Rescues

 

”If one more of Napoleon’s women inquires about how he is faring I will ask your permission to maul something…sir. It can be an inanimate object for now, but if this continues…” Illya mercilessly quenched the stray thought that he would kill someone no matter what his boss answered.

 

“I surmise you have been run down by the same steady stream of worried young ladies that I  have, Mr. Kuryakin.” Mr. Waverly had that almost invisible tick of his upper lip that Illya knew meant he was annoyed beyond belief.

 

“You have no idea, sir,” Illya hunched his shoulders. “He must have charmed half of Manhattan’s female population. They have even called from California, sir.”

 

Mr Waverly smiled around his pipe, belying the seriousness of the situation. “You have my permission, Mr. Kuryakin, although I would rather have you focussing your entire attention to the urgent matter at hand.

 

Illya suppressed his urge to yell in triumph. Mr. Waverly had as good as given him permission to abandon all other cases and search for Napoleon. That was how he interpreted his words anyhow.

 

“So, sir, I have your approval to look for Napoleon, in person?”

 

“Didn’t I just say that, Mr. Kuryakin? What are you hesitating for? Go find your partner!”

 

Illya ran.

 

^*^*^*

 

Two days later he was not so much running as pacing. Up and down in the darkness of a winter afternoon on the pier in the remote Norwegian town of Kirkenes. It was freezingly cold, that was his opinion no matter how much Olav, Illya’s friend and local contact, assured him that it could have been much colder. Temperatures could go down lower than -40 C and freeze your fucking balls off, he had said. Illya had marvelled at how well listening to Olav distracted him from the impatient urge to hurt something that permeated his mind.  Olav’s language was a mixture of proper British English and swearwords that was typical for everyone above the Polar Circle; they needed it like they needed breathing.

 

It made him remember previous missions and how competent Olav and his team were. Illya trusted Olav, which was the one reason he had roped him into helping. Outside the brightly lit and safe UNCLE headquarters harsh reality had crashed into Illya’s consciousness. Napoleon was missing. Napoleon was missing in one of the remote corners of the world. In addition, with Thrush present it was hostile ground. And no matter how much he would wish it otherwise he, with the help of Olav and his contacts, was the only one who cared enough, was competent enough, to go and rescue him.

 

Another option was simply not thinkable. Illya hit a wooden box he passed. Not thinkable at all. Napoleon would make it to the emergency meeting place. He wished he could thank some power that he had insisted on setting it up, and then beg the same power to lead them all safely there and home again. As it was, he had to put his faith in secular skills.

 

Illya stopped and raised his eyes to the infinite winter sky. This late in the year the sun wouldn’t show over the horizon, the few hours of daylight just a murky grey, a shade lighter than the rest of the perpetual night. The black velvet was strewn with glittering stars, right out of a fairy tale. Even more surreal was the Aurora Borealis flickering in the horizon, making him dizzy. The dizziness might also be a result of a lack of food, but he had no urge for food when Napoleon was missing.

 

“We will be ready in a few minutes Illya,” Olav said and patted his shoulder. It felt like a bear’s paw, even through the thick parka Illya had donned to keep the cold out. “Not to worry, we will find your partner. He’ll be there, you’ll see.”  Illya nodded and looked down. He was dressed in the same parka he wore when Napoleon and he had been on their latest mission to Alaska. This time it would be he who would come to Napoleon’s rescue, not the other way around.

 

Yes, Illya hoped he’d see, too. Napoleon had been incommunicado for five days now. He was supposed to report back twice a day, on what had been seen as a low-risk courier trip. Napoleon had even volunteered, just to get a feel of how it was to be a rookie, he had said. Illya snorted through the icicles dangling from his nose. More likely it was to avoid the utterly meaningless and boring seminar they were scheduled to go to on Waverly’s order. By some quirk of fate Waverly had approved of Napoleon’s wish, leaving Illya to attend the dreaded seminar on ‘procedures in the modern office’ alone.  It was a paradox, really, Illya thought. Napoleon’s easy mission had turned out to be a nightmare, while Illya’s seminar had been both interesting and good.

