"Donald!"

Illya sighed and got back to his feet, shoving the sandwich into the paper bag. He'd eat lunch later. If he ever got time.

"Donald!"

"Yah, I'm comin'." He was happy with the Minnesota drawl. It was easier to handle than the open, careless vowels of California.

He threaded his way through the mass of other couriers and made it to the cage. Frank handed him three flat packages. "Ya got more special requests: another uptown, other two are downtown. Be back by four; gotta shipment comin' in then for the whole gang."

Illya squinted at the addresses, and sighed as he got back on the bike he'd just locked up. He adjusted his gloves, made sure the packages were stowed flat in his bike bags, and pushed off.

Being a bike courier was a step up from most of his undercover assignments. It definitely beat being a plumber or a prisoner. This one just required stamina. Infiltrating the courier network meant being the fastest and greediest courier there. Frank had already sounded him out about doing "special assignments."

Of course, it also required the ability to withstand hot temperatures and choking exhaust fumes. The sun exacerbated the pollution. He whipsawed his way around a bus, slipping quickly up onto the sidewalk and back into traffic, past two taxis, going hell bent for leather across the pedestrian crosswalk against the light, bouncing over the curb and back down.

Besides, it was fun. Even in New York in mid-summer.

Almost there. He'd deliver the two downtowns first, since they were close to each other, then the uptown. He'd see if he could grab a bit of lunch on the longer ride back.

He pounded up the stairs to the first delivery, grateful to Section VIII for suggesting that he test the experimental form-fitting professional bike shorts, rather than the cutoffs he'd originally planned on. The irritation would have been horrible. The woman who answered the door signed for the package. She didn't match any of the descriptions he'd been given, and didn't give him a return package. Probably a legitimate delivery, but he'd pass along that address too.

Back on the bike, he looked at his watch. He'd have to get a move on to be back by four. His stomach rumbled and he muttered, "Patience, patience," without much hope of fulfilling its demands.

The second delivery was much the same as the first, except it was on the eighth floor and he got to ride the freight elevator this time. He jigged in place as the cage rose and descended, trying not to let his muscles cool and cramp.

His stomach growled even more insistently as he saddled up again. "Patience," he counseled it once more, and cut across traffic, bringing cabs to a screeching halt. The uptown address wasn't too far, and he dipped one hand into the top of his saddle bag and pulled out the rest of the sandwich, steering with the other as he devoured it in two bites.

This time the address was an office building. He locked up the bike, took the package, and pushed through the revolving doors into the cool lobby, swiping one hand across his sweaty forehead. He saw black beside the glove, and swore to himself as he realized the temporary hair dye was running. He had felt safer not sporting his own bright mop, but had thought the cover wouldn't last long enough to merit the permanent treatment. He sighed as he realized that he hadn't factored in the New York summer heat. With the back of the glove he wiped off his face, then his forearm to make sure that the tell-tale runnels were gone, blowing up at his own bangs to cool himself off faster.

The elevator deposited him on the 10th floor. He approached the very pretty secretary, who looked sidelong at him through her lashes, clearly appreciating the revelations of the skin-tight fabric. "Courier delivery for Nestor Enterprises."

"Yes, one moment," she said, smiling at him, and put her finger on the intercom. "Mr. Nestor, the courier is here. Is the return package ready?"

The intercom buzzed and spat, and she picked up the receiver instead to listen. "Yes, sir." She turned back to Illya. "Please go in. It's not quite ready but he doesn't want to ask you to come back later."

"Okay." Illya opened the door himself, prepared to throw it back hard against the wall at the first sign of a trap, but he saw nothing unusual, just Napoleon getting up from the desk.

Napoleon?

"What...?" he said in alarm, but Napoleon looked at him with eyes dancing with merriment and held a finger up to his lips. "It should just be a couple of minutes," Napoleon said out loud and motioned for him to shut the door.

Illya obediently shut up and shut the door, although his eyebrows climbed, and then he forgot all about asking Napoleon why he was there as Napoleon caught him from behind, pressing his entire length against Illya's sweaty body. Napoleon leaned his forehead against the back of Illya's damp neck, running his hands over the bike shorts, already starting to pull them off.

"Napoleon!" Illya's strangled whisper died on his lips as Napoleon spun him round to rest against the wall, going down to his knees as he worked the tight shorts down.

"Did I ever tell you that you have a cute butt in those shorts?" Napoleon asked innocently, the fingers of one hand already playing with Illya's balls, the other sliding around to Illya's back end and massaging the very butt in question.

Illya groaned out loud as Napoleon's fingers became more active, dipping behind and in front, and then he whimpered as Napoleon opened his mouth and surrounded his cock with hot moist breath, warm in the cool office air. "Napoleon," he started, then whined in protest as Napoleon's tongue snaked out and licked him from base to tip. He gritted his teeth. "Napoleon, I am late already. There is not enough time-" He swallowed the rest of it as Napoleon's lips gently kissed their way along the same path, and the hand behind him dipped a finger into his ass.

