TRUE COLOURS

by Kitty Fisher

PART FOUR

Napoleon was so deeply asleep that the sounds were at first part of his own dream. Then with a stab of panic he realised they were not.

"Illya." He whispered the word, groping for the switch on the bed–side light. Finally he found it, and its muted warmth brought all of the shadowed room into focus. Illya was curled tightly under the blankets, his immobility without any sense of comfort; his body tight with tension. Napoleon reached out and laid his hand on a hunched shoulder. "Illya? You are dreaming, it's all right."

But there was no answer, the Russian woven so tightly in the nightmare that the gentle voice couldn't penetrate through the pain. Hollow eyed, Napoleon was almost shaking, convinced that whatever psychic trauma Illya was suffering was his own fault. You might as well have raped him and been done with it, he ripped at himself. Anyone with any sense would have known that Illya wasn't ready, but you? Oh no, you knew better. Almost incapable of functioning with the intensity of his guilt, he eased Illya into a tentative embrace, speaking in a low, even murmur all the time.

Illya didn't wake up, but after a while he quieted, relaxing with a small whimper into the heat of Napoleon's body, gradually returning to an easy untroubled sleep.

With a muffled click, Napoleon turned off the light, though he stared into the darkness for a long time.

The next morning everything was wonderful until Illya moved. He groaned, making Napoleon twist abruptly into his side. "What's wrong?"

"Hangover..." Illya winced as the bed bounced with Napoleon's movement. "I forgot that brandy hates me."

Napoleon could almost have cried with relief, "D'you want a couple of aspirin?"

"Mmm."

"Hang on." Napoleon stepped carefully out of bed. Shrugging into a robe he visited the bathroom, then went into the kitchen to pour a glass of water with shaking hands. He took several deep breaths before walking back to the bedroom. "Here you go." He waited until Illya was sitting up, then handed over the pain–killers. "I'm sorry, I wouldn't have poured so much down you if I'd known. Perhaps I should have stuck to vodka." Napoleon wasn't sure if his words sounded as stilted to Illya as they did to himself. It was taking all his self control to simply be here, rather than running away; so he had little energy left for social graces.

"Would you mind not mentioning any species of alcohol; the thought of being sick is not a pleasant one." Illya grimaced as he swallowed the pills; a distant part of him wondering why Napoleon was sitting neatly on the edge of the bed, just out of contact.

Napoleon took back the emptied glass and put it in the side. Settling himself, he took a deep breath and reached out shyly to stroke Illya's high forehead, sifting his fingers through the slightly damp tendrils of pale blond hair. Apart from staring at him in a rather perplexed way, Illya made no demur at the touch and Napoleon managed to ask: "Any better?"

"Give it a chance." Illya would have smiled if his face hadn't hurt so much; why should over indulgence in alcohol affect the facial muscles? He closed his eyes, then opened them with a sigh. Napoleon was staring at him as if he was going to disappear. Illya wasn't sure why. "Napoleon, thanks for last night."

It seemed to much to hope for that Illya didn't remember the nightmare. "For the headache?" Napoleon enquired softly.

"Idiot. No, for the pleasure."

Napoleon felt a twist of emotion that almost unmanned him. "There's no need to thank me for something I...I enjoyed doing so much. How do you feel? Aside from the head."

Illya considered, giving a tentative wriggle. "Fine. I feel fine. Really fine." He pulled Napoleon down so their faces were close. "Let me thank you. I'm glad you enjoyed it, but you know it was more than that for me."

"I know." Illya had made no real fuss about what Napoleon liked to think about as his problem, but it must have worried him. Perhaps the dream had, after all, only been connected with that. He wondered if Illya really didn't remember it, or if he did then perhaps he didn't worry about it. In the same situation Napoleon would have been worried. Colossally so. He realised that Illya never made a fuss about anything. Ever. The only words that emerged from all these confused thoughts were: "Stoical, aren't you?"

"Eh?"

"I was thinking that you don't make a fuss about things, not like I do."

"A different temperament, that's all; I scream just like you do when someone hurts me enough." A wave of emotion swept across Napoleon's face and the hand that Illya could see was white knuckled. Illya traced a finger down his nose. "What have I said now? I didn't mean to upset you." Napoleon was puzzling this morning, he should be over the moon at the success of last night, yet instead he was... what? Carefully inspecting his partner now the analgesics had taken the edge off his headache, Illya realised that Napoleon looked as if he hadn't slept at all. He frowned, but wasn't sure what to ask.

Finally, pushed into it by the silence, Napoleon reacted, "Illya..." He took hold of the slim shoulders and gripped them hard.

"What is it?"

With a small sound, Napoleon kissed the close lips with intensity but little pressure, even now aware that he couldn't hurt. The mere thought of Illya screaming in pain was almost unbearable; the thought of himself inflicting that pain brought his own personal nightmare vividly back to mind. "Illya you had a nightmare last night."

