flitting through his head about matching cuffs and collars and that he already knew that Illya was a real blonde, and dammit, please just DO something!

"Please!" he whimpered, pride and shame be damned, "Please, just...please!"

Illya's mouth was against his own in an instant, demanding and soothing at the same time, the taste of him like his scent, both unknown and familiar. It broke something inside him, something holding him back and Napoleon found his hands moving over his partner frantically, sliding over his back, his hair, needing to touch.

"Shhh," Illya crooned into his mouth. "Shhh, it's all right. I have you, I do." He pulled away and Napoleon cried out, reaching for him desperately. Illya caught his hands, gentling him. "I have you," he repeated. "Just let me..."

Napoleon sagged with relief, obeying Illya's gentle nudges, a careful adjustment that didn't allow for any cool air to leak inside to disturb them, like the blankets were a barrier against the outside world. A haven that made making love to his partner, his friend, something acceptable. Desirable. Still terrifying to find himself on his knees, the length of Illya's body warm against his back, and God, could he really do this?

Fear was like a taste on the back of his mouth and it tasted like salt, like tears. He was shaking, he realized, more terrified of this than he'd ever been of pain or death. How ironic, that Napoleon Solo could be terrified of sex. And he was, little tremors shivering through him because he knew, without a shred of doubt, that he was going to let Illya fuck him.

Life had a bizarre sense of humor.

He could feel Illya moving, his hands warm and firm on Napoleon's hips, and he shook harder, burying his burning face in his arms. Just do it, he pleaded silently, do it before I can't take it anymore.

"Napoleon?" Softly, a warm kiss pressed against the small of his back. "Don't move."

"Oh, God!"

He was barely aware of crying out, the first soft touch of Illya's tongue rippling through him like a shockwave. He lurched forward, trying mindlessly to escape only to find Illya's arm wrapped firmly around his leg, holding him ruthlessly still for Illya's hot mouth. Mother of God in Heaven, he'd never felt anything like this, the slippery dance of Illya's tongue against the most private part of his body.

Worse was Illya's barely restrained eagerness, his obvious delight in the soft hold of his mouth against Napoleon. Nudging barely inside with slick persistent, a tease of what Napoleon had thought they were about to do.

His eyes stung with a sudden spurt of tears, terror warring with the agony of too much pleasure, and he barely whimpered at the faint burn of a finger sliding inside of him, pain swallowed in the flicker of Illya's tongue around it. He'd only thought he knew how to give pleasure, any skill he believed he had a shadow in comparison to Illya's.

A second finger made him wail, a wild keening sound as he struggled against Illya's merciless grasp. No, this was too much, he couldn't let this happen, couldn't just hold still and allow...

"Let me do this!" Illya snarled, the unrelenting pressure of his fingers twisting inside Napoleon almost too much to bear, and then his mouth returned, fucking him wetly with his tongue in time to the careful thrust of his fingers. He did, unable to battle both himself and Illya. He rested his head on his arms, tasting salt and every whimpering breath he took begged for more.

Napoleon nearly screamed when Illya stopped, his earlier struggles forgotten. "...don't...please...god, Illya..." A jumble of words bubbling out of him, trailing away into a gasp at the hot, blunt pressure of Illya's cock against him. They were really going to do this, he realized, the dull coldness of fear heavy as lead in his stomach, not even touching the volcanic burn of pure need in his blood. They were really going to fuck, he was really going to let this happen, Illya was pushing against him now, little pained moans escaping him as he tried to push past virgin resistance.

"Let...me..." Illya gritted out, his short nails digging into Napoleon's hips, the stinging barely distracting him from the blossoming pain as Illya finally pried his way inside. Barely inside, only the head of his cock and Napoleon choked on a sob, straining backwards and desperate for more. It hurt like hell, his stubborn muscles protesting this unnatural invasion but Napoleon was beyond caring.

Illya dropped his forehead against Napoleon's shoulder and Napoleon realized he was trembling too, badly, and perhaps he was as shaken by this as Napoleon was? As needy, as terrified of it all?

"Just relax...Napoleon, just let me..." Harsh, demanding, the faintest plea layered beneath it. Napoleon took a deep, shuddery breath, and tried, feeling Illya sink slowly into him. "Ohhhhh," Illya moaned, "Yessssss."

Yes, Napoleon mouthed, yes, like that. The deep, harsh burn of it inside him, Illya forcing the tight clench of his body to accept him, reshaping him inside. It seared him, like the fire, like the brilliant chilling burn of ice on bare skin. The sure certainty of Illya's hips against him as he pulled slowly out and drove back in, filling him with his cock, with that burn. Hard and brutal and just Illya, and Napoleon just wanted more, wanted it with a bone-deep, selfish desire.

Illya shifted behind him, leaning forward and bracing himself on his arms. Napoleon gasped as it pushed him deeper still, a note of real pain shimmering a warning up his spine. He tried to speak, not sure if he wanted to protest or to plead for more but Illya's hand was suddenly hard on his chin, forcibly tilting his head back.

Long, hard glides of Illya's cock inside him and hot breath against his cheek, and Illya was saying something, muttering low words in Russian that Napoleon couldn't unravel in his thoughts enough to understand. Each thrust forced a ragged cry from him, pain tangled brutally with agonizing pleasure.

