TRUE COLOURS

by Kitty Fisher

PART THREE

"Better?" Napoleon watched the result of his experiment with interest.

"Yes." Illya wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "I didn't realise how uncivilised I still am. Thank you, Napoleon, that was a...favour I'm not sure I can ever return."

"Hopefully you'll never have to. Besides, if anyone ever treats me the way Callahan treated you, you have my permission to kill them."

"Don't think I'm complaining, but why didn't you kill him instead of storing him here for me?"

Napoleon shrugged,and sat down on the couch. "I thought you might need to do it yourself — after the business with the photographs I'd've been surprised if you hadn't."

Illya examined himself; apart from a faint sense of unreality he felt fine. Not in the least like a murderer. An executioner, maybe, but that he could cope with. It was enlightening to realise that he felt as released by knowing Napoleon had a reason for his absence, as for knowing Callahan to be dead. He said, "I wish you'd told me something — I missed you when I was in the hospital."

"You'd only have fretted..."

Illya tried not to think of the sleepless hours of fretting he'd done as it was.

"...and later, well, I was trying to find the right moment, the moment when it would help to know you had that control. If I had told you before, I don't think you would have appreciated it. Well, not as much."

"You, are devious. A quality I've come to thank very often."

"If I'd been that devious you'd never have spent more than a few hours in his clutches. It drove me mad not being able to do anything; just sitting and waiting for him to dictate our moves." Napoleon frowned with remembered frustration. "If by any strange mental abberation you'd not wanted to kill him, I'd have done it myself. The bastard didn't deserve to live."

"No he didn't. I wasn't the first, you know."

Napoleon looked into blue eyes that were still shadowed by grief and pain and wondered how far–reaching Callahan's legacy would be. "The first what?"

"The first guest in his cellars to be treated...like I was. Bradley, his second–in–command, told me about the others. As a captor, he wasn't too bad to me." He shrugged slightly at Napoleon's look of dismay. "At least he talked to me as if I was human. At the end I think he was trying to save my life." The images were confused, but that was the conclusion Illya had come to. "Even he was sickened by Callahan's perverted sense of pleasure; that man certainly loved what he was doing."

"Well, he's dead; so he won't be torturing anyone ever again." Napoleon touched Illya's arm, waiting until he turned and their eyes met before continuing. "So don't let him hurt you now. What happened is now in the past; try living with the future in mind. Please?"

"Napoleon..." Fighting a battle in himself, in which the protagonists were unrecognisable, Illya jerkily stood up. He downed the rest of the vodka found in the tumbler still clutched tight in his hand; the glass ringing hollowly as he placed it on the mantlepiece.

Even though there was no tell–tale sound, Illya knew that his companion had also stood and was just behind him. There was no fire in the hearth, but even so he stared into it, unable to turn around, his shoulders tensed, his mind running scared.

In the end, a pair of strong hands turned him very gently and there was Napoleon; compassion, worry, need and something indefinable passing fleetingly across his expression.

Reaching out, Napoleon held the solidity of flesh and bone, feeling the slight tremor that was almost imperceptible. The moment of contact was electric, though he knew if it was a mistake then he'd spend the rest of his life in atonement. But this felt so right; this moment felt so right that he couldn't have stopped if he'd tried.

Very slowly, infinitely tender, Napoleon laid his lips against Illya's, touching the velvet flesh with his own in a gesture of love and protection. Immobile, he held them there. Until the moment Illya himself moved against him; his mouth warm and accepting of the offered caress.

It was hardly a lover's kiss. But it sufficed.

At the first tentative hint of Illya's tongue, Napoleon opened his mouth to encompass it. He used no technique, merely love. Trying through the absence of words to heal all the pain; to recover time. He was shaking himself, the storm of emotion fighting his control, needing to be free from discipline, to run wild taking Illya with it. But sense won the day and all the wanting had to wait, for now wasn't the time.

Napoleon moved them almost imperceptibly together, keeping the touch light and even; as impersonal as it could be given the nature of the contact. He wanted to comfort and heal, not to frighten and damage.

Throughout it all part of his mind exulted, and another watched with wonder.

Illya felt so good to hold. From the tentative exploration of the kiss to the lightness of his body this was all a delight. One Napoleon had never appreciated when it had been his for the taking. Well, he was going to make up for that now; from now on he was appreciating everything.

Lost in the mesmeric touch, he was bereft when it was taken away. But Illya settled his head on the taller man's shoulder, relaxing his weight in a gesture of absolute trust.

Napoleon hesitantly touched the cap of corn–coloured hair and pressed his lips to its softness. Callahan is dead; everything will be fine. I won't let the world hurt you ever again, I promise on my life's blood. Be well, Illya. Be happy. And most of all be mine. The thoughts were hidden, unless they could be read through body–language. The only feeling he couldn't control was the unbounded love which translated itself in a need to touch.

After a while Illya raised his head. "Napoleon?"

"Shush, it's okay." He smiled and somehow they were kissing once more, this time with an edge of need that denied everything but the moment.

When Illya's hands found Napoleon's back the bolt of desire made both of them gasp. And still all they had done was kiss.

Breathing hard, they pulled back to see each other — perhaps for the first time in all the years of their collaboration. Despite the strength of emotion, there was no fear in Illya's eyes and no triumph in Napoleon's. Equal in this as they had been in so many things, they sighed into each other, holding tight to their own reality as the world sped past.

Bringing up his hand, Napoleon cupped his love's face and smiled. The answering glimmer stole his breath.

He was heading for another kiss when Illya forestalled him, "Napoleon, I like your kisses very much indeed, but I need to shower. I got dressed this morning without so much as a wash...I won't be long." He slid his arms free, but remained within the circle of Napoleon's. "Let me go? I'll be back shortly."

But Napoleon didn't release his hold, he felt as if once Illya was out of his sight then this enchanted suspension from reality would be at an end. If there had been a way of casting a spell to take the cabin out of time he would have done so. An enchanted castle of fairy–tale. Somewhere they would be left alone to sort out the future, to remain until they were ready — if that moment ever came — to face the world. A dream indeed. Already he could see the lines of fatigue that drew Illya's face into high–boned relief. It was more than a shower he needed; a month asleep might be nearer the mark.

"You go and get cleaned up, I'll find something for lunch. Then this afternoon we'll sit and...watch the flowers grow, I don't know; anything that doesn't involve any effort."

"Like killing people."

"No, no killing; not even of scum like Callahan." He watched for reaction, good or bad, but Illya only nodded.

"I enjoyed it, you know. I didn't think I would, but I did." Doubt was clear in the tone of his voice. The manner of Callahan's death obviously worried him. Something Napoleon had anticipated, but still wasn't sure how to deal with. To enable recovery the death had been essential, it was to be hoped that the cure didn't kill the patient along with the disease.

"You might have enjoyed it, but you didn't make him suffer. I was the one who locked him in the cellar and who wasn't exactly careful in the way I handled him. It was a clean shot; I wonder if he was as merciful with any of his victims, or if he'd have given the same kindness to you. Think on it, at least you left him a modicum of dignity. He would have left none to you at all; not a shred." Napoleon tightened his hold on the awkward body, wanting to impart strength and energy. "Would you rather he was still alive?"

"No." All that would have meant ran through Illya's mind. He still thought of himself as an executioner, but at least it was for more than purely personal revenge. Callahan would have continued his excesses. If his death saved one other person from the ignominy of his treatment, then it had been all worth it. Illya sighed, the misty confusion of his thoughts difficult to cope with. The only concrete fixture was Napoleon. Giving up on self–sufficiency, Illya returned his head to the waiting shoulder.

Napoleon held him for a long moment, then said, "Look, you're worn out. Go and have a shower, I'll bring up a tray of food for lunch, then you can sleep for a few hours."

The sound coming from his shoulder was definitely a laugh, though for a moment it gave him pause. Napoleon smiled and stood back. "What's the matter, don't you like having your own personal Mother hen?"

"It's certainly a novelty. Have you had much practise?"

"Almost none at all. You'll have to tell me if I make any glaring mistakes."

"But Napoleon, you're perfect in every way, how could you make a mistake?"

The teasing was slightly forced, yet it was there. Napoleon smiled, "Too easily. Go on, I'll be up in ten minutes."

He kept his promise and in a little less than quarter of an hour he knocked on Illya's door. "There you go, minestrone; just like Mother used to make. Well, mine used to, I don't know about yours. And come to think on it, as this is out of a can Mother would probably spin in her grave." Napoleon spoke hurriedly, covering the surge of response that hit him on the sight of the naked torso. By the time he'd put the tray down and turned, Illya was buttoning up his shirt.

The Russian was also amused by the ineptly covered reaction. "Napoleon, I'm not going to collapse in raving hysterics just because you look at me." But all the same, he finished the job of doing up his shirt and then tucked it in.

"I didn't think you would. It's not your reaction I was worried about." Napoleon flicked the collar of Illya's shirt. "And I thought you were going to bed this afternoon. To sleep." He raised an interrogatory eye–brow, managing somehow to look up at the shorter man, his expression very appealing and boyish.

"I will. I got dressed out of habit; I'm not used to thinking that I can spare the time for the luxury of afternoon naps. Thanks for the food, are you going to share it with me?"

"No, I picked at some bits downstairs, but I'll watch you eat." He settled on the chair, waiting for Illya to sit down and start. There was soup, bread, cheese and tea; hardly the most epicurean of meals, but then he wasn't the world's greatest cook, unless there was pasta involved. Napoleon watched as Illya seated himself and began on the food.

"Why do you wear a wedding ring?" The question was out before he'd thought and immediately Solo wished it recalled; concern was one thing, prying another. "I'm sorry, don't answer that; I'm only being nosy."

Illya glanced at the thin gold band that encircled one unmarked finger with surprise. "It's not a wedding ring — at least it's not my wedding ring. I don't mind you asking; in fact I'm amazed you never asked before."

I suppose I never cared enough, before, the thought was quite bitter, he kept it to himself as he spoke, "Callahan sending it to me made me think. I recognised the ring as yours immediately, though I'm not sure how." Though perhaps it was the blood that gave it away. He didn't voice that thought either. "And it occurred to me that there's nothing about you having been married in your file."

"There wouldn't be, as I wasn't."

"Are you being cryptic, or am I being stupid? Don't answer that."

"I wasn't going to say a word."

"Of course not. But go on, tell me about the ring."

"No wonder you're so good at interrogations; you never forget a line of questioning. Okay," he pushed the tray onto the bedside cabinet and curled his legs underneath him. "You remember I told you about Andrey?"

"The boy who was killed." I don't think he's someone I'll forget in a hurry, the dreams were still too fresh in his mind; still clear and tangible.

"And I'm sure you remember the rest of the story, the rather sordid history of my childhood?" He scarcely waited for Napoleon's nod before continuing. "Well, did you wonder how I came to be on the side of law enforcement? By now I could have been working for THRUSH, controlling their operations in eastern Europe for all I know."

"You mean apart from the fact that you'd never compromise your morality and your ideals?"

"All of which I managed to forget for a large part of my life." Illya yawned, this was all old news, but he'd begun the story so it would be unfair not to finish it. "About two years after Andrey died the German army had virtually been destroyed on the Russian front. Our army was heading towards Berlin and the fascists were a panic stricken rabble trying to fight a way back home. Most of them died. It was winter and they were starving as fast as we could pick them off. A few were organised of course; working in groups, protecting each other, really making an effort to return home alive. It was one of those groups that trapped me. I'd made a mistake and got caught in a burned–out barn. It wasn't pleasant. I really thought I was going to die, it didn't matter that I was obviously so young because they all knew that once a child can hold a gun, it's quite capable of using it."

He paused and Napoleon shook his head, saying, "We've learned that ourselves in more than a few places around the world."