It didn't matter whether there was enough time or not. He'd ride like hell to make it up; there was no way he would cut this short. Head back, he gave himself up to the fizzy joy rippling along his nerve endings as Napoleon tongued his cock in time with the movements of his finger, spreading his legs as far as the bike shorts would let him.

"Should I give you a reason to ride standing up?" Napoleon asked with pure deviltry in his eyes. Illya looked down at him with a snarl, then slammed his hands onto Napoleon's shoulders and hung on as Napoleon took him in in one fell swoop, sucking in long, rhythmic strokes that brought Illya to climax in seconds, mouth open in a tiny keen of ultimate pleasure, barely managing to mute it so the secretary outside wouldn't hear.

He let the wall hold him up, spent, feeling the nerves spark and judder in aftermath. Napoleon rose smoothly to his feet, making his way to the sideboard, taking out the ever-present handkerchief and wetting it from the carafe. He held it crumpled in his hand as he came back to Illya and cleaned him off gently. Illya realized that it must have been ice water and was grateful for Napoleon's thoughtfulness, warming the cloth before applying it to his now-shrunken genitals. As he got his breathing under control, Napoleon gently put him back together, drawing up the briefs and bike shorts, carefully tucking him in, finishing by taking Illya into his arms in a quick hug.

"If you could have seen your face when you walked in," he said into Illya's ear, and then released him and walked back to his desk. "Here's the package," he said more loudly, then softer, "Ghost - mine's before."

Illya took the prepared package, aware that he had to leave, searching his memory for the last letters, trying to figure out this one. "Wall?" he said.

Napoleon shook his head, grinning, keeping his eyes on Illya's face.

"Building?" B, V, E, R. That didn't make any sense. Illya cast around for alternatives, then light dawned. "Office." O,V, E, R - thank goodness they'd banned four-letter words from this game; it would have been over far too quickly. Requiring the word to be five letters or more expanded the possibilities greatly.

"Bingo," Napoleon said in satisfaction and opened the door. "That should keep them happy. Thanks for waiting," he added as Illya looked at his watch and sprinted for the elevator.

The secretary looked after him with longing, chin on hand, pinky in her mouth, tongue licking unconsciously at the fingernail. The way those shorts highlighted those thighs, and that cute little butt - she wondered if the rest of the package would have been as satisfactory.

*****

Two days later, Napoleon was still grinning about the expression on Illya's face and replaying in memory that lovely little whine his partner had made at first lick. He wondered if he could make him repeat it next time round - over and over again. But it was Illya's turn to ambush him while undercover. Idly, he started playing with locations, trying to figure out where the next letter might occur.

That thought, however, was far from Napoleon's mind four weeks later as he sat with a leg hitched up on the desk and contemplated his enraptured audience with a twinkle in his eye. "Miss Soleom," he said patiently. "Miss Soleom?"

The damsel he was addressing came out of her rapt stare and goggled at him. "Yes, Mr. Keeling?"

The rakish smile glimmered at her bemusement. "Miss Soleom," he said, "if you would read your selection to the class?"

"Oh!" she said and hurried to flip the pages of her paperback. "I've chosen the love scene in Romeo and Juliet." She looked at him shyly.

"And what did you do with it?" he prompted, amused.

When he'd taken over the summer Creative Writing class for this cover, the instructor had been relieved. Looking over the course notes, Napoleon found out why. The syllabus listed nineteen classical tomes as references, with a mere sprinkling of lighter works such as Poe and Goethe. Napoleon had ripped it up on the spot. Illya had been openly skeptical of his partner's ability to teach any class, but Napoleon airily assured him that he knew what he was doing.

And he really was enjoying himself, drawing on his own memories of some of his college electives, particularly the ones with unconventional teachers. He'd have to tell Illya later that he liked playing a Bohemian -  although the beard itched a bit. But the open admiration of the all-female class stroked his ego enough that he didn't really mind it, although the covert glances and longing gazes would have made Illya roll his eyes in exasperation and mutter something about the stupidity of female sheep.

He had to admit that it was an interesting change from the three-piece suit. The Van Dyke suited his face admirably, especially with the forelock left to dangle, and the open-neck shirt, worn khakis and loafers made him look younger and much less reputable than the responsible agent he was.

"Um, I rewrote it as a farce?" Miss Soleom gulped a little.

Napoleon simply drew on his cigarette, holding it nonchalantly in European fashion over the palm of his hand. "Would you please read it to us?" he said.

