It wasn't the pain that was bothering him. Pain he was familiar with, in dozens of forms, and a simple broken ankle was not enough to distract him. He'd hardly needed the painkiller Napoleon had forced upon him though he'd taken it with distinct impatience at his partner's coddling.

Nor was it the fact that he was becoming bored at an alarming rate. That too, was Napoleon's fault. Due to his misfortune in breaking his right ankle, he had not being able to drive which meant he had been forced to go wherever Napoleon wished and he had wished to go to his own apartment, declaring with grating cheerfulness it was far safer for Illya to spent his weekend there. He had also made several quite rude comments about the state of Illya's refrigerator, his cupboards and about the pile of dishes that were likely in his sink but that was hardly worth remembering.

And while Napoleon's apartment did have more groceries than his own, what it made up for in foodstuffs it lacked in anything else. Unfortunately, his tastes in reading material did not run along the same lines as Napoleon's. The rows of novels lining his bookshelves had gotten only a cursory look and a stack of magazines had also been summarily studied and discarded. Why anyone would be interested in looking at even the cover of a GQ magazine was a mystery that he did not care to solve and the single issue of Playboy buried in the stack had only one interesting article.

Still, none of these things were more than he could handle, even combined. What was truly bothering him was that he was in Napoleon's apartment, lounging in his bed, alone.

Alone. That was the ruination of his evening, to be here alone and know that Napoleon was on an assignment with another partner. A competent partner, he was certain, someone who was more than capable of handling both himself and any unexpected problems that might crop up. All these things he knew in his head to be true and yet here he sat, restlessly, his ankle propped on a pile of pillows while he methodically tore pages from the Playboy to fold into various shapes.

Perhaps it would have been less frustrating if he had known what the Affair was, he thought moodily, adding a three-dimensional dodecahedron to his growing exhibit of scandalous geometrical figures. If he had only been informed; but no, he had been told coolly that while he was out of commission, he was not on a need-to-know basis. Illya felt that was frankly ridiculous and added Mr. Waverly's name to his list of people on whom he'd have to exact a small, subtle form of revenge when he returned. If he hadn't needed to know, would he be here constructing sexually explicit origami?

He added a stork to his menagerie. It looked small and forlorn amongst all the shapes and Illya quickly made a second one to act as a companion. Studying the breasts adorning each side of the figure impassively, Illya decided that he might have to leave them on the dresser for Napoleon to discover. Or in the pockets of his suit coats.

Tearing out another page, Illya deftly folded a small fish to accompany his storks and pondered his own irritation. It could be that if he'd had the chance to at least know who was traveling with his partner, then he'd be able to relax. Every agent in Section 2 was, of course, well trained but working with a new partner always involved some difficulties that would never occur with a familiar one. More to the point, Illya knew exactly what kind of unlikely disasters tended to find Napoleon and he was more prepared to handle them than someone fresh from the loaner shop.

Illya did still have his communicator and he could always call and ask Napoleon how well things were going without asking for specifics, and he would certainly do it if he didn't know it would set him up for approximately three years of sly looks and cruel teasing from Napoleon. He had plenty of that as it was without offering himself up like a pig on a spit.

He would already have quite enough teasing about his ankle without adding another log to the fire that was all that remained of his dignity. On various occasions, Illya had jumped out of windows, onto moving cars, been shot, stabbed and electrocuted, and had gone on without a twitch. But have a pencil fall beside his desk without him noticing and he was out of commission for at least three weeks, four if the Medical people had their way.

Slipping on a pencil, of all things. He counted himself lucky that Napoleon had managed to control any traces of laughter when he had helped him down to Medical, not even a smirk, though it was probably more from self-preservation than any form of thoughtfulness. Broken ankle or not, one chuckle and Napoleon would have been gracing the table next to him.

The look in his eyes, however, had been more than enough warning and Illya had already resigned himself to some form of humiliation in the near future. Perhaps it was just as well Napoleon had been called away on an unexpected assignment.

The memory of Napoleon's quickly given 'farewell gift' as he had called it, stirred in his thoughts and caused something else to stir in his pants. Illya shifted uncomfortably and tried to ignore it. Wonderful. Now he had another distraction. Napoleon's sexual appetites had not been unexpected; that he would, without warning, unzip Illya's pants, give him a hasty, distracted, and completely shattering blowjob and then stroll out the door with a jaunty wave while Illya was still trying to remember how to breathe had been a little more startling.

His partner was very strange.

The pile of folded creatures next to him had grown into a veritable zoo of debauchery and Illya realized with some disappointment that he had used all the photo pages in the magazine. He was considering the merits of moving on to the GQ when the telephone rang.

