CAMERA OBSCURA

by Kitty Fisher

"Hey, Nappy! What d'you think of this one?"

With an internal wince at the name she insisted on calling him, Napoleon Solo returned reluctantly from his daydream and focused on the garment that was being held up for his inspection. He sighed, "It's just lovely."

"Really?" Petite, blond, and with curves in all the right places, the young woman bit her lip, holding the pink–frilled creation up to herself.

What was it about women and shopping? He slid both hands deeper into his pockets, pretended to consider the matter, and gave a grave nod. "You'll look spectacular." In fact, Tiffany Stokowski would look spectacular in anything, but she clearly didn't want to be told anything that sweeping; what she needed to have was intense reassurance about every single garment she bought today. Still, it only served him right for agreeing to the day's 'entertainment' in the first place. Idly, he wondered if this was the last shop before lunch; he sincerely hoped so — this was more exhausting than working.

"Are you sure?"

"Go and try it on, that way you'll be sure."

"Shall I?"

"It might not fit."

She batted her eyelashes at him, "But it's a size six and so am I."

"Just to be on the safe side. Go on." He encouraged her with a smile, the sigh that escaped his lips at the same time so soft that it was hardly audible. "I'll wait here."

"Promise?"

"Cross my heart." She smiled as he enacted the pledge with a finger across where his heart would be beating under the grey silk suit, and disappeared with a wave of her fingers into one of the changing rooms.

Napoleon yawned.

"Can I get you a coffee, sir?"

He turned on his heel and looked into a pair of wide blue eyes. He slowly scanned south and took in a delicious body, sheer black stockings and a very high pair of pumps that promised far more than her demure uniform. He raised an eyebrow in appreciation.

"Coffee? While you wait?"

Her assistants' badge was in just the right place; he resisted the urge to finger it, contenting himself with reading her name. "No thank you, Charlene, I'm fine."

He acknowledged the disappointment in her eyes with a wry smile, watching as she walked away with a swivel worthy of Marilyn herself.

He could just as easily have said yes: despite the fact that he'd looked into her irises and seen only their similarity to a certain Russian's. He smiled at the thought, wondering if Illya thought of him every time he looked into a pair of brown eyes. Maybe, maybe not. But then, as the Russian didn't have a reputation as a ladies man to uphold, he didn't sleep around anyway. Being chaste had certainly made his life easier than Napoleon's.

Not that Illya really was chaste. He certainly wasn't in bed with Napoleon, anyway. No, he was hot blooded and so utterly sensual that it was enough to give a man a hard–on. Something that wasn't really advisable in public.

With a cough of embarrassment, Solo turned to inspect a rack of dresses, waiting for his body to behave.

It really wasn't fair that liaisons between agents were forbidden. Of course he knew all the reasons, but they didn't help. Though quite what Waverley would say if they told him what they got up to once a month was almost worth the dismissal that would follow hard on that particular conversation. Not that he and Illya had meant to fall in love. Or to find such joy with each other in bed. Both things had just happened.

And Napoleon for one had no complaints at all with that. In fact, he spent two–thirds of his free time fantasising about what he would do to drive the Russian crazy with lust the next time they happened to get into bed together.

"So, what d'you think?"

Tiffany was standing at the entrance to changing rooms, wearing the scrap of pink silk that seemed to have a mile of frills sewn onto it. Checking that his jacket was closed, finding it almost impossible to swing his thought away from someone who rarely wore anything more elaborate than plain black, Napoleon cursed his own distraction. "Very nice."

"Just nice?"

"Gorgeous. And very sexy."

The doubt wiped off her face in an instant and she giggled. "You don't think it looks too much like, well, nightwear?" She flicked a varnished nail at a cascade of ruffles.

"My dear, that is exactly why it looks so sexy. Believe me, I'm an expert in these things."

"I know." And with a wink she went back into the hallowed ground of the fitting room; his reputation was definitely part of his appeal.

Napoleon, meanwhile, was thinking of other things.

Of Illya in a blindfold and nothing else.

It really was a good job this jacket was cut on the long side.