"Did I wake you?"

Napoleon pounced on the slight prevarication. "So you did have one. Jesus, I'm sorry." He stood up and paced towards the door, where he stopped. Then, after a moments thought, turned back. "I won't make you go through it again."

"Through what?"

For a moment, Napoleon clenched his fist in anger, fighting the mockery he felt he sensed in Illya's words. Then he looked at the man on the bed.

Illya was sitting upright, his naked torso very thin in the oblique light from the curtained window, his ribs moving smoothly under the fine skin as he breathed. There was only blatant compassion along with a certain measure of bewilderment to be read in his face.

"Don't you remember what the dream was about? You must do, and you can't tell me that it wasn't because I... I..." Solo couldn't quite say the words that would condemn himself.

"Napoleon, this is ridiculous. All you did was to remind my body what it is for. I enjoyed every minute of it and that is the honest truth." Napoleon stayed where he was and said nothing. "Would you rather I pretended to be traumatised by the whole process?"

"No! But you had a nightmare." Napoleon sounded so distraught.

"Yes, but I get them now and then. I thought you'd have realised that after living with me for so long." Well, three weeks was a long time in their profession. "As far as I can recall, last night's was something about some dobermans chasing me; you know I don't like dogs. There was nothing about having a good time."

Almost in shock, Napoleon drifted over to sit on the side of the bed. "Dobermans?"

"Mmm. I told you brandy doesn't agree with me." Able to see more clearly now that he was feeling better, Illya inspected the grey tinge to Napoleon's skin and tutted with realisation. "Are you telling me that you spent the entire night worrying yourself stupid over all this? No, there's no need to answer, I can see you did. Napoleon, when will you learn to ask me before you decide I'm fading away? Besides, don't you ever have nightmares?"

"Sometimes." Napoleon conceded.

"Well then."

Napoleon rallied himself, "But you can't just sit there and dismiss it like that; there must be some correlation between the two events."

"I suppose there might have been, but as far as I can see if there was one it's well hidden."

"Wasn't it disturbing?"

"I'd say it was the opposite. And," he held up a hand to still Napoleon's reply. "If you're talking about the fact that you actually put your fingers inside me and the fact that it might set me off on remembering things you are sure I'd rather not, well think again; I'm quite capable of knowing the difference between you and Callahan. You should have woken me up, then there wouldn't be a problem." He finished with a sharp poke in towelling covered ribs.

But Napoleon still had a stubborn set to his chin, his guilt slow to disperse. "Illya, I want to believe you..."

"But you can't." Illya sighed and considered the possibility of strangling the American before he was any older.

"No...but you weren't there. I can't bear to think of you in pain...the dream sounded awful." He finished with a miserable shake of his head.

"You've always woken me up before, why not this time?"

Napoleon looked down, swallowing hard.

"Because," Illya answered for him, "I think you were scared."

Napoleon curled his hand into a fist and pressed it to his breast, "Guilty as charged."

"Coward!"

"Through and through; I thought you would wake up and hate me."

Illya leant forward and slid his arms around the tense shoulders. "I think I might have given a hint about how I felt before I went to sleep."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Trust me, Napoleon. I'll never say I feel one thing while I'm actually feeling another. I only lie about unimportant things; unless it's for U.N.C.L.E. of course."

Napoleon gave a small snort of laughter, and Illya could feel the tension in his shoulders begin to relax. He pulled him into a proper hug. "So, what did you think of the club, then?"

"I was stunned. You are a dark horse, Illya." Unentwining himself, Napoleon shrugged out of his robe and edged under the covers, nudging Illya over with his hip.

"Just because I know about a homosexual club?"

"Because you are you." Napoleon smiled and wrapped himself around Illya's body. Or at least, he tried to.

Despite the central heating that warmed the flat, Napoleon had managed to get very cold feet. With a curse, Illya fled to the opposite side of the bed. "Don't you come any closer to me with those blocks of ice!"

Wounded brown eyes mourned from the far pillow. "Illya, but you're so warm!"

"And I'm staying that way. Napoleon!"

"Yes, Illya?"

"Nothing." He gave a sigh, then relaxed as Napoleon took him in a secure embrace, his feet neatly tucked between Illya's calves. "Just because you're bigger than I am."

"Mmm," Napoleon was snuffling around the softness of Illya's neck, breathing in his sweetness, almost light–headed with relief that despite everything, it was all still all right. "It must have been all the good food I grew up on."

"Milk and cookies?"

"Milk and steak and cookies."

"Bleah."

"Well, maybe not at the same time."

"What a relief." He paused and toyed with a wiry strand of dark hair. "Napoleon, what's for breakfast?"

"Me?"

"God, you are so opportunistic."

"Is that what you call it?"

"Probably not; I've got a feeling randy would be better." The pressure against Illya's thigh was nothing to do with any of Napoleon's more bony appendages. "Wouldn't you rather have breakfast first?"

