Kiss of Fire

by Spikesgirl58

Illya Kuryakin sat back and stretched his feet out, lifting them one by one to rest on a chair. For the moment, that was the limit of his abilities.

Roxanne collapsed beside him and he reached out to rest a hand on her shoulder, massaging it gently. She moaned and let her head tip forward. Rocky limped over to the table and hefted himself up onto it.

"I think my blisters have blisters." He made a face as he eased his feet out of his shoes and let them dangle.

"You have a hole in your sock." Roxanne pointed out and Rocky wiggled an exposed toe.

"I didn't when I started." Rocky looked over as Matt joined them, straddling a chair as if it wer a horse. "You broke me tonight, Mattie."

"Sono morto (I am dead)." He rested his head on a pile of dirty linen tablecloths and napkins. "Portare via il mio corpo rotto (Take my broken body away)!"

"No such luck, we still have to clean up," Illya mumbled.

"I think we should wait for tomorrow... or possibly the day after."

"Or just wait for the health inspector to close us? It takes less than an hour for a rat infestation to take root." The three looked at him with dubious expressions. "I'm serious. And it's not fair to stumble out of here and leave Henry, Rand, and the rest of the crew to clean up."

"Isn't that their job?" Matt protested.

"Isn't this our restaurant?" Illya countered. There were grumbles as Celeste brought a tray of drinks to the table and set it down beside Rocky.

"Napoleon thought you could all use some liquid 'oomph,'" she explained to their enquiring looks. "How many tops did we do tonight?"

"I lost count." Matt yawned and reached for a glass of wine.

"I didn't. One fifty five..."

"I thought we set the cap at one fifty," Illya said, frowning in thought.

"You want to tell the Governor he has to come back another night?" Roxanne took the glass Illya handed her and sipped.

"That would have been only two more." Illya held up two fingers.

"You're forgetting his entourage..." Roxanne took the fingers and squeezed them. "His Ministers of Silly Walks."


Napoleon came walking in and slapped his hands together. "So what's next?"

Everyone at the table looked dully at him and Illya murmured. "If I had the strength, I'd get up and punch him."

"If I had the energy, I'd help you," Rocky added. "Did you just get up from a nap, Mr. S? It's..." He squinted at his watch. "... God help me, two o'clock in the morning."

"That's easy, Rocky, my boy. Clean living, good health..."

"He had a five hour nap this afternoon," Illya muttered, draining his glass and getting to his feet. "The last one in the kitchen has to clean the grease trap on Wednesday."

Illya looked out of the bathroom as he shaved, a towel wrapped around his waist. Napoleon was still lounging on the bed, wiggling his toes beneath the sheet and letting their three recently acquired kittens pounce on them.

"There's something I don't understand."

Napoleon glanced over at him. His hair was still a mess from sleep. "Just one thing?"

"Well, no, several actually, but why is it, I'm the one who found them and fed them around the clock until they could eat solid food. I'm the one who cleans up after them and makes sure they have food and water, why do they prefer you?"

"Easy, you're Nurture and I'm Entertainment." Napoleon wasn't disturbed by Illya's grumbling. When they went to bed at night, within five minutes the kittens were curled up against Illya, purring like little trip hammers.

"Okay, you can Nurture."

"You're better at that... ouch!" He yanked his foot back as Brunir's teeth made it through the blanket. "Animal," he scolded the kitten, rolling it over on its back and rubbing its stomach. The kitten protested and his sister and brother came to his rescue.

Illya chuckled and shook his head slowly. "I think I'll stay the course; good point, Napoleon."

"So what are you going to do today, my love?" Napoleon climbed out of the bed and stretched. The day was bright and sunny outside and he felt bursting with energy.

"After last night, as little as possible."

"You do realize what today is?"


"That as well."

Illya was wiping the last of the foam from his face and checking to make sure he'd not missed anything. Napoleon came up behind him and embraced him. Illya smiled and rested his head back. "For a nickel, I'd go back to bed. Is that tremendously decadent and Western of me?"