He grinned at the dresses in front of his eyes. Yeah, and nothing else except maybe some sweat. The trouble was finding the right blindfold. He'd searched a few sex–shops, but there was nothing that had been right; everything too cheap, too mass–manufactured, when Illya deserved something wonderful, maybe something old, something expensive. Unfortunately the business listings in the phone book didn't include a shop where you could buy such arcane things, or if they did he'd never found them. The idea had been in his head for a while and he couldn't shift it, but neither could be find the means to make it happen.

Besides, he didn't want Illya to laugh, which if he was presented with a scrap of badly sewn plastic from Sex–Mart was more than likely. The Russian didn't laugh often, but when he did the strangest things could set him off. And Napoleon suggesting they spice up their sex–life with a two–dollar mask was probably going to be one of them.

He was still frowning at nothing when he saw it.

The dress itself he didn't even notice, but the sash...

He crossed the few yards over to the display, his frown still in place but now composed entirely of concentration. With a few deft movements he had the sash stripped off the dummy and was holding it in his hands.

The length of fabric was soft, utterly sensual as he ran it slowly between his fingers. Silk–velvet, black as darkest onyx, lined with a scarlet silk so fine that it was seemingly without grain or weave or texture. It felt like summer, or water running clear on a hot day; tantalising, promising. It was light and supple as it glided across his skin, warm to the touch on one side, cool on the other.

There was no question that he had to own it. Or as to what it would be best used for.

He beckoned a sales–girl. "Wrap this up for me will you."

"Yes, sir." She smiled, "I'll just take a moment to get the dress off the display."

"Oh, I don't want the dress, just the sash."

She looked at him as if convinced he was not quite right in the head. "But it goes with the dress, I can't sell you the sash on its own."

"Yes you can."

"But I can't..." She looked around her in desperation. "We have to sell them together."

"Why?"

She focused back on him, her eyes wide with panic. "Because that's how it is."

Napoleon sighed. "Tell you what, just take the price tag over to the counter, ring up the dress, but only wrap up the sash. How's that?"

"But..." She swallowed. "But the dress is Fabrizio; it's over two hundred dollars!"

He blinked, but years of training hid his surprise. Not that the price mattered, not at this moment. He looked down his nose at her. "I think you'll find my credit is good. Check out my account if you need — my name's Napoleon Solo."

This time there was no doubt at all that she knew he was mad.

"Go on — ask your supervisor."

Assisted by a gentle pat on the curve of her bottom, she went.

Tiffany appeared at his side from where she reached up and kissed his cheek. "They're wrapping the dress."

"Good."

She paused for a moment, reading his distraction. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Tiffany, just fine." And he bent a wide smile in her direction. "Ready, then?"

"Yeah. Nappy, where are we going for lunch?"

"Wherever you want." As long as it didn't take long. He wanted to be home, admiring his new purchase, planning the following evening which was already booked in for Illya. Recovering from shock at what he'd just spent.

"It's charged to your account, Mr. Solo." The flustered sales–girl appeared at his side with her supervisor just at her heels. "I'm sorry if I made it awkward for you, but I've never had that sort of request before. I wasn't really shocked."

"Of course not!"

"I'm sorry..."

"Think nothing of it, really..." He smiled at the shop's two employees and took the small, ribbon–tied package, just as a third assistant arrived with another, much larger box. "Ah, Tiffany, this must be yours."

And before she could ask any questions he took her arm and with a hurried farewell guided her out of the store.

"What did you buy, Napoleon?" her voice was rather small.

"Nothing much. So where did you choose for lunch?"

And on the day went, with him completely oblivious to the fact that his companion had picked up entirely the wrong idea about his purchase. Through three courses of delightful French food all she thought about was the package that he wouldn't talk about and what had been said about it. By coffee she had moved on, and was doubtfully trying to work out if she felt the same way about Napoleon as she had before; now that she knew he secretly liked to wear women's clothes.

* * * * *

It was the first Monday in the month; it was their evening. Their night. Lovers for three years, this was the time they held for each other. If they were working, then they had to reschedule the day. But in Napoleon's mind, whatever the actual date, it was still the first Monday in the month, as if the ritual in the words was more important than their reality. Though the reality of Illya's presence was always enough.