"Childhood is an elusive thing; I used to wonder why my elders used to make comments about mine; it never occurred to me it was mine that was unusual; you really don't miss what you've never had."

"You might not, but I'm sure there were others who did."

"None that lived."

Such a simple answer; one that explained so much. Napoleon fought a wave of compassion, there would be time for that later. "So, what did this soldier do?"

"Well, it isn't a long story. One of them found me before all the others. I must have looked like one of his own children or something, because he lowered his rifle. For some reason I couldn't shoot him either. He tried to talk to me, but he only spoke German and I'd had no interest in picking up even the most basic knowledge of his language." Illya settled against the head–board, making himself comfortable. "He was a happy man, I think. He smiled and gave me a tiny piece of chocolate he'd been saving. Then we could hear his friends coming close. He said something else, but it might as well have been gibberish. He took off a tatty gauntlet, removed his wedding ring and gave it to me, talking while he pushed me under a pile of rotting straw. He gestured for me to be quiet before going to meet the others. I never saw him again, but somehow I could never part with the ring."

"He must have been a very kind man." Napoleon had listened in silence; the past as clear before his eyes as a movie. "I suppose he thought you could barter the ring, or sell it for food."

"I realised that afterwards; though in those days a gold ring would have bought nothing — not even a few crumbs."

"I wonder if he survived."

"I doubt it. He would have run into a party of Soviet soldiers after half a mile."

"Didn't you ever wonder?"

"Of course. But somehow I knew he was dead. I think he knew he was going to die, that's why he gave me the ring. He changed my life, and I could never forget that — or ever thank him enough — but I never thought we'd meet again."

"It must have been a strange encounter, yours and his." Napoleon tried to picture it, the image of Illya as a child strong in his mind.

"Yes. I used to think about him a lot and wish I'd been able to thank him. He made me realise that you can't dismiss anyone because of the clothes they wear, or the language they speak, or even their politics; it's what's inside that counts."

"You were very young to learn that."

"I don't think you can ever be too young." He yawned again, bleary eyed with tiredness.

"I'm sorry; you're supposed to be resting and here I am making you dredge up the past." Contrite, Napoleon went to pick up the tray, but a hand on his wrist stayed the movement.

"I'm not an invalid, you know."

"Could have fooled me. I suppose these are just for ornamentation?" Napoleon fingered the bandaging encircling one hand, eyeing the rest visible beneath Illya's cuff. He frowned. "If these were better you would've stopped binding them up. Come to think on it, how do you manage yourself?"

"From practise. Napoleon, stop looking so worried, they're fine. Promise."

"Let me check them out then."

"Napoleon, there is no infection," Illya pulled his hand away from prying fingers. "And as they are the only two I've got, I've been treating them with great care, besides, the ones around my wrists are only there for support."

"Then you won't mind me having a look. Come on, roll back those sleeves." His chin was obstinately set and with Illya trying to avoid the issue with an almost guilty look on his face, there was no way Napoleon was going to let this rest. A fact that the Russian realised about thirty seconds after he'd spoken.

With a sigh, Illya unbuttoned the cuffs, neatly rolling the left back to the elbow and pushing the right one out of the way. Then shifting slightly to give Napoleon room to sit down, he held out his hands for inspection.

Clearing his throat, Napoleon sat and began to unwind the bandages. He was very careful, gently peeling away the last layers to expose the skin. "What did he do, the bastard, cut your wrists with a knife? Smash your hand with a hammer? I suppose he did this to get your ring off?" He looked up and saw Illya's slight nod of agreement. "The bastard — he could have waited until you were out cold and got it off then. Fuck it, Illya, you should have said something."

"Why? I've been doing everything the hospital told me to. Napoleon they'll heal in time. Please, it isn't that bad."

"Take your clothes off."

"Napoleon..."

"Please, Illya...I need to know...what he did...how you are."

"Napoleon..." But instead of finishing the sentence he'd wanted to say, Illya looked into the stark horror in wide brown eyes and stood up. Perhaps this was needed to allay the very visible fears, besides, it wouldn't hurt.

Illya was only wearing shirt, jeans and briefs. It didn't take long to slip out of them and to stand remarkably unselfconscious for Napoleon's inspection. It was strange being naked in front of this man, but the strangeness had no underlying shame. He was simply naked, the act had no other implications. Not even that of recalling the past.

"He certainly worked you over." Napoleon's voice was harsh with emotion. The slender body, even after nearly three weeks, was visibly marked. The worst of it was the abused back and the hand, neither of which would ever be free of scars. But like Illya had said once before, they would only add to the tally he already possessed. If you looked at his body from the front, apart from the almost faded remains of encompassing bruising, there was far less damage. "Didn't he like the front view?"

"The back certainly seemed to interest him more." Illya's tone was dry as desert sand. He reached past Napoleon and shrugged into his robe. "There, I told you it was all healing."

His eyes were averted and Napoleon tried to explain, "Illya, I needed to see for myself that you're well, I know what you're like and I couldn't take it on your say so. Forgive me?"

"Yes. It's not you I'm cross with, it's me. I shouldn't be so affected by it all. It shouldn't — hurt — so much."

"Illya, you don't have to be Superman. There is nothing wrong in feeling pain or hurt. You just shouldn't feel ashamed; even he admitted that to you." Hesitantly, Napoleon touched Illya's arm, then turned the gesture into a comforting hug. He held the other man close, feeling his heart beat, the rise and fall of his breathing, the high strung tension in his muscles. Then Illya yawned into his shoulder. "God, you're tired. Have a sleep and you'll feel better."

Lifting his head, Illya almost spoke, then stopped himself.

"What's the matter?" Then the penny dropped, "You can't sleep, is that it? That's why you're so wan and red–eyed all the time."

"No!"

"Then what?" Napoleon tried for a moment to puzzle it out, then came up with the answer. "You don't want to sleep..."

"Napoleon, please, I'm not going to collapse on you or anything stupid. It's..."

"It's just that you have bad dreams."

Defeated, Illya sighed in agreement. "I get to sleep and then they start. The trouble is that I can't wake up, they don't like to let me go."

"So it seems far simpler not to sleep at all." He waited for Illya's nod. "You know, they might not be so bad with Callahan dead."

"I wonder..."

"Go to bed and see, I'll strap up your hand when you're in there." And refusing to admit any resistance, Napoleon chivvied his charge onto the bed and under the covers. Illya curled onto his side, his expression slightly bemused. He looked so forlorn that Solo sat on the edge of the bed and took his hand, "I'll stay, if you want?"

There was terse nod in answer.

The bed was wide enough for both of them. Napoleon pushed off his shoes and lay down, careful, even though he was fully dressed, to keep contact to a minimum. As soon as he settled he recovered Illya's good hand.

"I feel as if I should be asking you to tell me a story." Illya snuggled down, making himself comfortable under the blankets. "Perhaps it should be the one of how you caught Callahan."

Napoleon stroked his finger lightly over the scarred wrist. "It wasn't anything clever; he went back to the house where we found you. I suppose he thought there was no–one there."

"But you'd been waiting."

"Yes. I couldn't think of anything else to do. You were sedated — didn't even know I was there — and Waverley didn't have anything urgent on; so I just hung around. I was very lucky. I could still be there now."

"You'd have thought of something, you're resourceful enough. How did you get him here?"

"Violence and sheer cussedness; he wasn't happy about any of it."

"I can imagine."

"Yeah, well, it wasn't the easiest thing to do, but I kept on thinking of the photographs and the state you'd been in when we found you. It made treating him like an animal a bit easier."

Illya ignored the venom in Napoleon's words, finding the intensity hard to cope with. "I wonder if Waverley knows, he always seems to know everything."

"Not this, I was very careful. He was worried about you, too, you know. I think he spent almost as much time at the hospital as I did."

"Wouldn't've been difficult."

"Still rankles does it?" Napoleon smiled, "I'll make up for it, promise."

"You already have..."

"Illya, I'm sure you don't want to hear this after everything," he swallowed but pushed himself on. "But I want you to know that I love you, in a way I think I always have done despite how I behaved to you. I'll do anything to protect you, even if it means protecting you from myself."

"I know."

"You know! Ungrateful Russian. You might at least act surprised."

"You, Napoleon, are an open book. Though I guess I haven't known for long...maybe a little longer than you have." Illya's voice was slurring, his breathing deep and regular. Even hanging on the verge of sleep, he smiled. "I love you, too, Napoleon. Good–night."

"Sweet dreams, Illya."

* * * * *

The body in his arms was slender almost to the point of fragility; its sexuality ambiguous despite the weight of cock and balls he clasped in his hand. Mewling noises that could have been of pleasure or pain came from the slightly open mouth; loud enough to mask the visceral sound of flesh punishing flesh.

He'd never fucked a bound man before. It puzzled him for two reasons; the first that he should be doing so now; the second that it could feel so wonderful. The power of it all coursed through him, feeding his imagination and his blood, pumping his cock so huge that it overwhelmed his whole self; flesh, mind and soul. Its message was clear; more. Take this further, flood your world with sensation, take what's yours.

He rammed himself deep into the enveloping heat; the tightness almost too much to bear, the pressure close to sending him into shattering orgasm. But with a wrench of self–control he was calm again, the urgency fading to simple need. And he was still hard. The hardest he'd ever been in the whole of his life. The man in his arms was still conscious, still awake; though his cock remained unresponsive and the sounds in his throat were now closer to pain.

Reaching up, he pulled the blond head against his shoulder, tracing the long exposed line of beautiful throat, kissing the tear–matted lids, lightly touching the kiss swollen lips. The body moved on his cock, the slight shift of skin and muscle enough to make him groan with delight.

A single tear escaped one closed lid. He licked it up, tasting the salt, wanting everything that was this man's to be his. Everything. Without exception. That was the reason for the bonds — how else to ensure unquestioning co–operation? He smiled at the ropes; they had appeared as this began. He'd only had to think a single thought and they'd appeared, twining themselves snakelike around the very pale wrists. The smile turned into a need to kiss and he covered the waiting mouth with his own, pushing his tongue into the warmth.

And was met by warmth. The other tongue inviting him in, enticing his senses with its mystery. Overwhelmed by the sensation, he closed his eyes, mind reeling, head spinning as the world dropped away and strong arms came to fold around him. Confused he looked. The body that he fucked had turned itself around and though they were still joined by the bridge of flesh, the ropes had turned into narrow gold bracelets that jingled as the slender arms moved. Then they in turn were unravelling and for a moment panic flooded through the arousal, for this time the golden ropes were twisting around both figures; weaving them into a single pattern of flesh that had no beginning or shape or end.

Recognition took his breath away, because Illya was smiling, welcoming him into his body, turning the already impossibly erotic act into sublimity with this acquiescence. It was enough, more than enough and crying out, Napoleon came with all the enthusiasm of a thirty–five year old virgin, waking up as he spilled his seed with a groan.

Covered in sweat, breathing erratic, Napoleon lay in a world that was not quite real, the dream so powerful that it had more tangibility than the twilight shadowed bedroom. For a moment confusion held him still, then realisation sent him stumbling into the bathroom.

Pushing the door shut, he sat awkwardly on the side of the bath and watched the definite tremor in his hands. If dreams are supposed to tell the truth, he shied away from the thought. The remembered feel of Illya responsive in his arms was sending shivers through him. Napoleon groaned and buried his face in his hands; hatred for himself corroding through his thoughts.

The door opened with a click as the handle turned. This was too much; all Napoleon wanted was to be left alone with his misery, to be allowed to rebuild his detachment without the added torment of Illya's presence.

"Go away, please. I'm fine..." The words were muffled against his fingers and he broke off with a gasp, as if burned, when a cool hand touched his forehead. "Illya!"

