Napoleon reclined against the headboard of the bed closer to the bathroom, undoing the cuffs of his Italian-made silk shirt - or what was left of it. "I could have really used your help back there," he said, directing his comment toward the closed bathroom door.

The water shut off momentarily, the door opened a crack, and Illya's damp red face poked out. There were still little tufts of black stubble sticking to his chin and upper lip, but his hair had been restored to its former golden glory. "I did everything I could," he snapped, leaving the door ajar as he went back to scrubbing his face.

"Sooner would have been better," Napoleon observed, unbuttoning his shirt and hanging it over the bedpost with a dismissive sniff. "I could have saved this suit."

"Well, next time-" Illya's voice rose over the roar of the shower, "-perhaps you will keep your priorities straight and come and find me first."

Napoleon brought his foot up to the mattress and began untying his laces. "But U.N.C.L.E. prizes independence," he called as he tossed the shoe to the ground. "Surely you could have gotten out of those ropes just a bit faster." He removed the other, then stood to undo his belt.

The water shut off abruptly. Napoleon turned to see Illya, a borrowed bathrobe knotted lazily around his hips, staring at him from the bathroom door. He froze, the ends of his belt in either hand.

"Illya?"

"I'd like to see you try."

"Illya?"

And there it was.

"Did you have to make these knots so damned tight?"

The room was dark; Illya had killed the lights and adjusted the blinds so that only the thinnest webs of illumination glinted against the floor. Napoleon was in the middle of the room - wrists bound to the desk chair with phone cord, the laces from his shoes and his discarded belt - naked from the waist up. Illya had insisted he remove his undershirt as well, for he had had to sacrifice his turtleneck to get into the lab when the doorknob proved hot.

Dressed in blue pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, Illya lay with damp head propped against two pillows, ostensibly reading up on the local tourist attractions, such as they were, in a magazine that had been left under the Gideon Bible in the drawer between the two beds. He would glance up often to monitor his partner's progress and announce the elapsed time every minute or so. He was, of course, enjoying this immensely, and did not see any point in disguising this fact.

Napoleon wiggled his left hand. His partner had bound him tightly - only fair, once again. Napoleon had complained that the makeshift restraints were far more uncomfortable than the rope with which Illya had been bound and offered smaller (and more difficult) knots, so Illya had said he would allow a thirty second handicap. Napoleon had twenty-six and one-half minutes to break out of these bindings, or else he had to buy Illya dinner - not an insignificant expenditure if his partner proved true to form.

There were no knots within grasping distance of his questing fingers. His wrists were practically immobile, and he couldn't twist his head far enough to visually check his progress. He sighed and relaxed against the straight-backed chair. Truth be told (and only under some kind of drug - he had his pride) he was dangerously out of practice at this. Somehow, it always seemed to be Illya who managed to get himself tied to things. Perhaps a review session was in order, but he would have preferred to have had it at some more convenient time and place, not after a draining mission that had rendered him both hungry and tired (though in better shape than his suit!) with only his vengeful partner as witness. The little brat would probably let him struggle all night if it came to that, even if it would leave him with an empty stomach.

Illya glanced up from the magazine and checked his watch. "It's been five and one-quarter minutes," he announced, and went back to reading.

He tried the right hand. Illya seemed to have left it with a little more leeway than its counterpart; Napoleon judged that he could move it about a quarter of an inch, although it wouldn't do much good with his left hand, which was cupped in the palm of his right, blocking any chance his fingers might have had at the knots. He tried scissoring his arms a few more times and picked up a little slack, but the cords quickly tightened as he adjusted his wrists to a more beneficial position, like one of those damned mocking Chinese finger torture games.

Frustrated, he bounced in the chair, once, twice - BAM! BAM! - against the hardwood floor of their shabby hotel room. Illya seemed to find this an intelligent thing to do in such situations, though its sole benefit had always seemed to be in attracting Napoleon's attention - and he was always happy to oblige. There would be no rescue for him tonight, of course. What the downstairs neighbors must think of this ruckus! And if only the expectations were consistent with reality.