They should be living together, but as that wasn't possible, then he was determined to make the best of the free time they did manage to spend in each others' company.

The Krug was chilled to perfection and waited in a Georgian silver cooler on the side of the bed. In the refrigerator waited caviar, blintzes, a fruit salad that had been marinated in Kirsch and a tub of that beetroot–salad from Alfredo's that Illya seemed so impassioned about. In the freezer were two bottles of vodka: one plain, one pepper.

Neither of them would want dinner, but they'd be hungry afterwards.

Afterwards.

The mere thought made Napoleon shiver, then he rebuked himself — there was no point going too fast. These evenings when they had time and security to be themselves with each other were thin enough on the ground without wishing the night away already.

To still his thoughts he checked the room, smoothing out the already creaseless silk sheets, turning up the heating until he was too warm. The sash he extracted form its packaging and held in his hands for a long time.

Ilya tied up, driven to distraction, panting with desperation.

Napoleon sighed. It wasn't that he wanted to play extreme games with Illya, or get into anything as arcane as Japanese bondage — though the thought of having the Russian completely under his control had distinct possibilities. Instead, he wanted to lavish attention on that slim, perfect body without any distractions, with Illya just lying there, accepting. Something he wasn't very good at.

As far as Napoleon was concerned, bed was one of the few places in life where it really was occasionally better to give than to receive.

He touched the velvet to his cheek and closed his eyes, imagining what it would be like. And was instantly hard, his cock pressing against the cotton of his shorts.

Maybe another time he'd be able to persuade Illya to return the compliment. If he enjoyed tonight enough, that was.

Carefully folding the fabric he slid it under Illya's pillow, settling it back with an appreciative pat. The emperor–size bed, with its carved headboard and heavy silk sheets was a perfect frame for the honey and gold of Illya's body; the vivid blindfold would serve as a perfect accent, the final touch that would create a masterpiece.

He smiled wryly at the extravagant thought. Glancing around, checking the drapes were closed, he dimmed the lights and paced over to the mirror that ran the length of his built–in closet to inspect himself. His suit was perfect; dark, utterly conservative. His shirt was immaculately white, without button on the collar point or a pocket at the breast. There was certainly no monogram to mar the Egyptian cotton. His tie was dark red silk, a darker, more sombre red than the lining for the sash, but just as pleasing to the eye. He straightened its knot microscopically, raising an admiring brow at his own reflection; an amused smile at his antics staring confidently back at him.

Hell, but where was the point in being coy?

"Napoleon, what are you doing?"

Solo turned, his alarm solely in having been caught deep in self admiration. He knew exactly who it was — the only man in the world who could sneak up on him unawares. He cleared his throat, "I was checking I looked okay." Half a truth was better than half a lie. He smiled hopefully.

"You know something?"

"Lots of things, but what in particular?"

"That you are quite shameless."

Napoleon shrugged.

Amused, Illya pushed away from the door–frame where he had been leaning for all of about forty–five seconds and stepped silently across the carpet, to stand just behind and to the right of his lover. He stared at their combined reflections. "Very pretty."

"You or me?"

"Both of us."

And they both laughed; the irony of the Russian's comment lost in the wholehearted agreement of the American.

"Drink?"

"What are you, a mind–reader?" Illya placed a quick, light kiss on Napoleon's cheek before stepping away and beginning to strip off his jacket. "Give me glass of that rubbish with bubbles in it. If I drink enough of it I'm bound to work out why you like it so much."

"There's vodka in the ice–box if you'd rather."

"Nope, tonight I'm all American."

"Really? You mean right down to stars and stripes shorts?"

"No..."

"Uncle Sam?"

Napoleon..."

"No, I know — you've had a tattoo of George Washington and you'd been waiting to tell me?"

"Will you be quiet, you idiot!"

"You could always shut me up..." Napoleon followed his lover across the room, his face intent, a grin that twisted away at the last minute widening his mouth.