 

Thrush. Of course Thrush, had rigged a trap and attempted to catch Napoleon when he showed up at the Norwegian Consulate-General in Murmansk to deliver his documents to the local undercover UNCLE agent. The last Illya had heard from Napoleon was a hurried message through his communicator, whispering that he would try to make it to the reserve rendezvous place they had set up at Grense Jakobselv, just inside the Soviet border. They couldn’t count on Napoleon being able to cross the border safely if something went wrong with the mission. His UNCLE papers might be less important than being an American and an enemy. Besides, Illya had said, Thrush was everywhere. And how he wished that he had been wrong.

 

Illya longed to hear Napoleon’s story, in fact, the thought of hearing that story was all that kept him going. For who knew better than he, who hadn’t even been allowed to accompany Napoleon since it was inside the Soviet borders, how difficult it was to escape from his native country?

 

“Come on, drink this,” Olav Kekkonen said and handed him a steaming cup.

 

 Illya’s fingers clutched around the hot cup automatically and before he had time to think, he had swallowed down half the content.

“What is this?” Illya spluttered and tried to breathe while his heart beat alarmingly.

He hadn’t even noticed Olav had a thermos in his hand. It could have been a weapon and the warm beverage could very well be poisonous. At least he could imagine that the vile taste could be from a lethal poison.

 

“And stop laughing!” Illya scowled.

 

“Karsk,” Olav managed, “sorry. It’s moonshine and coffee. Bloody good for you. Thought you needed something to warm those fish bones of yours.”

 

“Mmm,” Illya reluctantly conceded and gave Olav the evil eye.

 

 The second half of the karsk went down easier. Probably because he was already numb.

 

“Why are we not speaking Russian, Illya? I do know how, you know.”

 

Illya cleared his throat, which felt like it had been washed with paint-peeler. “Habit. Spies are everywhere.”

 

Olav grinned. “You don’t say.” He patted the bulge under his arm. “Well, this spy is ready for some hellish action.”

 

On cue, Illya heard water rushing behind him and turned. There, sleek and black, was the submarine that would sneak them close to the rendezvous point and his Napoleon. Utstein S302 was painted in white on the side of the tower.

 

She didn’t look much, but for stealth and agility in difficult waters, she was the best.

 

“KNM Utstein!” Olav said. “Isn’t she a fucking beauty?”

 

Olav squeezed the charred and sodden butt of his thick, home-rolled cigarette between his thumb and forefinger and gazed sadly at it. “No smoking on board. Fuck!”

 

Yes, fuck, Illya thought and eeled through the opening down into the submarine. He stepped aside from the ladder and squinted up to see how the bulky Norwegian would manage.

 

“Fucking horse-prick! Bleeding wankers! This hole’s smaller than a mare’s ass!”

 

Not well, Illya thought and turned to the captain-lieutenant who was waiting.

 

“Illya Kuryakin, UNCLE.”

 

The captain engulfed his hand in his and shook it twice. “Pleasure to meet you Mr. Kuryakin. I’m captain-lieutnant Hugo Steine.”

 

“I am told that you are the best choice for a stealthy rescue mission.” Illya let a flicker of appreciation shine in his eyes.

 

“Mr Kuryakin. I know this ocean like my own pocket. We will do our best. We’re leaving as soon as the supplies are loaded onboard. Put your knapsack in the cabin.” He pointed to an alcove, which, if Illya could count, had six narrow beds. It looked smaller than the closet in Napoleon’s bedroom.

 

“Hugo,” Olav said, “you recovered from the slight indisposition you suffered last time we met?”

 

The captain grunted and hit Olav in the shoulder, so Illya assumed he had.

 

Illya stepped aside, which took him into the cabin, and watched the crew prepare for the dive. The crew was efficient, and within minutes they were submerged and under way and Illya found himself standing beside the captain, looking at the instrument panel on the bridge.

