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The U.N.C.L.E. medics were notoriously hard to convince. Sure, he was black and blue over most of his body but Napoleon Solo was still certain he could have carried out any low-priority mission he might have been given. Instead he was relegated to desk duty till he recovered enough to get a clean bill of health. Which couldn't come too quickly, as far as he was concerned; if he never filed another document in his life it would be a moment too soon. At least he'd been allowed to spend time in different departments during his enforced rest, all of which seemed to find plenty to do for a deskbound Section Two agent, the more mundane the better. Or at least that was how it appeared. Maybe he was just paranoid? After all, everyone knew that enforcement agents were a breed apart, so it was only natural he'd be treated a little differently as a recuperating agent than he would if he was a security guard. Today he was detailed to help out with personnel files, for the third time this week. Napoleon had to admit this was a little more interesting than some of the tasks he'd been given; the pace of work meant Napoleon could indulge his curiosity and read as much of the information in each file as he wanted, as long as he made it through what he'd been given by the end of the day. There was a real mixture of information in the pile he'd been given to sort this time, which added to its interest, ranging from clearance checks on maintenance staff through to some intriguing personal information about fellow Section Two operatives. If he'd been inclined to gossip, the latter files alone could have set him up with sufficient material for the next few months. Idly, as he flicked through the personnel documents of a singularly uninteresting Section Four agent from the Philippines, Napoleon wondered what his own personnel file said. Curious or not, he couldn't summon up sufficient interest to get up from where he currently sat - even though he knew that his own dossier must be somewhere in one of the rows of cabinets that filed the room, he had no interest in seeking it out. Other people's files were much more interesting than his own. Most of them, anyway. Once he'd satisfied himself that the contents of that particular file were in order, Napoleon closed it and dropped it into the out tray on his borrowed desk. As he picked up the next file from the top of the pile that seemed to take an eternity to diminish, something separated itself from the other documents. It drifted down onto the floor before he could reach out and grab it from the air. Intrigued, Napoleon got up from his chair and went round the desk, bending to pick up the item even though the movement made his head spin a little more than he'd admit unless under duress. As Napoleon had suspected, it was a photograph. There was no doubt it was one of the standard black and white headshots that came with each U.N.C.L.E. file; there was a mark on the corner to show where it had once been attached with a staple. Napoleon looked at the photograph for a moment, though he didn’t recognize the face. None of the files he'd examined so far that day had been missing their requisite picture, so that just left the ones in the other pile. He turned it over and looked at the back. Nothing there either to distinguish who the man in the photograph was. Napoleon was certain he would have remembered that face, though, if he'd ever met it in real life. He turned the photograph back to the printed side. It was a memorable face, with strong features and intelligent eyes. The fact the photograph was black and white didn't make it easy to tell colors, but the man's hair was clearly quite light and his eyes were either blue or gray. Whatever color they were, there was a strength of character there, that much was clear. A stubborn line to the jaw as well, Napoleon decided, wondering just who this mysterious man was as he put the photograph to one side in case he came across the accompanying file. ------------------------------------- "Not again." Kuryakin studied the carpet, which was still the same as it had been on the last three occasions when he'd been called into that office. Still the same odd stain, just by the leg of the carved oak desk. Still the same tone of disapproval in the voice of the Head of Section One. "What are we going to do with you, Mr. Kuryakin?" It had taken a while to get used to the rhetorical questions Mr. Jakeman was so fond of, but Kuryakin had learned by now that answering them didn’t get him anywhere. "I'm starting to wonder if there really is an agent out there you can work with, or if we're just wasting our time." This one hadn't been totally his fault, though Kuryakin was the only one getting the lecture. At the moment, anyway, since his former partner of just one mission was currently having a broken leg set in the infirmary. Somehow, the only justice of the matter, Kuryakin was certain that particular agent would be getting an unwelcome visit from Mr. Jakeman a whole lot sooner than he'd like. "Anything to say for yourself?" Jakeman asked, leaning back in his expansive leather chair till it creaked under the movement. "I thought not," he continued, when Kuryakin didn’t answer. Kuryakin had lifted his eyes from the carpet, hearing the slight softening in tone that Jakeman had tried hard