"You don't look too well, Illya."

"Quite the understatement, Mr Solo!" Alexander Waverly frowned.

They both stood looking down at a very rumpled, very worn-out Illya with dark circles under his eyes.

"Thank you. I feel so much better now." The object of their scrutiny was dripping with sarcasm.

"What did they do to you?" Solo inquired, a little more concern in his voice; his partner sounded incredibly tired. What had THRUSH come up with this time?

Illya sighed. Apparently, having to give an explanation was very irritating to him. He scratched the side of his neck edgily. "From what they told me, I've been injected with a drug which will keep me awake. Indefinitely, if my THRUSH inquisitors are to be believed." The Russian's eyes closed for only a second as he tried to focus his mind.

"Indefinitely?" Solo was very concerned now. "Is that possible?"

"I hope not!" Illya groaned.

"We must at once find an antidote, Gentlemen." Waverly stated the obvious and went to sit at his desk. "Have you been to the medical laboratory yet, Mr Kuryakin?"

Illya shook his head. "To be honest, Sir, I haven't had the energy."

"Why don't I help him there?" Napoleon volunteered quickly.

Waverly nodded. "Yes, please do, Mr Solo."

Napoleon helped Illya off the chair he'd been crumpled up in and instantly, his partner's knees gave in.

"It's always a little worse when I've been sitting down," Illya explained, slumping against Napoleon.

With one arm around the Russian's waist, Solo half-steered, half-dragged him towards the door of Waverly's office.

"One more thing, Mr Kuryakin." Waverly waited patiently for the two of them to turn and face him - a slow process in Illya's condition. "How long have you been awake so far?"

Illya frowned, concentrating as hard as he could. "They have started interrogating me three days, nine hours and twenty-four minutes ago. Approximately." Illya glanced at the large clock to re-confirm.

"Approximately?" Solo was stunned. "You've kept count?"

"I have a lot of time on my hands, Napoleon," Illya commented dryly.

"I suppose you do, Mr Kuryakin." Waverly's eyebrows rose. "You haven't divulged any information about our infiltrations of THRUSH command centers in South America, I trust?"

Illya looked highly offended. "Of course not, Sir."

"Good, good. Very good." Waverly seemed content. He got settled in with his paperwork. Suddenly he remembered something. "You'd better get him to Medical, Mr Solo. At once."

"Yes, Sir." Getting a better grip and ignoring the pained whimper when his fingers dug a little deeper into his partner's side, Solo got them moving.

They finally made it through a series of tests, and Kuryakin was pronounced unfit for duty.

"That's a surprise!" he commented sarcastically.

"Well, isn't there anything you can do for him?" Solo demanded of the duty doctor.

Doctor Lax, a bespectacled little man in his fifties, shook his head. "Not right now, Mr Solo. We'll get onto it straight away, of course, but developing an antidote could take... well, it may take some time."

"How long?" both men asked simultaneously.

Fidgeting uncomfortably, the doctor picked up one of the vials of blood he had extracted from the Russian and shook it, inspecting it suspiciously. "A few days, maybe," he said non-committally.

"Oh wonderful!" Illya slouched just a little more.

Napoleon was by his side again in an instant, just in case his partner should decide to tumble off the examination table. "Can't you make it faster than that? I mean, look at him!" He placed an arm protectively around Illya's shoulders.

"We will certainly try, Mr Solo, I assure you." To his patient, the doctor said, "I'm sorry, Mr Kuryakin. We'll do our best."

Too tired to argue, Illya slid off the table and into Napoleon's arms. "Let us know as soon as you have something. Please."

"Certainly!" Doctor Lax began busying himself with the samples immediately.

Solo helped his partner to the door again. "We'd better tell Waverly."

Illya nodded, his head lolling backwards for an instant.

Napoleon eyed a wheelchair sitting in the corner of the room and looked questioningly at his partner.

"Don't even think about it, Napoleon!" Illya warned. "If I'm too heavy for you, I'll crawl. I made it halfway across New York on my own, remember?"

Napoleon sighed. "Stubborn Russian! Just don't fall asleep on me." He received an icy glare from under hooded eyelids and smiled disarmingly.

"Back to Waverly," Illya ordered, straightening himself up as well as he could.

"You ought to go home, Mr Kuryakin," Waverly said, but then reconsidered. "What I mean is, you ought to take him home, Mr Solo."

"Of course, Sir." Solo's arms were beginning to tire and he prayed they would be dismissed soon.