 

Olav certainly knew the right people to do a high risk job. The little squeeze around his heart must be hope.

 

“We’ll keep her submerged till we are close to the border,” Steine said. We will then run on half speed - navigating so close to land is tricky.”

 

“And fucking dangerous,” Olav added. Those wankers are watching the waters like a jealous husband with a shotgun.”

 

That’s probably true, Illya thought.

 

“No offence, my friend.” Olav hit Illya’s shoulder again and Illya knew he would have a hard time explaining away the bruises later. He closed his eyes briefly. Napoleon always checked him over when they returned from missions and were finally in the shower at home. Followed up by more pleasant activities…”

 

“…by the tide.” Steine was saying and Illya bit down on the inside of his cheek. Pain always made him focus.

 

“I am sorry, Captain. The tide?” Illya dragged his hands through his hair. It would not do to miss a detail now.

 

“Yes,” the captain cast him a sympathetic glance and looked at Olav. “I understand that your partner will try to be at the beach at midnight, and then again six hours later?”

 

“That’s as right as a churchman’s prick,” Olav informed him. “He might bring that fucker of an undercover agent from the consulate too, if I guess correct. He couldn’t keep his pig’s cunt eyes in focus and went and revealed himself to the locals - that’s my guess, anyway.” He turned to Illya. “Not your Mr. Solo of course.” 

 

“Probably,” Illya agreed, feeling the start of a smile on his lips. “And Napoleon would not jeopardize his identity except in an emergency. No need for the Soviets to learn that there was an American spy inside their borders. It could, as we all know, create a major incident.”

 

“Yeah, well, I’ll take your word for his proficiency, Russian.” Olav winked conspiratorially at him.

 

“So, Illya. As Hugo was saying, we go to the surface, launch the survival boat, you, me and one of the guys here, in unmarked wet suits naturally - wouldn’t want the fuckers to think it was an invasion - row ashore, pick up your Napoleon and his soddin’ companion, row back, and go home.”

 

Trust Olav to get to the point.

 

“Is this not one of the most guarded parts of the border?” Illya asked.

 

“That’s why we use the submarine. Over land? Poft!” Olav mimed shooting and falling.

 

“We rely on stealth and speed,” Steine said. “This submarine is so small that it can move around undetected and in tricky waters.” The Soviets use larger ones in these areas. We can only hope that none of their submarines is deployed nearby this night.”

 

We can also hope the famous Solo luck holds one more time, Illya thought. What had happened to his partner? The last Illya knew was that he was on the run from Thrush villains, who had an uncanny ability to appear where they were the least wanted.

 

“According to the last intelligence I received, there is no submarine activity planned nearby. It seems that the real threat here is Thrush, who in some fashion must have infiltrated the Norwegian consulate in Murmansk, and as a bonus discovered an undercover agent with an American swing to his Russian.”

 

“Yes, blame us,” Olav growled.

 

“I am not blaming anyone, Thrush is a powerful organization.”

 

“Not when I have crushed their nest and kicked the feathers off their hides for hurting a friend of mine,” Olav stated and slapped Illya’s back playfully. Yes, Napoleon would be so curious about the marks on his body. And did birds have hides? He thought not.

 

“You both are invited to sit in my cabin,” Steine said, and pointed behind him into another small closet. “We need the space here to operate the u-boat.”

 

It was a tad on the claustrophobic side, Illya admitted to himself; it was the smallest submarine he had been aboard. A few minutes sitting down, perhaps with a cup of tea the Irish way would be welcome before the rescue attempt.

 

“I’ll get you some tea,” Olav said as on cue, and much to Illya’s relief. He was really not up to talking to strangers right now. Olav pointed at Illya, “You won’t get any booze in it - we might need your precision on this one.”

 

Before Illya could assure him of his skills even when slightly inebriated, he ducked around the corner towards the pantry Illya had seen on their way to the bridge.

 

“He is your partner, the agent we are searching for?”

 

Illya sank down on the bulk and looked up at Steine.. “Yes.”

 

“He is worth rescuing?”