Illya shot him a disapproving look. "Seven minutes," he said, glancing at his wrist. "Nearly eight."

Napoleon sighed. The bonds were beginning to cut off circulation to his fingers, making them that much less eager to cooperate, and the cords were digging into his wrists.

How was he supposed to explain the marks come Monday? Just a friendly competition. A little bondage between partners? Never hurt anybody, all evidence to the contrary. What did it matter? Everyone knew that Section Two agents were the most psychologically fucked up individuals you were likely to encounter this side of the padded room - and a lot of the delusions those people professed probably made a lot more sense than getting shot at all day. Or letting your partner tie you to a chair as a bit of pre-dinner entertainment.

He leaned back against the chair again - and felt, to his surprise, the cords giving way just a tad. Of course. By changing the position of his body, he had shifted the bonds in his favor. In fact, he was now able to struggle his left wrist through a convenient loop; this led to another loop for his right hand and he was in business. He adjusted his body once more, this time sitting up in the chair and pulling his wrists against the back support; though the cords dug into his skin like a bite, he could feel a bit more slack from the bonds. He kept struggling, fiddling with his body more often than with his wrists or hands, scissoring his arms now and again to gauge his progress.

"How much time now?" he called in Illya's direction, trying to adjust his body so that he could see the cords from the corner of his eye.

Illya glanced up and frowned with his whole face as he observed the progress Napoleon had made. "Eleven minutes," he said, removing his glasses, the magazine dismissed even as a prop. He rubbed a hand over his chin, where the beard had been just a few hours ago; Napoleon could still see some tiny bits of unnaturally dark stubble on the pale face.

Napoleon shot him a gallant smile and worked his right wrist through another loop. Oh, to show up his partner! He would do this - at this point, he could nearly make it in half the time it had taken Illya - and he would order the most expensive entrée in the most outrageous restaurant this dinky town boasted - surely that travel magazine featured some culinary recommendations. Champagne would be in order, and his waistline could stand a night of decadence of the chocolate variety. Illya would be broke until payday - which would force him to Napoleon's door more often than not for the next week, a not unappealing situation.

He was concentrating on the knots, which he could now view out of his peripheral vision, so he heard rather than saw Illya toss the magazine aside and get up off the bed.

Illya crossed the room and walked behind him, assessing his progress. "Hmmph. You're not as far along as you think you are."

Napoleon looked up and favored him with a dazzling smile. "Nervous, Illya? I should have warned you that I do not make bets that I cannot win - unless losing holds its own appeal."

"You are merely twisting the knots and making them worse," Illya told him. "Anyway, the odds aren't even. You may win the bet, but you will not have proved anything." He stalked back over to the bed and plopped down on the corner, sweeping his bandaged hand over the synthetic floral spread. "Twelve and a half minutes."

"What are you talking about?" Napoleon asked without looking up. He bit his lip. As though in response to Illya's words, the cords had once again tightened. He still had some leeway, but it seemed that every move he made just led to a more complicated snafu of coils, knots and loops. He wondered how Illya went about this - no doubt his analytic partner considered every inch of the rope before developing a unique stratagem that would allow him to struggle out of any particular situation while expending the least amount of effort. Or else he pulled like hell and got lucky sometimes - like today. After they'd seen through the professor disguise, it was a wonder they hadn't just shot Illya instead of tying him up in the same room as the files and leaving him to get himself free once the alarms started up. Napoleon may have effected a convincing bravado, but - well, he didn't like to think about the way the day could have so easily ended, his suit the least of the casualties.

He should just concede now. Why must even their games have such a dangerous edge to them? Except, at that moment, he got his fingers on one of the myriad tiny and complex knots Illya had tied while securing his wrists. All qualms forgotten, he allowed himself a brief but triumphant smile. A bet was a bet - Illya was just worried about getting stuck with the bill, as well he should be.

"How could the odds be anything but equal?" he asked, not taking his eyes off his task. "You tied the knots yourself."