"Did you think I was asleep, or that I'd lie in there and happily let you sit here worrying yourself silly over such an unimportant thing?"

"Unimportant!" He looked up and his brown eyes were full of pain. "How can you say that when I..."

"...had a wet dream." Illya finished the sentence and crouched at Napoleon's feet. "What were you dreaming about?"

Finding a reserve of courage Napoleon spoke the truth, "You."

The blond man tutted under his breath. "And what's so wrong about that?"

"You've just been raped!" The words came out louder than intended and Napoleon winced at the involuntary flinch that flickered across Illya's pale features. "Jesus, I'm sorry. I'm handling all this so badly. I wanted to make it easier for you; not worse."

"You haven't." Under the towelling robe his shoulders sketched a shrug. "You couldn't. Believe me, waking up to find you coming inside your shorts didn't shock me; I've not suddenly turned into your maiden aunt. Besides," he held tight to Napoleon's thigh, making the contact speak as loud as his words, "I'd rather you dreamt about me than Callahan."

Napoleon's next words were indistinct.

"Say that again?"

"I said I dreamt I was Callahan. There, how does that equate with your picture of me?"

Illya stared at the taut features, seeing the man he loved, the man who had shared more of his life than anyone else, good and bad, thick and thin. If he'd truly dreamed about raping then something was really wrong. "Was that all of it? Did you just dream the torture?"

"No." Napoleon racked his brains to recall the whole sequence of fantastical events. "No, we were...I was..."

"Fucking?"

Wincing, Napoleon nodded. "I was inside you," he glared at Illya, daring him to comment on the evasive phrasing. "You were tied up so you couldn't escape, then it changed and I was tied by the ropes too, but they bound me to you. Then you kissed me. That's when I came."

"How terrible," Illya's voice was dryly amused. "Tell me, Napoleon, was it the fact that you wanted to force me into your bed that hurt, or was it the fact that once you'd got me there, there was no way out." He turned the touch of his hand on wool covered thigh into a mild, gentling caress. His voice was very soft, his face almost hidden in the darkening room. "Does it hurt so much to admit that you need me, want me, think we might belong together?"

"Gods, I don't know. I want you, but after what I did to you, what that bastard did to you...I can't believe it will ever be right. I'm sorry..."

"Don't...it's all right. Idiot. I called you that before and I think you're growing into the title. Did it ever occur to you to ask me? No." His smile was clear in his voice, "You're an idiot, but a very sweet one."

"I couldn't..."

"No, you couldn't; but you should've. I do have opinions, you know, and most of the time I'm not shy about letting them be known."

"I realise that, but this is different."

"Why, I'm not an invalid and I've not suddenly become mentally incompetent, so where's the problem?"

"Don't be stupid, the problems are so obvious a blind man could see them on a dark night." He pulled his hand through tousled hair and continued more temperately, "I couldn't bear the thought of hurting you again."

"I can see that would be a problem. But if so, why pull away from me? If I can share all my pain with you, why can't you do the same for me?"

His only answer was a strangled noise deep in Napoleon's throat, "Illya..."

"You'll get used to it; the first time is always the hardest. Come on, let's go back to bed, I'm getting cramp." He stood up and waited patiently for Napoleon to lever himself off the bath. When they stood as level as their different heights permitted, Illya pressed a solemn kiss to the slightly stubbled surface of an olive skinned cheek. "And this time, you're getting into bed, none of this lying around with all your clothes on."

"But..."

"Shut up. I'm convalescing and need to be humoured." And muttering in what sounded like Mongolian, he pulled Napoleon back into the bedroom. "Now get undressed."

Napoleon nearly choked on a surge of laughter. Independent, contrary, wonderful Illya; I wonder if you really know how much I love you. Obedient, he took off his clothing, noticing for the first time the stickiness around his groin. With a quick word of explanation he detoured briefly to the bathroom, then slipped under the covers, making a space for Illya to curl up beside him.

Their heads were very close on the pillows, light and dark, American and Russian, yet not so unalike if truth were told. Illya shifted so he could see the stubborn outline of Napoleon's profile. For a while he considered his next action, searching himself and what he knew of the other man. In the end, the decision wasn't difficult.

"Napoleon, would you care to hold me?"

"What..." Napoleon took a snared breath and almost ran away, but a pale, scarred hand reached across the sheet and took hold of his own.

"Don't fight, please, I need you to hold me, just that, please?" For now, that is, he thought, anything else we'll see about in the morning.

Resistance was useless, so with a feeling akin to falling into a deep, deep well, Napoleon opened his arms to the warmth that was Illya, sighing as the light weight settled against him. He felt drained of energy himself, as if sleep was the healing agent they both needed. Perhaps it was.

With a slight readjustment of limbs that left them inextricably entwined, both men gradually relaxed, until breathing each other's air, they went to sleep.

* * * * *

Against all probability, it was morning when they both awoke. The room was flooded with warm, fall light, their bodies still luxuriously entwined. Illya felt very good, and judging from the reaction of his half asleep partner, so did he. Manoeuvring closer, Illya pressed himself to the heat of Napoleon's body, encountering the thrust of his cock, feeling its smoothness slide against his belly.

Remarkably, it felt very good.

But it was unlikely that Solo would appreciate that.

So, with a simple twist that woke Napoleon with a start, Illya moved to straddle the other body, all the while holding tight to the strong wrists.

He was smiling down into Napoleon's face when a grumpy eye peered up at him.

"Illya..."

"Good–morning."

"Ugh..."

"I thought you liked mornings?"

"No." Illya wriggled and with a bolt of shock that took care of the problem, Napoleon realised the state of his own body. This time the word was stated unequivocally, "No!"

"Napoleon, stop fighting, or you'll make me hurt myself." The threat stopped all movement. Quite still, Napoleon waited for judgement. Instead, the grave, beautiful face bent down and kissed him. "There, good–morning. I would like you to answer a couple of questions before I let you up, no, it's no good frowning like that...or pouting. Okay, question number one; did you mean it when you said you loved me?"

"Illya!"

"No, don't get irritated. Maybe I want to hear you say it again." He shrugged and smiled a very small smile.

"Yes, I meant it." Napoleon opened his mouth to say more but stopped because Illya was kissing him again with shy enthusiasm. When they broke apart, his confusion was obvious.

"Good. Question number two; did you mean what your dream was telling you, about not just wanting me, but wanting to be tied to me forever?"

Napoleon was dazzled by the words. He could hardly see Illya's face against the brilliance streaming through the window, the cap of hair brilliant gold in the light. The slender body was braced over him, his arms held tight above his head, he couldn't move without risking some hurt to already damaged skin, or muscle, or bone. The question had to be answered and preferably with truth, not always a commodity he'd been at ease with. Napoleon sighed. "Yes."

"Is that it? No comment other than yes, not even why?"

"No."

"Sweet–talker."

"I'll leave that to you." Napoleon smiled at the resigned response.

"Truthfully," Illya was once again serious, "as far as you can tell, is this it?"

"Illya, I've never made any promises to anyone that have meant so much to me. Please, I can't...shape the future...I can only try to keep my word. I love you and I will do anything in my power to keep you safe. Anything at all, even — or especially — from me."

"Shush." Illya slid down until he was covering Napoleon's body, his weight propped on his elbows. "I wanted to make sure I hadn't been hallucinating. I wasn't trying to make you feel anything but love."

"I do love you. I wish I'd understood sooner, then perhaps you wouldn't have been hurt so much. I could have saved us both a lot of misery if I'd been strong enough to admit what I really wanted from you."

"Napoleon, I love you, but I don't know whether I want to laugh or cry at your imbecility. We will both of us have to learn how to forget the past. All of it." Napoleon looked so lost that Illya kissed him again, this time extracting a moaning response of need that curled a shiver down to his toes.

At the moment he realised that his erection was pressed against the flat plain of Illya's stomach, Napoleon froze. "I'm..."

"...sorry." Illya took hold of Napoleon by the ears and shook him lightly, impatience and amusement dancing around his eyes. "If you say that once more while we are in this bed I'll not be responsible for my actions. You are becoming aroused — I would hope — because you fancy me, yes?"

Napoleon nodded, willing his flesh to subside. A kiss and a cuddle were all very well, but Illya couldn't want this to go any further.

"What idiocy are you thinking now? I can see whatever it is written all over your face. How many times do I have to tell you; ask before you leap to any conclusions." And letting go of Napoleon's abused ears, he slid under the bed–clothes, ending up with his face pressed to the musk and warmth of Napoleon's groin.

"No..!" Napoleon stopped mid–movement and mid–sentence. They were definitely Illya's teeth clamped around his no longer diminishing arousal. "Illya..?"

There was no answer.

"Illya?"

Again.

Napoleon tried lying down and relaxing as much as the hardness of his erection would allow. It worked. The teeth were withdrawn, but before he could say anything, before he could begin to protest that this was wrong and that Illya wasn't really ready, if indeed he would ever be ready for this, the mouth encompassed his cock and began with long luxurious sucks to bring him off.

It didn't take long.

As the shuddering in his nerves subsided, Napoleon opened his eyes to see a very pleased Illya curl into him.

"Illya..."

"Shut up; you're supposed to be speechless." The words were accompanied by a definite grin.

"I think I am."

"Only think," Illya tutted, "we'll have to improve my technique." He pressed a tender hand to Napoleon's heated cheek and scolded, "If you are even thinking of feeling guilty, don't. I needed that." He shrugged, "Call it needing to take the taste of Callahan away."

The hug was overwhelming and only stopped when Illya made a small sound of protest as his back and ribs complained in chorus. Napoleon was grinning so widely that it was infectious. "If you ever need to take the taste away again, just holler."

"I'll do no such thing, Russians do not 'holler'."

"What do they do then?"

"Lay in wait and then pounce, like a wolf," his smile had definite feral overtones.

"Americans can do that too." And after a mild tussle, Napoleon was cradling Illya's genitals in his hands, touching them as if made of porcelain. "And what about you, you didn't come, did you?"

He looked up and saw a flicker of doubt that was soon dispatched. "No. I don't think my body is up to remembering what it's for at the moment." Illya shrugged self–deprecatingly.

"Yet you..."

"Yes, I took you into my mouth and made love to you. What's more, I enjoyed every moment of it, so shut up."

Napoleon planted a firm platonic kiss on the tip of Illya's glans, then another on the relaxed sack containing the testicles. Even here Illya was beautiful, it didn't take much imagination to see quite how dramatic his erection would be; the flesh standing proud and flushed dark against the almost white skin of his belly. Napoleon combed his fingers through the darker gold curls that dusted almost up to the neatly indented navel. Lovely.

Carefully he moved higher, touching his lips to the brown of nipples, ending with a series of exact kisses along the sharply defined jaw–line. "Let me know when you want to experiment. I'll do anything you want." Napoleon couldn't imagine being impotent; his problems had always taken him the other way. Scrutinising his partner's placid face he realised that Illya really wasn't that bothered, a fact he wasn't sure worried or pleased him.

Gathering the body close, he tucked Illya's head under his chin and frowned. So much precious, appalling importance in such a slight package. Napoleon repeated his vows to himself about keeping this one person safe above all others. Quite what that would mean in relation to U.N.C.L.E. he wasn't sure, but it would be worked around, even if it meant his own resignation along with Illya's.

Impotent. Well, that was sure to be a temporary problem; one caused by the brutality and sexual molestation that Callahan had subjected Illya's body and mind to. Well, I can be patient and that's all it will take. Illya won't be like this forever and, even if he is, it's him I love not his dick. Though that does have its charms, I must admit. There has to be a way of getting around it though. Damn and blast Callahan to Hell. Though he had no doubts that Hell was exactly where that particular soul had ended up. Perhaps there was somewhere even worse, a seventh level, maybe. Well, if there was, then Callahan deserved every refined torment it could inflict.