"Bring him back as soon as the lab calls you. Meanwhile, I think it would be best if you kept him company."

Illya grinned tiredly. "That might just do the trick, Sir."

"Indeed it might," Waverly chuckled, enjoying Napoleon's disconcerted face. "I'll see you both back here shortly. Look after him, Mr Solo."

"Don't I always?" Napoleon sighed. He grabbed his partner tightly enough to make him wince. "As for you, funny man," he whispered, "Looks like they haven't tired you out enough yet."

Illya smiled, holding on to his partner.

They made it to Solo's car. Eventually. After having thrown the Russian unceremoniously into the passenger seat, Napoleon climbed behind the wheel. Starting the engine, he turned to the sleepy blond beside him. With a sigh he asked, "Your place or mine?"

After a certain amount of discussion, followed by persuasion on Napoleon's behalf, they had stopped off at Illya's apartment to pick up some clothes before driving to Solo's place. It had taken some convincing, but eventually the Russian had to admit that it was only fair Napoleon wouldn't be inconvenienced unduly. In addition, he secretly preferred the warmth and indulgent comfort of his partner's apartment over the cool practicality of his own. Not that he would ever admit that.

Once Illya was safely stowed away on Napoleon's purple leather couch, the senior agent began unpacking his guest's things in the bedroom.

"I hope you don't mind," he called out from around the corner. "We'll have to sleep together. I don't have a guest room."

Illya smiled. "Why am I not surprised? But let me remind you, Napoleon, that not unlike your usual house guests, I am not here to sleep either. As much as I wish I were."

Chuckling, Napoleon finished unpacking. When he returned to the lounge, he fell on the sofa next to his partner. "Just let me know if there's anything you want, okay?"

Illya looked at him curiously. "There is."

"Yes?"

"Take me to bed."

Solo felt his throat go dry at the request. He had to remind himself that what Illya was asking for was sleep. That he couldn't give him. "Wish I could," he replied in an odd tone of voice.

The Russian raised his eyebrows. "I am sorry, Napoleon. I'm sure my being here must put a damper on your social life."

"You only just got here!" Napoleon objected. "Anyway, I had no other plans."

Illya resisted the urge to giggle. "You had no other plans besides baby-sitting me?"

Napoleon smiled, getting a rather strange sensation in his stomach. "Well, not exactly. But don't worry about it. Anyway... would you like something to eat or drink? I could go make something."

Thinking about it, Illya rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands.

Napoleon smiled at the very endearing gesture. Endearing? What had gotten into him?

Finally, Illya made a decision. "Why don't I make you something? It's bad enough being tired without being bored as well."

"You?" Napoleon moved closer. "You cook?"

Illya nodded, looking a little insulted. "And why should this surprise you?"

"I don't know. I suppose I never thought of you in an apron doing domestic work." He found the idea rather amusing.

Speaking as if he was giving an explanation to a very ignorant child, Illya corrected, "Napoleon, I know how to cook. That does not make me a chamber-maid."

"A little irritable?" Realizing that it was hardly surprising considering how long his partner hadn't slept, Solo apologized immediately. "Sorry, of course you are. How couldn't you be."

Illya moaned.

"What's wrong?" Napoleon asked with concern.

"Exactly what you said. I'm irritable."

"Well, don't worry about it. I'm sure I can handle you." Solo smiled and got up to go to the kitchen. His friend followed slowly.

About 20 minutes later, Solo wasn't so sure anymore. Illya wide awake and alert was a handful, to put it politely, but half asleep and grouchy, he was really beginning to test his patience.

"You are putting far too much salt into the tomato sauce!" Illya chided, shifting uncomfortably on the barstool in front of the kitchen counter.

"It is my tomato sauce. And if I wanted to put in curry powder, I'd do that too."

The Russian looked at him as if he'd just suggested joining THRUSH. "You wouldn't!"

Napoleon was sorely tempted. "Oh, wouldn't I?"

"You do realize, salt is quite unnecessary most of the time! It's much healthier, not to mention tastier, to use a variety of other spices instead."

Napoleon stood on his toes and proceeded to inspect the top of Illya's head.

"What?" his short-tempered guest snapped.

"I don't see a chef's hat. So please, either let me do this my way or get out of the kitchen!" He had meant for it to sound light and humorous, but he could tell his partner took offense at the dismissal.

"Certainly." Illya retreated, hanging his head so that the mop of blond hair fell over his face.