"Exercise on top of a full stomach..."

"Okay." Illya sighed with resignation.

Instantly, Napoleon raised his head and looked hard into the blue eyes. "But not if you don't want to."

Illya smiled, if Napoleon needed this reassurance, then Napoleon would have it. As long as he didn't expect pyrotechnics in return. "Come on, I'm only being grouchy." And he raised his head so that their mouths met in a kiss.

In the end, Illya surprised himself; both body and mind finally throwing themselves into the meeting with enthusiasm, even though the rumble of his stomach at an inappropriate moment nearly set both men off in hysterics.

When Napoleon finally disappeared to make breakfast, it was nearly lunchtime. Illya stretched out on the bed and wondered where he was going to find the energy to make it as far as the bathroom. He felt luxuriously enervated; the feeling quite different from the exhaustion that had dogged his days and nights since Callahan.

In the distance, he could hear the sound of Napoleon whistling to himself in the kitchen. Illya realised that the feeling permeating through his system must be contentment. He smiled, it must be love if the sound of an off–key rendition of 'Blue Moon' could make him feel warm inside. And he had five more days of Napoleon's undivided attention before U.N.C.L.E. needed him back.

The thought made his toes curl in anticipation. Five days. But then what?

Surrounded in the comfort and warmth of the American's bed, Illya refused to allow any shadow to his thoughts. He firmly believed in the power of positive thinking; if he didn't allow Napoleon to brood, then he wouldn't. It had been disconcerting to find that the dream had affected the other man so much. If only he'd woken Illya up.

Guilt was one concept Illya would always have said that Napoleon knew nothing about. And how wrong he would have been. Mind you, he'd shown few signs of it before, so perhaps it was a passing phase. Illya sincerely hoped that was the case, because there was no way he wanted Napoleon to change. He was quite perfect as he was; domineering, self–opinionated and cocky as hell. Not that he'd be getting his own way all of the time, but it couldn't hurt to let him think he was.

Illya slid his hands under the pillows and stretched again. He really did feel remarkably good. He flexed the hand that had been smashed; its reactions were still slower than they should be, but as he was ambidextrous — at least with a gun — that didn't matter. Unfortunately, the thought of guns chilled his mood, serving as reminder that Napoleon wasn't the only person due back at work.

It seemed churlish to doubt the strength of Napoleon's commitment, especially as it had been given when least expected, but would it survive the rigours of the return to reality? Coming back to New York had been one step towards that, going back to U.N.C.L.E. was a bigger and potentially more dangerous one. Still, only time would tell. Illya sighed, trying to convince himself that he was conjuring monsters where none existed.

Then Napoleon padded into the room, carrying a tray laden with brunch. Doubt fled away instantly, banished by the warmth seldom seen in the dark, Italian eyes.

They made a dozen plans for things to fill the day, but in the end the farthest they got from Napoleon's apartment was the deli on the corner of the next block. Having considered going to the cinema, and decided against it, in the end they spent the remains of the day curled amiably on Napoleon's wide couch watching old movies on TV. At just gone eleven in the evening, Illya began to yawn. Ten minutes later they went to bed.

It was daylight when Illya was shaken out of sleep by the recurring horror of his dream. He took a moment to realise that the brightness dazzling his eyes meant it was morning. Carefully sitting up he wiped his face with a slightly unsteady hand. At least this time, Napoleon's not woken up. Damn it, why am I getting these now? It seemed colossally unfair that the old dreams should return to bother him now. Perhaps it was time to give up eating monteray jack before bedtime; wasn't there supposed to be some correlation between cheese and nightmares? Or was that cheese and headaches?

Easing out of bed so as not to wake Napoleon, Illya wandered through to make some tea, picking up Napoleon's post en route. It looked like the usual mix of bills and circulars, apart from one envelope made from handmade paper. Curious, Illya turned it over, but there was no return address. With a shrug, he put it to one side while making the tea, then slipped all the post on to the side of the tray to take in to the bedroom.

"Napoleon, it's morning! Wake up and drink your tea."

"I'm awake, you mad Russian; there is no need to bellow." Napoleon peered over the covers and glared.

"That's good, because I wasn't."

"You're perky this morning, what've you been up to?"

"Nothing. I just feel..full of energy!" Illya put the empty tray on the floor and slid into bed. He was smiling with his eyes.

"Full of energy?"

"Mmm." The smile spread to the corners of his mouth.

"Ah." Napoleon nodded in complicit understanding. "Wait until I've drunk this tea you insist on making me, then we'll see what use we can put all that animation to."

Illya grinned.

Almost side tracked by the unusual sight, Napoleon just managed to hold himself in check. There was no point hurrying anything; there was time enough. Sitting up and curling to one side, he reached for the tea–cup and noticing the post, picked up that instead. "I'll tell you one thing." He was leafing through the unexciting selection, frowning at the amount of buff envelopes. "It'll be cheaper when we only have one household to run."