The thought reminded him of the body in the cellar and decisions that had to be made. And Illya was asleep.

With a sigh, Napoleon decided to wait a while longer before getting up, there was time enough to deal with reality, at the moment this bed held all he wanted to know about in the entire world. Fidelity would be a novel pursuit, but one that would be worth while if it kept Illya content and at his side. Fidelity on Illya's side would of course be unquestioned; if the Russian gave himself to anything he gave body and soul. Napoleon only had to look at Illya's unswerving espousal of U.N.C.L.E. especially after hearing the history of his past, to realise that this was a once and forever commitment.

Forever. It could be a long time.

Napoleon smiled and very content closed his eyes, as relaxed as he'd ever been in his entire life.

It was very pleasant: Illya warm and heavy in his arms; the sunlight; the expanse of time still left to themselves. Perhaps there really would be time to heal Illya of his wounds: and dispose of the body and placate Waverly and save the world and maybe even have time for tea.

He was grinning to himself when the tousled blond head lifted and outrageously blue eyes frowned at him. "What's the matter?" Napoleon couldn't help but ask the question, Illya looked so piqued.

"I fell asleep again!"

"What's so wrong with that?"

"I can't seem to keep awake longer than about two hours at a time. It's ridiculous."

"It's physiological. You can't expect to be fighting fit so quickly, not after what you've been through."

"Pah!"

"Expressive as ever. And as impatient."

"I don't like being unwell." His voice became muffled as he buried his face in Napoleon's neck. Illya sighed, "It is very irritating."

"I'm sure." Napoleon stroked the flat of his hand down Illya's spine and enjoyed the feel of him stretch under the caress. "We'd better get up, or it won't be worth it."

"I could eat some breakfast."

"I think we should call it lunch. Come on." Napoleon prodded thinly covered ribs, remembering at the last minute to make it gentle. "We've got some tidying up to do; there's the mess in the cellar for a start."

"Hell!"

"Quite."

After a moment, Illya levered himself up and off the bed, walking with ease towards the bathroom, savouring Napoleon's appreciative gaze. At the door he turned and enquired; "We could always share a bath?"

Padding over to his partner, Napoleon shook his head. "I think we'll save that for when your back isn't quite so messy."

"It's not messy, it's nearly healed!"

"Mmm, and those pretty marks are just there for decoration." He touched an angry looking, half–healed scar. "What did the hospital say about these?"

"The usual. Well, if you're not going to wash, I am."

"Illya!"

His face was so innocent as he turned at the exclamation, "Yes, Napoleon?"

"Did you know that your accent gets stronger when you evade an issue?"

"I don't have an accent!"

"No, of course not." Napoleon shook his head and smiled with a wealth of love in his eyes. "Go and get cleaned up; I'll use the bathroom down the hall. Whoever's ready first gets the breakfast."

He watched as Illya disappeared behind a closing door and then, when the water was running for a shower, headed into Illya's bedroom.

He was sitting calmly at the kitchen table when his partner descended the stairs. When Illya reached the bottom stair, he stopped in his tracks and glowered.

"You, Illya Kuryakin, are quite the most contrary person it has ever been my misfortune to meet. What is the point of belonging to the most expensive private health plan in the world, when you ignore what its doctors tell you?"

Never one to concede defeat lightly, Illya parried the attack with one of his own: "I see you're still as unscrupulous as ever about prying into other people's belongings." He stood quite still, though his glare could have stripped varnish.

"Have you used any of these at all?" Napoleon flicked a finger at each of the medicaments displayed on the table in turn. "Silly question, of course you haven't; I don't think you've even opened them."

Silent against the accusation, Illya walked to the table and moved a hand in a gesture of resignation. "I don't like..." he shrugged, "...giving in."

"Good grief! This isn't giving in, it's being sensible. You could have got an infection, or something."

"But I didn't. I heal well, Napoleon. Besides, you should try putting salve on your own back; it's bad enough getting an itch."

"I suppose I should be thankful that you bothered to bandage your hand and wrists at all. Illya, you could have asked me." The expression in his eyes was of misunderstanding and a certain degree of guilt.

Illya sighed, "I could have done. At any other time I would have done, but I couldn't let you see it, not then anyway." He looked away, then smiled a small smile as he continued seemingly apropos of nothing, "Thank you for bringing him to me. If you want, you can salve any mark that takes your fancy."

"You disingenuous, manipulative..."

A moment later Illya straightened, "Yes, you were saying?"

His mind temporarily emptied by the thoroughness of the kiss, Napoleon could only shake his head.

Illya raised an enquiring eyebrow: "I must remember that as the appropriate method for shutting you up. Where's breakfast?"

"In the cupboard."

"Well, get on with it then, you did promise if you were down first..."

"I must need my head examining to get involved with such an irritating..."

"...perfect — and don't forget hungry — partner."

"Okay — I never thought I'd end up hen–pecked — what d'you want?"

After the brief tussle over whether the Russian could in fact peck like a hen, breakfast was a companionable affair. Over coffee and waffles Napoleon carefully inspected Illya for signs of his mental and physical balance. He seemed far more centred than in recent days, the stress lines around eyes and mouth seeming less deep, less worryingly apparent. The underlying serenity helped as well.

He even sat still long enough for Napoleon to lightly strap his wrists, though he refused any bandaging for his hand, saying it needed air to heal. To Napoleon it looked very nasty, but Illya undoubtedly knew best about the treatment of his own body, so he backed down.

It was a shame to spoil the day, but it was doubtful if Illya would sit around twiddling his thumbs while Napoleon disposed of the evidence. "Illya, do you want to wash up the breakfast things or bury the body? I think you should wash up, it'll be less wearing. I'm sure there's a pair of rubber gloves somewhere you could wear."

"Hah! Napoleon, how about this; you wash, I'll wipe and then we'll bury the body together."

Napoleon sighed at the failure of his — admittedly weak — plan. They cleared away the dishes and then with a concerted look, headed for the cellar.

It was worse than either man remembered.

Napoleon said, "We should have done this yesterday."

Looking ill, Illya nodded.

Napoleon was at his side, turning him around, putting himself between Illya and the gruesome sight — though there was nothing he could do to disguise the smell. "Look, you don't have to be here, go upstairs and I'll see to him."

"No, I'll go through with this, thank you, Napoleon. It's a matter of pride."

"Of stubbornness." He checked that Illya was upright and in no danger of passing out — not that it was likely, but he checked anyway, just to be on the safe side. It was quite clear that only a direct plea would shift him upstairs and Napoleon wasn't sure enough to insist. "Okay then, see if you can find a tarpaulin or something we can wrap the body in."

They found it and between them dragged the body onto it. Getting it up the stairs was slightly less easy, but with Napoleon bearing the brunt of the weight, they managed. Illya was sweating when he stood back from the awkward canvas bundle and Napoleon hesitated before asking, "Do you think you could wash the walls down there while I dig a hole for our friend here?"

"Yes." Even Illya saw the sense in that distribution of tasks. "I'll get some water." He went into the kitchen and began to fill a bucket from the tap.

His hands were shaking when Napoleon enveloped him in strong arms that didn't shake at all.

"I'm sorry you have to be here for this. If I could deal with it another way..." Emotion was clear in Napoleon's voice.

"Stop it. I'm only being a fool. It's not as if I've never killed anyone before." He turned into the embrace, though his eyes were asking for an explanation of his own perturbation.

"No, true. But not quite in these circumstances, so please, don't worry."

"Hah! Is that what I'm feeling; what a relief, there I was thinking it was panic and fear." He laughed, trying to take the sting out of the words, but they still hurt himself.

Massaging the stiff shoulders Napoleon knew that now was not the time to delve into these murky waters; Illya needed time to work this out and at the moment other things were pressing. Like the body mouldering in the hallway.

"Illya, please don't try and sort all this out now. You can't expect the hate and the confusion and the feelings of shame to go away in a puff of smoke — although I wish I could magic them away. Just don't let it all wear you down. Go and wash the walls, when I've buried him in the woods we'll talk. If you want?"

"I don't know. I'm sorry..."

"Shush, it's all right." Napoleon held Illya tight, murmuring words of comfort until the arms banding his ribs so tightly finally relaxed.

"I'll go and wash the cellar." Illya wiped his eyes and nose on his sleeve.

"Haven't you got a handkerchief?"

Illya shook his head.

"Typical! Use this." Napoleon handed over an immaculate square of Irish linen, watching indulgently while Illya blew his nose with enthusiasm. "Very elegant and gentlemanly."

"I thought you knew; I gave up all pretensions of being a gentleman a

long time ago."

"I didn't think Soviets had such things."

"There are a few left," said Illya with great dignity.

"And I'm holding one now. Whatever else you are, you're — in the old–fashioned use of the word — a real gentleman; courteous, kind and always ready to give up your chair for a lady."

"Just don't expect me to do the same for you."

"Thanks!"

They stared at each other and the moment stretched beyond infinity; way beyond what they were saying.

After a moment Illya broke the tension by speaking, "Napoleon, I really did want to be a gentleman, a long time ago. Can you believe that? The first books I can remember reading were the stories about the Scarlet Pimpernel, you know; righting wrongs and behaving with utmost propriety. My mother started me off by reading them to me and as soon as I could I read them myself. Silly really, seeing such outdated behaviour as a role model." Still inside the circle of Napoleon's arms he leant back against the sink, easing a cramp in his shoulder.

"Very romantic, not silly. What happened to your mother?" Napoleon began to massage the tight knot in a thin shoulder.

"She died."

"Oh."

Hearing the unspoken enquiry Illya answered, "I'll tell you one day, but at the moment I think we should finish what we're doing."

"You, my love, can be damned elusive yourself."

"Mmm. Go and start digging."

"Yes, master," Napoleon let go of Illya's shoulder and tugged his forelock. He did, however, grin.

Disappearing to his bedroom, it was a moment before Napoleon, with a strange smile on his face, went to hunt for a shovel. He slung the body over his shoulder, carrying it and his equipment out into the trees, heading deep into the wood.

The work was messy, disgusting and fraught with a faint sense of urgency in case anyone took it upon themselves to wander through the wood at the wrong moment. But it was better to do it alone than to have Illya here, even though the job of cleaning the cellar was hardly an ideal solution. Now if the idiot wasn't so stubborn... No! He changed the thought; if Illya wasn't so stubborn then he'd be dead. Fifty times over.

The thought was somehow cheering; if stubbornness had got them both so far independent of each other, then how far would their combined wilfulness take them? Napoleon shovelled the last clod of earth back into place with satisfaction, patting it into place. It was probably Illya's mulish side that was going to get him through this anyway. So perhaps it should be encouraged.

Standing back, he admired the grave. In three months time no–one would ever guess it was here, and for most of that time the ground should be covered with snow.

Napoleon walked back to the cabin oblivious to the beauty of the day; the outrageously rich reds and golds of the trees and their perfect reflections in the still water passed him by. His mind was centred on the man waiting inside. On my lover. On my love.

My love.

The words were strange to his vocabulary and he used them as if they were part of a foreign language; a language he could suddenly, miraculously comprehend.

But Illya wasn't waiting in the cabin, he was walking towards him on the pathway that edged the lake. Helplessly, Napoleon smiled widely and picked up his pace. Dressed in his accustomed black from head to toe, Illya was an incongruous sight, wildly out of place in the backwoods. The slightly menacing figure looked as if it belonged to dark streets and smoky cafes, to the chrome and steel of the city, certainly not to this rural tranquillity.

Perhaps he could be encouraged to wear less sombre colours. In fact Napoleon was meditating on the idea of Illya dressed in crimson when they came together on the path. "Do you ever wear anything but black or white?"

