Dressed for Dinner
Napoleon smoothed the lapels of his brand-new Italian tuxedo. He had ordered it weeks ago, but it had just arrived from the tailor this afternoon. Perfect. It fit him perfectly and it was made flawlessly.
He loved the clean lines of the nearly invisible seams. He loved the way the silk slipped across his fingers. He loved the way it made him feel. Elegant. Dashing. Invincible.
Now, if he could only get the damned thing on...
Napoleon flexed his hand slightly, wincing at the pull of the stitches. A nice THRUSH lady had been kind enough to liberate him from his bonds last week. Granted, she was aiming for his throat, but she had truly terrible aim and ended up slicing his bound hand instead.
Napoleon was grateful for his intact vocal cords, but wasn't relishing his handicapped status. He and Illya were going to a dinner this evening in honor of a fellow UNCLE agent's retirement from fieldwork, and he couldn't button the buttons on his blasted tuxedo.
He had managed the pants with some difficulty, but the throbbing in his palm told him that he shouldn't attempt the tiny white buttons on the shirt.
Illya rapped on the bedroom door. "Are you done primping yet? We're going to be late."
"Actually, I'm having some difficulty."
Illya poked his head in. "Is it your hand?"
Napoleon waved the hand in question at the shirt and jacket laid out on the bed. "It's the buttons, actually. They refuse to button themselves."
Illya sighed. "If you had just told me this fifteen minutes ago, we wouldn't be late." He pulled the shirt off the bed.
"Careful! Don't crease it." Napoleon held out his arm. "I can put it on myself, you know."
"Apparently you cannot, as it was sitting on the bed."
Napoleon shrugged gently into the shirt. The cool, crisp fabric slid over his arms, making him shiver. He went to straighten the cuffs slightly.
"No, let me." Napoleon glanced up, startled. Illya had been in an odd mood of late, and he was being particularly prickly today. Napoleon did not like it one bit when he couldn't read Illya. It made him feel oddly alone.
"Okay." He was happy to sit back and let Illya pamper him.
Illya delicately straightened Napoleon's cuffs, tugging them down to rest against the bones of his wrists. He reached up and slid two fingers around the edge of Napoleon's collar. Napoleon's breath caught at the sensation of the calluses against the smooth skin of his neck.
Damn, this was getting uncomfortable. There was nothing Napoleon like more than being touched, but being touched so sensually by his partner was more than he could handle. Illya wouldn't thank him for getting aroused by this, that was for sure.
...Or was it?
Illya wasn't looking him in the eye. He was focused on the minute details of Napoeon's shirt. Napoleon doubted that it was a sudden interest in Italian fashion.
No, Illya was up to something.
Illy gently ran his fingers down the edges of his shirt, skimming Napoleon's ribs. He stopped, frozen, at the last button.
Ah, so that's how it was. Napoleon kicked himself mentally for being oblivious to Illya's attention, and mentally kicked Illya for not acting on it sooner.
If Illya couldn't see how Napoleon felt about him, he was a fool. They were both fools.
"Aren't you going to finish?" He asked.
Illya looked up, searching Napoleon's face. Whatever he saw there must have provided him with some answer, because he stepped a fraction closer. "Of course I'm going to finish. You look disreputable like this."
Napoleon smiled and stood a little straighter. "Like what?"
"You're half-dressed." He fingered the neckline of Napoleon's t-shirt.
Napoleon spread his arms. "So dress me."
"I think I like you looking disreputable." Illy ran his hand down to the waistband of Napoleon's pants. "These don't really go with that t-shirt."
Napoleon gasped. "So take them off."
"Perhaps." Illya pushed Napoleon gently onto the bed and unbuttoned the top of his pants. He tugged Napoleon's t-shirt free from the waistband and slipped his hands underneath. Napoleon closed his eyes and hissed, relishing the feel of Illya's warm hands on his stomach.
"Lie still," Illya commanded. "You're injured."
"Just my hand."
"Napoleon, if you won't be quiet, we're going to be even later." He scratched his nails lightly across Napoleon's abdomen.
"Mmmm..." Napoleon was fairly sure that he wasn't going to be doing much talking anymore.
Ilya kissed the faint lines that his nails had made, then licked the path of his kisses. Napoleon moaned and spread his legs further apart. "Please."
Illya pushed Napoleon's knees wide against the bed and tugged his pants and underwear down with one hand. "I'll try not to wrinkle them." He smirked up at Napoleon, before sinking down to capture Napoleon's hard cock in his mouth.
Napoleon moaned, writhing on the bed. His instinct was to brace himself up, but his injured hand made that impossible. He was forced to lie there, helplessly, as Illya sucked him with fierce determination.
"Illya, God..." This wasn't going to take long at all. He couldn't push deeper, couldn't control the pace, but that made it even more erotic. Illya licked and sucked harder and faster, until Napoleon was shuddering and coming in his mouth.
He lay there, dazed, waiting for the spinning sensation to subside.
"Ow!" Illya was poking him in the ribs.
"We're already late."
"And whose fault is that?"
"Who was too proud to ask for help?"
"Well, who took his valet duties a little too seriously?"
Illya frowned. "I am not your valet."
"No, you're my partner." Napoleon smiled and gently caressed Illya's hair.
Illya sniffed. "Yes, and if you look bad, I look bad. So get up. I'll dress you."
Napoleon grinned and stood at attention. "Yes, comrade."
Illya shot him a dark look. "You'll pay for that." He tucked and buttoned Napoleon quickly, before slipping the jacket on him.
Napoleon caught one of Illya's hands with his good one. " If I recall correctly, I already owe you one."
Illya grinned. "Don't worry, I was planning on collecting." He looked momentarily unsure. "This is all..."
Napoleon kissed Illya's knuckles gently. "This is us."
Illya nodded. "Yes. This is us."