 

Illya nodded, his throat suddenly tight. “He is worth everything.” And where did that honesty come from? He was not the kind that spoke of his emotions to complete strangers.

 

“Good men are hard to find,” captain Steine agreed and turned to his instruments.

 

The tea warmed, but did nothing to calm Illya. He needed to do something.

“I’m sure you could wear a hole in the floor, dive through it and swim ashore if you tap a bit harder with your feet,” Olav said and looked up from the brochure he was studying.

 

Illya jumped up. That was it - he needed action. “I will check out the engine room.”

 

“You do that, but don’t piss off the electricians. They run this whalefucker,” Olav instructed.

 

Illya manoeuvred through the narrow corridor until he was in the engine room at the rear of the hull.  There, two men were busily checking instruments and Illya knew he was home. “Wanna help or look?” one youngster said, and Illya chose help.

 

--

 

“Illya!”

 

Illya looked up and wiped his greasy hands on his jeans. The jeans were a lost cause anyway. “Olav?”

 

“You wanna go ashore? It’s almost midnight.”

 

Illya suppressed the rude answer to that. “Naturally.”

 

It was the darkest night Illya had had the pleasure of being out in. To top it off thick, heavy fog rolled towards the shore, making the stars from earlier a distant memory. The fog seeped into everything, and made navigating difficult. Illya was seated at the back of the small inflatable lifeboat, and he could barely make out the contours of Olav and the crew member, both dressed in sensible black waterproof suits. They hadn’t bothered with the hoods, so the hems of their grey woollen sweaters peeked up under their chin.

 

 The only sound above the tide lapping against the marbled beach was the oars dipping in and out of the cold water. When they reached the shore, it was almost a surprise to Illya. One moment they were rowing silently, the next moment the hull ploughed through gravel with a scrunching noise. “We’re here,” Olav whispered and Illya bit back another scathing answer. He must be a tad tense; he didn’t normally want to slight his friends like that.

 

Illya jumped ashore together with Olav and dragged the boat up and partly out of the water. The crew member would stay and guard the boat, and leave alone if he was threatened or if they didn’t return in half an hour. They didn’t dare stay longer. No enemy in sight now didn’t mean no enemy approaching.

 

Illya searched every inch of the small bay and the grass covered slope behind it, whispering Napoleon’s name and wielding his dimmed flashlight.

 

It was empty, there was no Napoleon laying in hiding, ready to come on Illya’s urging.

 

“We might as well turn back to the boat, Illya sighed, receiving another numbing pat to his shoulder. More sympathy from Olav, and he would be hospitalized.

 

They had searched further away than he had noticed, and the walk back to the boat took a good five minutes. Illya was for a moment afraid that the boat had returned without them, but he could make out the contour of it when they reached the shore.

 

“What took you so long?”

 

Napoleon’s tired voice was perhaps the most beautiful music Illya had ever heard. And there was Napoleon; bulky in his trusty parka and his face strangely square under the fur cap. But the smile; it was the usual one; the open one Napoleon reserved for him alone. Illya rushed forward, jumped into the boat and was met by a strong embrace and a comforting hug. He didn’t care who saw, this had been too close. Which reminded him…

 

He drew back and swatted Napoleon over the head. “You…you…dubiina! Yelda!” *

“Ouch! What was that for, Illya? And thank you.”

 

“Ssh. Let’s move,” Olav suggested, and the crew member, a young boy, who had been staring at them Illya registered, let out the oars.

 

Illya leaned against Napoleon. “Was there not another agent with you?”

 

“We had a slight disagreement. He decided to take the scenic route. Over land. My guess is that he is in Sweden now.”

 

Illya could easily read in Napoleon’s expression that there was a story to be told there…but another time.

 

They kept quiet the rest of the way back to the submarine. Olav and the boy rowed, using a steady and economic rhythm that told Illya they had done this before.

 

Napoleon’s teeth glinted white when the submarine rose, black and imposing, out of the fog. “I see you have provided decent transportation for once, Illya.”