"Why?" The question was hardly what Illya had expected and it rather took him aback.

"No reason, I was just wondering."

"Are you sure you weren't consorting with the fairies out there?"

"No, I'm not sure at all. You okay?"

"Fine. I found a hose pipe and used that to clean up the cellar; it looks good as new. How did the funeral go?"

"A barrel of laughs. Come on, I'm filthy," he indicated the state of his hands and clothing. "I want a bath, a drink and then something to eat."

Illya looked up at the sky and took a deep breath. "Show me where you put him." Carefully avoiding Napoleon's scrutiny he went on, "If you're too tired you can tell me and I'll find it myself."

"No, we'll go together." Placing the shovel down, Napoleon turned on his heel and led the way back into the wood.

The only sound was that of their boots crunching through the fallen leaves. Napoleon wanted to talk but as only banalities came to his mind he kept them to himself; the last thing Illya wanted was to talk about the weather. Or was it?

"It's a lovely day."

"Mmm, Autumn is the perfect time for burials," his voice vied with the fallen leaves for dryness. He stopped, then with a sigh went on, "I'm sorry, yes it's a lovely day, though I can think of things that would make it better."

"I'm sure. Perhaps the last month not having existed would help."

"You have been with the fairies; was it Titania or Puck who warped your brain?"

"No lesser a personage than Oberon, of course. I always go straight to the top in matters of business."

"And that's what this was?"

"The laying of ghosts is always a matter of business."

"What did Oberon have to say? Apart from trying to make the past disappear."

"And what's wrong with that? It seems like a perfectly good idea to me."

"You can't do it, that's what's wrong with it. Besides, you shouldn't."

"How can you say that; if the past few weeks didn't exist then you would be well; untouched by that bastard?"

"If that's the case, then you might as well take away my whole life; like I told you before, none of it has been easy. I don't know if I would want it to be, because the past is what has made me who I am. Even Callahan."

"How can you say that?" Napoleon couldn't understand and he stopped in his tracks, needing to know.

"Because I survived."

So simple.

"Is that what it takes — surviving?"

"Yes; it's all you need to remember how good it is to be alive." Illya took a deep breath of the clean New England air and the expression on his face softened as he turned to Napoleon, "And it is, you know. Very good indeed. I'm stronger than you think, stop worrying." He stepped close and brushed his cheek against Napoleon's, "It's not good for your blood pressure. Now, where's this grave?"

"Here."

"So much for my powers of observation." He walked around the roughly oblong disturbance in the ground, ending back at Napoleon's side. "You did a good job; if U.N.C.L.E. ever chucks you out, you can apply to the local church as a grave–digger."

"I don't think my hands would stand up to the strain." Napoleon inspected his hands, back and front and wondered what his manicurist would say.

"Oh, well, another promising career down the drain." But he wasn't really listening to his own words, he was staring, absorbed, at the ground.

"He is in there you know. I made sure."

"Yes," the word came out on an unconvincing chuckle.

"Hey, come on, let's get back to the cabin; I'm starved." He put his hand on Illya's arm and only then felt the tension. So much for brave words. "Illya. He is dead, buried and thoroughly laid to rest. You said yourself that you wouldn't change the past; don't let it change you."

"No, I won't." Illya leant into Napoleon's body, as if trying to take its strength and leech its comfort. "I won't."

Napoleon held him for a while, until the nip in the afternoon air began to cool the sweat on his body. He couldn't even stroke the bent head because of the dirt on his hands. "Let's go in?"

Illya stared into his eyes, nodded and together — Illya's arm threaded through Napoleon's — they walked back towards the house. "I know we'll hardly be walking down Fifth Avenue like this," Illya squeezed Napoleon's arm, "but do you think we can see something of each other, back in New York — other than work I mean."

Napoleon tried to look at Illya's averted face, then past it to stare at the reflection of the trees in the lake. The day was very still and the water hardly stirred at all, only lapping gently at the shore. The hand on his arm was relaxed, the only sign that the question had any importance in the tension of his jaw. Napoleon asked, "Is that what you want?"

Illya nodded.

"You want to live with me?"

"That wasn't what I asked."

"No."

"Then are you asking me?"

"Yes."

"Then — yes."

"Good, that's settled then."

And they walked on.

"What do you want for lunch?" Napoleon felt a distinct grumbling in his belly, food was a definitely enticing idea. He stopped on the first step up to the cabin at the sound of Illya's laugh. "What's tickled you?"

"You."

"Me...?" Napoleon shrugged free of Illya's arm and stood staring down, with his hands planted on his hips. "Why?"

"With one breath you ask me the most important question of my life, and with the next you ask what's for lunch." He shook his head, but he was smiling. "I still don't know what made me love you."

"Well it can't have been my chicken Marengo, because you haven't tried it yet. So, perhaps it's my charm, wit, beauty..." he stopped because Illya's mouth was preventing further speech. They were both laughing around the kiss, making it almost impossible.

"Napoleon, as a partnership we should never have any problems with our joint self–esteem; you've got more than enough for both of us."

"Yeah, well, as much as I'd like to say it's all a front..."

"No, don't worry; I wouldn't change you. Well, not much..."

"If I didn't have filthy hands I'd get you back for that..."

Illya shivered theatrically, "I'm terrified."

"Yeah, and you look it." Napoleon smiled at the contentment and comparative ease in his love. "Come on; I'll get showered and then fix something to eat."

Neither of them mentioned the important decision; it was too new, too close to the edge of need and pain to be touched. But they were warmed by it, touched by a lightness that had been missing.

Despite the task that had taken the morning, the tone of the rest of the day was easy and companionable. Napoleon washed the dirt from his hands and for the first time Illya cooked a meal, though perhaps prepared was a better word; there being little cooking involved in salad.

Pushing together his knife and fork, Napoleon asked, "Where on earth did your mother get a copy of 'The Scarlet Pimpernel' in Russian?"

Illya shook his head in amazement, "You certainly pick on obscure things to puzzle over."

"That's not obscure, it's perfectly obvious."

"Mmm," he gave a small snort of laughter. "Well, if you really want to know, she didn't."

"Eh?"

"I read it in French. She brought me up to speak and read both languages. She spoke about four different ones herself — not counting a couple of dialects — and loved all of them. I suppose she passed the same interest on to me." He took a sip of tea. "You're asking the wrong question, really. It shouldn't be how did she get the foreign book, but how come — as we lived in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere — did she come to read at all?"

"Okay, you've got me hooked, how come she could read?"

"She was lucky — up to a point — though I suppose even that is questionable. She had been a translator in Moscow when I became a glint in her eye and a rapidly swelling bump in her belly. Well, socialism is as old–fashioned as any other regime, so she left her job to have me in the country. I think she intended to have the child adopted, but something happened — maybe country life suited her. Anyway, there she stayed, the only person in the village who could read or write in any language at all."

"What did she do, teach?"

"Mmm, in the nearest school — which was miles away — and she wrote letters for our neighbours occasionally, that sort of thing." He toyed with his empty cup, distracted by the past. In the silence it was suddenly clear that the wind was getting up. Illya turned to look out of the window. "It's going to storm."

Napoleon stood and peered out into the early gloom, "I think you're right." The sky was a odd shade of grey that turned almost purple towards the horizon. The trees were rustling loudly and as he watched, they began to whip back and forth in the gusting wind.

Illya was at his side, frowning, "We'd better close all the shutters up, it could be nasty."

"Oh, goody!"

"Pardon?"

"I said..."

"I know what you said — I understand even that level of English — but what do you mean?" Illya was still frowning, but no longer at the weather.

"Well, I suppose I meant: good, it's going to storm; good it's going to rain; good we're inside and all the shutters are going to be closed apart from one — which we can look out of — and, well, I guess I just love storms."

"Mad. Totally mad." A scattering of raindrops against the window–pane made them both turn. In the five minutes that they'd been speaking the trees on the far side of the lake had almost disappeared in the darkness. "Come on — let's close up before any of the windows spring a leak."

Efficiently they secured each window and door with their storm shutters. By the time they'd finished the weather was foul; black as pitch and raging against the walls of the cabin. The two men settled in the living–room, Napoleon turned up the heating, before sitting down next to Illya on the couch.

They'd left one window unshuttered and sitting in the dark, curled snugly around each other, they watched the lightning dancing in the sky.

The cushions were deep and comfortable and, as wrapped around Napoleon as Napoleon was wrapped around him, Illya sighed with contentment. "I see what you meant about the storm; it gives a very secure feeling, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, didn't you ever cuddle up on winter's nights when you were a kid?"

Illya shook his head, "I don't think so. We might have done, but winter was always more a matter of snow than of storms and if we did get one I was always terrified of the thunder."

A giant rumble shook the house, Illya didn't even flinch. "Well, something must have made you grow out of it."

"Mmm; two years of listening to the guns outside Leningrad."

Slightly taken aback, Napoleon frowned at what he could see of Illya's profile, and said, "Kill or cure?"

"I don't think Hitler ordered the war just to cure me of a fear of thunderstorms. Though come to think of it, if he did — it worked."

"A pretty drastic cure though."

"Sometimes that is what it takes."

Napoleon realised Illya was thinking about Callahan again. "Sometimes we all need something drastic to shake us up. You killed him and through the same set of circumstances I realised that I love you." The whole affair had been like brush fire that burned away all illusions. "And not only that, but that you love me." He turned the pale face until he could catch the expression that shadowed it. "Would we be here if it wasn't for him?"

A fork of lightning illuminated Napoleon's face for a brief second. Illya gave in and smiled, "Probably not."

"There," that was enough for Napoleon.

The storm was passing on; though the wind and rain continued to bluster around the house. It was getting late, the afternoon taken away by the tempest.

They stayed on the couch talking occasionally — sometimes just content to touch and be still — until it was truly night. When Illya started to yawn, Napoleon uncurled himself and chivvied him up the stairs. They went to sleep in each other's arms, the sound of the storm fading slowly into the distance.

* * * * *

The next morning the trees were all denuded of leaves. Walking down to the lake after breakfast, they waded ankle deep through russet. "You wouldn't believe this is the same place, would you?" Illya was slightly bemused by the change.

"No, but I'm used to it I guess — it happens every year, just the same."

"It must have been very nice to have such stability in your childhood."

"I was lucky." Napoleon smiled reminiscently, "Mum and Dad fought like tigers, but they loved each other more than life. When Dad died of an aneurism, Mum sort of gave up. I never blamed her — you could tell that life without him just wouldn't've been the same."

"How old were you?"

"Twenty–eight; I'd left home long before."

Illya wondered if this was Napoleon's ideal; if love had to be everything to make it worthwhile. Then he wondered what life would be like without Napoleon — and changed the subject. "Even without leaves on the trees, it's still very lovely here." They were skirting around the lake, barely able to keep to the path in some places, where the water level had risen.

Napoleon stopped, waiting for Illya to walk back to him. "Don't think I would demand that of you — I was telling a story, not making a hint. I don't doubt you in any way; don't read things into what I say that aren't there."

Duly chastened Illya smiled, and asked, "Who's the idiot now?"

"Both of us probably. I love you; do you think I'll ever get bored with saying that?"

"Well, if you do — I can teach you the same words in whatever language you want."

"Hindustani?" Napoleon enquired hopefully.

The answer was indecipherable, but had distinct Russian intonation.

"The trouble is, Napoleon pondered, "that you could be telling me anything; after all I'm hardly likely to go up to a complete stranger and say that to them, am I?"

"I should hope not. You'll have to trust me then."

"Hmm, and I get the distinct feeling that Hindustani isn't one of your better languages."

Illya gave in and laughed, turning to Napoleon as the wind whipped up and toyed with his hair. He looked so happy that Napoleon's heart ached; he touched his hand to his chest. Love shouldn't be this painful.

