Illya hated working in the surveillance vans. Aside from the fact that the chairs were never comfortable and there was inevitably an odd smell from an old, forgotten sandwich the last team had left in it, it was always tedious work.
Even if you were listening to your partner having sex.
Someone who had never had to do it before might find the idea arousing, after they'd gotten past the initial shock. There was a certain appeal to naughtiness and Illya had a feeling that most of the people at headquarters would have feigned horror to be asked, but they would have been vying for Illya's position very quickly, just for the chance to hear Napoleon in action.
It was stimulating; Illya could admit to that. After an hour or so of listening to every moan, every gasped word and every rustle of the sheets, however, he could safely say that arousal had moved past the point of interest and into quite painful. The chair, which was uncomfortable in the best of time, was now turning into a sort of torture device that gleefully tormented him by refusing to go into a good position. His pants were working with the chair in a sadistic duo that would not offer him any relief.
Trust Napoleon to find a way to torment him when he was fully thirty meters away, locked in a hotel room with...whoever he was with.
Illya hadn't been fully briefed on the affair when he'd received his orders. Waverly had told him only that he was to be in the van as backup, listening to Napoleon in case he needed assistance. The tapes were running, but Waverly hadn't seemed interested in recordings. Whatever Napoleon was doing, he had been involved with it long before Illya had arrived at the hotel, just in time to hear them entering the room.
Now, an hour or so later, they were starting again. Illya groaned aloud, shifting carefully in the chair. Every sound of the past hour came back to haunt him, Napoleon's soft cries, the other man's heavy grunts, the heavy slap of skin against skin. He wondered what the man looked like; hopefully not too unattractive. It was often galling enough to have to sleep with the enemy, not that Napoleon ever seemed to be troubled by it, but when the person in question was painful on the eyes it made for a very unpleasant affair, in all definitions of the word.
Illya had had to do this type of thing before; of course he had. A dozen times, perhaps more, and he'd been in the reverse position as well. Using sex to get the information they needed was hardly a new concept. On occasion it was all the payment their informants wanted, a chance to see an agent on their knees.
Of course, the agent had to be willing; they were never forced to provide this sort of service. He wondered what it meant, that both he and Napoleon did this agreeably, time and again. Was there some nobility in their willingness to use their bodies to assist UNCLE in more ways than just with their deaths, or were they simply more willing to whore themselves than some of the other agents.
He suspected it was the latter for Napoleon.
"Hey, what's that?" Napoleon's voice was tinny and sharp through the speakers, the first words he'd spoken aside from the occasional blasphemy.
"Just thought we'd up the stakes a little, baby." Illya frowned and fiddled with the receptors, trying to clear the static. Something didn't seem quite right. He wondered if he was imagining the menace in that unknown voice. "What's the matter? I thought you liked it a little rough."
"I do..." A sudden gasp. "But my uncle doesn't like it when I go too far."
Illya was out of the chair and out the back door before he'd even properly considered what he was doing. He knew Napoleon, and if he was using the safe word, then he needed out quickly. He took the stairs two at a time, dashing down the mezzanine to the room marked '3307'.
The door was locked with the deadbolt thrown, and Illya wasn't certain he had time waste trying to pick it. Silently hoping his foot would forgive him, Illya kick in the door with all his strength. The cheap wood didn't stand a chance; it tore free of the lock, leaving it still fastened while the ruined door swung inward.
The man standing near the bed swung around to face him, shock and terror evident on his face. Naked, with pale, doughy flesh, and watery eyes, he looked as though he were about to cry. Illya tried not to wince. Why was it never the attractive men who sold out to THRUSH? Something silver dropped from his hand and clattered to the floor and the sound refocused his attention to his partner.
The bloodless color to his fingers spoke of how long he'd been tied, his wrists twisted awkwardly against the bed frame. It was difficult to see in the dim light, only one lamp in the far corner lending its cold illumination to the stark room but even so, Illya could see the dark lines on Napoleon's belly, trickling sluggishly downward.
For the briefest moment, the light behind Illya's eyes flared honey-gold, and it was only the fact that they needed him alive that kept Illya from killing the terrified little rat. It would have been immensely satisfying to hear his bones breaking in a slow, painful crackle.