"Face it, my friend, you are one of us now." Napoleon kissed the damp skin of Illya's cheek, then rubbed his own unshaven face against it. "You can run, but we will find you and make you submit to our will."

"Is that your will poking me in the back?"

"Among other things. Why don't you come back to bed and let me show you the proper Capitalistic approach to the subjugation of the masses?"

"There will be masses involved?" Illya turned in his arms, smirking. "Are you trying to tell me making love with you is a religious experience?"

"Let me show you, my doubting Thomas." Napoleon kissed the smirk off his lips, holding Illya's head still as his tongue probed every bit of Illya's mouth. "Let me love you," he whispered, pulling back to rest their foreheads together. "Please, Illya..."

"I can resist everything except the plea from a conquering emperor." Illya moved back in to kiss Napoleon, this time the aggressor. It was their usual pattern, offering control back and forth until one of them finally, usually in desperation, took the upper hand.

He felt Napoleon's lip curl beneath his. Why it thrilled Illya so much to know that Napoleon smiled while kissing, he didn't know. His lover was always smiling. It was when Napoleon frowned that the world trembled and crawled away to hide.

For two men approaching their sixties, the enthusiasm and energy with which they attacked their lovemaking still amazed Illya. He sprawled across the sheets, limbs so sated that to think about moving almost seemed a crime against mankind. Napoleon was still resting on him, his ear to Illya's chest, apparently listening as Illya's heart gradually calmed down.

Illya toyed with Napoleon's hair, secretly delighted that his mate was wearing it a bit longer and no longer slicking it down. He was even more secretly delighted that Napoleon blamed him for each and every gray hair that found its way there.

One thing that was certain, there was no faking it when it came to men. His semen was drying between their stomachs, a visible, if sticky testament to his satisfaction. There was also equal evidence elsewhere as to Napoleon's climax. Illya's back ached slightly, something that would never have happened a few years ago, but time marched on and he with it.

"Thank you," Illya murmured.

"And you. After last night, I wasn't sure when you'd be up for some acrobatics." Napoleon rolled off him and grinned. "Now for your surprise."

"You're not going to immediately fall asleep?" Illya teased, smirking. He was as guilty of this as Napoleon, but Illya was in that sort of mood at the moment.

"Funny guy, remind me to get you a spot on Ed Sullivan." Napoleon sat up and reclaimed his robe from two sleeping kittens. "I am going to cook you breakfast."

"Cook? Usually breakfast when you make it comes in the form of Jesus' bear claws and coffee."

"Again with the doubting. Go take a long bath. I know you're stiff." Napoleon's gaze lowered and he grinned again. "Well, stiff in some places, not as much in others."

"As the man responsible for said unstiffness, I'd not complain."

"Not complaining, just wondering what I can do about it?"

"Nothing for the next five minutes, please. Allow me to enjoy the moment of bliss."

"Sex with me?"

"The thought of you making me food." Illya stretched back against the pillow and sighed. "For some people, it's Spanish fly or oysters. For me, it's the thought of you in my kitchen... barefoot... among other things. Be careful with the knives..."

"Sexist slave driver."

"If the label fits."

Illya stared into the fire as one of his hands stroked his stomach absentmindedly. Napoleon had done better than actually cooking breakfast. He'd managed a very worthy quiche, although Illya would swear it tasted exactly like one that Matt favored. It seemed important that Illya believe Napoleon had made it, and he very well might have, with Matt's help. It didn't matter either way to Illya. It had been just the first of many other surprises.

The firelight caught and glinted against the gold of his watchband. It felt odd to be completely naked except for a watch, but it was Napoleon's Valentine's Day gift to him and Illya was disinclined to take it off. Thin, but very masculine, the watch was very expensive and elegantly crafted. The sentiment, I can't give you more hours in the day, but this way you can mark them as I mark the days with you, was pure Napoleon, just bordering on romantic, but not.