It occurred to him that it never had been before. So perhaps all those other times hadn't really been love at all, just a fool's version of it. Perhaps pain was the acid test of love's truth. Not that it really mattered; he knew that there was very little he wouldn't endure to keep Illya at his side. Perhaps there was nothing. Love's fool; and he didn't give a damn.

"Are you all right?" Illya had stopped smiling and was staring intent into Solo's face.

Napoleon took a deep breath and nodded, "I'm fine; just fine... So you were instructing me in the mysteries of the East..."

They walked on, and ease returned between them. But Napoleon didn't forget that moment of revelation, in fact he never would.

* * * * *

Four days later — four days that were as close to perfection as was humanly possible — Illya Kuryakin knew that he had to return to U.N.C.L.E. soon, or it would be too late. The pleasures of life with just Napoleon were insidious. As it was quite clear to him that Napoleon wanted to return — and more importantly that he wanted Illya to return — this retreat from the realities would have to end. It was a sad thought that what they had shared here could not be continued into the real world; enchantments are always broken, perhaps rightfully so. It seemed remarkably unfair that they shouldn't be able to live together openly. Neither of them cared particularly for the rules of society — though Napoleon perhaps hadn't quite thought it through — but they would at the very least be seen as a security risk. Not to speak of being seen as perverts, shirt–lifters, faggots and sundry other derogatory epithets. Illya knew fifty different terms that would be used either to their faces or behind their backs — depending on who was speaking and how much liberty they thought they could get away with. He'd had enough directed at himself over the years for it not to worry him that much. How Napoleon would react the first time someone called him a fag was another matter.

Illya knew, that given another week of this bliss he would have scorned reality and fled whole–heartedly into the mists of illusion. It was much more pleasant than facing reality. Even after such a short time he was addicted to Napoleon's company; to the companionship that seemed so easy between them, to the laughter, and most of all to the understanding.

Warm and awake he turned as Napoleon flexed sleepily against him and said, "Good morning."

"...Illya."

"Sleepyhead, do you know it's nearly nine?"

"No, and I don't care, come here."

Obedient, Illya shifted until he was pressed close to Napoleon's body. They were facing each other and the gentle curve of his lover's smile made Illya ache with pleasure. Why should anyone consider this wrong, when all they were doing was giving each other happiness? The world was upside down in its thinking. He sighed in a mixture of contentment for the moment and irritation for the future.

Luckily Napoleon only caught the contentment.

Do you want to make love? he thought. Even though Illya was responsive, more emotionally open than Napoleon had ever seen him — and he always seemed to enjoy the time they spent awake in bed — it was hard to take any of it for granted without the reassurance of at least one orgasm. Even a hard on would do the trick, he thought. But Illya didn't seem to be worried by the absence of a physical response and Napoleon wasn't about to make him.

The greatest miracle of all was that despite the appalling things Callahan had inflicted, Illya could be here at all and be quite obviously enjoying himself. The Russian's fatalistic attitude was that it would all come right in time. Napoleon was trying hard to match such lucid certainty.

At least every other physical ailment was almost healed. Kuryakin had begun to exercise properly every day as his joints and muscles responded to the gentle physiotherapy he had been setting himself. The bandages were no longer needed and with Napoleon there to salve his back, all that was left was itching and the occasional pull of healing skin or cramping muscle. He could even flex his hand without breaking into a sweat.

To all intents and purposes, he was better. Now Napoleon's plan was to complete that healing — even if it took forever, at least he'd have fun in the attempt.

Lazily, he smoothed his fingers down Illya's almost hairless torso, ending up drawing little circles on his thigh. Some questions were very difficult to phrase elegantly, "Do you want to make love?"

The wording seemed to be all right, for Illya shifted to encourage the questing fingers with a gentle sigh.

"I take it that's a yes," Solo quirked an eyebrow in amusement.

"Yes, Napoleon. You have a glorious touch." He stretched out, arching his spine away from the sheet, running his fingers through the thick mass of blond hair that seemed to have doubled in length over the last month.

"Mmm," Napoleon was entranced by the grace and sensuality that were part and parcel of this Illya. "Don't have your hair cut too short, please?"

"While you go around with a short–back–and–sides. That's not fair," Illya tweaked the lock of hair that fell across Napoleon's brow.

"My hair looks terrible any longer than this. Yours, well yours is too beautiful to hide. I've known more than a few women who would've killed for hair like this." He pulled a thick strand between finger and thumb, surprised again by the satin texture.

"An accident of birth — hardly something I had any say in."

"If you had you'd probably have chosen something less dramatic so it's just as well." He smiled, and drew Illya into a kiss. After a moment he whispered, "Did I tell you that I'm mad about you?"

"A couple of times."

"Is that all? I'll have to make up for that. I love you, Illya Nikovetch, and I'm mad about you." A trail of kisses counterpointed the words, leading down the slender strength of Illya's neck. Solo paused at the dipping hollow at his throat and lapped gently a drop of sweat. "Totally mad..."

"Insanity must be catching..." the words caught as Illya groaned. "Magic fingers..."

Then Napoleon was tasting the same magic, Illya's hands and mouth extracting pleasure from every cell in his body. The need fed his cock, until it slicked its own path across the flat belly and pressed together, mouth to mouth, body to body, the resistance of skin on skin just enough, Napoleon cried out and clutching hard to Illya's strength, came.

After a moment, he kissed Illya again, whispering, "Thank you."

"De nada."

Refusing to be side–tracked, Napoleon slid under the sheet and like a cat cleaned himself off Illya's skin. He paused for moment, then burrowed deeper, sliding his arms under Illya's thighs and taking the recalcitrant cock in his mouth.

It was soft, and the lack of reaction felt strange. Napoleon could feel tension in the lithe body, along with a hesitation that seemed to want this to stop.

In the end Illya seemed to give in and cautiously reached down to touch Napoleon's face. But he didn't say anything, just lay back with a sigh that seemed to give all decision to the other man. The mouth around his cock seemed to smile.

Napoleon forced nothing. He held the penis in his mouth and let it grow used to the contact. After a while he licked and sucked experimentally, and a while later was rewarded by a pulse that thickened the shaft for a moment before it disappeared.

Pleased with the morning's work, he pushed no further, but slid back up after a simple kiss to the slit end and a silent promise to be back soon.

Illya fitted naturally into his arms. Napoleon grinned, his triumph too joyous to mask, "I wasn't mistaken there, was I? That was a definite reaction."

"All the way from here," Illya tapped his forehead, and smiled.

"Good."

"I wonder what Mr. Waverley would say to all this," Napoleon laughed at the thought — clearly unconcerned.

But Illya wasn't so sure. Solo and his superior had a complex relationship that was built on mutual respect. What the traditionalist Waverley would make of two of his agents in an homosexual relationship was horrible to think about. But very necessary if they were to ever function as a team again.

Napoleon was so content, drowsing next to him, that it seemed cruel to demand anything, let alone this, but Illya was more certain than ever that they needed to return; to make sure that they could work. "Napoleon?"

"That sounds serious."

"I suppose it is."

"Spit it out then." Napoleon looked across, resigned to whatever Illya was going to say. Or so he thought.

"I think we should head back to New York."

"Why?"

"Because I could get too used to being here with you; because we've got to go back one day." Because I want you to have time to adjust before we have to go back to work. Because we have to face Waverley at some time.

"But why so soon? I mean, I thought you were enjoying this?"

"If you think anything else, you're mad. I've enjoyed the past few days more than I could ever tell you — promise. But..."

"But you want to see if it'll be the same in N.Y."

"No! I know it will be the same — don't twist what I'm trying to say," Illya frowned. "And I didn't mean go back this minute. But maybe a whole fortnight would be too long, understand?"

Napoleon sighed, "As much as I don't want to — yes." He stared at the ceiling and went on, "A surfeit of happiness might spoil us for reality?"

"Mmm." Illya nodded.

"But we don't have to go back yet, do we?"

"No, not yet, but soon."

"Okay." Napoleon turned and stared into Illya's solemn face. "But while we're here can we forget the nasty fact that New York even exists?"

"I might need some help."

"That, is not a problem. Now do you want breakfast in bed or are you coming down to help?"

Lazily Illya stretched, "I'm staying here."

"What did your last slave die of?" Napoleon pushed back the covers and stood up, reaching for his robe. He couldn't quite conquer the feeling that his unmarked nudity would be a problem; not that Illya had intimated anything like that. "If you lie around much longer you'll stick to the bed."

"Good!" Illya grinned wickedly and with a quick movement was at Napoleon's side. "But I wouldn't want to be stuck there alone, so on second thoughts; I'll come down." He put his arms around his lover and hugged. "Besides, we can come back in later."

Stroking Illya's long, fluid back, Napoleon nodded agreement, "Yeah, have an afternoon nap maybe."

"It wasn't a nap I was thinking of — though I can understand that at your age you might need it."

The blue eyes were so wide and innocent that it was a moment before Napoleon shook his head and grinned. "I think I called you devious before."

"Yes, I believe that was one of the compliments you threw in my direction."

"Compliments, eh? We'll have to do something about that — can't have you getting ideas."

"You can't do anything about that, I've got lots of ideas — and you feature in most of them." He kissed the tip of Napoleon's nose and danced out of reach. "The best one being that I'm going to use the shower first..." His head reappeared around the door, "Unless you want to come with me?"

"You'll have to wait — remember I'm an old man."

Illya's snort of disbelief echoed down the hallway and Napoleon smiled, unfastening his robe with a sigh as he headed towards the bathroom.

Unfortunately after the fact had been verbalised, neither of them could forget that there would come a time when the idyll had to end. They stood out for twenty–four hours, then conceding defeat decided that the future wasn't going to go away simply by trying to forget about it, and packed up their belongings into the car. Besides — Napoleon reasoned — it must be about time for Illya to be checked over by the doctors. They were finishing loading up the car when Napoleon mentioned this.

Illya, who had his arms around a sack full of trash that couldn't be left behind and was about to put it in the trunk, stopped and glowered. "I hope that's not the only reason you're dragging me away from here."

Napoleon snorted with disgust, "If you'll recall correctly, I think you'll find it the other way around. Besides," he drawled, "the bright city lights are calling, and it'll snow here within the month."

"And that's a reason?"

"No." Napoleon paced up behind him. "Put that down, will you?"

Illya dumped the sack into the trunk and turned.

"That's better. Now then, we decided it's time to go home, I only mentioned the medical side of things as an added bonus. I did not fuss, and I did not pretend to know your business better than you; so stop bristling and say yes, Napoleon."

"Yes, Napoleon." The eyes had warmed from grey to blue again, Illya smiled. "Better?"

"Mmm, a bit. How about a kiss to make up for snapping my head off?"

"I did no such thing."

"Of course not; it must have been some other blond Russian maniac I was thinking of."

"I'm not..."

"Shut up!"

Illya did, though it could be said that his kiss spoke louder than any words could.

They were both smiling as they broke apart.

"New York?" Napoleon enquired.

"New York." With a shrug Illya looked back at the cabin. It was a disconcerting thought that he might never be so happy again as he had been here. Ruthlessly dismissing it as emotional rubbish — and dangerous as well — he mentally shook himself and refused to be cowed by the thought of returning to the city. It was childish to need so much reassurance, and he had never been that — not even when young in age.

Napoleon watched the pale face that he had once thought unreadable and watched the passage of emotions across it. He couldn't make any more promises than he had already. Confidence had to come from inside Illya. As did everything else. "Hey!" He touched the place where the corn–gold hair touched the black roll–neck. "Come back."

Illya smiled and maybe Napoleon only imagined the wistful edge that bordered it. "I haven't gone anywhere."