to disguise every time this situation came around. It was too risky to look directly at Jakeman, whose perceptive green eyes saw everything, even things Section Two agents didn’t want him to see, so Kuryakin fixed his gaze just above Jakeman's left shoulder. The silence hung heavy between them, the minutes seeming to stretch out into an eternity. Kuryakin wondered what Jakeman saw when he looked at him. An ambitious Section Two agent who just hadn't found the right partner yet, or a liability who couldn’t be trusted to work with anyone else? He hoped it was the latter, given the fact he was still around to receive these lectures on a regular basis, but as time passed even Kuryakin was starting to wonder if it were the former. ------------------------------------- It was an odd coincidence, but Napoleon found that his respite from active duty also coincided with a singular lack of interest in painting the town any color at all. Although he had a reputation to consider, the last thing he wanted right now was female company, not when he was almost champing at the bit to get back to active duty. Besides which, the marks on his body courtesy of a badly-timed escape attempt from the clutches of some particularly nasty Thrush agents took a little too much explaining to the ladies of his acquaintance outside U.N.C.L.E. His right hand was currently providing much in terms of dealing with the needs those various secretaries and stewardesses might otherwise be asked to fulfill and with much less need for the effort involved in the polite dance of social niceties. At other times, he was more than happy to go along with the thrill of the chase, but sometimes the end result was all he really needed. Closing his eyes, Napoleon lay back on the bed. With one hand, fingers long-practiced in this skill, he freed himself from confinement and felt the heat and heft of his erection, one long stroke bringing the first thrill of arousal. His mind was always a well-stocked library of fantasies, some designed to bring himself to gasping completion in a matter of minutes, others more leisurely explorations of those things he could rarely admit to himself, let alone to others. Even in swinging New York there were limits, if you wanted to avoid the kind of reputation Mr. Waverly would frown upon. As he stroked himself, Napoleon thought suddenly of the photograph he'd stumbled across and the man whose image it held. Blond hair and light eyes gave little clue to his nationality, given UNCLE's predilection for agents from all backgrounds, and the headshot had held few other clues. He could be a Section Two agent, like Napoleon himself, free to use the facilities within Headquarters – the gymnasium, the fitness equipment, the showers... Napoleon smiled, a familiar fantasy coming to the forefront of his mind. Yes, the showers, all cool white tiles and steaming hot water. He stroked himself in a leisurely manner, setting the scene in his imagination. They'd been sparring, of course, grappling with one another on the mats in the gymnasium until the other man had called it a day, saying he had an appointment to keep. Napoleon had stayed behind a little longer, working with the punching bag for a few minutes, then headed for the changing room as well. He could hear his companion in the shower; he was whistling something, an off-key rendition of a tune Napoleon didn't recognize. Napoleon stripped quickly, heading into the showers before he could change his mind or lose his nerve. That was part of the thrill, of course, the possibility of discovery. The gym had been empty but for the two of them, enticing when they wanted to get a good workout without an audience, let alone a post-workout encounter without the risk of voyeurs. The air was full of steam, the imaginary showers much more effective than the reality, but this was Napoleon's fantasy after all. He was there, eyes closed as he stood with his face raised to the downpour of water, the steam wreathing his body even as Napoleon's quiet steps brought the two of them closer. He raised a hand to slick back his wet hair from his face. "About time." He hadn't opened his eyes or turned to where Napoleon was, but somehow he'd known Napoleon was there. That sixth sense all good partners had, he supposed, even though he'd only heard of it by reputation. "Missed me?" Napoleon asked. He took the final couple of steps forward, till he was pressed against the other man's back, erection nestled between firm buttocks, the heat of the water slipping between them. "Need a hand?" Napoleon whispered the words into the other man's ear even as his hand slid around the slick skin of a well-muscled side, then exploring fingers worked their way down the line of the other man's body. Napoleon's hand tightened, the imaginary erection he gripped a substitute for the reality of his own, the measured stroke the same. In the fantasy, his companion was more than willing, bracing himself against the tiles without protest as Napoleon pushed into him with ease. He set a punishing rhythm, one hand around the other man's erection, the other arm wrapped across his chest, holding the two of them together even as the power of his thrusts might threaten to push them apart. Water drummed onto Napoleon's head, pounding his shoulders, rivulets trickling down his back, his chest, in the smallest space between them as