[image of Napoleon Solo]

Drunk & Disorderly

by Taliesin

[image of Illya Kuryakin]

The assignment was over. The good guys were alive and well; the bad guys dead; the threat averted; and the innocents still innocent, more or less.

Napoleon had headed out on the town with the innocent he'd managed to drag into this particular case, his intentions clearly to see to it that she didn't remain innocent much longer. Disgusted, Illya had refused to join them. Napoleon's catting about had gotten worse in the last six months. Or maybe it merely bothered his partner more. Illya had crashed in the hotel room and slept the sleep of the vir-tuous. Or the dead.

Napoleon found him there several hours later. He had somehow managed to make it into the hotel room -- the key was too big for the lock, he was sure of it -- without awakening his partner. Captivated by the faint gleam of blond hair in the murky room, he slumped down awkwardly on the other bed to watch. He fumbled with the lamp for a moment before giving up on it; better to let Illya sleep. He could see well enough in the dark, once his eyes adjusted. Yes, much better -- this way, he could stare at his irritating, critical, beautiful partner to his heart's desire without interruption.

Suddenly awakened by the visceral awareness of being watched, Illya groped under the pillow for his gun. He abandoned the search almost immediately, recognizing the faint scent of Napoleon's cologne. His sharp eyes picked out the vague outline of his partner sitting on the other bed.

"This better be good, Napoleon."

Napoleon didn't respond to the growl. He sat unmoving, his eyes glittering in the dim room. Puzzled by the continuing silence, Illya snapped on the bedside light to get a better look at his partner.

Napoleon was still dressed impeccably in his suit, as sartorially perfect as when he'd gone out. He stared at Illya with a disturbing intensity, his expression otherwise quite blank. Something about the look of his eyes convinced Illya he was drunk. One of the many paradoxes of the man so improbably named Napoleon Solo was that he never looked drunk when he really was.

"Napoleon?" Illya waited patiently, but Napoleon only blinked slowly. Illya frowned -- he'd never seen Napoleon quite this drunk before. He was also concerned; it wasn't like Napoleon to get drunk in insecure places. He was too careful for that. "What's the matter?"

"I need..." Napoleon trailed off, looking vaguely confused, as if he'd lost his train of thought.

Illya sighed. "What happened to the girl?"


"Cynthia; you know, the one with 'legs that won't quit.' It's only one in the morning, why aren't you still out having a good time?"

"Her uncle showed up two hours ago to take her home." His grin was somewhat lopsided. "Her real uncle."

"So? I'd have thought you'd find other companionship."

"I tried."

"Tried?" Illya laughed, more harshly than he'd intended. "Napoleon, you're a magnet for every unattached female in a three-mile radius. You don't have to try to find a woman; they fall into your lap."

"I didn't want any of them, all right?" Napoleon's eyes blazed, surprising Illya. The conversation was beginning to give him a headache.

"Fine. Then go to sleep, or at least let me sleep." Illya flopped back on the mattress and closed his eyes. The silence lengthened until he thought Napoleon had taken his advice.

"I can't. I need..." Napoleon began softly from the other bed. Once again he trailed off.

"You said that before."

"Stop interrupting me, dammit!" Christ, but he was drunk. The flare of anger damped down, Napoleon paused, searching for words. His shoulders straightened a bit and finally he continued, more lucid, if no less drunk. "I need someone..." he paused and scrupulously corrected himself, "to be with someone... tonight."

"Then why didn't you pick up some woman? One at least must have caught your eye."

"I didn't..." Once again, Napoleon trailed off.

Illya wavered between frustration and curiosity. He knew if he didn't ferret out the problem now he'd never have a chance once Napoleon was sober. People called Illya secretive, but Napoleon gave away even less about himself than his partner. The only difference was Illya kept his secrets by saying nothing at all, and Napoleon hid his secrets in the pretense of telling all. It was only after knowing him for a time that one realized, for all his apparently guileless volubility, he never said anything which lent insight into the inner man.

Curiosity won. "You didn't what, Napoleon?" For a long moment, he thought his partner wasn't going to answer.

"I didn't want any of them." He didn't seem aware he was repeating himself.

"What, you weren't attracted to any of the women you saw tonight?" Illya frowned. Napoleon Solo not drawing at least one truly gorgeous woman to his side in any given evening was unheard of.

"None," Napoleon mumbled, subsiding gently sideways on the bed. "No woman." The last was almost inaudible as the American succumbed to the alcohol he'd consumed.