"No," Napoleon said briskly, "but we have to. Have you checked we've got everything out of the cabin?"

"Yes."

"I'll lock up then."

Illya sighed, "I suppose so."

"We'll be back."

"I know, but what I really want is for what we've shared here to still work when we're back in the reality of work and Waverley and all of that." He turned away, almost embarrassed. "I'm sorry to go on about it, but I can't help thinking that this has all been a dream and, however delicious dreams can be, you have to wake up one day."

"I don't see why. We're grown up, we're quite capable of telling fantasy from reality, and I'm awake — I promise you."

But am I? And will you still feel the same after Waverley's had a go at you? But Illya said nothing, just smiled and walked with Napoleon back to lock all the doors and to check that everything was secure.

At the intersection with the main road Napoleon pulled the car up the side and took a long look into the valley. The cabin was invisible, but he knew it was there, waiting silently in the trees for their return, for they would come back, he was sure of it. Hands easy on the wheel he turned to his companion. Illya smiled, and Napoleon couldn't help but do the same, even though there was a sharp pain deep in his heart. Yes, they would be back. It was just a question of whether it would be sooner or later.

Slipping into drive he pulled away, heading towards the city, away from the mountains they hadn't explored, past sleepy white New England villages they'd never visited, past sign–posts to places the Algonquin and the Mohawk would have recognised, past villages named by homesick English nearly four hundred years before, down the long winding coast road, until with the last long stretch across country, the grey outer limits of New York came into sight.

For most of the journey they were silent, Napoleon driving the automatic one handed; his right hand resting easily on Illya's knee. But decisions had to be made.

"Illya, will you come and stay at my apartment?" Napoleon enquired tentatively, almost afraid to ask. "We can get somewhere between us later on, but until then, will you?"

"I don't see why not. I don't think you'd be comfortable in mine, would you?"

"Well, mine is bigger."

"Boasting again. Drop by at my place en route so I can pick up some things though, okay?"

"Yeah, sure." Bemused again by the ease of it all, Napoleon headed for SoHo. "How much is there you want to pick up?"

"Not much — a few books and things." He sighed at the rapidly passing cityscape. "Though I'd better get my gun and I.D, I don't think I can reasonably work without them, do you?"

"No, but you're not going back to U.N.C.L.E. yet, are you?"

"Do you want to place a bet on how soon it will be before Waverley has me sitting at a desk catching up on paperwork?"

Napoleon considered how Waverley had manipulated him on occasions when he was recuperating from various ills, and didn't. "I suppose not."

"If I'm going back then I may as well get it over with."

He didn't sound very enthusiastic about the prospect and Napoleon wanted to ask if it really was what he wanted. But Illya had never had any problem stating his needs before and Solo was concerned about sounding negative about something the Russian seemed to need. "Well just make sure you're physically fit before he makes you do anything."

"You might have to protect me; Alexander never likes to be bullied."

"Bullied...!"

"I bet you that's how he'll see it. So, are you going to be my knight in shining armour?"

"I'll polish my shield as soon as we get indoors."

"Mmm. It was more your sword I was thinking about."

Napoleon took his eyes off the road and caught the wicked smile tugging at Illya's lips. The lightning change of mood caught him by surprise, though after a very slight pause to close his mouth he smiled before returning his attention to driving. "As you well know, my sword is at your service whenever you want it." He lifted an eyebrow in comment.

"Wait till we're installed in your bed, my hero. Well," he paused, "you will be if you can sweeten Waverley after our last confrontation."

"Don't remind me. I hadn't forgotten, and all I caught was the afterburn."

"Oh, it was quite spectacular. It's a shame I've got to eat my words; I got a lot of satisfaction out of telling him to stuff the job."

"Considering the state you were in I'm surprised you remember anything of it."

"My memory is functioning perfectly well, thank you very much. In fact I've often wished it was slightly less acute. Not too much, but perhaps a bit less technicolour."

"Strange isn't it, that the things we remember most clearly are the ones we usually most want to forget."

"Not always." Illya contemplated, then went on, "I don't suppose you've still got blue sheets on the bed, have you?"

Napoleon caught the reference instantaneously and was irrationally pleased that Illya should consider that worth remembering. Then he recalled its aftermath and to his own horror blushed.

Illya reached over and touched his cheek. "Hey, don't look so harried; I did enjoy myself."

"Yeah, but..."

"Stop it! No recriminations, promise?" He slid his hand down and rested it on Napoleon's thigh. "I wouldn't have mentioned the sheets if I'd thought you'd react like this." He sighed, "Tell you what, you make sure the same sheets are on the bed and we'll re–christen them, get rid of all these lingering doubts."

"All right." He took Illya's hand and because it wasn't entirely healed only gave it a very gentle squeeze, then repeated more positively, "all right."

It was late afternoon when they arrived at Illya's apartment. It took them an hour to load the 'few things' its owner couldn't live without and, as most of them were books, Napoleon was moaning under his breath by the time they were finished.

Unfortunately the entire process had to be repeated in reverse at Napoleon's penthouse, where luckily there was at least an elevator.

With the last box brought up and dumped in a corner, Napoleon collapsed on the couch with a groan: "For someone who has little interest in collecting...you certainly seem to have stifled your better instincts."

Slightly bemused by the space the boxes took up, Illya nodded absentmindedly. "I think it must be the books, they multiply without any effort — as if they're breeding on the shelves. I'm sorry Napoleon, I'll take some of them back."

"No!" Sitting up with a jerk, Napoleon shook his head violently. "Leave them here, I'm sure there's space somewhere."

"Just because you don't want to carry them back down to the car!"

"It's not getting them to the car that worries me — it's getting them back up the six flights of stairs at your place." He subsided again, "I think I've done my spine a permanent injury."

"It's good for you; normally I'm the one who ends up doing the donkey work," Illya had put on his glasses and spoke over his shoulder as he began to unpack one of the boxes. The trouble with moving books was that you invariably found ones you'd forgotten about.

"Illya, I'm wounded, how could you accuse me of such a thing?"

"Quite easily, Napoleon, because it is true. Can you remember which box we put the Baudelaire in?"

Napoleon groaned, he had a vision of the entire floor covered in a carpet of books and Illya lost for days in the middle of it all. He'd have to send out Sherpas just to find out what would be wanted for supper. "No, I can't. Perhaps it would be a good idea to unpack them one at a time?" He asked with more hope than certainty as Illya was already attacking a second box. "Or to move it all into the spare room? You could make that into a library if you want."

"How large is it?"

"Large enough. Come on," he heaved himself upright. "Let's get it all moved before I drown in paper. I'll get some shelves installed tomorrow." He picked up a box with a long suffering sigh and carted it into the designated room, dumping it on the floor. He turned to go back for another and walked into Illya's waiting arms.

"You don't have to do any of this." Illya didn't back away, just leant his body in to Napoleon's. "Why don't we wait until we find a bigger apartment, and by then my hand'll be up to lifting heavy boxes and you won't have to get annoyed?"

"I'm not..."

"I know, but you could be if you wanted to be. I don't want to be a nuisance."

"The books mean a lot to you?"

Illya nodded.

After a pause Napoleon buried his face in the soft, sweet scented hair. "I didn't think...I'm sorry."

"No; I shouldn't have got so side–tracked." He stroked the nape of Napoleon's neck with his finger. There would be time later to sort the books. At the moment Napoleon and his carefully disguised insecurities were more important. "How about if we move everything of mine into here, get changed and I'll treat you to dinner somewhere nice?"

"No, how about this; I move the boxes in here and you put away all the rest of your stuff in our bedroom. Then we'll go out, though yes it can be your treat."

Illya smiled gently, standing at ease with Napoleon in his arms, "Are you sure you trust me to choose somewhere?"

"Implicitly."

"Good." Illya kissed Napoleon on the nose and stepped back. "I'll get on — it's a good job your bedroom's so big." He paused at the door. "And your bed. And..."

He was laughing as Napoleon chased him down the hallway.

Two hours later, spruced up and sharp as a razor, Napoleon sat in the passenger seat while Illya drove though the sparkling night–lit streets. He was beginning to regret everything he'd said about the choice of restaurant as the car seemed to be heading away from all the good ones. He didn't like to say anything, but he wasn't sure if black tie was quite suitable for a waterfront cafe. Illya, handling the wheel with one–handed ease looked, in Napoleon's eyes...perfect. Handsome didn't quite fit the bill — even though it was true. Pretty wasn't right either, though with that profile and that hair... Napoleon swallowed and wished they were at home. The way he wanted to stare at Illya was almost against the law. Hell, perhaps it was against the law.

Well, I'll have to get used to it sometime or another, he thought. It isn't as if I want to hold hands in public. Or do I? To be able to behave with Illya as he would with a woman was an enticing thought. To kiss him. To be able to flirt and smile and touch...

"What are you smiling about?"

"Flirting with you."

"Admirable."

"That's what I thought. Shame I won't be able to indulge until we get home." Napoleon raised a suspicious eyebrow in his companion's direction. "You're looking exceptionally smug, what've I said?"

"Nothing."

"Hmm. I don't trust you, Illya Kuryakin, when you look so damned innocent."

"Make up your mind — I can't be looking smug and innocent at the same time."

"Check the mirror."

With a look that spoke about eight volumes Illya drew the car up to the curb and turned the ignition off. Napoleon peered out at the unprepossessing street and pursed his lips. "If I apologise, does it mean we can move on?"

"There's no need. Napoleon, we have arrived."

"Arrived?"

"That's definitely the right word, go on — get out then."

"You're sure about this?"

"Napoleon!"

"I'm going, I'm going." He opened the door, but paused. "Are you sure we shouldn't be wearing full combat gear?"

"Positive, now get on with it."

Illya locked the car, setting off down an alleyway that made Napoleon wince. He set foot gingerly into it, expecting some nasty smell to assail his nostrils, or a drunk to come weaving out, or a knife–fight to be in full swing. But the only exciting thing to happen was that Illya stopped at a door and pressed his finger to the bell.

"Where are we going?"

"Do you trust me?"

Napoleon opened his mouth to say no, then decided against it. "Yes." He sounded rather resigned.

Turning away, Illya smiled to himself.

The door opened. "Good evening gentlemen, please come in."

Napoleon looked at Illya. Illya placed one hand on the small of Napoleon's back and with a gentle push ushered him inside, through a foyer and into a dining room.

The interior had no resemblance to the exterior. Plush carpeting, velvet drapes, white–aproned waiters and a room full of guests in evening dress. Napoleon stared, and only managed to move at another firm nudge from Illya's hand.

There was a beautiful woman dressed in a red cocktail dress seated at the hat–check. Illya took Napoleon's coat and scarf, slipped out of his own and accepted the token in exchange. The woman smiled widely; her green eyes hardly noticing that the blond man had a companion.

The Maitre D' was waiting for them, "Good evening Mr. Kuryakin, glad you could make it. I've kept a nice table not too close to the piano for you. Would you like to be seated now, or have an aperitif at the bar first?"

"I think we'll go straight to our table, thank you, Ferdinand."

They walked through the scattered tables and Illya signalled Ferdinand out of the way and held the chair for Napoleon to sit down before settling himself opposite.

"You're still looking smug."

"I know."

Napoleon fingered the cutlery and had a surreptitious look around. "And I presume you know that all the people in here are men?"

"Of course. Even the girl at the hat–check."

Napoleon finally looked Illya in the eye. "Devious doesn't even begin to describe you."

"Good; I was wondering when you were going to start the promised flirting."

They were grinning inanely at each other when the waiter arrived with the menu.

Which he gave to Illya.

"Close your mouth, Napoleon."

"I'm trying. How did you find out about this place, and what's more, how do they know which of us to treat as the 'man'."