they moved together. Napoleon gasped as he came, hand still moving through it all. He'd have to remember that fantasy for another time. ------------------------------------- There had to be worse missions than this, Kuryakin reminded himself, as he supervised the offloading of yet another cargo from the small boat. He could have ended up in some small Eastern European town, keeping an eye out for traveling Thrush agents for six months as punishment for his latest fiasco in the land of potential partners. Instead, he was currently enjoying the warmth of an Irish summer, a light wind barely making the boat bob as it scudded across the expanse of water that separated them from the mainland. Everyone hated clean-up duty, but someone had to do it. This time, U.N.C.L.E. had stumbled across a Thrush laboratory, carefully concealed in an old farmhouse on a small island to which most of the maps Kuryakin had seen didn’t even give a name. He hadn't arrived in time for the actual raid, probably by Jakeman's design rather than by accident, but when he arrived at the island Kuryakin had found his name on the list to supervise the post-mission operations. In other words, removing everything that Thrush had been up to, preferably without blowing themselves up or poisoning the entire Atlantic Ocean. After all, this location seemed designed for big things, despite the apparent obscurity of its setting; a boat could pull in to either of the island's natural harbors and leave just as unseen, given a skilled crew and the organizational capacities of Thrush. At least there was little that could go wrong with a clean-up mission, even if the other agent detailed hadn't arrived yet. Kuryakin had seen his name on the orders, recognizing it immediately. Everyone in the U.N.C.L.E. knew Napoleon Solo, by reputation at least, and he wasn’t looking forward to meeting the man himself. The reputation was enough to tell him that it wasn’t a match made in heaven, no matter Jakeman's motivation might be for pairing them up, even temporarily. Maybe it was even meant to be part of his punishment for putting yet another prospective partner in the infirmary? ------------------------------------- It was definitely him. His hair was about the same shade Napoleon had imagined, his eyes an icy blue that raked over him with disapproval from the first moment he'd emerged from the small wheelhouse of the boat. Even from this distance, Napoleon could spot the way the other man's lips compressed the moment he was seen. It seemed they were both in the doghouse, for one reason or another. Napoleon had no misconceptions that this was hardly a plum assignment; how could mopping up after an assault squad be anything of the kind? "Napoleon Solo," he said, as he neared the other man, hand outstretched. "Nice island." "Kuryakin." Napoleon's hand remained unshaken, Agent Kuryakin eyeing it like a volatile explosive. "You are late." There was a trace of accent, just enough to make Napoleon's libido sit up and take notice. More notice, that is, since he'd been half-hard since he'd first spotted Kuryakin and made the visceral connection between him and the man in the photograph, the man over whose fantasy he'd jerked off. "I'm still running on New York time," Napoleon replied, half-turning to look back over the harbor in an attempt to hide his burgeoning erection. "You should be glad I'm here at all." The only response to that comment was a snort and when Napoleon turned back, Kuryakin was already halfway across the dock. Napoleon hurried to catch up, wondering after all whether this assignment was designed to be recuperation or punishment. ------------------------------------- Solo was possibly the most annoying person he'd ever met. Though he had to admit this was a tedious assignment - the ideal punishment for an erring Section Two agent or, as he suspected was more the case for Solo, one just recovering from a disastrous mission - the presence of Napoleon Solo as his shadow was pushing the category from tedious to outright annoying. The fact that he seemed to be trying to lay on the charm didn’t help either. Kuryakin was attempting to keep his mind on the job, to ignore the way the American's eyes had raked over his body when they first met, not to mention the look of almost-recognition he'd seen in Solo's face. As if he'd known they would meet, if not here then somewhere. As if it was planned by some higher power. "Have you been with U.N.C.L.E. long?" Kuryakin asked, trying to change the subject from Solo's litany of the delights of each and every stewardess on the flight from New York. Anything to distract the American and hopefully allow him to complete this part of the job without further interruptions. "Three years," Solo replied. "Just enough time to get myself noticed by Waverly but not long enough to climb the tree." "Tree?" Kuryakin had to admit he'd been half-listening, happy with anything that wasn't vital statistics, and the metaphor caught him off guard. "Oh, I see. Career progression." "I suppose you have everything mapped out." Solo picked up a sheaf of papers from a nearby desk. He rifled through them, apparently finding nothing of interest, then dropped them back onto the surface from which they'd come. Kuryakin made a mental note to check the things Solo had already looked at, just in case. "With aims and objectives neatly