Frowning in confusion, Illya propped himself on an elbow to observe his partner. It looked as if Napoleon was down for the count. Illya took a quick trip to the bathroom. He used the facilities, splashed cool water on his face, and emerged, feeling a little clearer in the head; talking with Napoleon in that condition had somehow made him feel drunk. He settled on the side of his bed and sat for a long time, watching Napoleon sleep.

He couldn't shake the feeling there was something important in what Napoleon had just told him. Something which might explain why his partner had felt it necessary to take the risk of drinking himself half-insensible. However, what with the broken and largely incoherent nature of the conversation, Illya couldn't quite figure out what it might have been. Almost automatically, he moved to sit on the edge of Napoleon's bed. Illya stroked soft ebony hair back from his friend's brow, marveling at the youthfulness of his sleeping face. Napoleon slept like a little boy, all warm and sweet.

Whatever Napoleon had been trying to tell him, however, was apparently destined to remain a mystery. With an effort, Illya shook off his pensive mood and focused on his softly-snoring partner. He sighed. He could hardly in good conscience leave Napoleon to sleep in his suit.

Grumbling good-naturedly to himself in Russian, Illya efficiently stripped Napoleon down to his pants, amazed when his partner didn't show any signs of waking under the cavalier treatment. The alcohol had apparently caught up with a vengeance. Illya's hands hesitated over the fastening to Napoleon's trousers.

It was ridiculous, really. He'd undressed Napoleon, or helped him undress, on countless occasions when his partner had been hampered by injuries, drugs or sheer exhaustion. There was no call for prudishness; he'd most certainly seen Napoleon naked before. But the last time he'd done so was... a memorable occasion.

Post-mission down time. Stinking with dirt and sweat, excitement and fear. They'd argued over who got precidence in the hotel shower and ended up in it together. Laughing a bit at the adolescent awkwardness, furtively staring at each other in something that wasn't at all innocence. Somehow, look had led to touch without warning. Wrestling, bare slick skin to bare slick skin, shuddering finally to unexpected pleasure as the hot water streamed over them and thick clouds of steam filled the shower.

Six months. They had never spoken about it, even obliquely, afterwards. Napoleon appeared to have forgotten it. Illya couldn't. Oh, he'd tried, but it lived in his memory, ever fresh. He awoke from dreams of the feel of warm, velvety skin to a bed damp with his own passion; he unwillingly masturbated to the echoed memory of a rich baritone moaning in desire; the remembered sight of Napoleon aroused even invaded the rare waking fantasy, leaving his partner idly wondering what had brought the high color to Illya's pale cheeks. In the past six months, Illya had been very careful not to touch his partner in any manner but that of friendship.

Now all his best intentions were being put to the test. He wasn't certain he could finish undressing Napoleon without falling prey to the temptation to touch him. As it was, his fingers itched to stroke across the broad chest he had already bared.

Illya took a deep breath, gathered his control, and told himself to stop stalling. Napoleon's trouser fastening refused to yield to the direct approach, perhaps because Illya was trying to manipulate it without touching the man himself. A second, slightly more forceful, attempt produced the same results. Frustrated, Illya gave up on the subtle approach and yanked at the fly. Napoleon shifted, murmuring, and opened his eyes, blearily trying to focus as he struggled to consciousness, only slowly becoming aware of what was being done to him... and by whom.

Illya froze, feeling remarkably like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Hey, now that's more like it!" Napoleon exclaimed with drunken joy. One hand grabbed the back of Illya's neck, yanking him down into an exuberant kiss.

By the time Illya was able to break the kiss, he was out of breath, and not entirely from simple lack of oxygen. He was also pinned under Napoleon's half-clad body and suddenly aware he'd never bothered to pull a robe over the shirt and shorts he'd been sleeping in before Napoleon woke him.

"Napoleon, no." Illya pushed hard at Napoleon's chest.

Industriously investigating the curve of Illya's jaw with his tongue, Napoleon was somewhat disoriented at being bodily shoved away from the object of his attentions.

"Why not?" he asked with the direct simplicity of drunkenness, once the question had penetrated his cloudy mind. He leaned forward against Illya's strong arms until he could nuzzle his partner's cheek.

"Because --" Illya broke off, his mouth full of Napoleon's tongue. By the time they came up for air, he'd forgotten all the reasons this was a very bad idea and, at his body's tutelage, was quickly succumbing to all the reasons it seemed a very good idea. He let Napoleon's determination win and sighed as the man's weight pinned him to the mattress. All the logic in the world was no match for Napoleon's amorousness and his own long-denied desires.