 

---

 

 

Napoleon landed on his two feet at the bottom of the ladder, scanned his surroundings, and said; “It’s good to be home. First; I need a hot shower and clean clothes. Second; a meal wouldn’t be amiss. Then I’m ready to satisfy your curiosity.” His gaze included Illya and Olav, who had held back and stayed beside Illya.

 

“There is no shower here, you spoiled American,” Illya told him. He was proud that only a little of his glee escaped. “You’ll have to stay smelly and dirty until we reach land.”

 

“That will take awhile, Mr. Solo. I’m Olav Kekkonen.” Olav extended his hand towards Napoleon.

 

“Finnish? Aren’t you a suspected enemy?” Napoleon viewed Olav’s hand suspiciously, but took it and shook it. Illya didn’t miss the slight wince in Napoleon’s face. Olav was fond of intimidating people.

 

“Bullshit. There are many families with Finnish roots here. We Arctic people know no borders.” Olav glared at Napoleon and let go of his hand.

 

“Napoleon.” Illya edged himself in between the two. “Be kind to the man who organized your rescue.”

 

“Be k…eh, my apologies. I’ve been under slight duress these past days.” Napoleon smoothed his brow with his thumb and forefinger and managed to look contrite. But only for a moment, then he looked down and focussed his attention on unbuttoning his parka.

 

“Come.” Illya said and nudged Napoleon’s elbow. “I will take you to see the captain, and then you can rest in his cabin.” Illya pretended not to see the little glint of mischief that sparked in Napoleon’s already sparkling eyes at that. There would be no rest of the kind that included naked, touching body parts for a while yet. No matter how much some of said body parts craved it.

 

Olav nodded to Illya and drew his attention away from the frustration of being so close to Napoleon and yet so far away…  Illya watched as Olav started manoeuvring his large body forward through the narrow corridor. “A bloody good idea, Illya. I’ll bully the cook into making us a night meal. You didn’t eat a fucking mouthful earlier. You’re starting to look like a skeleton.”

 

Olav disappeared around the corner together with the crew member who had accompanied them and Napoleon turned and tugged Illya closer, wagging his eyebrows at him. “Alone at last, Illyusha. Will we have this captain’s cabin to ourselves, or will that rugged friend of yours insist on chaperoning us?” Illya felt Napoleon’s excitement at finally being together again pressing into his thigh. He leaned into Napoleon’s embrace, resting his head against his safe shoulder. How tempting was it not to let go, if only for a short while? Napoleon’s soft breath tickled against his ear and his tongue was wet against his skin.

 

 Illya jerked back.

 

“Napoleon! There will be no…”

 

“Tsk, tsk, Illya.” Napoleon nipped at his earlobe while he whispered. “I’m in dire need of relief. Exhausted I may be, but I wouldn’t say no to a quickie. I haven’t gotten any for days.”

 

Illya suppressed the giggle that bubbled up. He blamed the squeak that escaped on his relief at having gotten his partner back. “There will be no intimacy while we are on this submarine, Napoleon.” He met Napoleon’s imploring eyes. “Besides, there is hardly room for such activities.”

 

“I don’t believe you.” Napoleon jogged after Illya. “There’s always the lavatory. Remember our first time on an airplane?”

 

Illya did and told his cheeks not to blush. “That was a ballroom compared to the one here. Don’t be ludicrous. This is a submarine, Napoleon.”

 

Illya trusted Napoleon to get the point when he saw the curtain separating the bridge and the small alcove they called the captain’s cabin. When Napoleon returned from a visit to the lavatory, the resigned look in his eyes gave Illya a tiny ray of hope that there would be no nudges and innuendoes before they reached land.

 

“We will have to make a detour out from the coast and go down to Bergen to dock,” the captain informed them, “we will reach harbour in two days. You can catch a plane from there to the UNCLE office in Oslo.” He scrunched his nose. “Perhaps you wish to clean up now, Mr. Solo?”