"I didn't say you weren't adequately secured to the chair - you are. And you are acting much more optimistic than you have reason to be - trust me, Napoleon. But such a simulation could never be equivalent to actual field conditions." When Napoleon merely raised an inquiring eyebrow, Illya went on with a frustrated sigh. "I had Jebejian interrogating me - he was rather physical about it too, managed to knock my wig off for all that." They shared a small grin there, the camaraderie the missions inspired not lost despite the circumstances. Then Illya's face grew serious. "And with all the gunfire going on around me - well, it was not entirely conducive to my escape attempts."

"You want to interrogate me?" Bondage was bad enough. He knew what passed for 'interrogation' where Illya was concerned.

"No! Of course not!" Illya ran a hand through his hair, but the bandage wrappings only served to muss it further; next he would be complaining about how the burns on his hand had slowed his escape and probably take a blowtorch to Napoleon's palms - Napoleon's hands closed into protective fists at the very thought. "It would, of course, be impossible to recreate the scenario perfectly. I do not intend, for instance, to begin discharging my firearm and scaring the other guests in the hotel." Illya found Napoleon's eye and looked down quickly; it could have been a trick of the muted lighting, but Napoleon thought he caught a slight flush around his partner's cheeks. Whatever it was, it faded quickly.

They were silent a moment, time Napoleon certainly couldn't afford to waste. The suspense was probably a bigger distraction than anything Illya could think up. "Well, what then?" Napoleon prompted.

Instead of answering, Illya got up from the bed and walked over to the window. He stretched his body a moment as he looked out over the spectacular parking lot view their room afforded, then reached out and shut the window, eliminating the pleasant summer breeze that had wafted into their stuffy room and left the temperature something approaching tolerable.

He turned back and faced Napoleon. "It's usually warm in Thrush bases," he explained.

"Ah, I see." Already, a light sprinkling of sweat was forming on his forehead, around his chest and arms - certainly around his imprisoned hands, which might prove beneficial in helping him squeeze out - or detrimental as another knot slipped through his fingers. He glanced at Illya, who hated heat - but his partner had settled back on the bed with his magazine, seemingly no worse off than he had been before.

"Listen to this," he commanded, adjusting his glasses with his functional hand and wiping a bit of sweat from his brow. "'Alton was founded in 1833 by Rufus Easton; it became a city in 1837...'"

"Illya..."

"Quiet. You should be working on the knots. This is merely for your edification while you work." He turned a few more pages. "We could go see the Lewis and Clark Memorial before we drive back to St. Louis tomorrow. Apparently they spent the longest time camping here than any other spot on their journey. Much like yourself, if you do not focus on your task."

Napoleon gave him a pained look. "Are you trying to bore me to death just over a bet?" He tried to ignore the way Illya's t-shirt was beginning to cling to his chest and concentrate more closely on the bonds. If he showed himself immune to this particular form of torture, perhaps Illya would let it be.

"And Lincoln and Douglas debated here; so many fascinating tidbits from your brief but illuminating history." Illya turned another page. "Ah, here we go. 'On February 22, 1918, Robert Pershing Wadlow was born in Alton, Illinois. He would later grow to become the tallest man ever, standing 8 feet, 11 inches tall."

"I think I've seen bigger - at the Thrush base today, as a matter of fact," Napoleon commented, aware he was falling into Illya's trap. Concentrate!  he told himself fiercely. And he might have succeeded - he even managed to traverse a few more loops, thanks in part to the extra moisture that was beginning to accumulate on his palms - when Illya, after a few more fun facts about Alton, tossed the magazine aside and took off his shirt.

"Seventeen minutes," Illya said. "Which means you have a little more than nine left."

"I can do the math," he said dryly, trying to keep his eyes on the task at hand and off of Illya's suddenly bared torso - damn the man, anyway, he couldn't possibly know what he was doing. He went back to the knots in earnest, fiddling with a piece of shoelace. He thought his left hand might be nearly free, which would prove quite a boon, given that time was fast running out and Illya's creativity still seemed boundless.