"I knew there was another reason for you wanting to live with me."

"Naturally; why do something for one reason when you can do it for fifty." He threw a smile over his shoulder and tucked his feet around Illya's knee. "What's this?" He was waving the white envelope.

"Contrary to popular belief I neither have X–ray vision, nor am I given to steaming open my friends' letters to read them before delivery. I think the best way to find out what's in it is to open it, don't you?"

"Comedian." His fingers were tearing open the paper.

Sipping at his tea, Illya watched his partner's profile as he read through the letter, trying to gauge from his set expression what bad news the missive had brought. In the end he gave up, "What is it?"

Napoleon turned and with an unreadable look handed it over.

With a glance at the paper, Illya shook his head, "I don't believe it."

"I don't think Waverley goes in for practical jokes, and he's the only person I know of who could get his hands on genuine THRUSH headed paper. Apart from a THRUSH agent of course."

"Do you think they're serious?"

"Yes, I think they want to arrange a meet. But whether it'll be a trap, or a set up to kill us both, I don't know."

Illya read it through again. "They are very insistent that it's all on the level. But then they would be." He considered for a moment. "Why us?"

"Perhaps they've seen the error of their ways?"

"And perhaps it's a blue moon tonight. There must be a reason."

"I know –" Napoleon broke off as the telephone rang. With an eyebrow lifting in Illya's direction he reached over and answered it.

"Solo."

Illya wished very hard that he could hear both sides of the conversation, especially as Napoleon's was limited mainly to short affirmatives.

When Napoleon replaced the receiver, he turned back. "Three guesses."

"Your godmother?"

"No."

"My godmother?"

"No."

"Damn, then it must've been THRUSH."

"Mmm, and they want to meet us today."

"Very precipitate of them, wouldn't you say?"

"I would. The man said that we would 'learn something to our advantage'. I didn't ask what because he wasn't giving anything away. Do you want to go?"

"They might want us to eliminate someone for them. Or they might want to tell us that they're giving up — highly likely — or maybe like you said, they want to kill us."

"He sounded — and I never thought I'd say this — genuine."

Illya took a deep breath, "What time did he say?"

"An hour's time, on the viewing platform of the Empire State Building."

"Very original, do you think he's a fan of 'On The Town'?"

"Probably. God knows — THRUSH has some pretty weird types in its ranks."

"Don't you like Gene Kelly, then?"

Napoleon almost lost the thread of Illya's logic, then he caught up and smiled, though his mind wasn't really concentrating. "He's all right, but I prefer Fred Astaire. Come on, let's get ready."

"Hell, and I was so looking forward to a nice lazy morning in bed."

"Never mind, we'll have a lazy afternoon there instead, how's that sound?"

"Wonderful." Illya stretched fluidly across the sheets, unknotting tension with a sigh. Napoleon almost didn't go anywhere, but a gentle kick from one extended foot directed at a very delicate place sent him shooting out of bed. Illya stayed where he was for a moment, watching Solo rubbing his backside. He didn't want to meet with THRUSH at all, but from old he knew that once Napoleon's curiosity had been aroused then there would be no stopping him. Though he didn't want to go himself, the thought of Napoleon going alone was even more difficult to cope with.

As Napoleon went to use the bathroom first, Illya untangled his legs from the sheets and sat on the edge of the bed. He held his hand out in front of him. It was almost steady; the shaking so slight as to be nearly non–existent. Except he knew it was there, its root deep in the cold pit of his belly. Linking his hands he rested them in his lap. It didn't seem likely that Napoleon would notice the negligible tremor and that was all that mattered. With a wry grimace he stood up, standing by the bed for a moment. He stared blankly at the bed–side light, but however hard he tried the future remained impenetrable. Then with a flurry, Napoleon was back in the room and there was no time left for introspection.

The top of the Empire State Building was extremely cold. Illya was very glad that he'd paid attention to Napoleon and decided to wear his warmest coat. The only consolation was that the chill kept away the crowds, the platform empty but for themselves, four German tourists who had come up in the lift with them and a gentleman in a peaked cap who must work for the company — probably in the capacity of trying to stop people from appearing on the six o'clock news by the simple method of getting down to the sidewalk the quick way; without the benefit of the elevator.

The two U.N.C.L.E agents wandered around, saying nothing. They were both too intent on the possibility of attack to say very much to each other. They had been there ten minutes when the lift disgorged two gentlemen dressed in black. The two took a brief look around, then headed straight for where Napoleon and Illya stood.

Illya dove his hands deeper into his pockets, hunching his shoulders against the wind that whistled around his ears. He didn't recognise one of the men, but the taller of the two was still, as far as he knew, head of THRUSH forces in the United States. Big guns indeed. But why?