 

Illya did nothing to suppress his laughter this time, when he watched Napoleon really look at himself and the appalled expression turned to horror. He did not inform Napoleon that the only water for washing onboard was lukewarm seawater. The fresh water was saved for brushing teeth. Add the moist and hot air they had to live in while submerged and Napoleon was in for a bad time.

 

Illya had not anticipated that the one in for a bad time was himself. Each time he turned a corner and each time he tried to sit down, or worse; lay down, Napoleon was there. He would accidentally brush against him, letting Illya feel his semi-hard erection against his hip, or against his belly. He would sit down beside him, legs wide apart and hands suggestively framing his crotch. No matter how fast Illya managed to tear his eyes from the tempting sight, it would remain on his retina for minutes after.

 

Napoleon seemed to have made it his mission to bump into Illya in the narrow, instrument infested corridor as often as possible. Their bodies fit perfectly; every curve and surface would melt together the one, brief moment it took to pass each other. Illya could have screamed in frustration. If he didn’t get any relief soon, he would combust. He was sure of it.

 

 Illya was also sure that the crew was anticipating with impatience the moment they could spew out their guests from the cramped hull. Napoleon and he, they disturbed the balance onboard; the balance that had to be finely tuned in such a small space filled with men used to action but forced to patience. There were mumbled conversations that stopped when he approached and whispered words behind their backs. He didn’t understand whether they were friendly or not. Most of the men kept to themselves and spoke only in technical terms when Illya tried to talk in the periods he managed to escape Napoleon and work in the engine room. Olav, with his northern heritage, was the exception. But the others accepted him with a roll of their eyes and a quick laugh at his atrocities.

 

Napoleon used all the tricks in his book; winking eyes, seductive smiles, wagging hips, and at one particularly trying moment; Napoleon brushed and pinched his own nipples through the tin cotton tank top he was wearing in the moist and hot air in the submarine. Illya had to bite the base of his thumb to keep from whimpering, and afterwards pretend that something had itched, to keep Olav off their backs. Figuratively speaking.

 

Because Olav was always there. Illya, you want some tea? Illya, wanna sing another bloody shanty?  Illya, what about a game of cards? Illya, remember that time on Iceland?

 

Napoleon, focusing his pent-up energy, won the poker games more often than not. That, Illya thought, was not a smart move if Napoleon had wanted to get into Olav’s good books.

 

The only relief Illya got was those small moments when Napoleon’s teasing façade broke and Illya could see straight into Napoleon’s mind at how frustrated, how exhausted Napoleon was. Then he knew he’d let Napoleon indulge in his fun and games as much as he wanted.

 

--

 

They surfaced outside Bergen and docked just as the sun was setting. Illya’s mind was full of thoughts of finding his knapsack and dragging Napoleon ashore, clubbed into unconsciousness if necessary to hurry it up, getting him on a plane to Oslo, and into the bathroom at the UNCLE office there for a brief relief, then on to New York, and home… But before he could set his plan into motion they were approached by most of the eighteen men large crew. They were surrounded and led to the tiny room that passed for a cabin and sat down. Illya could sense Napoleon’s uneasiness; it mirrored his own. What now? Escape was virtually impossible.

 

“Illya,” Olav loomed over them, flanked by the crew members. They were all dressed in their dark blue naval uniforms by now, anticipating land law. The impression was of a huge, dark menace.

 

“And Napoleon.” He winked at them both and leered. It made Illya ease up, if only marginally.

 

“It has,” Olav swiped his arms out to indicate all of them, nearly knocking down the two nearest hulks. “Been a pleasure from the blackest hell to watch you two fuckers.”

 

That started well, Illya thought.

 

“We would sell our grandmothers to be a fly on the wall of your room the next hour. But alas. We have our own fucking needs to take care of. Needs which have grown like a devilish horse-dick watching you two.” Illya curled his fingers around Napoleon’s hand, which he had sneaked over to Illya’s knee.