Illya stood up from the bed and once again surveyed his bound partner, moving around the chair in a slow circle.

"Are you satisfied yet?" Napoleon asked without looking up, lest he should be snared. "I'm sure we've managed to even the odds by now - all that Alton data was honestly painful."

Illya snorted derisively. "You know nothing of the concept."

Napoleon swallowed, realizing he might have just committed a serious miscalculation.

Illya continued, "You cannot possibly imagine how itchy and unpleasant wearing a false beard, mustache and wig can be in a boiling Thrush lab when an unpleasantly large man is leaning over you smelling of garlic, perspiration, and foot powder."

"You said Jebejian knocked off your wig," Napoleon reminded him, jarring the chair a bit so that it leaned toward Illya, who pushed it back to the ground. When his partner merely scowled, Napoleon went on, "And I would think such uncomfortable circumstances would provide an incentive to extricate yourself out of the bonds even more quickly."

Illya halted in his pacing and turned to regard his partner. "Incentive? You need an incentive?"

Napoleon shrugged. "Well, it's not like I don't have one - but sure, an incentive always helps."

Illya paused a moment, a contemplative look on his face; Napoleon stole a glance and felt a front of excitement pass through him. He went back to the ropes - he was so close! - when Illya spoke up again, quietly. "I have one more suggestion," he said, and Napoleon noted that he sounded nervous; he glanced up and thought that Illya's Adam's apple might have given a nervous little hop. He moved a couple of steps closer to Napoleon's chair so that his face was cast in shadow but his chest was hit by the light and the splattering of blond hair glistened. "I have found - I have some experience with such things - that, ah, physical contact, when one is not in control, can be very...disconcerting. I don't want to hurt you," he said when Napoleon opened his mouth to protest. "I have no interest in repeating Jebejian's inquisition. Just a...distraction, as before. There's only about eight minutes left." He stood at Napoleon's side, face averted, and placed a hand on Napoleon's bare shoulder. "What do you say?"

Napoleon swallowed and struggled not to squirm lest he should tighten the ropes and negate all his good work thus far. Something he'd been fighting to keep in control leapt rebelliously below the hips, and his brain informed him in a calm and indisputable mantra that this would only turn out badly. His bound hands were all but forgotten - and for God's sake, his shoulder was about as far from an erogenous zone as you could get!

"Well, ah, why not?" he said, with all the bravado he could summon. "I'm always up for a challenge, and I would hate to win our wager under false pretenses." He shifted away from Illya's hands and smiled up at his partner. "Do your worst," he invited; and all the while his body was giving him an increasingly visible and uncomfortable indication of just how this was going to go wrong for him. Still, at this point it seemed difficult to refuse Illya...anything.

He struggled to get control of his mind (not to mention his body!) as Illya moved out of his visual field, placing both hands now on Napoleon's shoulders. He gave them a friendly squeeze before sliding his hands down his partner's arms to tug at the cords, a reminder of Napoleon's true objective if nothing else. "You still have a ways to go," he muttered close to Napoleon's ear, then moved his touch back up Napoleon's arms, stopping briefly to massage the biceps as he went.

Torture would have been a mercy.

"What are you doing?" he asked as Illya ran a finger along his right ear while the other hand played with the short hairs on the back of Napoleon's neck. He shuddered as Illya's hand found his cheek and brushed away a trickle of sweat. He really hoped he wasn't being as obvious as he thought he was being.

"Distracting you." Illya's voice was quiet and husky. "It finally seems to be working." He reached down and ran a hand along the length of his partner's spine, starting at the lower back and moving up to his neck. "You should be working on the ropes."

"I am." And he played with them a bit, in hopes that Illya would pay attention to that instead of...other things.