Napoleon also knew who the heavy jowled man was, though his attention was divided between their visitors and the bleak impassivity on Illya's face. Automatically, he took half a pace forward and slightly to one side so that he was partially in front of the Russian. "Hi, I didn't think a big bird like you would come himself. How's THRUSH doing, Mr. Elston?"

"Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin." The most powerful enemy they possessed nodded his head to each of them in turn. "This is my aide, Benjamin Cooper."

They all nodded warily in introduction. Napoleon folded his arms, "Well now, I'm sure this is very cosy, but all the same I'd rather get it over and done with. What do you want?"

"So blunt, Mr. Solo. But perhaps that is all to the good." He looked around, then gestured with his head at a corner where they could stand undisturbed. When they were again still, he continued. "I'm afraid this is going to be quite a long speech, but bear with me. First of all, I would like to apologise to Mr. Kuryakin for the way Callahan treated him. None of it was within his brief, and if you hadn't disposed of him we would have done so ourselves."

"Though as I would have been dead by then you can hardly expect me to be very impressed." Illya spoke with hardly any inflection; his voice speaking his reluctance along with his body–language.

"We are at war, Mr. Kuryakin, I regret that as an organisation we are occasionally more ruthless than I would like." He spoke over Illya's snort of laughter. "I don't like waste of any kind — and killing you would have been just that."

"You've tried it often enough before."

"As you have killed many of my operatives." The massive shoulders shrugged. "We have been enemies, there is no blame on either side."

Illya looked as if he was going to argue the point, but Napoleon spoke first, "This is all very well, but I want to know why we're here."

"So impatient — it must be your Italian blood." Elston tutted, though he seemed unworried by the clear animosity displayed by the two men before him. "Very well," he looked from cold brown eyes, to colder blue ones. "We wondered if you realised that U.N.C.L.E. will disapprove of your sexual liaison — I almost think we knew about it before they did — that they will try and break it up and if they fail then you will be retired from active service. Maybe any service at all." Elston almost smiled at the perfect non–reaction on both faces. "I wouldn't like to play poker with either of you two gentlemen; a fact I must remember if you take me up on my offer."

Napoleon unlocked his jaw. "What offer?"

"To come and work for me. We've known for a long time that if there was a way of enticing you over to us we would attempt it, but you are both so incorruptible that it would never have worked. Well, now we can offer you what U.N.C.L.E. never will; the chance to work at what you do so well — together."

"There is a problem in that, we don't believe in the same causes."

"A different perspective, I agree, but the end results are not that different." Elston smiled, sending the fine hairs on the back of Napoleon's neck on end.

"I can't believe that. Neither can I believe that U.N.C.L.E. would be so bigoted as to dispense of our services just because we don't conform to their ideas of propriety." Napoleon unfolded his arms and watched Elston carefully. This whole conversation was faintly ridiculous.

"Do you remember Sanchez and Philipson?

With a frown Napoleon nodded, "They were two agents who left last year. They were suffering from field stress, why?"

"They retired, planning on living together in Atlanta, running a diner, until there was an unfortunate accident with a gas cylinder. Alexander Waverley got rid of them when they refused to be re–teamed; he terminated them before they could tell us any secrets. Or what about Kubrick? He might be before your time, but he wanted to be a member of U.N.C.L.E. more than he wanted his lover, so he stayed on when the other man left, though he was never the same afterwards and was killed down in Mexico a year later, a week after his old friend had returned to persuade him to give it all up. Oh, and the lover died too, but of course in a totally unrelated accident. You should check in records in you don't believe me, though of course it is quite likely that the real reasons won't show unless you access Waverley's private files — if he's anything like me that is."

"Mr. Waverley is nothing like any THRUSH agent I've ever met."

"Perhaps so, Mr. Solo. But then again, perhaps you ought not to be so certain. I don't see Mr. Kuryakin leaping to your boss's defence."

Napoleon turned, realising that Illya had indeed been very quiet throughout the exchange. The Russian was very still, his face quite pale, but his voice was steady as he finally spoke, "Our opinion of Waverley is no concern of yours." A gust of wind sent his hair dancing in front of his eyes, with a steady hand he brushed it back, straightening as he glanced at his partner. "I think I speak for both of us, and kind as your offer is, I'm afraid we must refuse. You see there is far more difference in our ideologies than you seem to think, and whatever reaction U.N.C.L.E. has to our living together I don't think it concerns you."

"Even if you die for it?"

Illya shrugged, his face if anything even more pale than before.

Napoleon snorted with impatience. "This is ridiculous. Waverley doesn't go around ordering the deaths of his own agents; if they died then it must have been an accident. Thank you for the offer, but as we've heard it we'll be off. Good day." He started to brush past the old enemy, but was stilled by a hand on his arm.