 

“You can swear on your grave this is the truth.” Olav stepped aside, to let another bearded man step forth. Illya recognised the navigator. What he hadn’t seen before was the accordion he had strapped to his belly. “So, we’ve made a farewell shanty to celebrate your departure, and,” Olav leered again, probably for good measure, Illya thought. “To show you that we know bloody well what you two will be doing the rest of the night. Haha!”

--

 

En sjöman älskar havets våg,

Ja vågornas brus,

När stormen skakar mast og tåg.

Hör stormarnas sus!

:/;Farväl, farväl, förtjusande mö!

Vi komma väl snart igjen.:/:

 

Napol’on lost his way up north

Hey, ho and fuck,

Illya ran to rescu’ forth

Hey, ho and fuck!

:/:Goodbye, goodbye, lover-boys two.

We’ll meet again sometime.:/:

 

 

 

Napol’on teased him with his dick

Hey, ho and fuck,

Illya’s hole is soft and slick

Hey, ho and fuck

 

 

Now Illya wants to ride that dick.

Hey, ho and fuck,

It’s proud and long and oh so thick

Hey, ho and fuck!

 

 

Napoleon greas’ it up so well

Hey, ho and fuck,

That Illya soon will moan and yell!

Hey, ho and fuck!

 

--

 

 

Illya lost count after the fourth verse; his ears burned too brightly by then. But finally, it ended with a crescendo of impossibilities.

 

“I..erhm…wasn’t…hrm…aware of…” Napoleon, his usually eloquent partner stammered, which Illya found immensely adorable. Not that he would ever tell him that, of course, he thought, and patted Napoleon’s hand.

 

“We seem to have given each other mutual pleasure gentlemen,” Illya said and winked back at Olav. “But…

 

 Unfort’nately our roads must part,

Hey, ho and fuck,

 I long to bring my partner home!

Hey, ho and fuck.

:/:Goodbye, goodbye, crazy crew.

We grateful are to you.:/:”

 

 Illya nodded to the laughing men.

 

“Not so hasty, Illya. There are rules.” Olav’s grin vanished.

 

Illya tensed and felt Napoleon’s hand grip harder around his knee.

 

“Oh come on, my friend. Don’t you trust me?” Olav took up a small bag made of dark cloth, closed with a shoe string. “Here’s our farewell presents to you.” To the whistles from the choir he handed Illya the bag. Illya peered inside; a key with a small card attached. “Brygga Hotell” was printed on one side with the address.

 

“And…” Olav said and Illya sighed and reached into the bag to extricate a large yellow jar. Vaseline. The brand they used on board both for the engine and for their dry lips. Also for other body parts it would seem.

 

“Ah, Illya, it seems they know in detail what we will be doing the next few hours.” Napoleon said and Illya turned to him. The merry twinkle in his dark eyes told Illya that Napoleon’s libido had won out over his embarrassment at last.

 

 

“All members of the crew and their visitors are entitled to a room in a bleedin’ good hotel when they go ashore,” Olav said. Didn’t they tell you?” His merry eyes knew “they” hadn’t. “My cousin works at this hotel, I know it well.”  He winked at them. “Think of us,” Olav indicated all of them, “when you enter your room.” He clapped his hands once, “now, a refrain from us and then we’re off.”

 

Illya clutched the room key and prepared for another song that would make his ears hurt. He was not disappointed.

 

--

 

 

“Finally,” Napoleon said and pushed past Illya into the room…only to stop just inside the door.

 

“What? Napoleon, what is it?” Illya took the key out of the lock and peered over Napoleon’s shoulder.

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yes, oh, my Russian lover. It would appear that your rescue team knew exactly what we’ll be doing.” Napoleon’s voice had changed into that dark purr Illya knew meant bed and now and naked.

 

Illya dropped his knapsack and started unbuttoning his parka, walking towards the huge bed. This was too much. In the middle there was a heap of colourful supplies. More Vaseline, a bottle of baby oil, a jar of hand lotion, paper wipes, several strips of condoms…

 

 

 

Happy holidays to all of you!

 

 

 

(* idiot, huge dick)