Somewhat nonplussed, Illya answered it, straining to reach the receiver without jarring his ankle. As anyone important would know Napoleon was not here, it could only be for him or perhaps a wrong number. He managed to get it on the third ring. "Hello?" he asked, warily.

"Hello, yourself," Napoleon replied, his voice rich with amusement.

Startled, Illya exclaimed, "Napoleon? What's wrong? You only left a few hours ago, are you in trouble already?"

"What do you mean already?" Mock outrage in Napoleon's voice. "I just called to check on you. Is that all right?"

"Why would I need checking on?"

"Well, you might have ignored what I said about staying at my place and taken a taxi home," Napoleon pointed out and Illya scoffed rudely.

"If I could hobble to the elevator, I suppose I might have. Since I cannot, instead I am trapped here, desecrating your magazine collection."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line before Napoleon sighed and muttered, "I'm not even going to ask. Just don't damage anything that's leather-bound, all right?"

Illya didn't even deign to answer that. "Where exactly are you and how is it that you are risking yourself calling me like this?"

"Now, now, you know I can't tell you where I am, and there's no risk, I promise. Besides," Illya heard him shifting his weight, on a bed, perhaps? "I have jetlag; I can't sleep."

Definitely a bed, then. "And so you thought to inform me of this?" Illya asked skeptically. "You've not been gone long enough to have jetlag."

"I've been gone long enough to remember that our kiss goodbye was very one-sided."

"That is not my fault," Illya declared airily and punctuated it by tearing out the first page in the GQ. He ignored the tiny flare of inner warmth at the reminder; Napoleon could make his voice sound as decadent as melted chocolate and that was the only reason for his very natural reaction.

"Illyusha." Plaintive, and grown men should not be able to whine so persuasively. "Tell me a bedtime story. Something dirty, so I can stop thinking about those little sounds you make when you come."

"Napoleon!" he hissed, shocked, and a half-folded elephant fell unnoticed from his fingers.

"It's a secure line. No one can hear but you and me. So tell me a story."

"I do not know any bedtime stories and certainly none that are 'dirty', as you say!" Illya blustered, and he tried to ignore the growing heat at his crotch that was not at all convinced that Napoleon's idea was a bad one. No, he informed his recalcitrant body sternly. Napoleon was on an assignment for pity's sake, and he did not need to have his depraved whims catered to.

"Then make one up. You're always good at weaving a story," Napoleon coaxed, his voice warm and teasing, and working far too well at banishing the reasonable voice that was laboring diligently in Illya's head. "It'll help me sleep. Please?"

"A dirty story," Illya repeated, trying to sound indifferent to Napoleon's pleas. He doubted he was fooling his partner; he wasn't even fooling himself. "Let me see if I understand. You wish for me to speak to you so that you may masturbate to the sound of my voice, and then you will leave me in peace?"

"Well, I was hoping you'd masturbate too, but I can deal with that."

Illya sighed deeply, hardly able to believe he was going to agree with this, but what else was there for it? He had been very bored, after all. He put the reasonable voice under lock and key, told it to take the rest of the day off, and gave in. "Very well." There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of their mutual breathing. "What shall I talk about?" Illya asked finally, feeling almost unbearably awkward. Trust Napoleon to expect him to handle the actual work in this.

"You speak a dozen languages and you don't know any dirty talk?"

"Certainly. Shall I begin with English? Shit, damn, fuck, ass..."

"Illya," Napoleon sounded equal parts amused and exasperated. "You know that isn't what I mean."

"Do your perversities have no boundaries?" Illya snapped, aggravated and somewhat embarrassed, and yes, even aroused by Napoleon's persistence in this. If it weren't for that same persistence, they wouldn't be lovers now but that didn't mean he wanted it turned on him again. Apparently, the fact they were sleeping together wasn't enough for Napoleon; he probably wouldn't be satisfied until they'd had sex on every available surface in the world, and some unavailable ones. A sudden thought about Waverly's desk and revenge sprouted in the back of his head and Illya tucked it away for further consideration at another time.

"That's it!" Napoleon crowed gleefully and Illya could almost see him bouncing in anticipation. "Tell me about your perversities."

"I beg your pardon," said Illya stiffly. "What makes you think I have perversities?"

"Everyone has perversities." Smugly, and Illya knew just what expression was on the bastard's face. "So tell me about one of yours."

"Napoleon, really, this is has gone far enough, I think you should..."

"Please."

Napoleon's voice was suddenly quiet, something oddly serious lining it and Illya sighed in resignation. Why had he ever answered the phone? Frantically, he tried to think of something that would appeal to Napoleon without being so tame he would be accused of lying. His mind went predictably blank just when he needed it most and when he finally managed to clutch at an idea, he blurted it out without even thinking about it.