"Cheating on me again, are we, bitch?" Illya asked softly, directing his attention at his partner. He suspected if he looked too long at the rat, he would either vomit or piss himself, and neither idea had much appeal. Better to play the part of a jealous boyfriend and let someone else take over the Affair, if they must, than to spoil all the effort. Besides, Napoleon would kill him if he'd had to fuck this piece of trash for no reason.
"No!" Napoleon shook his head desperately, "Baby, you know I wouldn't..."
Ugh. Why couldn't Napoleon pick better pet names? "Shut up," he snarled, not entirely acting. He glared at the naked, blubbering man on the other side of the room. How pathetic that he could only be brave and masterful with a helpless man tied to a bed. It was no difficultly to let his voice turn to ice, "Get out."
He could move surprisingly fast when motivated, Illya noted absently, watching his partner struggle and plead convincingly. He didn't appear to be cut badly, just little nicks, but there were other shadows, dark as a crow's wing against pale skin. It was a testimony to how badly they must need whatever this cowardly little rat possessed. A slut, perhaps, but few people had the chance to abuse Napoleon Solo with his permission.
The man was trying to force his feet into his still-tied shoes, swearing to his god and whoever else might hear him that this was all a mistake, a misunderstanding, and the light in Illya's mind shifted to crimson. He was distantly afraid he was going to kill the little bastard anyway if he didn't leave just at that moment.
Perhaps it showed in his face, because the little man finally just snatched his shoes up and fled, leaving the ruined door open behind him. Carefully, Illya shut the door, wincing as he was reminded painfully at how he had opened it. Something was definitely broken in his foot, and it was sending vicious little throbbing reminders up his leg to prod at his spine.
Napoleon had fallen silent the moment the door was shut, slumped against the headboard. "Damn," he said wearily. "I thought I had him. He was..." He cut off on a flinch as Illya sat on the bed and began a careful inspection of his injuries.
Three narrow gashes on his belly, one made while Illya was listening, two while he ran. The last cut off raggedly, a fraction deeper than the others, perhaps caused when he'd burst into. Too many bruises to count. Any arousal he'd felt earlier at listening to his partner's moans was burned into ashes, swallowed in anger.
"You should have called for me earlier." Illya started picking at the knots on the cords around his partner's wrist. They were too tight to even consider cutting.
"I didn't need you ear....ah!" The cry was forced into a hiss of pain as his wrist finally fell free, and Illya caught the limb hand between his own and, far too familiar with the pain of blood surging into a deadened limb. It took long moments to rub sensation back into it, fish-white skin slowly resuming the blooming color of life. He repeated the process with Napoleon's other hand in silence, massaging each finger until Napoleon pulled his hand away and did it himself.
In careful degrees, Napoleon pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, his shoulders still gleaming with sweat in the dim light. He shot an irritable glance in Illya's direction and it reminded him that he was staring. He looked away, concentrating on the poor decour while Napoleon gathered his strength.
"Illya, I can't walk out of here just yet," Napoleon said finally, the bed creaking beneath him as he shifted his weight.
"Of course," Illya agreed. "Your legs—"
A sharp laugh interrupted him. "My legs aren't the problem, partner. That little bastard never gave me a chance."
Illya blinked, glancing back him. "A chance to wha..." One look showed him something that he could hardly believe he hadn't seen before. "Ah," he said, weakly. "I see. I'll just let you." He gestured vaguely, near obscenely. "Take care of that."
"How was the van," Napoleon asked abruptly, such a change of conversation that Illya lost his train of thought.
"The van? Cold and uncomfortable, as you well know."
"Cold," Napoleon repeated flatly. "Yes, it would be." He flapped a hand at the door. "Go on, get out of here so I can take care of this."
For the briefest moment, he almost didn't. Almost stayed and a niggling suspicion that he barely acknowledged wondered what would happen if he did. Wondered, wondered...
Instead, Illya turned on heel and limped out, closing the shattered door carefully behind him as he made his way slowly back to the van. It was only after he climbed back inside that he realized he'd left the tape running, the soft sounds of skin on skin and low grunts floating out from the speakers. Different from before, he noted distantly. Completely different, edged in reality and his fingers hovered over the off switch as he recalled the slightly callused feel to Napoleon's fingers, the faint gleam of sweat on his skin.
Abruptly, he dropped his hand to a lower switch and raised the volume, closed his eyes and listened to the creak of the bed as his partner moaned.