Now Illya was resting his chin on top of his partner's head and moving down to touch Napoleon's naked chest ever so slightly. "Do you mind?" he whispered, his tone hesitant. Napoleon shook his head, and Illya placed a hand on Napoleon's chest, just over Napoleon's heart. Napoleon drew in a breath as Illya brushed his hand over his partner's chest and buried his chin and mouth in Napoleon's hair. "Keep going," he said, with some satisfaction in his voice. "Seven more minutes."

"Illya!" He choked on the name, could barely get it up his throat, let alone past his lips. This went beyond simple distraction for the sake of a bet; this was too intimate, too-

Illya's hand moved right; it swept over his partner's nipple and the little mountain of flesh grew hard at even that slight touch. Napoleon's eyes widened as Illya removed his hand, though it was soon replaced as Illya reached down with the injured hand now and touched the other nipple with two fingers he wiggled out through the white gauze. It seemed to jump under the ministrations, and he heard Illya draw a breath as he teased it till it became full and erect. Napoleon's cock leapt against the confining clothing, and he surged forward in the chair, desperate to get free, knowing in some part of his mind that he was going about it in entirely the wrong fashion. The phone receiver fell to the ground and began buzzing unpleasantly. He drew a ragged breath and fought for control.

Illya was breathing hard also, his chest rising and falling as his touch flicked over the ribcage like a piano, grazed the soft stomach and gently tickled the area around the navel. His knuckle dusted the top of Napoleon's pants, which, despite the absence of a belt, were become more confining than the ropes could ever hope to be. He struggled, not sure if he wanted to get away from Illya's touch or elicit more of the contact, somehow not unhappy with this evident inconsistency.

He felt Illya's hot breath in his ear, felt his hot flesh against his shoulder. "Just tell me no," Illya said in a harsh whisper. "I'll stop."

"No, no," Napoleon said. The hands were removed abruptly; he cursed and cleared his throat. "Ah, no. Don't stop."

Illya appeared in front of him, face a neutral mask, more impenetrable than any disguise. His gaze fell on the mountainous battle waging in Napoleon's tight trousers. Napoleon nodded, and Illya bent down in between Napoleon's legs. Keeping his face lowered and in shadow, he reached out to unzip Napoleon's pants.

Napoleon bit his lip as Illya pulled the black trousers down past his knees and repeated the gesture with Napoleon's underwear, Napoleon doing his best to help him despite the awkward position. Napoleon's cock unrolled and surged forward like a thick, red arrow, arrogant in its demand for release and attention.

Illya eyed it warily, then looked up and met Napoleon's eye with a questioning look; Napoleon nodded again, too stunned and aroused to speak. Tentatively, Illya touched the tip of his partner's penis with his right index finger; slowly, he traversed the length of it.

Napoleon closed his eyes, trying not to thrust too much, aware that any sudden moves might send his partner fleeing back to the bed (or maybe he was thinking of deer - in any case, the greater danger seemed to lie in pulling his arms out of their sockets trying to get toward Illya). He opened his eyes again when he felt something warm and wet replace the finger and follow the same route. Then Illya, blue eyes locked on Napoleon's face, moved forward and took his partner's cock in his mouth.

Unable to help himself, Napoleon set a frantic motion as he felt Illya's lips close around the end of his shaft, but Illya proved equal to the task; he moved his head with the jetting motion of Napoleon's thrusts, covering his teeth while his other hand reached out and clutched the heavy balls, elevating them above the rough wood of the chair and playing with each in turn. His tongue circled up from the bottom over the whole cock (and it was an impressive girth, if Napoleon did say so himself) as he swallowed the demanding tip that slid against the back of his throat.

Napoleon took faith from his partner's demonstrated expertise and let go all inhibitions. He fucked his partner's mouth as hard and fast as his bound hands allowed; only when he felt the brief pain around his wrists as he surged forward too quickly did he even remember his original purpose. "Ooooh," he groaned in frustration.