"Mr. Solo, I didn't expect you to walk easily into THRUSH's waiting arms. This meeting is meant as an invitation that will be open for quite some time. If you change your mind, ring this number." Elston clicked the fingers of his free hand and the other man, whose name Napoleon remembered as Cooper, handed over a paste card inscribed with a telephone number. "You would be appreciated as an addition to our force; and THRUSH has no outmoded ideas about sexuality."

>From over Napoleon's shoulder, Illya's voice floated cool and dry, "If Callahan was an example, I should think not."

Elston nodded in approval. "If you can look at him with such humour after what you went through, then I doubly want your services. Think about it anyway. Good afternoon." And turning to Cooper he walked away, pointing out a sight as they looked over the city.

Both U.N.C.L.E. agents were silent until they reached the street. Then Illya said, "I didn't think it was humour I remembered him with."

"That man wouldn't recognise a real emotion if it bit him in the leg. It's outrageous, making those allegations about Waverley."

Illya didn't say anything, just carried on walking. After a moment Napoleon stopped him with a hand on his arm. "You don't believe those lies do you?"

With a sigh, Illya looked up at the winter sky. "I don't know, I really don't know. But I don't think Elston would lie about what's in the files, I'll have to look when I get back to work."

"Can you? I mean he did say the information was in Waverley's private files."

"I know."

His curiosity piqued, Napoleon asked: "Have you looked in them before?"

"There hasn't been a reason, before."

Suddenly Napoleon wanted to get away from the crowded street. With two steps he was at the curb, signalling for a cab. Giving his home address, he held the door and chivvied Illya inside. The journey seemed to take a very long time, but eventually he paid off the driver.

The apartment was very warm in comparison to the outside, both men hung their coats on the rack by the door before settling in the lounge. Illya sat down heavily and resting his head back, closed his eyes.

"Do you want a drink?" Napoleon was standing by the fireplace, staring hard at the sprawling pose of his friend that somehow managed to be completely without relaxation. "Tea, coffee, vodka?"

Illya rolled his head on the chair–back in answer, "No, thanks. Though we could have some lunch."

Napoleon relaxed himself at the normality of Illya being hungry. "What do you want?"

"I'll get it, you've been waiting on me too much recently."

"Not that you haven't deserved it, but thanks."

With a surge Illya stood up, rubbing his hands over his face. "Okay, then. Is there any melon left?"

"About half I think. Come on, let's make the food together, you look bushed."

"Seeing little birds like our friends always seems to wear me out. If they aren't trying to kill us, then they are interrogating us, and if that's not bad enough now they're trying to subvert us. I don't know about you, Napoleon, but I don't think there is anything that could make working for THRUSH look like an easy option." Illya bowed his head and stared at his outstretched fingers; they were still slightly unsteady.

Then Napoleon was at his side, pushing aside his arms to take him into a bone–cracking hug. "I agree. Besides, I'm sure everything he said was a lie."

"Are you?"

Napoleon caught a glimpse of doubt and despair in Illya's quickly averted eyes. "Yes and, even if it's true, I'm sure we could convince Alexander that we're not a security risk. There should be no reason for him to resort to drastic measures." He smiled, intending the words as a joke. But Illya was very solemn. "Come on, Illya, you can't believe that of him."

"I don't know what to think."

"But Waverley's a just man, he wouldn't go around killing people just because they happen to be different from him."

"Not because they're different, no. Because they're a risk to U.N.C.L.E. — yes."

"But we're not a risk." Napoleon couldn't believe that Illya was taking all this so seriously. "We've known him for years, he's always been fair."

"We weren't lovers."

"So?"

Illya slid his fingers through the rough silk of Napoleons hair, running his thumbs over the strong line of his brow, seeing the stubbornness almost etched into the bone. If either of them needed Waverley it was Napoleon. The thought was somehow disquieting, for when it came to the bottom line, who would the American choose? Illya wanted to fight for his future here and now, but it wasn't the time, so he settled for a fact that Napoleon couldn't disagree with, "He won't like it."

"Tough. He'll get used to us in time."

"Yes, I suppose he will." To hide the doubt in his eyes, Illya leant his weight into Napoleon's body, holding him tight. This week was going to have been so perfect, now this had spoiled it all. "I wonder how they found out?" His voice was muffled against the wool of Napoleon's jacket.

"Maybe they made a lucky guess."

Illya gave a small laugh and raised his head. "I doubt if they'd be so sure of themselves on a guess. Besides, Callahan knew."

"Did he now."

"Mmm, quite taken with the idea he was."

"Miserable bastard." The penny dropped very slowly, but when it did it almost deafened Napoleon with it's reverberations. "Are you telling me that Callahan knew about us, really?"

"Yes." Illya cursed himself, he'd never intended on giving away that little secret — perhaps he was more tired than he thought.

"Did he use it as a reason for what he did to you?"

"You mean, because I was a faggot anyway, it didn't matter if he raped me?"

"Something like that."

