But if they drifted off to sleep already touching, if their minds slowly relaxed--as much as they ever did--together, then Illya might wake and touch Napoleon and not cause him to stir.

Knowing this, Illya had waited until they'd just returned from an Affair, when they were both tired but pleased, inclined to celebrate their success with a few drinks. A night when no one would consider it unusual if Illya chose to stay the night after a little too much Slivovitz, when they could crawl into bed together, in the dark, and kiss slowly, and take their time, and fall asleep sticky and satiated and not worry about what would happen when morning came.

But even as he let himself sink down into sleep, Illya held one thought in his mind: to rise a little early.

He climbed out of the depths of sleep just as dawn was breaking. The pale morning light leaked in around Napoleon's drapes, casting weak shadows over the room. Illya lay comfortably in bed, spooned up behind his partner, and took his time shaking off the vestiges of sleep. It was a luxury, but then, so was this bed, and this man in his arms.

Napoleon still slept, his body pliant in Illya's arms. Slowly, Illya bent his head and laid a firm, warm kiss to the nape of his neck. Napoleon didn't move, didn't even murmur in his sleep, so Illya pushed onward, moving his hips back a little, just enough to give him space to run his hand along the smooth, warm skin of Napoleon's flank.

Keeping his movements slow, Illya reached up toward the head of the bed and retrieved the jar he'd abandoned there the night before. Napoleon shifted a little, his sleep lightening, but Illya leaned in close and whispered in his ear and he settled, if not as deeply as before. Illya himself had to pause to control his trembling. Napoleon was so vulnerable like this. On missions, in HQ, on a date, even in bed with Illya, he was always completely in control of himself. Illya's most concentrated attempts to upset that self-possession had never earned him more than an amused glance or a flash of equally structured anger.

Not until he'd woken like this the first time.

In his own bed, worn out and still processing a few too many martinis, his partner at his back, something in Napoleon eased unconsciously...and something in Illya loved it. Responded to it.

Even now, knowing he had to move carefully lest he wake his lover too soon, it was all Illya could do to control the eager shivers that wracked him. There was no hoping to control his arousal. His breath came hot and fast and his groin ached, but his hands were held determinedly steady even as they moved slowly over Napoleon's skin, rousing his unconscious form to the touch of his lover.

Illya kissed him again, on the shoulder now, soft but fervent. In his hand Napoleon harded lazily, as if reluctant to surrender even a fragment of his pliant comfort. Napoleon murmured softly as Illya stroked a little harder, teetering on the edge of wakefulness. It wouldn't be long now.

Struggling to hold back his impatience, Illya slicked his fingers with the contents of his jar and reached down to tease Napoleon open with steady movements. Somehow the soft, velvet heat of his body had never seemed so intense. Illya was shaking now, his hunger for Napoleon lighting up up veins and making it impossible to hold still.

Even as distracted as he was, Illya knew the moment Napoleon woke up. Almost immediately there was a soft exhalation of breath and then, low and quiet, Napoleon moaned. Heart pounding, Illya pressed close and slipped his arm around his partner again. "Napoleon?" he breathed, trusting the man to understand the question.

"Yes," Napoleon hissed, his answer quiet but immediate. Illya almost moaned to realize that he could hear that suppleness in his lover's voice, as if he'd somehow stretched it out beyond sleep. Clinging to his control, Illya pushed into Napoleon's body, his breath catching in his throat at the way the tight heat drew him in.

For a long time Illya held still, savoring the grasp of Napoleon's body and the slowly fading yielding nature of his limbs.

"Illya," Napoleon murmured at last, squeezing a little around him, encouraging.

Sighing softly, Illya pushed Napoleon a little further onto his belly and began moving. His thrusts were strong and deep, eliciting eager gasps of pleasure. "Napoleon," Illya whispered, pausing for a moment, their hips pressed tight together, twisting his body teasingly. Napoleon moaned and pushed back harder. "My Napoleon," Illya insisted.

Suddenly that easy, pliant quality was back in Napoleon's body, suffusing his muscles and audible in his helpless, hitching sounds of enjoyment. Illya moved faster, taking him harder. His nostrils filled with the scent of musk and arousal and beneath him Napoleon was fluid and responsive. Illya reached out and found his hand. Twining their fingers together, he pressed deeper and came, shaking and gasping Napoleon's name over and over and over again.

Illya lay for a moment and caught his breath before putting his arm around his partner and drawing him back against his body. Napoleon lay his head back on Illya's shoulder and arched into his touch, simply letting his body move until his completion washed over him, leaving him trembling and deliciously limp in Illya's arms.

"You know," Napoleon said after a long quiet moment, "you could have just asked for what you wanted."

"That," Illya returned, smiling to himself, "would have defeated the point."