highlighted in order of necessity?" It would have been less galling if it wasn't an accurate description. "I do have a plan," Kuryakin admitted. "I intend to be the first Section Head from the Eastern Bloc." Solo whistled, his attention drawn by the boldness of that statement. "Any particular Section in mind?" he asked. "You know..." "That no-one from my side of the Iron Curtain has been a Section Head since UNCLE was founded?" Kuryakin interrupted, disliking the tone of Solo's question. "I like a challenge." There were few enough UNCLE agents in any area from the Eastern Bloc and to allow them into positions of power was all but unheard of outside of their own country. Solo's grin was annoying - Kuryakin watched it grow as the other man gave him the once over for the second time since they'd met. "I'm sure you do." Solo leaned back against the nearest surface, all nonchalance. "Me, the only position I'm interested in is Chief Enforcement Agent." "And I suppose you expect to get it too?" "Damn straight," Solo said. Kuryakin wasn't sure if it was arrogance or confidence those words implied, or a heady mixture of the two. He'd met a couple of high-ranking agents from Operations and Enforcement in his brief time with U.N.C.L.E. London and Solo certainly seemed to share their attitude. Anything but Section Two was second best. "Or die trying." "That seems a little more likely." The attitude had been joined by a smug smile. It should have annoyed Kuryakin, right down to the bone, but the sensations it stirred were something completely different - he certainly wanted to slap that expression right off Solo's face, but it also did something odd to other parts of his body that didn’t usually respond. Or at least not in that way, to a man he'd only just met and could barely tolerate. ---------------- He wasn't used to the idea of spying on another agent, or at least not another agent from his own side, but what alternative did he have? There was no other way for Napoleon to try and make sense of the connection between the man he'd jerked off about and the surly Russian who was the real person behind that photograph. Try as he might, there was just something about Illya Kuryakin that Napoleon couldn’t ignore, a certain something that spoke of a connection between the two of them. Napoleon shifted his weight slightly, cursing the terrain for the lack of suitable cover from which to observe Kuryakin's pastime – swimming in the small sheltered bay that made for the island's second harbor. On an island this size, when not supervising the clean-up, it wasn’t as if there was much else to do; it was this or jerk off to the succession of images of Illya Kuryakin naked in the shower with which his brain seemed determined to ambush him. Kuryakin looked immensely at ease in the water, effortless strokes demonstrating the many hours he must have spent to acquire such expertise. It was a skill Napoleon envied, even as he watched the other man move, slick as a seal. Napoleon had discovered this was a regular pursuit, at least an hour a day and usually first thing in the morning unless there was other work to be done, and found himself following Kuryakin as surreptitiously as he could, reasoning that he was standing guard over the other agent. Guard against who or what, he couldn't have said, but that was his excuse and he was forced to stand by it or admit himself the voyeur he really knew he was. By the time Kuryakin had turned in the water, his second crossing well underway, Napoleon was already half-hard. This Pavlovian response was more than a little ridiculous, but utterly understandable. Here he was, trapped on this island for as long as the clean-up took, with just a taciturn Russian for company, other than the solace offered by his own right hand. Napoleon couldn't think of the last time he'd wanted more of a choice and the pickings had been so slim. After a couple of widths of the harbor, Kuryakin swam towards the small beach. He walked up the slight incline, splashing through the water as he slicked back his wet hair with both hands, muscles in his chest and abdomen flexing with each movement. If he'd been closer, dangerous as that concept was, Napoleon was certain he would have been able to see individual drops of water trickling across Kuryakin's skin and even that thought was enough to make him more aroused than ever. As Kuryakin bent to retrieve the towel he'd left before beginning his swim, Napoleon feasted his eyes on the expanse of pale skin – an almost hairless chest, tautly muscled stomach, the curve of genitalia accentuated as well as concealed by the clinging material of Kuryakin's trunks, the well-muscled thighs. His skin would be salty, the tang of the Atlantic leaving its trace on the man who'd just emerged from its waters, and Napoleon had to bite back a groan as he thought about how Kuryakin would taste, in the unlikely event that would happen without serious bloodshed. Kuryakin had paused while toweling himself off, sharp eyes scanning the surrounding hills; Napoleon held his breath, certain that any movement to conceal himself further would have the opposite effect. After what seemed like an eternity, Kuryakin seemed satisfied, running the towel over his legs with the same ruthless thoroughness he applied to life. Napoleon let out a hiss of breath, pleased to see that Kuryakin didn’t respond to