"No. He wanted to spoil me for you, and he liked the idea of using me...violently after you had given me pleasure. But he'd have used sex anyway, he was that type." Illya was casually dismissive

"I'm sorry."

"Listen, I think I might have said this before, but I'll say it again and mean every word: I'm glad we were lovers before he took me — it made it all much easier to bear. Promise."

"Ah, Illya, I don't know what I did to deserve you."

"You were probably very wicked in a past life, now come on — I'm starving." And taking hold of a warm hand, he dragged his partner into the kitchen. "Right, if you slice the cheese and the melon, I'll make up a batch of biscuits."

"Just like mother used to make?"

"Better. Now get on with it." He peeled off his sweater, tossing it over the back of a chair before rolling up the sleeves of his shirt and beginning to measure out the flour he had found on a previous reconnaissance of Solo's cupboards.

The meal was delicious, though there was flour everywhere from when Napoleon had queried the amount of it Illya was using. Though in the end Illya forgave him so much that he did the washing up himself, leaving Napoleon the infinitely preferable task of wiping.

The kitchen finally restored to order, Illya turned to Napoleon, "There!"

"Bright as a new pin."

"Which is more than can be said for me." Illya looked down at his clothes.

"How about a shower? We could share one?"

"Are you making an immoral proposition?"

"Yeah."

"Good, we haven't shared a shower yet."

"That's because we keep getting side–tracked." Napoleon stood up and pecked a kiss to the end of Illya's flour daubed nose. "Besides, you'll taste better when you're not powdery."

"Eh?"

In answer, Napoleon ran his finger along a floury cheek and held it up for inspection.

"Nap...you could have told me."

"I could have done, but you look very cute."

"Cute! I'll give you cute, Napoleon Solo..."

After a brief tussle they held quite still in a kiss, breaking apart with a sigh. "Napoleon?"

"Mmm," Napoleon was intent on an area of skin just below Illya's collarbone that had somehow escaped being floured.

"If we don't get to the shower soon I'm going to ravish you here."

Napoleon looked up, then frowned as the man in his arms supressed what could only be termed as a giggle. "What's up?"

"You were right — the flour does look cute."

Napoleon ran his hand over his face. It came away white.

"Don't look like that — I didn't ask you to kiss me! And this way we both need a shower."

"I didn't need an excuse," Napoleon attempted to sound aloof.

"You never do, come on."

Napoleon went.

He was under the water when Illya stepped through the doors, sliding them closed behind him. "I'm glad we chose your home; we'd never do this in comfort in mine." He stepped under the cascade of water, shivering as the nakedness of Napoleon's body slid around him.

"I'm all for comfort, Illya."

Touched, aroused, delighted, Illya was scant of breath. "I noticed."

Their skin moved effortlessly together, silk against satin, warmth against warmth as the water flowed around them. Even the sound of the shower, which neither man had ever thought of as erotic before, added to the heat tantalising their senses.

As they kissed the streams of water ran down their faces, running first on one body then the other, indiscriminate in its path, treating the twisting shape as one entity. Illya moaned deep in his throat as the curve of Napoleon's arousal brushed against his own. Almost without thought he was pulling away, kneeling at the braced feet, mouthing at the soft skin of strong thighs.

Napoleon fought for breath, water running unheeded past his lips as Illya took his cock and swallowed it. The pleasure was so intense that he could feel his knees giving way, making him reach blindly for the sides of the cubicle to keep himself upright.

Blinking, he looked down and almost came. The sight of Illya, mouth forced wide around his cock was sublimely erotic. Illya was so beautiful. Unconsciously he was speaking the word again and again, telling his lover what delight he was giving, sharing the pleasure in a low soft voice that counterpointed the thrumming of the shower.

Illya was working the length of flesh deeper into his throat, gently massaging the tightness of Napoleon's balls, keeping a rhythm with mouth and fingers and tongue. He could hear the murmur of Napoleon's words, their meaning clear even without understanding, weaving a spell that sent his own flesh pulsing in answering delight.

As Napoleon was about to come, Illya pulled his mouth away, waiting until the demand had faded merely to need before he stood up and joined them in another kiss, binding him to delight until he too was gasping, close to the edge.

Napoleon reached for the soap, turning as he did so.

"Napoleon?" Bereft of touch, Illya was plaintive.

"Wait." Napoleon was soaping between his thighs to create a slick channel, then he braced himself against the wall. As Illya pushed into the sleek, soapy warmth, Napoleon closed his legs tight together, trapping the cock with his flesh. "There, it should be snug enough." With a flex of his hips he showed Illya how good it would be. "Come on, fuck me."

Even though he wasn't inside Napoleon's body the sensation was almost indescribable. Pressed to the strength of Solo's long, finely muscled back, Illya pulled backwards, shivering as friction tantalised his flesh. He held tight to wide shoulders and gave up on restraint, driving himself into the tightness, feeling at the end of each stroke the weight of Napoleon's sex torment the tip of his cock.