"I could." Illya's smile was just as wicked, his eyes dancing with suppressed delight. "But I want a drink."

"I'm surprised you don't want a bourbon and to sit and watch the Laker's game."

"Tetchy, tetchy. Patience is a virtue, remember?"

"Remember! You engraved it on my heart last time."

"Only on your heart?" Illya cupped his hand to the swell of Napoleon's groin. "Damn, I thought I'd got at least to your balls." He gave a little squeeze accompanied by a wide smile as their eyes met.

Napoleon grunted as the exploring hand reactivated what his earlier fantasies had begun. "Just you wait, you fiendish Russian."

"I've been thinking about nothing else all week. Besides it is your turn."

"Yeah. And after last time I deserve it."

"But you did enjoy it, didn't you?" Kuryakin let his hand drop away, a slight frown pulling his brows together.

Napoleon relented. "It was the best. Truly." And it had been, sending him sky–high in ecstasy. Tonight he wanted to bestow a similar gift on his lover. That, or better, which, come to think of it, he wasn't really sure was humanely possible. Though it would be fun finding out.

He walked over to the bed and with great artistry that rose from many years of practise, poured them both a crystal flute of Champagne. He held one out, "Here."

"Cheers." Illya proceeded to knock it back in one, made a face and then handed the glass back to a resigned Napoleon.

"You're meant to sip it."

"It tastes better taken quickly — like medicine."

Napoleon sighed, merely proffering the bottle. "Another?"

"After a shower. Unlike some people I could mention I've been at work today."

"And how is our dear, old U.N.C.L.E.?"

"Quiet."

"Thank heavens for small mercies."

"My thoughts exactly." Illya was slipping out of his shirt, heading for the shower. "I won't be long, coming?"

"Not that I noticed!" That eyebrow did its stuff.

"Idiot!" Illya tutted affectionately and walked towards the adjoining bathroom.

"That's the second time you've called me an idiot this evening!"

"Well, isn't that what Americans do — say things as they find them?"

"Illya?"

"Mmm." He was half out of his pants, though he turned to face Napoleon as he peered through the door.

"Go back to being Russian — I find you far easier as your usual devious, underhanded self."

The imprecation thrown back at him was muted by the sound of the shower being turned on. Napoleon smiled and left his lover to the water.

* * * * *

"Still dressed?" Illya walked in through a cloud of steam that wreathed around him. He had a towel around his waist and his hair was combed straight, dark from the water.

"I thought you might like to undress me."

"Did you?" Illya slipped the towel away from his waist, letting it drop to the floor. His cock was fat and growing, the dark–gold hair at his groin sparkling with moisture in the lamps' muted light.

"Mmm."

"Well, it just happens you're right." Illya stopped when he was very close, close enough for Napoleon to know that he'd shaved and cleaned his teeth, the scent of peppermint quite sharp above the smell of soap and shaving–cream. He tilted his head to one side, considering. "Unless you want to do it fully clothed with me naked; like a john."

Illya as a whore. The thought made Solo shiver with lust. He licked his lips, "Not tonight, but another time — yes."

"Mmm." Illya stepped closer, pressing his nude body to the length of his lover's. Over his shoulder Napoleon watched them both in the mirror — the contrast between the naked and the clothed obscene, and utterly arousing. "Nice?"

"Very." Napoleon nodded, giving a soft gasp as Illya unexpectedly kissed him, drawing the flesh of his lip into his mouth, sucking at it before leaning back slightly, a heavy–lidded smile crinkling his eyes.

"Nicer?"

"Mmm."

"More?"

"Need you ask?"

"Always."

"Courteous as ever."

"Naturally."

They both smiled.

The kiss was long and deep, utterly concentrated. Illya slid his tongue deep into the wide mouth, finding heat and need and a passion that easily matched his own. In the end they had to break apart before the kiss became all they needed.

With hands that refused to hold quite steady, Illya began to unbutton the white shirt, remembering at the last minute that he needed to take the tie off first. He cursed at the elaborate knot, though it gave to his fingers after a moment. Napoleon's skin was so tan; honey to his own cream. He bared it slowly, peeling first the jacket off the wide shoulders, then tugging the tie until it fell to the floor. There were gold links joining the neat cuffs and it took him a moment to loose them, then the shirt joined the rest on the floor.