"Don't do that!" Napoleon followed him, dropping the wooden spoon unceremoniously into the saucepan. Tomato sauce splashed up at the wall but he didn't even notice.

"Do what?" the Russian asked.

"Sulk. Pout. Whatever you want to call it. Don't!" Napoleon grabbed his guest by the arm to turn him around, but obviously, Illya was wobblier on his legs than he was letting on. He actually stumbled dangerously.

Napoleon cursed and pulled Illya against himself before he could lose his balance altogether. "See where that childishness gets you!" he chided gently, unable to actually gather up any measure of anger.

Illya looked up at him wide-eyed. "Yes, I see," he said softly, making no attempt to extract himself from Napoleon's tighter-than-necessary grip. It was probably the lack of sleep, but he just didn't feel like pulling away.

And Napoleon certainly didn't feel like letting go. He knew in the back of his mind that it was slightly odd to be holding Illya like this. Well... it didn't feel odd. After all, his partner was kind of unsteady on his legs. Only problem was, he himself was beginning to feel a little bit that way, too.

"I think I'm dizzy," Illya finally stated. He actually went a little pale and Napoleon came back to his senses - some of them - and dragged him back to the couch, setting him down carefully. That's when his communicator beeped.

"Solo here." He turned away from Illya, trying to compose himself to the best of his abilities.

A tinny voice greeted him. "This is Waverly. Mr Solo, how are you getting on with your charge?"

Solo thought about it. "It's like being married to a sack of potatoes, Sir."

It was almost possible to hear Waverly raising his eyebrows in that familiar way. "I see. Well, I just called to let you know that Medical have not yet managed to find an antidote for Mr Kuryakin, so I'm afraid you will have to continue lugging that particular load of produce for a little longer. Do you think you can handle it?"

"Absolutely, Sir."

"Fine. Fine. Have a nice evening, Gentlemen. Difficult under the circumstances, I should imagine, but I am certain you will come up with a way to entertain Mr Kuryakin."

Solo almost let out a tiny hysterical shriek. "I'll do my best, Sir."

Waverly closed the channel, feeling more than a little confused, and Napoleon turned around to find Illya looking at him questioningly. "Waverly," Solo stated.

"I know."

"You probably heard..." Solo nervously waved around his communicator.

"Yes, I did."

"No antidote yet."

"Yes, I heard that too."

"He wants me to, uh, entertain you some more." Apparently, Napoleon simply couldn't stop babbling. He was also beginning to sweat, for no reason at all.

Illya smiled. "Napoleon."

"Okay." Solo put down the communicator and scratched his head. "Dinner?"

"You do it. I'll just keep quiet and ignore the taste." Illya grinned cheekily.

"Very funny." Napoleon made a quick retreat to the kitchen. It seemed cooler in there.

While Napoleon made dinner, Illya treated himself to a very much looked forward to hot shower. It hadn't been easy to convince Napoleon that he was able to do it by himself, but he had eventually managed to reassure him, having had to promise to leave the door to the bathroom ajar. Napoleon made himself a private promise not to peek.

Dinner proved to be most interesting, to put it mildly. Since his own childhood, Solo could not remember anyone eating the way Illya did that night. He looked on in fascination as his partner attempted for the forth time to steer a fork of food into the vicinity of his mouth. He kept missing the mark just a little, winding up with tomato sauce all over his face.

Smiling, Solo finally offered, "Would you like me to feed you?"

Illya glared at him. "I'll manage, thank you."

"Are you sure? I wouldn't want you starving to death while in my care." Napoleon didn't think he'd ever seen anything more adorable than Illya splattered with food, pouting and looking totally and utterly helpless.

"Do you really think I'd risk you telling everyone who knows me how you had to hand-feed me?" Illya lifted the fork again, trying even harder than before to get it right. Balancing a tiny meatball somewhere in front of his face, he concentrated really hard. Smiling, he decided he had the level right and went for it. "Ow!" he howled when the meatball dropped off the fork and onto his plate, sending hot sauce splashing all over his pyjamas. In his shock, he also forgot that the fork was now empty and inserted it painfully into his nose.

Solo jumped up, tearing the offending instrument from his partner's hand. "Now see what you've done!" he scolded, shaking his head. The whole thing would have been hysterical were it not for the fact that having part of a fork stuck in one's nostril tended to be rather painful.

Illya's eyes were watering and he just sat helplessly as Napoleon took the fork from him and set it down on the table.

"Are you bleeding?" Napoleon knelt by his side and took his chin in one hand, inspecting his nose. "Illya?"

