He'd quickly realized he couldn't take Illya back to HQ in this condition. He was slower to grasp the trouble it posed until an antidote was found. He'd just said that it was time for bed, and then Illya was stripping and getting into Napoleon's bed on the guest side.

It was taking too long. They, Mr. Waverly and himself, had figured out ways for Illya to work safely in the labs. Outside of the chrome and gunmetal halls, Napoleon had to maintain constant vigilance. His self-control was fraying, sped by enforced celibacy and tempting proximity. Illya was a barnacle.

Still no antidote. They'd had a breakthrough using hypnosis by which they could provide Illya with resistance to other people's orders. Napoleon went on a date, leaving Illya with one of the translators chosen carefully.

It was a bust. She was nice, but all he could think of was Illya. Illya had been prepared by hypnosis to resist the translator, should it be necessary. Napoleon hurried back home after a nightcap, his date clearly disappointed.

He saw the translator out and locked the door. He should've hypnotized Illya to resist him. Napoleon could do it now. He wasn't going to.

"Time for bed." Napoleon pulled on pajamas. He should give dating another try. Give cold showers another try. Give the researchers more time. He should.

They got into bed.

"Turn off the light." Napoleon draped an arm over Illya when he lay down. Crossed the lines he'd drawn between them.

He stroked Illya's chest, slipped his fingers between the buttons, fondled Illya's left nipple. Napoleon nuzzled Illya's neck, pressed against his thighs. He'd never said anything. He'd thought, not that there was always time. He'd thought if he ignored his attraction long enough, it would become moot. So it had.

Tears welled up in Napoleon's eyes, but he didn't stop. He kissed Illya's jaw while he kept humping his partner's leg. Former partner. If, he could no longer only consider when, if they found an antidote, Illya would kill him and his body would never be found. He kept going.

He unbuttoned Illya's pajama top pulling it open running his hands up and down Illya's chest. He rolled both nipples with his thumbs and licked Illya's right ear. Illya made the most luscious sounds. Napoleon couldn't stop. He was so close. He rocked against Illya, slid his hand down. Squeezed.

He came. They came. Napoleon inside his pajamas against Illya's leg, Illya over Napoleon's fist. Napoleon's tears fell. He leaned into flannel, ashamed and obsessed. Illya trusted him. He had failed him, had failed himself. He tried to pull away, rise, clean himself. He'd never be clean, like Lady MacBeth.

Illya rolled over and pinned him, snuffling almost snores against Napoleon's chest, pressing his leg against Napoleon's damp crotch.

Napoleon pulled his hand from Illya's pajama bottoms, wiping it off on the spattered cloth. He cupped Illya's left buttock and kissed him on the top of his head. "Love you."

In the morning Napoleon slipped free, showered, dressed and waited until he was in the kitchen to tell Illya to get up and shower. He couldn't face Illya, not yet. He poured cold cereal into bowls while he waited for Illya to dress. White shirt, black suit, no Walther bulge.

Napoleon poured the milk and dug his spoon into his bowl. Illya could still kill with his bare hands. What were they going to do? He watched Illya eat, no expression of rebuke in his features. He wouldn't. That was the problem, Illya would acquiesce to anything. "Time to go."

They went to work. They came home, ate, Illya read and Napoleon festered. Finally, Napoleon changed for bed and turned in. Illya inserted a bookmark and closed the tome, went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, stripped and crawled into bed. Napoleon again caressed Illya, rubbed against his once partner.

It became their routine. Work, home, sex, sleep. Napoleon had Illya in hand when he considered this. He ducked under the blankets and took Illya into his mouth, just the head at first, tonguing the slit. He slid down further, back, took more and by stages arrived at the root.

Napoleon swallowed around Illya in his throat. He pulled back until only his mouth was full. After exploring those possibilities, he pressed forward again.

Illya's hands cupped the back of Napoleon's head. Napoleon pulled out all the stops. Illya flipped off the covers and rubbed Napoleon's cheek with his fingers.


Napoleon sucked Illya harder in surprise. Illya's touch was so intimate, catching Napoleon's cheek between Illya's fingers and cock. Napoleon grasped himself while he brought Illya to the brink and flung his partner over. He swallowed everything, holding back his orgasm in the ring of his index finger and thumb.

Only once Illya's throes of completion ceased, when his face was slack with satisfaction, did Napoleon finish himself. Quickly, furtively. Done he slid back up, wrapping himself around Illya. His tears slid down his face. He should have said something. Too late. He knew this was wrong. He couldn't resist.

He didn't do it every night. Sometimes he just mouthed the head and swallowed, having worked Illya with his hand. Once he focused on Illya's balls, pulled back and took a faceful. Even standing before the bathroom mirror bespattered didn't make him stop.

He was consumate at work. At home--