Not to be outdone, Illya had slid a ring, a replica of Julius Solo's ring, on Napoleon's finger. Napoleon had worn that ring, never took it off, until his father passed. Then, reverently, Napoleon had worked the ring free and placed it in his father's pocket to be buried with him.

Napoleon had gotten very quiet and Illya had feared he'd blundered, until Napoleon erased all doubts from his mind with his heartfelt thanks and passion.

Illya glanced towards the kitchen and smiled at the noise of someone cleaning up. Not only had Napoleon made him breakfast, but then a very adequate dinner to follow.

Dressed to the nines in his very best tux, Napoleon had served him Cornish Game Hen with a light orange cognac glaze, Duchess Potatoes, and asparagus with a white sauce. After cleaning up, Napoleon promised an incredible dessert, which seemed contingent upon Illya being naked.

Never a fool, Illya had arranged a couple of blankets and some pillows in front of the fireplace, stoked the fire, added a log and then stripped off. And waited...

Finally, he could stand it no longer and he stood and winced, massaging his lower back. Illya wasn't at all sure he could take another bout of lovemaking tonight, at least not in the conventional sense. The trick would be convincing Napoleon of that.

Taking two steps towards the kitchen Illya stopped himself. He'd not do Napoleon any credit by checking up on him. Instead, he turned and started to climb the stairs just as Napoleon was exiting the kitchen, carrying a tray of Napoleons.

"Where are you going?"

"Forgot something important upstairs. What are those filled with?"


"I'll be right back down. Don't start without me."

Illya walked in to their bedroom and stopped, stretching again. Somehow he had to convince Napoleon... that's when he sensed movement in the bathroom.

Quietly, he walked in that direction and snapped on the light. Startled, the three kittens looked up at him from their nest of toilet paper. It had been a new roll and it was now all over the bathroom floor, most of it shredded beyond use.

"What are you doing?" Stupid, he knew they couldn't answer him. Sighing, he scooped up Fremir and shook him gently, holding the kitten before his face. "You are going to be the death of me."

Mrph? So sad, so contrite. Only an ogre could stay angry. Sighing Illya snatched the other two up and carried all three to the bed and plopped them down in the middle of it, pausing to toss a lap quilt over them.

The kittens properly distracted, Illya went back to the bathroom and hurriedly cleaned up the mess, stuffing as much as he could into the bathroom trash can. The rest went into the bedroom trash can and shaking his head, Illya started to leave.

Then he snapped his fingers, went back to the nightstand and pulled out a tube of lube. At least he'd be prepared if not as enthusiastic as he'd been that morning and that afternoon.

Shaking his head again, Illya headed back downstairs, one hand clutching the banister to keep from tripping over the kittens as they raced each other to the kitchen.

"Sorry for the delay, we had an incident..." Illya abruptly stopped and smiled. Stretched out on the blankets, head nestled on a pillow, and still wearing the tux, Napoleon was sound asleep. "I think even the mighty force that is Napoleon Solo has finally run down." Illya smiled gently as he helped himself to a pastry.

Illya moved quietly to Napoleon's side and stretched out next to him. What a sight they would be if someone was to come upon them—Illya, completely naked, and Napoleon, the epitome of elegance in his tux.

Illya moved a pillow around and reached for a blanket. He knew that at some point in the night, they would wake and make their way upstairs, both too groggy to do more than mumble a few words. Settled, he made short work of the Napoleon. He smiled as he recognized Jesus' signature filling.

It didn't matter. Illya's heart heard everything Napoleon's was trying to say and then some. And after all, what is love if not a song of the heart, better sung in harmony than solo? And who better to sing it with than with his Solo. And Illya conceded, as he licked his fingers clean and wiggled closer to Napoleon, he was a very lucky man. Very lucky indeed.

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