His partner shook his head.

"Good. Why do you have to be so stubborn anyway?"

Illya replied with a short laugh which quickly grew into a major fit of the giggles. "I couldn't disappoint you!" he managed, before he was shaken by another attack. "I do have a reputation to keep up, after all."

Finally, Napoleon allowed himself to join in. "You're crazy. You know that, don't you?"

"Would I have you for a partner otherwise?"

"Hey, watch it!" Napoleon playfully pretended to be punching the chin he had just released. Then he noticed something. "You're covered in sauce!"

Illya looked down at himself. "Yes," he stated.

"Tomato sauce - that won't come out."

"Yes it will. It just needs soap and a little rubbing." For some reason, that statement set them both off again, and they laughed until they were close to tears.

"Well," Napoleon finally said. "Are you going to, or shall I?"

"What?" Illya looked surprised.

"Rub it!"

"You do it." Illya got up slowly and headed to the bathroom, Napoleon following close behind. Once in the bath, Solo picked up a clean facecloth and held it under some running hot water. Then he moved it over the soap and squeezed out some of the moisture. "Ready?" he inquired.

"Hmm." Illya stood, stiff as a board, watching Napoleon clasp the front of his pyjamas and rubbing at the worst of the spots, the one right in the middle of his chest. "That's hot!" he complained half-heartedly. The heat was actually kind of nice against his skin, as was the rubbing.

"It has to be, otherwise there's no chance of me getting this out." Napoleon gave it his best, but it took a very long time to achieve very little. "I'm not sure this is working," he admitted.

"Feels nice though." Illya smiled.

Napoleon's heart bounced ridiculously. "It does?"

"Uh huh. You're doing a great job."

Napoleon smiled. Illya making compliments was about as common as the March Hare actually giving a tea party. Now or never. "Since your pyjamas are probably ruined anyway, would you like me to get the sauce off your face at least?"

Illya nodded and held up his chin, closing his eyes.

Picking up a fresh cloth and moistening it, Napoleon began to dab at the splatters of sauce on Illya's chin, taking his own sweet time. "Well, this is coming off nicely."

His partner looked seriously enraptured and he made sure to be as tender as he could be with his ministrations.

"There's some in the corners of your mouth," Napoleon pointed out, shamelessly taking advantage of Illya's closed eyes and taking a longing look at his soft, enticing mouth, so close to his. "Want me to get it?" he asked in a whisper.

"Please."

He began patting at Illya's lips and the touch of the warm, moist cloth seemed to agree with his partner. There was something remarkably similar to a purr coming through those lips.

Napoleon whimpered softly, dropped the cloth and lowered his face to Illya's. He carefully touched his tongue to the corner of his mouth and when the only reaction was a distinct shiver shaking the tired body, he licked some more.

Illya's eyes flew open, but he didn't resist.

Encouraged, Napoleon pushed his tongue through Illya's full lips and they opened easily to him. Now it was his turn to shiver as he was greeted by the delicious wetness of Illya's mouth and the intense response to his tentative kiss.

When Illya staggered a little, Napoleon finally took the opportunity to take a much needed breath. "Is it me or the lack of sleep?" he whispered, clutching Illya's shoulders.

A seductive smile appeared on Illya's lips. "I think it's the lack of sleep. But you might want to make sure."

With a moan, Napoleon moved forward, trapping Illya between himself and the bathroom tiles. He captured his willing partner's mouth again, sparing a brief, hazy thought for what would happen if he wasn't seriously sleep-deprived. 'He'd probably turn me into borscht for doing this. Then again...'

Illya was moving against Napoleon now, grinding their hips together, which extracted a low groan from both of them. Napoleon was beginning to feel light-headed himself. "Out of here!" he ordered.

They barely made it to the lounge before Napoleon had ripped the front of Illya's pyjama top open, sending the buttons flying across the room. He pushed him down on the sofa and, with one knee between his spread legs, pulled the shirt over Illya's shoulders impatiently. When he finally had his partner trapped under him, he paused. God, the man was beautiful! No wonder he turned every female in his wake into a bundle of raw nerves.

"Are you just going to keep staring at me?"

"If you don't mind, yes."

"Normally I wouldn't mind, but under the circumstances," Illya looked up pleadingly.

Napoleon smiled, enjoying being in control over his partner for once, and when it counted, too. "Afraid you'll fall asleep if I take my time?"

Illya took the ball and ran with it. "It could happen. I am very tired, you know."