"I...sometimes I like to think of you in handcuffs!" His mind shrieked a variety of obscenities that most people would be startled he knew, and he waited with a sick sense of dread in his stomach for Napoleon to mock him. Talking dirty over the phone, indeed, how utterly stupid.

But there were no words forthcoming, only a long moment of silence, breathing echoing softly in his ear and hesitantly, his heartbeat thudding dully in his throat, Illya continued. "I've seen it so many times. Sometimes I wish I could see you like that, just for me."

"Tell me." So very quietly Illya could barely hear it.

"I..." Illya swallowed hard and closed his eyes, trying to picture the expression on Napoleon's face. He knew it so well, but he couldn't begin to imagine his expression at this moment. Had he shocked him? Perhaps too much? But no, he had asked for more.

Illya wet his lips with his suddenly too-dry tongue, imagined that he heard it rasping before he whispered, "Always, others have forced you to be tied and I have been forced to watch. This is not something I enjoy. But sometimes, I think of doing it to you."

"Why?" There was nothing neutral in Napoleon's tone, the heat in that single word nearly tangible, and Illya groaned silently, spreading his legs apart in an effort to ease the growing pressure between them.

"I don't know," he gasped, biting his lip hard and he could just see it, Napoleon on his knees on front of him, bound to the bed...no, to the coffee table in the living room, heavy wood that could easily support his weight. Thin rings of metal would gleam around his wrists and the table legs, holding him there, binding him for Illya alone.

"Yes, you do," Napoleon said, growled into the phone, low and heavy and Illya nearly moaned. It was so unfair that Napoleon could make him feel like this with only a few words, burning inwardly and Illya fumbled at his fly with one hand, working down the zipper and the easing of the material around his cock was barely noticeable. Frantically, he shoved at his pants, trying to squirm without jarring the phone or his ankle, until they were past his thighs and he could sigh in relief.

"Illya, tell me!" He couldn't help but flinch at Napoleon's tone, at the underlying desperation and Illya wondered what he was doing at the other end of that phone line. Was he touching himself, his pants around his ankles or perhaps long since discarded? Was he using both hands, hard frantic strokes and holding the telephone in the cradle of his shoulder and neck?

His own hand had long since moved from its relatively chaste position on his thigh and crept into his lap, and again, he remembered the feel of Napoleon's mouth wrapped around his cock, blissful, wet suction, and no, he couldn't, couldn't do this, couldn't reveal this, not to Napoleon.

"Napoleon, I can't..." he choked, aroused almost past the point of words, and how could Napoleon ask this of him without considering what it would do? What things might be revealed that shouldn't be? Or perhaps he had and wanted it anyway, wanted to hear the things Illya knew were layered into his own soft gasps.

"You can tell me. Please tell me," Napoleon urged thickly and Illya heard a soft, wet sound, Napoleon licking his lips? Or something else, maybe, something lower and Illya moaned at the thought, helplessly.

"You never allow me to touch you as I wish!" Illya accused and his voice broke embarrassingly. "Always with you I am the focus of all the attention. Not that I dislike it," he added, remembering that afternoon. "But sometimes I would like to return the attention."

"Oh, Illya," Napoleon murmured, "I..."

"I just want to touch you and have you be still for once," Illya broke in, shifting to cradle the phone against his ear. His tongue felt thick and clumsy in his mouth, far too awkward for the words he was trying to say. "Completely still and helpless beneath me. Is that so terribly much to ask?"

"Ahh!" Napoleon gasped sharply. "Illya, you..."

"I would have you on your knees," he continued desperately, ignoring the trembling in his voice. "And I would so very much like to taste you, everywhere. You've done that to me and...and it felt incredible, yet you never allow me to return the favor. If I had you in handcuffs, you wouldn't be able to stop me."

"Touch yourself with me," Napoleon begged, his voice shaky and thin. "Please! Don't make me do this alone."

"I am," Illya tried not to hide his gasps, tried to do what Napoleon was asking of him. Strange that it would be so easy now without Napoleon watching him and yet still so difficult. Words were spilling from him triumphantly, unhindered by dark eyes. "If you were here and I could do this in front of you and you would only be able to watch." His own voice stunned him, darkly promising, and Illya stroked himself hard, allowing the wanton creature who had taken control of his vocal cords to continue.

"I'd make you watch and when I came, I would make you taste it," he whispered, and he didn't have to imagine the hitch in Napoleon's breathing. "I'd make you lick my hand and...and...no. No, I would make you open your mouth for me and I would make you suck me until I was wet."