Patient, he smoothed his hands over the skin that belonged to him. For, no matter how many women there were, he knew that Napoleon was his, the same way he was Napoleon's. There were many things in his life he doubted, but that basic truth was never one of them.

His hands found the clasp at Solo's waist and he unsnapped it, drawing down the zipper with a smile of anticipation. Ducking away from what was about to become another kiss he quickly knelt and with a tap of encouragement on a knee removed first one shoe and sock, then the other.

Scarcely breathing, Napoleon watched him reach up and take hold of both pants and shorts, pulling them both down slowly, freeing his cock to spring hard and ready into the air. He shuddered when Illya licked it; a quick, cat–like lick of promise. Encouraged out of his trousers, he too was naked and he glanced at the image in the mirror, seeing the man kneeling at his feet, seeing his own hard–on, watching the moisture that gleamed on its snub head.

"What do you want?" Illya's voice was dark with desire. He forced himself not to take his lover's cock into his mouth. This was Napoleon's night; his to choose, to take. "Tell me."

"Stand up." Illya obliged with a graceful movement that took apparently no effort. "Do you trust me?"

"With my life." Illya was quite serious — he had to be.

"Then wait here."

As Illya nodded, Napoleon turned, kicking his clothes out of the way. He retrieved what he wanted from under his pillow and, with a heart that appeared to be trying to beat in his throat, went back to where he had left the Russian standing. He held the cloth lightly between his hands and offered it up. "May I blindfold you?"

There was a barely perceptible pause before the blond head nodded.

Napoleon swallowed hard. "Face the mirror."

He stood behind the Russian and watched through the glass. With one hand he reached around and touched the pale skin, smoothing the flat planes, the enticing curves. He held tight to first one nipple, pulling it outwards, giving it a little shake, then repeated the movement with the other. When he pinched hard on the tight bud of flesh, Illya half–closed his eyes and swayed backwards.

His arousal was quite unmistakable, as was Napoleon's where it nestled so warmly, expectantly, between the cheeks of Illya's ass.

"Ready?"

"Yes." The word came out as a breathy whisper, but it was assent; it was enough.

"Close your eyes."

The velvet slipped over them like night. Napoleon tied a flat knot and tucked the ends in.

"Can you see anything?" Napoleon watched as Illya tilted his head around.

"Nothing."

"Still trust me?"

"What do you think?"

"That's not an answer. Still trust me?"

"Yes."

"Good, then wait there."

He left Illya standing quite still and was back in almost no time at all. He put what he carried down by the bedside and went to stand close, taking the blinded head in his hands, bringing it to him for a long, deep kiss.

"I love you."

"And I you, Napoleon."

Somehow they were kissing again, the velvet somehow an aphrodisiac for each of them; kissing as if that was their entire purpose in the world. Which perhaps it was. But it wasn't what Napoleon had planned and after a while he pulled away, breathing hard. He ran a finger across the liquid line of Illya's lips, making them both shiver. With one last glance in the mirror he took Illya's hand and led him to the bed, turning him so he could find the edge and sit.

"Lie down."

He watched as the slender body was laid across his bed, Illya edging into the middle without being told, lying there remarkably like a sacrifice, his hands folded lightly above his head.

Cream silk and alabaster skin, gold hair and black velvet. The picture was as beautiful as he'd imagined.

"Do you want to tie me?"

The offer made Napoleon's breathing impossible. He took a gulp of air. "No, no I don't." It was only part of a lie.

"You can if you want."

The idea was extraordinarily arousing. But not for tonight. "Not now, now I want you to keep still and don't touch me."

"Can I speak?"

"Of course, as long as you don't make any demands."

Overcome by an insidious lethargy, Illya shook his head. The blindfold took away one sense, but made all of the others more rich. He could feel the silk sheet warm where his body pressed into it, he could smell the cologne Napoleon used after he'd shaved, the sweat that had begun to dampen his skin. There was more than a certain pleasure in this submissiveness and already, idly, he was wondering how his lover would react when the roles were reversed.