He wanted to touch Illya, he wanted to feel the golden strands of hair between his fingers, to make sure that his partner was solid, was real, wasn't a dream or apparition induced by some potent Thrush drug. But Illya's mouth, wrapped around his struggling cock, felt real enough, and he couldn't be dreaming the hollowed cheeks (with a bit of dark stubble still clinging like stubborn weeds), or the narrowed, entreating eyes, or the questing and talented hands. This was Illya, no dream and no imposter, and the small mistakes: the slight roughness as Illya's eagerness made him forget his teeth, the slight instinctive gag as Napoleon thrust in too fast, the long fingers proving sometimes unsure as they roamed over his chest and navel and up to finger his face - it wasn't perfect, and that was what made it perfect, what reminded Napoleon all throughout it that this wasn't in fact, a dream or a mistake.

He cried out incoherently as he came - he would have liked to have said Illya's name, but he couldn't remember his own at this point. With his eyes shut tight, he missed the treasured sight of his partner drinking him down, sucking him off until he was drained, kneading at his balls until the pressure lifted completely. But he felt it. He opened his eyes again only when he felt the wet heat leave his groin. He felt Illya exhale, long and hard over his subsiding penis, and watched as Illya swept his own disheveled and sweat-darkened hair away from his reddened face before retreating back to the bed, his eyes always on Napoleon.

"You have about one minute," he said, the satisfaction evident in his voice.

"Illya!"

But his partner had picked up the magazine again, though he was faking absorption much less convincingly this time, the bulge in his pajamas perhaps having something to do with his reduced performance.

"Illya! Dammit!"

His partner turned a page.

"Fine." Napoleon gritted his teeth and surged forward against the ropes; they clung to his wrists with the desperation of a small child. He leaned back again and suddenly felt them giving way; he followed the loops until they tightened again, then leaned forward and back like a coasting schooner, repeating this pattern until he heard something metal clang to the floor (the belt, most likely), until he felt the cords loosen and fall away, until he was free. He let the last strand fall to the floor and stood so suddenly he knocked the chair to the ground. He looked up and caught sight of Illya's face, a triumphant smile playing on those tempting lips.

"That took you-"

Napoleon didn't let him finish. He dived on the bed, propelling his partner nearly a foot into the air and sending the magazine and his glasses reeling to the floor. When Illya fell back on the mattress, Napoleon pushed him onto his back, encircling his hands around Illya's wrists and securing him to the bed; he smiled in small triumph as he felt Illya wiggle against his tight grasp. He knelt, encircling his legs around his partner's heaving chest and reached down to meet those moist and waiting lips.

He didn't kiss Illya so much as he captured his mouth, devouring it as Illya had Napoleon's cock just moments before. He suckled Illya's lips together, rubbing his tongue against the closed divide until Illya gave in and opened his mouth, freeing himself from the confines of Napoleon's lips and allowing his partner's tongue access.

Napoleon explored. He could still taste himself there, on Illya's tongue, on the insides of Illya's cheeks, on the roof on Illya's mouth and down to the edge of his throat. He could feel the sudden increase in Illya's heartbeat as he struggled for air; he disconnected long enough for the briefest of breaths, their lips still touching as they inhaled nearly from each other's mouths. Then Napoleon was back again, his tongue plowing aggressively forward like a pointman, trying to get past Illya's defending teeth and tongue, as though some much-quested after treasure lay over the steep precipice and somewhere down his partner's throat.

He released Illya's wrists and fumbled blindly for his partner's pants until Illya grabbed his arm and directed him to the elastic rim. Napoleon snatched at that and the underwear underneath, bunched the two together and pulled them down to Illya's knees. With one hand, he combed through the smooth hairs on Illya's flat stomach, while with the other he caught his partner's straining cock and encircled it. Illya groaned and thrust upward as Napoleon pumped his hand up and down the long shaft, while he rubbed at the baby-fine chest hair and kissed his way over Illya's roughened face.

"Come on. Come on, Illya," he muttered, but Illya, always one for clever comebacks, could only manage a few incoherent sounds in response. He grasped at Napoleon's arms and maneuvered their bodies together so they were lying side by side on the bed, facing each other. He thrust toward Napoleon's thigh; Napoleon kept pumping, enjoying the flush that took over Illya's face, the way his hair mussed as he sweated and struggled, the deep husky note his breathing took as he neared completion.