"Napoleon...ah...." Illya choked out, pressing his damp, sweat-drenched face against Napoleon's shoulder, words slipping into little, hopeless sounds, and it was too much, the sudden pulse inside him splintering into razor shards. He thought he might have screamed, the sound muffled by Illya's hand abruptly over his mouth, digging in bruisingly hard as Illya thrust in one final time, shaking violently behind him and coming almost silently.

He couldn't support his own weight, much less Illya's, collapsing in a shaking pile of sweaty limbs, tangled blankets and shuddering breath. Illya was surprisingly heavy against him, his mouth moving lazily against his neck, murmuring soundlessly. Finally, Illya struggled back to his knees, letting Napoleon suck air into his starved lungs.

"Take a deep breath."

Napoleon obeyed automatically, releasing it in a painful hiss as Illya pulled slowly out, leaving him aching and empty. Suddenly, his position on his knees was mortifying and Napoleon straightened his legs, stretching out cramped muscles. A worse humiliation was the dampness on his cheeks that he couldn't possibly hope to dismiss as sweat.

"Don't move," Illya ordered, softly. The blankets were gently folded around him as Illya slipped free and stood. Napoleon heard him pad to the small bathroom and the splash of water. He shifted uncomfortably, a sliver of cold floor sneaking in through a fold in the blanket. There was a sound behind him and he turned his head to see Illya walking back, carrying a basin and apparently not feeling the chill in spite of his nudity.

He'd known Illya for two years now, been partnered with him longer than anyone else before him. He knew his favorite foods, that he hated riding in a car but loved driving, that he rubbed the bridge of his nose whenever he was tired. But somehow, he'd never noticed that Illya was beautiful.

The firelight kissed his skin to a fine shade of gold even as it shone in deep reds in his hair. The simple act of walking made him look strangely graceful, like something exotic and unknown, and yet still Illya. His eyes were shadowed, an unreadable mystery, as he knelt next to Napoleon and tucked a corner of the blanket over his lap. Not all that oblivious to the cold, then. Napoleon started to turn, not wanting to lose the sight of him just yet but Illya's hands on his back stilled him.

"I said don't move," Illya said, calmly. There was a faint touch of icy air as Illya lifted the blanket and then a cold, wet cloth touched him, soothing his aching flesh. "I want to make sure you aren't bleeding."

Napoleon closed his eyes and let out a slow breath. He could allow this. Really, it would be ridiculous not to. At this point, complaining that he could wash himself was going to be petty at the very least and not just because he wasn't sure he could. His arms and legs were still trembling slightly and his bones felt like they were made of gelatin. With surprising tenderness, Illya cleaned him, his fingertips lightly testing for any injury.

"You're very calm," Napoleon observed, the silence finally unnerving him.

Illya stopped. "Do you think so?" he asked, his tone one of polite interest.

"Well, I did until you said that."

Illya rinsed the cloth and pressed it against him again, cleaning away the last bit of stickiness. "There. I think you'll survive."

"That's good to hear."

Silence settled around them again, Illya's hands, still cool and damp, moved restlessly over Napoleon's back. "I was wondering if you were going to kill me," Illya admitted.

"Kill you?" Napoleon blinked. He craned his head over his shoulder to look at his partner. Illya's face flickered with shadowy light from the fire, unreadable and distant.

"Stealing all the blankets in a fit of pique is one thing, Napoleon. Rolling you on the floor of in an old motel is quite another."

"So...you did it because you were still mad at me?" He wondered if Illya could hear his faint hurt in his voice, which was stupid, really, but Christ, screwing your partner blind because you were angry was colder than the temperature outside, bitter, arctic cold.

Illya was silent and the hurt swelled into an ache, dimming the warm, sated feeling low in his belly. Turning back to the fire, Napoleon watched the shimmer of the glowing coals and told himself it was the heat that made his eyes burn.

"No," Illya said quietly, and the ache eased into something bearable. "I did it because..." he hesitated, his fingers tracing shallow patterns over Napoleon's back and lower, down the curve of his hip. "You're so soft," he murmured.

"You mentioned that, yes."

"So cool, like glass," Illya continued as though Napoleon hadn't spoken. He slipped beneath the blankets again, curving against Napoleon's back as his hand drifted around and stroked the smooth skin of Napoleon's belly. "And your skin is just..." Illya sighed deeply, his breath ticklishly warm as his lips found the line of Napoleon's jaw.

Napoleon bit his lip and if he tilted his head just a little so that Illya's mouth could find his own, well, who could blame him? Soft, hot lips, the tender stroke of a tongue in his mouth, and it was so easy to just let Illya do whatever he wanted. And he apparently just wanted to touch Napoleon.

"So soft," he crooned into Napoleon's mouth. "So lovely. And...you didn't say no."

The soft truth made him flinch, trying to pull away from Illya's gentle persistence. His tongue moved slickly in Napoleon's mouth, coaxing, begging for him to stay. With a mental sigh, he sank back into Illya's arms. To hell with it. It was warmer in the blankets. And he didn't want to be cold again. Not tonight.