Then without any warning Napoleon swallowed his cock, and all coherent thought rushed from his brain.

Intent, Napoleon let the long spear of flesh sink deep into this throat. He didn't even try and breath, just held it there and swallowed around it. When he couldn't hold it any longer he came up for air, holding the neatly trimmed glans in the front of his mouth, teeth grazing the rim whilst he licked gently. Illya groaned lushly and arced off the bed, a hand coming down to rest lightly on Napoleon's hair.

Raising himself on an elbow, Napoleon cleared his throat. "I thought you weren't going to touch me."

"It's only a hand."

"What's it doing?"

"Touching you."

"Well, stop it."

"Okay, Butch... Ouch!"

"You're not in the best place for barbed comments — so be careful!"

Illya was laughing, "Okay, okay... See?" And he curved his arm back, resting it above his head. He was still gently laughing, though when Napoleon returned to his task all the amusement fled as if it had never been there at all; the spell once again taking over, leaving him clay in his lover's hands.

And what hands. Napoleon lavished touch and attention on every part of the patient body, working around the straining cock, around the nipples, finding sharp delight for his lover in inches of skin never before brought to life: the fine skin under his arms; the curve of his ribs; the arc at his groin where hip meets thigh. After a while he reached down and picked up into his hand the thing he had gone out of the room to fetch. A smile that was only part doubt hovered around his mouth.

Then he ran the ice–cube down Illya's chest and before Illya had time to react he was sliding his tongue in its wake.

"Napoleon!" Illya gasped the name, his head tossed from side to side on the sheet. Then the ice found his nipples and he had no voice left at all as heat followed, the warmth of the wide mouth taking the burning cold and warming it; taking the edge of discomfort and making it incandescent pleasure. Again and again he twisted under the onslaught of delight, until the final shard of ice was slipped between his lips and they kissed, sharing the ice that tasted of skin; sharing the skin that tasted of ice.

Illya moaned when the mouth moved away, prompting a sound of comfort and a gentle caress. Then instead of the warm, open lips on his mouth, it was Napoleon's cock.

Pinned to the bed by the weight of his lover, Illya opened his mouth wide and sucked it in, groaning with pleasure in the back of his throat as the angle gave Napoleon deep penetration, the weight of his balls heavy against Illya's chin. Opening himself as wide as he could, concentrating, Illya let himself be fucked, his mouth a willing accomplice to the action. When Napoleon reached down and touched his darkened eyes he only moaned and took the thick length of flesh deeper, almost ending everything then and there, but Napoleon took himself away with a muffled curse, his breathing loud, almost painful, as he mastered himself once more.

Illya smiled. Until the smile was swept away by another kiss; this one shorter, harder, less in control. Napoleon's breath rasped in his ear, "Turn over."

There was no reason not to obey, his blood surging at the simple command. But Napoleon wasn't finished. With the same thoroughness that almost had Illya weeping he kissed his way across the wide shoulders, biting the downy nape, along the narrow back, licking his way to the rich, lush curve of buttocks, resting there, sliding his tongue deep into the cleft that reached up to meet his lips, widening as it did so, inviting. He buried his face there, tasting the musk and bitterness of the centre of his lovers body, the heady scents making his head spin, his balls cry out for release.

He was shaking when he turned Illya back over.

Pale as parchment, blinded by sable silk, his cock a fiery arc of need, there was no more beautiful sight in all the world. On his heels, Napoleon watched and memorised, tucking this night away to feed the lonely ones that would follow.

"Napoleon..."

The frantic, half–strangled whisper brought him back. He knew then what he wanted to do. Straddling the twisting body he knelt, kissed the open mouth again and again, licking deep into its recesses, wanting more than he could ever take. Sweat plastered their bodies, darkened Illya's hair around the velvet. Around the kiss he pleaded: "Fuck me! Napoleon, fuck me..."

"No. You're going to fuck me." And lifting himself up, Napoleon quickly spread the lubricant down the heat of Illya's need, then without any warning, or care, impaled himself in one movement.