Illya's sigh filling his lungs, Napoleon set about a greedy exploration of his partner's scantily clad body. He was drunk, and clumsy with it, but what resulted was not the debased techniques of seduction, but a soul-searingly earnest hesitance. Like a groom on his wedding night, he fumbled for perfection and unintentionally brought forth love.

Illya set about stripping them of the remainder of their clothing, Napoleon's pants as much a challenge now as they'd been when he was unconscious. More, actually, for the man refused to hold still long enough to make it easy for Illya to get him out of them. Finally they were both naked. Illya hissed when Napoleon's bare skin touched his, searing him from shoulders to toes with his fiery brand. He knew in that instant that he would never belong to anyone else.

Illya arched as Napoleon's lips found a nipple and lingered, sucking gently. He wove his fingers through short soft hair and pressed the dark head against his chest. Napoleon allowed himself to be guided from one nipple to the other and back, giving each the attention it so richly deserved. Napoleon let his hands rove, sweeping across the expanse of bared chest before dropping below the waist to finally settle on Illya's arousal. He stroked the erection gently, a little uncertainly, loving the way Illya groaned at each light brush of his fingers over the swollen head.

Illya surged unexpectedly against Napoleon, pushing him over onto his back and rising to hover over him. Napoleon tangled his hands in Illya's hair, fascinated as always by the endlessly shifting shades of blond. He retained his hold on the soft strands as Illya's mouth roved ever lower, his grip tightening involuntarily when the clever tongue licked teasingly at the base of his penis. He neither forced nor guided Illya's head as he was sucked into the hot cavern of his mouth; he merely hung on for dear life. Illya suckled him gently, like a babe at his mother's breast, and Napoleon thought, while he could still think, that he had never felt anything so wonderful, or so frightening.

The experience was a new one, and Illya was determined to enjoy it thoroughly. He was even more determined that Napoleon would enjoy it. Uncertain of his ability to take all of his lover's cock without choking, he took it in slowly, savoring the taste and solid warmth of it on his tongue. Napoleon murmured incoherently, thrashing as Illya swallowed more and more of the thick shaft, forcing him to settle his weight on his partner's legs, and throw one arm across the narrow waist to control his movements. He was not to find out, that time, if he could encompass all of Napoleon, for he only had about half of the hard cock when Napoleon cried out sharply and flooded Illya's mouth with his pleasure.

Reluctantly releasing the softening organ, Illya crawled up onto Napoleon's chest and thrust his aching cock against the hard-muscled abdomen. Napoleon stirred, seeking Illya's mouth, and shared greedily in his own spicy flavor as Illya's cock rode over his belly. Strong arms encircled Illya, hands grasping his buttocks, pressing him hard against his spent partner. He ground against Napoleon, barely hearing his sleepy murmurs of encouragement, and muffled his abandoned cry against a muscled shoulder as he came, pumping out his seed between their bodies.

Napoleon didn't even protest the bite, though Illya's teeth left their imprint in his shoulder. He merely settled the drowsy man against his side, cuddling him close with impunity. They tumbled into sleep within seconds of each other, entwined in a lover's knot of sated abandon.

Illya did not awaken to an alarm clock or wake-up call, but to the abrupt tumult of his person. He had been sleeping draped over something warm and soft and secure, which had suddenly removed itself. He blinked protesting eyes open to see Napoleon's naked form disappear into the bathroom, the door closing with a decided click. Suddenly very much awake, Illya sat up and looked about him.

His bed over there, Napoleon's over here; Napoleon in the bathroom, Illya naked in Napoleon's bed. Illya groaned, burying his face in his hands. His first thought on waking was that it had been a dream; the dried mess on his belly and the lingering taste of Napoleon in his mouth proved all too clearly that it was not. For those few brief moments of pleasure, he had forfeited everything. Illya thought bitterly that, for the greatest pleasure he'd ever experienced, it was almost worth the price. Almost. Now he waited for Napoleon to come back and kill him. Or break up the partnership, which would be worse.

It was a long wait.

Illya prowled the hotel room with increasing anxiety as the minutes slowly passed. Why the hell didn't Napoleon come out and get it over with? Even if he was mad, disappointed, disgusted... anything would be better than waiting.

He scratched absently at his belly, where his own dried semen was beginning to itch. Scowling, he strode over to the room service tray from last night, dipping the napkin in a glass of lukewarm water, and set about cleaning himself up. It wouldn't do to greet Napoleon, if he ever came out of the bathroom, with the evidence of his indiscretion still brazenly on him. As he scrubbed diligently, he heard the shower go on in the bathroom, and realized Napoleon was probably doing the same thing he was. A familiar image came vividly to mind: Napoleon's wet body pressed up against his as they both struggled toward climax.

