This is a sequel to The Guilty Pleasures Affair

Illya entered the office to find Napoleon busy with paperwork, but before he had the chance to speak, his partner looked up.

"I brought you a book," Illya said casually, dropping a small leather-bound volume onto Napoleon's desk. It was navy leather embossed with gold. No words were on the front, but on the wrinkled spine was the title 'The Scarlet Pimpernel.'

Illya flashed his partner a smile and breezed out of the room, pleased with the reaction his surprise had gotten. He waited just outside the door, leaning against the corridor wall. He knew that inside, Napoleon would be discovering the significance of the book via the note he'd tucked inside. After all, he'd obviously been curious. In fact, it seemed as though the only thing that prevented his questioning was a timely retreat.

He thought back to what exactly he'd written, and wondered how far Napoleon would be willing to take his game. A costume would be nice, but it was rather short notice to expect much.

With a satisfied grin, Illya started towards the labs.

He heard Napoleon's voice from the living room. "Clever, lyubovnik. I searched your apartment from top to bottom before it struck me. You came here instead."

Inside his partner's closet, Illya allowed himself a smile. Yes, it had been clever, but then again, Napoleon was clever as well, and they often tended to be clever in the same direction.

After a moment, the door opened, and Illya took up his character, huddling into a ball behind some dark suits.

"Don't be afraid," Napoleon spoke soothingly, reaching out a hand but stopping before he actually touched Illya's shoulder. "I've come to smuggle you out of Paris."

"The Pimpernel?"

"One of his confederates. And you must be the marquis, yes?" His fingers wrapped around Illya's arm, warmth radiating from the small touch. "Come with me."

"Is it safe?"

"Nowhere is safe, Marquis, not so long as you are in France. But I swear to you, I will get you to safety or perish in the attempt."

Illya smiled, relaxing slightly, and his hand covered Napoleon's. "You must be a very brave man."

"Just dedicated." Napoleon shrugged, his mouth turning up at the corners. So far, this role wasn't vastly different from his day job.

It took every last bit of Illya's acting skills not to break character himself as he allowed himself to be pulled from the floor of the closet. Napoleon had managed to get hold of some form of costume after all. It appeared to be English-style riding gear: tan breeches, tall brown boots, a coat of deep blue - not some ridiculous garish red, he was happy to see - and even a cravat. He wondered if Napoleon had actually been out on the streets like that.

"I have been running for so long...hiding for so long..." Illya leaned against him, his cheek against Napoleon's shoulder. The feel of the coat was rough in comparison to the silk cravat that his fingers wound around, but not unpleasant. All in all, he rather liked the varied textures. "I am so glad you have come, but I am still worried. What will become of me? Even if you manage to escape Paris with me-"

"There is a boat waiting to take you to England, to London. There is a place there for you, waiting," Napoleon said urgently, getting to his feet and offering Illya a hand.

They were standing, still half-within the confines of Napoleon's closet, when Illya swooned and fell into Napoleon's arms.

"Monsieur!"

"I have been running so long," he said by way of an apology.

Napoleon moved him to the bed, laying him out gingerly. "We will rest a moment first, then."

Illya's eyes flickered to the bottle of wine he'd set up in the room, and Napoleon nodded, pouring a glass.

"Monsieur?" Illya asked, raising his head with feigned difficulty.

"Here. Drink." Napoleon said, his voice bordering on husky. He lifted the glass to Illya's mouth and tilted gently. When he brought it away, he watched as a drop of the claret liquid clung to a full lower lip, before the tip of a tongue swiped it away.

Illya had to remind himself not to smile as he watched the effect he was having on his partner.

"How can I thank you?" he asked, eyes burning into Napoleon's. He dropped back against the pillows as though exhausted, but the come-hither look remained.

"I don't do this job for thanks." Something he'd said before countless times, but never to Illya.

"Nevertheless..." Illya's hand gestured vaguely. "I must do something in return, monsieur."

"I must protest. To save a life is its own reward."

"This, then." And with that, he surged up, catching Napoleon's shoulders and crushing a kiss to his mouth. Illya's lips parted quickly to a responsive tongue, and the kiss deepened.

Soon, Napoleon was lying over him, weight half-supported on his forearms as he made a slow exploration of Illya's soft flesh, beginning at the hinge of the jaw and working his way down towards the throat. There was a whispered scrape of stubble against stubble as cheek passed chin.

"Monsieur," Illya moaned, baring still more of his throat to be kissed. "S'il-vous-plait... vous m'embrasse..."

Napoleon broke away, breathless, perfect lips swollen. "I could not take advantage-"

"You take nothing I have not offered, monsieur." He met Napoleon's gaze evenly, removing his shirt with an almost painful slowness. He hadn't been able to put together anything exquisite, but for a noble on the run, a simple linen pirate shirt and a pair of tight black pants had done the trick. "Je suis un cadeau... c'est pour vous..."