He turned his head slightly and watched in the mirror, seeing the ripples of muscles as Illya fought not to come; seeing himself intent, face slick with sweat, with need; seeing the hard length of flesh that slid slowly from his ass as he raised himself, only to disappear again, this time deeper, harder — the sight as much pleasure as the deed itself.

He flicked a nail over one of Illya's nipples; watched the reaction in glass. Again, until a hand stopped him. "I'll come...don't make me until you're ready."

Napoleon nodded, then remembered and spoke the agreement out loud. "It won't be long."

"No..." And the Russian thrust upwards, feeling the ass clench around his cock, feeling the nearness of orgasm, the pressure that pushed them both towards release. They fell into a rhythm, the rise and fall of flesh, the wet sounds of fucking. Neither of them considered thought. After not too long, Napoleon began to shudder and with his last wits reached behind him to take a gentle hold of his lover's balls, squeezing them as he pushed for the end, pressing them tight as his own body lost the fight and crying out he convulsed, a great arc of seed spattering across Illya's chest as the cock in his ass spilled itself deep within him, the heat and need enough to shatter everything but pleasure.

Much later, Napoleon came to with his head on the dip of Illya's shoulder, a pale arm curving lightly around him. He raised his head and looked straight into cloudy blue eyes.

"Awake?"

Napoleon considered, then had to agree. "Mmm."

"That was nice."

"Mmm."

"Ready for a rematch?"

For one horrified moment, Napoleon thought Illya was serious, then he saw the glint of humour. "Bastard..."

"At your service." Illya wriggled in comfort. He was quiet for a while, then sighed happily. "I don't know what brought on the idea, but it was a good one."

"I'm glad." Napoleon closed his eyes on a vast yawn. "Set the alarm for an hour early, shall we?"

"Your memory is failing. We have both got a day off tomorrow, so there's no need to set any alarm — unless you truly wish to get up at dawn, just for the fun of it."

"You know, I'd forgotten the day off." In his enthusiasm he actually opened his eyes. "And no, dawn does nothing for me... Let's make it a mid–morning start. When I've had lots of sleep and maybe some breakfast."

"What about supper?"

"Now?"

Illya ignored the horrified look and nodded.

"Are you always hungry."

"Same way you're always sleepy after sex. I get peckish."

"Harumph."

"Yes, Napoleon." Illya waited. "Did you get any food in?"

"Illya!" The word was close to imploring. Napoleon lay still for a moment, then gave up. "Oh, all right, supper it is." He sat up slowly, and not without a few muscles twinging in protest. "Damn, I must be getting old."

"Perhaps once a month isn't often enough to keep you in trim."

"I don't think one a month is enough for anything."

They looked at each other, sharing the same thoughts, the same questions that they went over fifty times a month if they went over them once. Cowardice had always got the better of them. Maybe it was time to find some courage.

"It would mean commitment." From Illya.

Then: "And probably leaving U.N.C.L.E." From Napoleon.

In their hearts, they both knew it was time. Before the job got the better of them, or they got so deep into the secret world that they could never escape.

"Do you love me enough, Napoleon?"

Napoleon knew he meant: love me enough to give up the women, the life? The answer was suddenly simple. "Yes. And what about you?"

Enough to give up the security of U.N.C.L.E., the future? That was what this question asked. But Illya knew his answer. He had known for a long while. "Yes."

They both smiled at the absolute simplicity of it all. It had never been this easy. The rest would wait, neither of them needed to waste time on worrying.

Illya ran a hand through his hair, and closing his eyes appreciated contentment. Then, with a quicksilver grin he touched Napoleon's hand. "What did you say you had in for supper? Vodka, I hope..."

"Naturally. And caviar; those funny little pancake things; beetroot salad; hard–boiled duck eggs..."

"Napoleon, you must love me!"

"Did you ever doubt it?"

"No."

Their fingers brushed together and held. They never needed many words to say the things that mattered; touch and belief were usually enough. Would be enough.

"Come on then — food."

"Wonderful..."

END