the small sound, then slipped his hand into his pants. -------------------- Naturally, Illya Kuryakin had a plan. He liked to have a plan for every eventuality, priding himself that he thought at least three steps ahead all the time. It was how he'd stayed alive this long, how he'd make a success of his new career in U.N.C.L.E., he was certain of that. He'd always been that way, his brain ticking over the possibilities as circumstances unwound themselves, to the point where he found it hard to see how everyone else didn’t do likewise. At times he almost despised other people if they didn't plan appropriately, as he watched the way the slightest change in a situation would cause great ripples of change or waves of panic and indecision. Those were feelings Illya rarely experienced for himself and had little urge to share. Timing was everything. Solo thought he'd been so clever, spying on him while he swam, but Illya had already figured out there was something going on between the two of them. Something Solo's reaction at their first meeting had telegraphed, in language Illya couldn’t fail to understand. He'd pretended not to notice the interest Solo took in him, wondering just how the other agent had managed to pass Survival School if his spying skills were so second-rate. A telltale glint of light had shown him Solo's location and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what he was probably up to. All he needed now was the right opportunity and Illya was certain one would present itself. He had, after all, every confidence in his ability to plan for all eventualities. ---------------------------------------- The place was a mess. He was no scientist, but even Napoleon could tell Thrush had moved out in a hurry; still, there might be something left behind to make their trip worthwhile, even if Napoleon had no idea what that something might be. And at least Kuryakin seemed to be interested in it all, by the way he was methodically working along the nearest bench, making notes. Somewhere outside, in the rest of the building, a door slammed. Napoleon turned instinctively in that direction, noting with approval out of the corner of his eye the way Kuryakin's head snapped around too. He hadn't realized he was quite that close to the nearest bench, his elbow catching on a metal stand that held part of a long series of tubes and containers. Napoleon watched the stand rock for a moment then still, before the clamp fell open and the whole glass structure dropped to the surface of the bench, pieces of glassware spilling in all directions. The only warning he got was a muffled curse in a language he didn't immediately recognize. Even as a cloud of brown powder rose into the air, coalescing from the shattered glass that now decorated the entire bench, Napoleon felt the weight of a body tackle him, shoving him roughly in the direction of the doorway. "No, not that way!" Kuryakin said, as Napoleon's eyes began to sting. Blinded, he let himself be shoved and pulled, uncertain why he trusted Kuryakin to take care of him but also knowing he had little choice. Napoleon stumbled, his foot catching a raised surface, then Kuryakin's weight was holding him against the wall before a clanking sound and then water. Water slamming down on the two of them, he realized, raising his face to the icy flood. When the water stopped, Napoleon tentatively opened his eyes, reassured by the fact he could still see, at least until he saw the expression on Kuryakin's face, a little too close for comfort. The two of them were still entwined, the weight of the Russian's compact body holding Napoleon pressed against the back of the decontamination shower, both of them soaked to the skin. It was too much to ask that Kuryakin was unaware of it. His erection felt like a heated poker, pressing against Kuryakin's hip, pushing against the barriers of wet cloth between them even as Napoleon's face burned with embarrassment. He turned his face back to the deluge of icy water again, closing his eyes as he tried to will his arousal into submission. ------------------------- Napoleon's face was still a little puffy, his eyes reddened and sore, but otherwise he was fine. Soaking wet, his formerly pristine suit clinging to him, but essentially unharmed. His pride had taken more of a battering, though, and Illya could tell Napoleon wasn’t much in the mood for small talk, which was fortunate given his choice of companions. Illya followed him back to the room they shared, willing himself to ignore the way Napoleon's ass flexed as he walked, the sopping material outlining every curve of muscle. The plan didn’t include losing control, not yet at least. He couldn’t quell the arousal completely, no matter how hard he tried to recall the icy deluge of the decontamination shower, not now it was intermixed with memories of the press of Napoleon's erection against him, sapping its power to subdue. Napoleon's jacket hit the floor with a sodden thud. Illya stopped just inside the doorway, watching with not a little amusement as Napoleon toed off his shoes, the once-crisp cotton shirt adhering to his body and squelching at every movement. "What's so funny?" Napoleon asked, scowling. Illya frowned, not liking that the other agent had read him so easily. "You're no oil painting either." "No," Illya said, shucking his own jacket without any concern