He shook the memory off with a sigh and dropped the soiled napkin on the floor next to the tray. Illya paced the length of the room twice, then stopped to study himself in the mirror. His hair was badly tousled, and his belly tinged faintly pink from the brisk scrubbing he'd given himself. There wasn't any other physical sign of what they'd done last night. Blushing, he remembered his violent climax, and wondered if Napoleon had found the bite-mark yet.

Illya frowned unconsciously as something came to him that he should have realized earlier. Napoleon had held him all night. Napoleon never stayed with his sex partners; Illya knew his habits intimately enough to know that. The American had never, to Illya's certain knowledge, stayed the night with any of his women.

Illya grinned at his reflection. He wasn't usually so slow, but he had finally figured out what had been so important in Napoleon's drunken meandering last night. "No woman." Napoleon had not just been agreeing that none of the women had appealed, as Illya had originally assumed. He'd been trying, with drunken honesty, to admit that no woman, no matter how attractive, would have suited him last night. He'd come back to the hotel room looking for Illya, whether he knew it or not.

Suddenly aglow with confidence, Illya lay back down on the bed and clasped his hands under his head. Napoleon had needed him. Illya's smile widened. Napoleon still needed him. He only had to be convinced of the fact. He was still smiling when his partner finally emerged.

Naked, and acutely uncomfortable with his nakedness, Napoleon strode defiantly from the bathroom. His eyes swept the room for his suitcase, passing unintentionally over the bed where Illya lay. Involuntarily, they returned, widening as they took in the scene. Illya lay naked atop the sheets, making no attempt at modesty. He didn't move, or say a word, but his blatant sexuality made Napoleon's mouth run suddenly dry. He picked up a towel and threw it at Illya.

"Cover yourself." His tone was as harsh as any he had ever used on an enemy, his face a cold mask, worthy even of stone-face Kuryakin himself. When Illya ignored the towel, his eyes never leaving Napoleon's, he forced his mouth into a sneer. "Have you no shame?"

"For what we did? No. Never. Why? Are you ashamed?" Illya's voice was cool, composed, with a light touch of curiosity. He might have been asking how Napoleon's day had gone, or how he slept.

Remembering how he had, in fact, slept, Napoleon swallowed hard. "I'm not ashamed," he denied angrily. "I'm furious."

"At me? Why?" Still that cool curiosity which made Napoleon feel like a child trying to justify a temper tantrum.

"You know very well why." It was all bluster, and he knew it as well as Illya.

"Because I gave you what you wanted? Because I let you touch me? Or because I touched you back?" This time the coolness was gone, replaced by a sultry silk which rippled seductively along Napoleon's nerves.

"Illya, don't," he pleaded, all anger evaporated.

"Why? We both got what we wanted. Why should either of us be upset?"

"Fine. I'm not upset. You're not upset. Can we drop it, please?" Napoleon found his trousers on the floor and yanked them on quickly, fumbling with the fastening. Anything to keep his eyes from Illya's tempting body.

"Like we did last time? Another six months of silence and wanting until the desire can't be ignored any longer and we end up right back here?" Illya rose from the bed and bent over to pick up the towel Napoleon had tossed at him. When he approached Napoleon, the larger man backed away. "What are you afraid of?"

"You," Napoleon admitted, almost inaudibly. Illya's eyes caught his and he froze, mesmerized. Though he searched their depths as far as he could penetrate, he saw nothing there but love. How very odd.

Waking that morning with Illya's warm body draped over his, fear had struck him to the very core. He'd practically run to the bathroom, frightened to even risk meeting Illya's eyes. His head ached with the weary echo of alcohol, and his recollection of how they'd ended up in bed together was frighteningly vague. He could remember grabbing Illya and kissing him, but little else. For all he knew, he'd raped his own partner. Destroyed the only relationship he'd ever got right.

Only Illya didn't seem to think he'd done anything wrong.

"You will never have anything to fear from me." Illya wrapped the towel around Napoleon's neck, grabbing both ends. He tugged gently, drawing Napoleon down to meet his kiss.

For a long moment, Napoleon remained unresponsive, fighting the inevitable. Finally the movement of Illya's warm lips against his broke his control, and he took the man in his arms and kissed him soundly. Illya broke away laughing.

"That's more like it." He clasped a strong hand in his own and led Napoleon to the bed. Napoleon followed him down to the mattress, eagerly losing himself in his lover's arms. He hoped he never found his way free again.


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