Napoleon leaned forward, touching his stomach to the tip of Illya's cock and found Illya's mouth once again, employing the same near-suffocating technique he had used before. He moved his left hand and slid it down Illya's back before grasping his ass-cheek in his hand and drawing Illya's body more firmly against him. Illya cried out against his mouth as he came, pushing Napoleon's tongue back with his own, encircling his partner's lips as he closed his mouth and ended the kiss and the coupling. Napoleon groped around and grasped onto something - Illya's discarded t-shirt as it turned out - which he used to wipe his stomach before encircling Illya's torso with his arms.

"You're wonderful," he told Illya.

"And you're slow," said Illya, his head buried in Napoleon's shoulder. "Nearly half an hour. The world could have ended in that time."

"Are you sure it didn't?" Napoleon asked as he gave Illya a chaste kiss on the lips; he could feel his partner's silent groan against the shuttered lips. "I admit it, you are much more talented than I. Your skills will never cease to impress me." He ran a finger along Illya's cheekbone and thought his partner might have reddened, but it was over too quickly to be sure. "And as long as you continue to impress me, I have no problem with it." He tilted Illya's chin upward so he could see his eyes. "Why did you do it?"

"You needed a distraction," Illya answered. "And you said you wanted an incentive. This seemed the best way, considering your history."

"So you haven't wanted this as long as I have?" Napoleon ran a finger through Illya's hair and tried to ignore the risk in his words.

An expression of surprise fluttered across Illya's face. He hid it quickly, but he rolled over and leaned his head against Napoleon's shoulder. "Well, it depends, of course, on how long you have wanted it."

"Too long," Napoleon whispered, tightening his grip.

Illya was silent a moment. "I think that's an accurate assessment," he said finally.

Napoleon chuckled. "Well, you certainly didn't have to tie me up to do that."

"It was more fun that way." Illya's mouth and nose were buried in his partner's neck; Napoleon was surprised with how sharp the bristles seemed now - and even more surprised with his partner gently nipped at the elastic skin. "And you lost the bet."

"Ah, but I told you, I'm perfectly happy to lose when the results are even more satisfying than those of winning."

Illya stopped his nuzzling abruptly. "Good," he said moving out of his partner's arms and sitting up on the bed. "Then you will be perfectly happy to provide me with dinner and entertainment of my choice."

"I, ah, thought I had already done that." Napoleon sat up as well and ran a finger along the bottom of Illya's mouth. "Don't you shave, hairy?"

Illya gave a long-suffering sigh. "You have no idea how this itches still."

Napoleon nodded in sympathy. "I liked my distraction better."

"Well, you are not distracting me from this." Illya shook off Napoleon's arms and reached for his underwear. "I usually prefer something a bit more substantial, especially after physical exertion." He winked and Napoleon's cock stirred. "Something decadent and expensive and exotic..."

"I'm all those things," Napoleon said defensively, encircling his arms around his partner again. Illya shrugged him off and reached for the fallen magazine. "I do think your best bet is here, anyway. Where do you expect to find those things in Alton? Elijah Lovejoy's homestead?"

Illya gave him a surprised glance. "You were paying attention!"

"I'll never miss a syllable if it gets that kind of reaction." He pushed Illya back down toward the mattress, and this time his partner allowed himself to be propelled. "Room service?" he suggested hopefully. "I'll make it up to you when we get back to New York."

"I think you pulled the phone off the hook," Illya murmured.

"Oops. Well, I guess you're out of options. It's me or nothing."

"Oh, we're not going out, then?"

"Well, that all depends..." He cupped both of Illya's wrists in his left hand and bent down to kiss him; at the same time he reached for the shred of his silk shirt, which conveniently hung over the headboard, and slid it under Illya's wrists. "...on how fast you can escape."

Illya narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "Napoleon?"

He gave him an innocent look. "Well, after all, what's a little bondage between friends?"