The No Hair Affair
It was torture. No, it was worse than torture. In his years of working for U.N.C.L.E. Illya Kuryakin had been on the receiving end of whips, ice crushers, olive oil jars and a multitude of other unpleasant things. But this just had to top it all. Well, he thought, the olive oil wasn't too bad actually. In fact he could have used a little of it now.
Thrush had held him captive once again and this time they had really gone out of their way to displease him. They had developed a new chemical that was supposed to make him talk when applied to his skin. For reasons he would never know they had poured the stuff on his head. Unfortunately for Thrush it didn't affect his mental state at all. Unfortunately for Illya it burned most of his hair. What was left after he escaped Thrush was shaved off by a lab technician, so that it could be examined.
Consequently, for the time being Illya was completely bald.
The doctors at U.N.C.L.E. medical reassured him that his hair would grow back, as the roots weren't damaged, but right now that was cold comfort. When he got back to his apartment and looked in the mirror, he wanted to cry. But that wouldn't make him feel any better. No, he wanted to kill a Thrush agent or two. Or a dozen. Slowly.
He was lucky, though, he told himself. Napoleon was on a courier mission to Asia and would not be back until next week. By then, Illya hoped, he would at least have a little fluff to cover his bare skull.
Napoleon loved beauty and had often told Illya how much he liked his now non-existent hair. He particularly enjoyed running his fingers through what he sometimes called "strands of spun gold", something he obviously could not do now. Napoleon would probably take one look at Illya's bald head and laugh himself silly, rather than wanting to make love. Illya sighed and went to the kitchen to look for the olive oil to massage his scalp with. It couldn't hurt.
He was still rummaging through his cupboard when there was a familiar knock at the door. When he didn't answer it at once, Napoleon shouted cheerfully: "Illya? I came back early. Come on, open the door!"
Illya knew he couldn't fool his partner by pretending he wasn't home. Desperately he looked around the kitchen until his eyes fell on a long woolen scarf which was lying on a chair. He had been using it when he'd had a sore throat a week ago. Now it came in handy again. Illya grabbed the scarf and slung it around his head. Then he hesitantly went to open the door.
Napoleon's eyes widened as he got his first look at his partner. Then a grin spread across his face. "I didn't know you were into turbans. Or are you wearing it for me 'cause I just returned from India? What a great reception, and it sure suits you," he said.
Illya looked very unhappy. "Napoleon, I escaped from yet another Thrush lab less than 3 hours ago. I am very tired and not in the mood for..."
"Never mind." Napoleon smiled affectionately. "I'll take you to bed, tuck you in and read you a bedtime story. How does that sound?"
Illya was getting desperate. How could he get Napoleon to leave? "I'm sorry, Napoleon, but I'd rather..." he began but his partner didn't seem to hear what he was trying to tell him. And then, to his horror, he saw Napoleon's hand move towards the loose end of the scarf.
It was too late. Napoleon gave it a little pull and the scarf dropped to the floor.
Illya froze. For a moment he considered fleeing to the bathroom and locking himself in. But that would be silly, the damage had been done anyway. Illya decided that offence was the best means of defence. So he lifted his chin defiantly and looked right into his partner's eyes.
"I assume you don't want to take me to bed any longer, now that you've seen me like this," he said icily. "Why don't you call one of your women and spend the night with her?"
To his utter surprise Napoleon was still smiling. "What makes you so sure?" he asked. Illya just glared at him, willing Napoleon to leave him alone at last.
But Napoleon surprised him again. He took Illya in his arms and started whispering seductively in his ear. "I think I could find your new look quite sexy for a while. And for once I can truly kiss every last inch of your skin." And then he began to do just that.
Illya found the sensation of Napoleon's soft, moist lips and tickling tongue on his bare head most interesting. His body seemed to agree. He pressed into Napoleon and noticed that his partner hadn't lied to him out of pity.
Suddenly Illya couldn't wait to hear Napoleon's bedtime story.
Later that night, when they were lying next to each other, Napoleon stroking Illya's head and Illya feeling very relaxed, Napoleon obviously felt he had to make a confession.
"You know, Illya," he said, "I went to HQ before I came here, to see Mr. Waverly. And he, um..."
Illya sat up straight. "He told you what happened to me!" he accused. "You knew all along! You let me make a fool out of myself with that turban even though you knew!"
"Forgive me?" Napoleon begged while trying to give his best puppy eyes, but Illya was already out of bed and in the bathroom.
Feeling guilty, Napoleon was just about to follow when his partner reappeared in the bathroom door, an evil gleam in his eyes.
Napoleon blanched with horror when Illya slowly approached him, in his hand—a razor.