for where it landed. His tailor wasn’t as well-paid as Napoleon's, and even if he had been, it was only a piece of clothing. "But I have never claimed to be." Illya couldn’t have missed the moment Napoleon's gaze flickered down, down from his face to the wet turtleneck and even further, down to his groin. It was that look which decided him, tipping the balance between Plan A and Plan B; decision made. He'd shoved Napoleon back onto the bed and was leaning over him even before the other agent had a chance to speak, one hand tangled in the wet mess that was Napoleon's once-pristine hair, the other hand gripping the bedclothes. He expected resistance, somehow, but none came. Napoleon arched up into him, coming halfway off the bed to meet Illya's mouth with his own, hips grinding upwards. Even as they kissed, Illya could feel Napoleon's hands pulling at the bottom of the turtleneck, then straying across his back as they maneuvered the wet wool upwards. He pulled back, reluctant, allowing it to be pulled over his head, before his mouth returned to explore Napoleon's neck, tongue and teeth mapping the curve of his jaw line. His hands, busy at their respective trouser buttons, were still cold and wrinkled from the water. Illya knew when he succeeded, gaining access to Napoleon, by the sharp intake of breath when cold hands met heated flesh. He had to bite his lip not to make the same noise as his own erection came free, cool fingers wrapping around it as he started on a rhythm. -------------------- "Did you get it?" The words were a groan, despite Napoleon's best efforts. Maybe he'd been wrong in assuring the U.N.C.L.E. medics he felt fine - if so, he was certain there were worse ways to reach the afterlife. "Get what?" a muffled voice responded. Even from under the bedclothes, Illya couldn’t help sounding curious. Not curious enough to emerge from hibernation, but enough to respond, despite himself. Some things seemed to be reliable, even if the world had been turned upside down. "The number of the truck that hit me." The sound Napoleon got in response to his statement was unclear, the covering blankets obscuring whether it was a snort or a snore. Whichever it was, Illya Kuryakin didn’t respond further, apparently oblivious to the fact he was currently hogging the bed. It had been a determined, blond-haired Russian truck, if Napoleon remembered rightly. One that had insisted on stripping their wet clothes off after round one and who had reduced him to a boneless puddle of sensation in round two. Or was it round three? In hindsight, he couldn’t be completely sure. All he could be certain of was that the day had taken a decided turn for the better. Napoleon gingerly reached a hand to his face, fingers tentative around the skin of his eyes. If it hadn't been for Illya's prompt action… there was no telling what that brown powder had been, or if it would have had a permanent effect on his eyesight, but there were some gambles Napoleon Solo was not prepared to take. He'd made fun of Illya's propensity for plans, but Napoleon knew he wasn’t immune to that sort of thinking himself, even if his aims were a little less long-term. Find a partner, get promoted, be the best. Find a partner. It had all started with the photograph. The bed shifted slightly as Illya moved, then stilled again. A chance encounter with a black and white image that had steamrollered its way through Napoleon's life. Illya was snoring now, light snuffling sounds emerging from beneath the covers that made Napoleon grin, they were so out of character with the ice-cold efficiency that Illya loved to project. Who would have thought that a humble clean-up mission could lead to something momentous? -------------------- Part of a good plan, Illya reminded himself as he surreptitiously watched Napoleon dress while pretending to still be asleep, was making the most of what was available. He hadn't specifically been looking for a partner, but when Napoleon Solo had come into his life he had to admit the two of them had clicked. Unexpectedly, given their differing backgrounds, but he couldn’t deny there was something about the two of them and the way they worked together, even if he'd wanted to. It was an open secret that Solo was Alexander Waverly's golden boy for some reason, tipped for the top almost from the day he walked into the organization, and it couldn’t hurt Illya's own plans to associate himself with someone so fortunate. He'd been serious, after all, about his plans to be Section Head, but had been open to the various ways in which that might happen; assisting your partner to become Chief Enforcement Agent, as well as aiding and abetting any plans of Waverly to have Solo succeed to the big chair he currently occupied could work just as well as any other method. The sex didn’t hurt, either. That was a bonus Illya hadn't been expecting, could hardly have hoped for; by all accounts, he'd probably have to tolerate his partner chasing women too but he was certain he could make sure it was always his bed Napoleon came back to. At the end of the day, that would be enough. At least until he decided it wasn’t any more. He was certain the old saying had been incorrect. The best-laid plans didn’t go wrong, or at least not when they were made by Illya Kuryakin, agent for the U.N.C.L.E.
~ fin ~
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