He was getting so close, could hear the raggedness in Napoleon's soft moans and he realized giddily that he had done that; he had made Napoleon listen raptly to his voice, had made him want this little fantasy.

His own grip tightened reflexively and with a quick, shattered gasp Illya continued doggedly, trying to remember where he was in his story, "I'd kneel behind you and push inside...you're so tight inside, my Napoleon, so very tight and hot." He couldn't keep his eyes open any longer, the phone was clammy with sweat and slippery in his hand, as slippery as his cock against his palm, wet skin sliding and jerking off had never been this good, never in his life.

"I'd fuck you, Napoleon," he hissed and heard a choked off obscenity through the line, the first word Napoleon had spoken in what felt like hours. "I'd fuck you until you begged me to let you come. I want to hear you begging me, pleading with me for more."

"Yes, yes, my God, Illya," A sudden flood of eager words, dissolving into a long, low moan and he knew Napoleon was coming, wet strands of pearl over his own hand and belly and just the thought was too much and Illya followed him, dimly hearing the echo of his own moans in the receiver, and it was a slice of pure bliss, shuddery warmth stealing through him and Illya groaned again, the phone sliding away from him and clattering to the floor.

He could hear Napoleon's voice, tinny and incomprehensible from nearly a meter away and it was several minutes before Illya could work up the strength to flop his clean hand down to scrabble for the receiver. His other hand was sticky-hot, reddened with friction and he wrinkled his nose and held it away from himself and the sheets, giving it a mental promise of a nice, leisurely wash as soon as his legs felt less like cooked noodles.

"I'm here, Napoleon," he said quietly into the phone, interrupting the frantic flow of his partner's words.

Napoleon blew out a long, slow breath. "Jesus, you scared me." They fell into a not-quite awkward silence for a moment before Napoleon asked with surprising gentleness, "Are you all right?"

"Yes, of course I am all right," Illya snapped, forcing dryness into his voice. "Despite evidence to the contrary, I am perfectly capable of a simple task like masturbating without hurting myself."

"That isn't what I meant." The quiet hurt underlining the exasperation in Napoleon's voice chided him, and Illya flushed with shame.

"I'm fine," he repeated, softer, "I think I just surprised myself."

"You aren't the only one!" Illya could hear quiet, scuffling noises and thought perhaps Napoleon was attempting to clean himself up. "I didn't know you had it in you. I'd bet no one else would either." Slyly, and if Illya could have reached through phone lines, Napoleon would be nursing more than a broken ankle.

"Napoleon, I swear to you, if you mention this to anyone...!" It was an idle threat and they both knew it. Napoleon could hardly post a note on a community billboard announcing that they were having sex, much less kinky sex. It simply wouldn't do. They did have an image to maintain.

Napoleon laughed softly before he grew serious again, asking, "Why haven't you mentioned any of this before?"

Nibbling the tip of his tongue, Illya tried to think of how to reply to that. How could he have said something when he hadn't even realized it himself? Yet it was so very true; Napoleon always seemed nearly overpowering in his lovemaking, as though trying to prove something each time they touched.

Or perhaps it was something else, Illya realized with sudden, crystal clarity. Perhaps Napoleon couldn't help himself, perhaps the urge to be in control was too overpowering. Could it be that he wasn't the only one with fantasies of handcuffs?

Perhaps Napoleon was just turning him into a depraved pervert.

"Napoleon, I..." he started and was cut off by a sudden curse. He listened impatiently to the sound of muffled talking, already itching for his communicator to call in for assistance when Napoleon returned on the line, "Sorry, we have to get going," Napoleon said curtly and Illya remembered for the first time that there should be another agent nearby, Napoleon's temporary partner.

"What is happening?"

"Sorry, can't talk now. We'll discuss the matter when I return to headquarters." There was a loud click and the line went dead, buzzing angrily in Illya's ear and suddenly, he was alone again, laying amidst the sad, crumpled remains of his once formidable origami army with his pants around his knees. If he had ever been in a less dignified position, he was hard pressed to think of it; even laying flat on his back in his office after an attack by a rogue pencil didn't quite compare.

Something was digging sharply into his thigh and Illya pulled it out with a wince, gazing mournfully at the ruined stork. Such a shame; he would have loved to see the look on Napoleon's face when he pulled it out of his pocket.

Ah, well. Some things were just not meant to be. Illya sighed deeply and knew he'd have to hobble to the bathroom in a moment and clean up, and then he was going to come back to this bed and sleep, until his ankle healed or Napoleon came home, whichever came first. At least one of them had benefited from the bedtime story, he thought with a sleepy smirk.

But the next time he told one, it was going to be face to face. Or as close as one could get in handcuffs.