He kept an encouraging look on his face while she read the short piece, keeping enough of his mind on it so that he'd be able to say something when she finished, running rapidly over the list of students. The only stipulation he'd kept from the original course requirement was that everyone hand in their work at the end of each class. In the stack there was always a paper with the title of a classic play. Section IV took it apart, decoded it, and built up their knowledge of a Thrush research project that was being betrayed even as it progressed. Napoleon didn't recognize any of the students against the list of known Thrush double agents, and the paper was never handed in by the same student as last week, but it paid to keep alert.

"Very nice," he said, giving her a wicked glance under arched eyebrows when she'd finished. "I'll give you my - comments - when I return it next week." Thank God he didn't really have to read any of the twaddle that was passed in. The translation branch of Section IV had been pressed into service to grade this stuff. "If I can have all your assignments," he said. "Thank you for coming, I'll see you next week."

The class converged on his desk, laying down their paper sheaves like offerings, some giving him coy glances as they passed, and then they were gone in eddies of hair spray and high heels. Napoleon let the cigarette fall on the floor and carelessly ground it into the linoleum, adding to the scars the floor already bore, scooped up the paper stack, and strolled out of the room, the other hand stuck in his pocket, into the hot August night.

The parking lot wasn't far from the building, and he tossed the stack into the back of the convertible before walking around it while he lit another cigarette. He couldn't be sure he wasn't under surveillance; better stay in character while he checked the car for any additions that may have been made to it while he was in the classroom. He dropped the cigarette lighter and bent down to retrieve it, giving the undercarriage a sidelong searching glance. It looked no different than before.

He climbed in and let himself sit bonelessly, listening to the rasp of the cicadas. The strain of being on constant alert was telling. He took time to relax for a couple of minutes before leaning forward and starting the car for the drive back to New York.

He'd eased out into the long drive that led off-campus to the highway when another car swung out of the bushes behind him, lights flashing and siren whooping. He pulled over to the side of the drive, checking the length of the roadway: no other cars in sight. It was late - his was one of the last classes to finish. There might be no more traffic along here tonight, making this an excellent Thrush ambush site. His hand inched toward his shoulder before he remembered that his Special was clipped under the seat.

"Please get out of the car." The voice was distorted by the loudspeaker. "Now."

Napoleon opened the door slowly, slid out and stood slowly, trying to see against the red and white glare. Red and white. That would be the campus police. Maybe not Thrush after all. He squinted, trying to make out the car markings.

"What seems to be the problem?" he called out.

"Please open your trunk."

Napoleon shrugged, staying in character. He reached back into the car and popped the trunk release. As he bent lower to slip the Special from its clip, he was interrupted by the loud metallic voice again. "Back away from the door and stand up."

He stood up, fuming a little internally, shrugging again.

"Move over by the right rear tire." That put him away from the road. Harder to run away from someone; easier to dodge bullets.

"Lean over and put your hands on the car."

"Look, I don't think-"

"Lean over and put your hands on the car." The metallic voice was louder. Napoleon swore to himself and leaned over.

To his left, the police car door opened. A powerful hand light was pointed at him, dazzling him, and he blinked, trying to regain his vision. Footsteps crunched on the gravel, muting as they moved onto the grass, and he could vaguely see the dark outline behind the light as it passed in front of the cruiser's flashers. He shut his eyes against the painful glare of the light beam directed into his face. In that moment, the figure moved behind him; a cold round circle pressed against his back and he stilled the kick that he'd almost launched. A hand started patting him down, checking his front, moving further down, further down...

Hey, waitaminnit-

"There have been several reports of smuggling going on," said his partner's quiet voice. "One cannot be too careful." Illya's hand kept patting, finding Napoleon's zipper, loosening his belt.

Napoleon found his voice. "Hey! What are you doing here? And what's that you're holding against my back?"

"Improving the security of this campus. Aah." The cold circle fell away and thunked lightly as it hit the ground. Illya's voice held a smile as he unbuckled Napoleon's belt. "A short length of pipe works wonders, does it not? It kept you from kicking me."

"Consider yourself lucky you still have your nuts," Napoleon growled. His growl changed to an indrawn breath as Illya slid one hand into Napoleon's briefs, curling his fingers around Napoleon's penis, which decided to take an active interest in the night's events, stirring to attention. Illya withdrew his fingers and instead used both hands to ease off Napoleon's pants. They fell to the ground around his ankles.

"What the...? Come on, Illya, you can't be serious-" His breath caught in another gasp and he closed his eyes as Illya leaned close against his back, slid his hands under his shirt and tweaked each nipple, twisting them just a little, rolling them in his fingers, before sliding his palms along Napoleon's sides and back down across his hips, back down into his groin, one hand finding his ball sac, the other renewing acquaintance with Napoleon's cock, now standing jauntily on its own in the hot night air. Napoleon braced himself anew on the car, casting another glance along the long deserted drive, blinded again by the whirling red and white lights, then gave himself up to the sensation of Illya's fingers dancing up and down his cock, flirting with the tip, sliding gently up and down, not hard enough to produce results yet. He felt Illya's own erection through his trousers, pressing against his bare ass.