Napoleon attacked the newly-bared chest with renewed ardour, searching out sensitive places in the much-explored territory. His teeth grazed Illya's ribs, hands busy with the blond's belt. The pants provided a bit more of a challenge, and Illya half-regretted the decision to wear them. As much as Napoleon appreciated the view, they were difficult to get out of, and in his condition, becoming slightly painful. Combined efforts rid him of the leggings, however, and Napoleon had already kicked off his boots, so the breeches were next.

Illya undid Napoleon's cravat with his teeth, grinning at the pleased gasp through a mouthful of silk. Several ideas flashed through his mind, but none fit their current scenario, so he filed them away for later. Once they were finally free of major impediments, he began undoing the buttons on Napoleon's shirt. When about half of the buttons were undone, Napoleon starting at the top and Illya at the bottom, they gave up and pulled the shirt off over Napoleon's head. Shorts quickly followed, landing in a heap on the floor with their costumes.

Now fully naked, Illya turned, resting on knees and elbows, hips raised, cheek pressed against pillow. He knew what his position conveyed - the implicit trust he had in his partner, the trust necessary for him to ever turn his back on any man. Some measure of the love, he hoped, and the desire. He knew the effect it would have, counted on it. He knew exactly what was coming, and yet the next touch still left him completely disarmed, as overwhelmed and helpless as any virgin.

It was just a light touch, Napoleon's fingers stroking over his flank in that first appraising moment before the American even went for the lube. It still sent tremors through Illya's body, despite the fact that Napoleon did this every time. So familiar and yet so new each time. Napoleon was always that way, though, wasn't he? Even if Illya spent a hundred years kissing him every day, that hundred-and-first year would take his breath away.

Another stroke, this one at the base of his spine, over one firm buttock, then along the cleft. He shivered once, relishing in the warmth of the touch, the perfect way Napoleon's hands never calloused too much from work, but never felt too soft against his skin. Masculine without being rough, like Napoleon himself. Smooth, strong, confident, and very much wanted.

"You are sure this gift is freely offered?"

"Freely, monsieur... s'il-vous-plait... j'ai besoin de votre corps, j'ai besoin..."

This time, when the hand returned, it was with a firm, slick touch that opened him to his lover's ministrations. Illya moaned and pressed back, and Napoleon's other hand stroked his chest, providing some of the further body contact he craved.

Now Napoleon was inside him, freeing the lubed hand to wrap around Illya's own erection, its twin continuing to tease the blond's nipples. He curled over Illya's back, dropping firm, demanding kisses onto his shoulders.

Illya closed his eyes, biting down on his lower lip. No, he wasn't ever going to get used to it, the way Napoleon made him feel at times like this. The hands on his body, fully capable of making him come alone. The deep thrusts making him feel more wanted, and more needed, than he ever had before. The continued kisses over his upper back, though...that was what made him feel so thoroughly loved. The fact that Napoleon never stopped kissing him. Before, during, after...at any given time during their lovemaking, Napoleon's mouth was somewhere on his body.

The low moan that began in Illya's chest and moved through his throat transformed into a wild cry, and he threw his head back, body heaving in ecstasy. Napoleon took this opportunity to latch onto the nape of his Russian's neck, spending himself inside the tight passage. They collapsed onto the bed together.

"And where will I go, when I reach London?" Illya gasped, turning onto his back.

"With me." Napoleon smiled, kissing him gently. "Always with me."

"Always with you. In London and in Paris. When you return, I go with you. Always."

"In London, you will be safe."

"Always with you." Illya repeated, his eyes burning meaningfully into Napoleon's. "I will stay by your side, at home in safety... Or in the dangers of a mission."

There was a moment of quiet, and Illya found himself looking into the face of a very surprised American. Napoleon's eyes had been lightening again as the post-coital bliss cooled, but now they deepened back to chocolate brown. His mouth was agape, and he opened and closed it a couple of times, but words didn't come.

Illya might have laughed, if the moment wasn't so serious. It wasn't too often that his partner was left speechless, and when he was, it was generally after a dressing down from Waverly. Thinking back, Illya could count on one hand the number of times Napoleon had been rendered speechless in bed for reasons other than preceding orgasm.

Suddenly finding himself overcome, Napoleon kissed his lover again, fiercely and passionately. Even without the benefit of words, he remained an efficient communicator, Illya decided, and his feelings and intentions were certainly very clear right now. After another, softer kiss, Illya settled down comfortably with his head pillowed on Napoleon's still sweat-damp chest, the heartbeat soothing him to sleep. He spent the rest of the night with his partner wrapped protectively around him.