"Guess I'd better do all the work then, huh?"

"Do you mind?" Napoleon didn't miss the satisfied twinkle in Illya's eyes.

Instead of a reply, he lowered himself down on his partner and kissed him breathless. When he was satisfied that Illya had his answer, he began to move down his prone body, tasting every inch of golden skin, lingering on particularly tempting spots like the side of his neck, the curve of his shoulder, the gentle slope of his muscular chest and his rapidly moving ribcage.

Illya wasn't used to feeling so overwhelmed. But then he had never been made love to by Napoleon. Tired or not, the sight of his partner kissing and licking his way down his body to the inevitable finish line made his skin crawl with pleasure and his pulse pound so loudly, he could hear it. "Napoleon," he moaned, just as was being pulled further down in the cushions.

Dazed with delight, Napoleon finally reached the waistband of Illya's pyjamas and without a moment's hesitation, he pulled, saw and conquered.

"Oh god, yes. Napoleon!" Illya groaned, unusually unrefined, as his friend's lips closed around him. He felt what little energy he had being sucked out of him at lightning speed. There was no time for slow, relaxed exploration. He needed to come and to come quickly.

His partner knew - they were a team, after all. Using his tongue, lips, fingers and his own, still fully clothed body, Napoleon brought Illya to the edge within a few very short minutes. It was worth going so fast, just to see that cool Russian exterior melt away and reveal the real Illya - a passionate, warm and very responsive partner. Had he taken his time, Illya may have had a chance to raise his defenses again.

"I want you to come, Illya, now!" Napoleon urged breathlessly, and his order was obeyed almost instantly. A few more slow strokes of moistened fingers inside his friend, perfectly in sink with his steady sucking, and his mouth was filled with Illya's delicious cream, while his eyes and ears were treated to the simply perfect sounds and sights of Illya stripped bare and utterly humbled by the sheer force of his orgasm. It was enough to push Napoleon over the edge.

Still in a stupor, Napoleon heard something that sounded like Russian. "Huh?" he asked sleepily, curled up by Illya's side and holding his partner in his arms, warming his still naked form.

"I said... well, something close to 'wow'!"

Napoleon smiled. Good, so he hadn't dreamed the whole thing. "Wow yourself!" he said, snuggling a little closer.

Illya shifted. "I'm sorry."

"What?"

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

"I heard you, but why?" Napoleon raised himself on his elbow and gazed lovingly into a pair of very blue eyes.

"I never... You didn't."

"I did."

"You did?"

A nod reassured Illya.

"Wow!"

"Do you suppose you could just keep quiet for a while and enjoy the moment?" Napoleon laughed.

"Hmm... " Illya turned to lie fully in his arms, resting his head on a steadily thrumming chest. Minutes later, his breathing had become very slow and very regular.

Napoleon couldn't believe his ears. "Illya?" he whispered very softly. Nothing. "Crazy," he muttered to himself.

That was the unfortunate moment his communicator beeped, again.

He slid off the sofa as fast as he could and grabbed the device off the dining table. "Solo here," he hissed.

"Ah, Mr Solo. Waverly here."

"Sir?" Bad timing.

Alexander Waverly declared triumphantly, "I am calling to ask you to bring Mr Kuryakin to Headquarters. It seems our Medical team have developed an antidote at last. You'll both be pleased to know he can finally get some sleep."

Pause.

Napoleon turned and watched his very relaxed, very disheveled and wholly angelic partner lying on the sofa. Sleeping like a baby.

"Sir, I think I speak for the both of us when I tell you I do appreciate the effort. However, it does appear that my company was indeed enough to put Illya to sleep."

"Oh?" Waverly was confused to say the least. "Are you certain?"

"I don't have a cat, and the only other creature I know who purrs in his sleep is Illya. So yes, I'm quite certain."

"That is very good news indeed. Surprising, but good. One day, you'll have to relate to us how you managed to achieve that, Mr Solo."

Napoleon grinned from ear to ear. "One day, Sir." Mentally, he added, 'When hell freezes over.'

"Under the circumstances, I will be expecting the two of you back here the day after tomorrow. I believe Mr Kuryakin will need plenty of rest after his ordeal. You make sure he gets it, won't you, Mr Solo?"

"Oh yes, I'll make sure he gets plenty. Good night, Sir." And Napoleon closed the channel, dropped the communicator in a bowl of very cold tomato sauce and went back to what he'd been doing. Watching Illya sleep.

THE END