"A judicious word on the telephone. And the answer to the first question is that someone brought me here a few years ago."

"You will never cease to amaze me; I didn't even realise you went in for this sort of thing."

"What sort of thing? Being attractive to my own sex?"

"Yes, but more than that — that you came to places like this, I don't know, all sorts of things." Napoleon thought about it, then reached over and took a firm clasp of Illya's hand. "It's as if I never really knew you before."

"You didn't."

"More fool me."

"No. I don't make my life public knowledge; unless you'd been very lucky — and very good — you'd never've found this out."

"I am very good."

"But you never cared."

"Doesn't that bother you?"

"No, because you're bothering now."

The touch between them was very light, a simple resting of flesh and bone on flesh and bone. But the contact between their eyes completed the circuit, so that the murmur of voices, the genteel scraping of silver–plate over Wedgwood and the ripple of Debussy all faded away.

They only broke the contact at the tactful cough from the waiter, "Are you ready to order, sir?"

"Oh, yes." Hardly glancing at the menu Illya went on, "we'll have the oysters, then the Boeuf En Crout; the accompaniment I leave to Pascal." He handed back the leather bound booklet with a smile.

"Would, sir, like the wine menu?"

"Of course." The waiter nodded and walked silently away. Illya laid his hand back on the table. "We can hold hands in here, that's why I chose it."

Speechless, Napoleon obeyed the implicit order and touched the warm fingers. "You're different tonight."

"No I'm not." Illya considered. "But I am happy."

"Happy we came back?"

"Mmm, it feels less like cowardice to be here."

"You have very strange ideas of what constitutes cowardice, my friend."

At that moment the wine waiter appeared and Illya held so tight to Napoleon's hand that unless he started an unseemly struggle he had to leave it where it was. Afterwards, Napoleon was never sure if Illya ordered or not, because he was too busy fighting his embarrassment.

He hadn't blushed in public since high school.

"Illya..."

"Think what fun retribution will be."

"Jesus! And this man thinks he's a coward?"

"There's nothing brave about holding hands here, most couples are doing it. I'm not suggesting we have dinner at the Waldorf and try it, though it might provoke some interesting responses."

"Good grief!"

"I love you, and I really don't care who knows it." Illya spoke very solemnly, rubbing the back of Napoleon's hand with his thumb. "It's the world that's wrong, not us."

"I know."

"Good. I think these could be our oysters."

They were. Along with a bottle of Krug to go with them.

"I'm feeling spoiled, are you sure you can afford this," Napoleon placed the damask napkin over his lap, fingering the heavy fabric. "I know we're off the beaten track but none of this seems to say 'cheap' to me."

"It doesn't, but don't worry; I can afford to bring you here a few times without having to rob a bank."

The financial status of his friend was something else that had never occurred to Napoleon. They both earned a good salary which, considering the hours they usually worked, was difficult to spend, but what else Illya had tucked away was a mystery. Napoleon sipped at the bitter–sweet golden liquid in his glass. "How well off are you?"

"Why? Checking out if I'm up to scratch?"

Napoleon almost choked on the bubbles, "No! I'm curious, you know that."

"Don't I! Okay," Illya held a hand up, palm outwards in peace. "You really want to know?"

"Illya," Napoleon growled.

"Just testing... Well, I brought five Faberge eggs out of Russia."

"My God! They're worth a fortune!"

"I know." Illya sighed. "Unfortunately I sold one broken up into pieces, two before the market really took off — though I'm not complaining about what I did get for them — and I've got one left."

"That only makes four."

"The other one I gave away."

"Some present!"

"It was to the man who brought me to the West."

"Ah."

"Indeed."

Napoleon frowned and considered it was high time he had another look in Illya's file. Plus there were other things, like: "How did you get them out, it can't have been when you were a child."

"No, I was eighteen when I left. The eggs I went back for much later, I smuggled them out I'm afraid. You see I'd found them during the war and loved them for their beauty. They were almost a toy for a while; until I realised that the pretty stones were real. They were worth nothing in a country where bread was more valuable than diamonds, so I hid them."

"And went back later."

"Yes. Afterwards I realised how stupid it was to attempt it; but it worked and I got away." He shrugged.

"Where's the one that's left?"

"In a bank vault, waiting for a rainy day."

Napoleon raised his glass in a toast. "Well, I hope one never comes."

The glasses clinked together satisfactorily and Illya agreed, "To a permanent absence of rainy days." He started on the oysters which he'd been ignoring. "And what about you, how are your prospects?"

"My family, as you know, have never been shy of money. I'm fine, so between us we won't have any problems getting a bigger apartment."

"None at all." Illya grinned. "How are the oysters?"

"Delicious...and no, I haven't forgotten the other property they're said to possess."

"Did I say anything?"

"You didn't have to."

They were smiling again when the waiter came to clear their plates.

The entire meal was delicious, even to the fresh coffee and petit four. Stirring in a wicked spoonful of dark sugar, Napoleon went back to an earlier topic of conversation. It seemed incredible that Illya should be so at home in this underground world of homosexuality and it was an itch in his mind that he didn't know more. It wasn't easy to ask about the past without seeming jealous; something he had no right — or inclination — to be. But the words wouldn't go away and in the end he asked them.

They'd been talking about work, various missions they'd been on, when Napoleon said, "How long have you preferred men?"

"I'm not sure I do."

That was hardly the answer Napoleon had expected. "Pardon?"

"I mean, I'm not sure I do the preferring."

"Please, Illya, tell me that again in English?"

The snort of laughter was extremely ungentlemanly, but it made Napoleon smile. Illya looked at his so suave partner and had a strong desire to lean across the table and kiss him. But he didn't, instead he said, "What I mean is, I don't really make any decisions in the matter. For as long as I can remember I've been attractive to both men and women, I suppose I've always sort of gone along with it."

"You mean you've never made advances to anybody? Not anyone at all?"

"Only you."

"I wish you'd stop dropping these bombshells, it's not good for my digestion." Napoleon realised the lights were lower, the ambience more intimate, and he stared across the white damask and tried to see the truth in Illya's shadowed eyes. "There must have been someone?"

"No. Why, does there have to be?" For some reason Illya was smiling.

"No...no."

"It's all right Napoleon, I haven't been counting your conquests."

Alarmed that he was so transparent, Napoleon started. "I don't make love to every woman I meet."

"I don't believe even you are capable of such prowess, but I know there have been an awful lot."

"I wish..."

"Don't. Remember — no recriminations."

"But you must..."

"I don't. The only liaisons I'm concerned about are any you might have in the future."

"Then don't worry at all; there won't be any."

"If I tell you I love you, will that be the tenth time today?"

"Something like that." Napoleon's face softened — why should he want any of the people in the universe as long as this one, of all the millions, was his? "Let's go home?"

"Yes, I'll get the check."

Back in the car, Illya drove home leisurely. It occurred to him that he ought to wonder why Napoleon's apartment could be already thought of as that, as home, but then he realised that it wasn't really a surprise; Napoleon himself had been all the home he needed for quite a long while.

Not very much later, a contented Napoleon sighed as he slid under the covers and took Illya's warmth into his arms. "Thank you for a special evening, I even enjoyed the shocks."

"Adrenalin junky," Illya curled into Napoleon's pliant limbs.

"Illya junky, more like."

"Mmm, do that again."

"What, that?" Napoleon ran his thumb over the requested spot.

"Mmm."

"I love your nipples, they're so neat and perfect. I'm glad he didn't do anything to them."

"If you continue like that, so will I be."

"Weren't you before?"

"I was too busy being pleased that everything else was still in place." Illya smiled and let himself float on the sensation. Napoleon made him feel so good that it hardly mattered that his arousal stopped at delight and never quite got as far as an erection. He'd come close — as it were — but so far his flesh had proven determined to be difficult. The trouble was that Illya was certain that Napoleon needed more. He probably had intercourse as his final goal and as yet that was unimaginable. It wasn't that Illya didn't want it, he just couldn't envisage it. What Callahan had inflicted on him wasn't sex, he knew that, but it was close enough for the actual penetration of his body to be a very difficult proposition.

Luckily, not that Illya was overly concerned with any of that at the moment, he trusted his lover enough to know that boundaries would be observed. Besides, Napoleon's magic fingers could almost persuade him that anything was possible.

Napoleon Solo was always a dominant lover, he liked to call all the shots almost all of the time. Illya was so responsive that making love to him was always a joy.

Face buried in the soft, sparse hair dusting Illya's belly, Napoleon was licking his way downwards. His own erection was hard, balls drawn up tight, every sense alive with sex. Illya was a loose limbed sprawl that encouraged abandon. The brandy before bed had been a very good idea, Napoleon had been very careful to drink only a little, not that he wanted Illya drunk, but... What he really wanted was all here in his arms, it was just a case of finding its secret. Like taking one of Illya's Faberge eggs; untouched, unexplored it was an infinitely desirable possession, yet by exploring its mystery one could transform it into an even greater one, just by the simple fact of being able to open it. It was his intention to open Illya. He was in no hurry, there was a lifetime in which to do it.

But tonight was going to be another step into the temple, another key turned in the tabernacle door. Patience, Napoleon, he told himself, wait, be careful, time is on your side. His cock disagreed, but then it would, and reaching down he dealt with it in a few brisk strokes, breathing out a sigh of relief as he came, waiting until he was drained before returning to the task in hand.

Enthusiasm curbed, he went back with patience, weaving a spell around Illya that bound him tight to his side, drew ecstatic sighs from him, but scarcely moved his penis. Very well, Napoleon told it, see what you think of this.

Lifting his head, Napoleon looked along the slim length of lamp–lit body and waited for Illya to open his eyes. "Illya, I want to do some thing. I won't hurt you, but I need you to trust me. I'm not going to do anything you won't like, okay?"

"Napoleon, you know you can do what you want. I'm sorry..."

"Shush! Be quiet and concentrate on being sexy." Illya relaxed back with a soft laugh. "Better. Now don't shout at me, but I want to put my finger inside you." Napoleon was almost holding his breath as he spoke.

"Okay." Illya appeared to shrug. "Enough doctors have rummaged around in there recently, I don't think another finger will hurt."

"Illya!"

"Yes, Napoleon?" The wide eyed face tilted towards Napoleon, innocence and enquiry writ large across it. Then he took pity and laughed again, though the laughter had an edge of bravado to Napoleon's ears. "I'm sorry, but I couldn't resist it. Besides, it's true."

"I'm sure, but it's hardly romantic."

"Romance is where the heart is. I don't need roses."

"But you do need this, lie down."

Illya obeyed with a snort that promised Napoleon should beware of getting accustomed to such compliance.

The cream was at the bedside, Napoleon only had to reach into the drawer to find it. Holding it like a talisman, he turned back to Illya. "Come here."

And without a demur Illya slid into his arms, allowing himself to be cradled, his thigh looped over Napoleon's canted hip. The position left his body open, but Napoleon covered it with his hand, gently cupping the sex in a gesture of protection. When a cream laden finger touched his anus, Illya's legs tried to close of their own accord, the muscles of his thighs rippling with tension, but a voice was whispering in his ear and as Illya turned, a mouth claimed his for its own. Distracted, the touch between his legs lost its alienness, though when the finger began to push its way inside he gasped and clutched hard to Napoleon's shoulders.

"Shush, it's all right, I'm not going to hurt you. If you feel so much as a twinge I'll stop, promise."

"Napoleon..."

"I love you..." And taking the delicious mouth again, Napoleon slid his finger inside the heat of his lover's body.

For a long moment he kept almost still, only moving in tiny circles that would keep the lubrication moist. When the hold on his shoulders relaxed to the merely bruising, Napoleon uncurled Illya's body to let it lie back on the blue sheet. Twisting so his cheek rested