"It is late, there is nobody here," Illya answered calmly, hands still busy flirting, tantalizing. "There is no one hiding in the bushes and no little birds hoping to capture the late worm. I have been thorough."

"You mean you're really - really - " Napoleon lost the thread of his question as Illya took his cock in a firm grip and stroked once, then twice, and let go again. "More..." he whispered, feeling desire knot in his abdomen.

"I have been working as campus security as long as you have been teaching, Napoleon," Illya murmured. "Someone had to watch your back."

The marvelous fingers let go and Napoleon bit back a whimper. He couldn't be that needy, could he? Well, bare-assed in the middle of campus, middle of the night, was probably no time to quibble. Of course he could be that needy. It was Illya after all, who could play him like a violin any time he wanted. And Napoleon wanted. He did whimper at that, a thready plaint, and Illya's fingers returned, one hand back to Napoleon's cock, which welcomed it with joyous growth, and one suspiciously cold, damp finger gliding down to his ass, between the cheeks, pressing...

"Hey!" Or at least he meant to say "Hey!" but it came out as a fervent "Yes!" Illya's fingers on his rim seemed to be directly connected to every nerve in his body. The night air surrounded him with humid warmth, Illya's trousers rubbed against Napoleon's nudity, silence around them except for the cicadas humming madly in the trees and he was harder than he had ever been, excited by the exposure, the feeling of the air against his parts, by knowing it was Illya behind him. He heard Illya drag down his own zipper, heard the soft whisper of cotton being pulled aside, a moist squelching, and then the lovely blunt hardness was being held against him, was nosing inside. Napoleon leaned even further over the car, going to his elbows, spreading his legs, pushing back against Illya's forward momentum, and Illya sank in him to the root.

Napoleon breathed out in a rush. He clamped down on Illya's cock, holding it in place, feeling the wonderful length of it in him, hearing an echoing, shivering sigh from behind him. Then Illya's knowing hands came back, one settling in place on his hip, the other gently seeking and finding his old friend, Napoleon's now wildly overexcited penis. Illya's fingers gently captured it, then settled in a firm grip, thumb riding up toward the head, hand wrapped around the length, and Napoleon nearly sobbed with relief as Illya started to move, first just rocking, then gradually lengthening his motion until he was thrusting whole-heartedly, slamming Napoleon forward in glorious repeated friction, pulling his hand toward Napoleon's balls as he thrust his hips forward, so that Napoleon's happy cock was worked in the same rhythm.

There wasn't a sound except for their panting breaths and the cicadas. The long drive stretched emptily in both directions and the red and white lights still flashed over them, matching the tempo Illya had set. Then he felt Illya moving faster, Illya's hand gripping him harder in initial spasm. Illya let out the same little whine that he had let out a month ago in the office and it pushed Napoleon over the edge, making him come in hard, hard spurts that felt as if they were pulling all the moisture from his body. Behind him, Illya pulled back, almost out, slammed forward four times and stayed buried, quivering against Napoleon, hand still moving on Napoleon's cock, slowing as he felt its surrender, then he sighed and subsided onto Napoleon's back, chest heaving.

Napoleon locked his knees and stubbornly stayed on his feet. He refused, even in the blissful afterglow, to slide down and nap on the verge; he'd be picking grass out of his hair till doomsday. Tingling, spent, he waited for some movement to tell him that Illya was back in the land of the living. It came in the form of a light kiss to the back of his neck. Napoleon grinned in the red-and-white speckled dark.

"I've always loved a man in uniform."

He heard an answering grin in the Russian's soft reply. "You should support your local campus police."

"I am supporting you. Get off."

But Illya wrapped his arms around Napoleon in a brief, hard hug before pushing backward and doing up his zipper, then he knelt and drew up Napoleon's pants and shorts. As Napoleon completed putting himself back together, Illya said, "Ghost."

Napoleon laughed. "Of course. What was I thinking? This couldn't just have been about you craving my body, could it?"

"Of course it was, Napoleon. But it was a good Ghost, all the same."

"So - campus? College?" Napoleon looked at Illya, considering. "Cop?"

"Any and all of them," Illya said.

"Then you're it," Napoleon said triumphantly. "C, O, V, E, R."

"No, Napoleon. Mine's at the end. I'll see you back at the office tomorrow." Illya smiled at him smugly, turned and walked back to the campus cruiser. He turned off the lights, waiting for Napoleon to get into the convertible.

"O, V, E, R, C." Napoleon ran over the possibilities as he sat down, a trifle gingerly, cock still twitching a little in memory. So many possibilities; so many opportunities to come. He started the car and moved off down the drive, Illya behind him in the cruiser, vastly content with the game.