He could feel Napoleon groaning as though with pain, the sound enough to urge his hand around the taller body, reaching for the curve of flesh. At the touch of his fingers, Illya felt the muscles of Napoleon's back ripple and as his head fell back, with a cry he came.

The sight was too much. Soundless, Illya pushed himself along the glide of Napoleon's skin and as the spattering of seed joined the sparkling crystals of water, his own pleasure peaked in blinding white light.

An age later he was on his knees, Napoleon wrapped around him, concern in his voice. Illya shook his head in bewilderment. "What happened?"

"You did!" Napoleon wiped his nose on the back of his hand. "You passed out on me for a second."

"I came." Illya sounded amazed. He looked around and realised they were both kneeling inside the steam shrouded shower cubicle.

"Yeah, and it must have been good!"

"That's one way of saying it." On his knees where he had slumped, Illya grinned sloppily at the concern in his lover's face.

Napoleon took Illya's face into his hands and stared into his eyes. "I love you very much. Nothing can separate us, Illya, not even Alexander Waverley."

"That's good, because I don't fancy a threesome."

"Can't you take anything seriously?" Napoleon indulgently stroked a stray hair out of his lover's eye, wondering at his unerring capacity for piercing the bubble of sobriety that he felt compelled to indulge in.

"Yes, all sorts of things...that I love you." The expression and the words denied all previous levity. "...that you love me."

"Until all the rivers run dry." There was a slight unevenness in Napoleon's voice. "Stay with me?"

"I promised that a long time ago, Napoleon, a long time ago." His finger ran along the dripping line of Solo's jaw. After a long moment, Illya said: "Let's go and dry off before we drown?"

"Yeah." Napoleon stood, awkward on stiffened muscles, before reaching to haul Illya upright. Balancing the slighter man for no other reason than to keep the contact, he reached over and turned off the shower. The silence was almost shocking.

Illya barely had the energy to climb over the step out of the stall. "I going to have to do some real work before my muscles all turn to mush. I need to find some more energy too."

"We could go down the gym later, if you fancy it?"

Napoleon was towelling himself dry with a bath–towel, the movement of his genitals as he rubbed between his legs quite beguiling. Illya said: "I think we'd better; my mind is running ahead of my body's current abilities."

Napoleon caught the direction of Illya's glance and smiled, "Well, they do say that sex is one of the best forms of exercise."

"You should know." Illya belatedly wished the words unsaid, but Napoleon only made a face at him. Shrugging away the slight discomfort of the moment, Illya decided to brazen it out. "Well, you should. And don't start looking furtive; there's nothing wrong with a bit of experience."

"Nothing at all, though I hope in future that the learning process will involve both of us."

Illya groaned as he picked up his own towel with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. "I know, but I don't think my back'll survive the week if we don't go out at least occasionally."

"Come here, let me do that." And taking the drowsy form in hand, Napoleon efficiently dried it from hair to toes, careful of every healing mark. Looking up from where he knelt at Illya's feet, Napoleon realised the Russian was almost asleep. He stood up, "Come on," and he guided Illya in the direction of the bedroom. "Why don't you take a nap?"

"Will you have one too?"

"No, I'm not tired." Illya looked woebegone. "Oh, all right, I'll get into bed, but I'll read while you sleep. Did I ever tell you how manipulative you are?"

"Only a few hundred times." Illya smiled. "Get in then."

They curled neatly under the covers, like two spoons with Napoleon holding tight to Illya. He yawned, enjoying the feel of smooth skin down the length of his body. His last thought before he fell gently asleep was that the fine down on Illya's thighs was really very soft, almost — but not quite — as silky as the hair on his head.

They woke easily and together after almost an hour. With a supple twist Illya moved into the offered curl of an olive–skinned arm. "That was very nice, and I thought you weren't sleepy?"

"Mmm, I didn't think I was." Absentmindedly, Napoleon stroked the curve of slender muscled shoulder, feeling the slight play of sinew and bone as Illya breathed. "It's rather nice though, having the time to laze around during the day. When we get back to work we'll be lucky if we sleep at home at night."

Illya bit gently at the soft skin of Napoleon's under–arm. "Don't mention going back to work until we actually have to do it."

"All right, all right!" He squirmed as the teeth bit again, but he didn't loosen his hold. "As you're so full of beans why don't we go out tonight?"

"Where?"

"We could pay your club a visit. By the way, what is it called?"

"Saint John's"

"Saint John's?"

"Mmm, the guy who runs it thought it appropriate."

"Good grief. You mean John as in John the Baptist?"

"No, John as in John the disciple."

There was incomprehension written large on Napoleon's face. "Just try me again, this time in English."

"John the Beloved, the one who Christ loved."

"Does the city council know?"

"No." Illya laughed, "I think the official name's Pascal's — that's the name of the owner." The light filtering through the window was from the street–lights outside. Illya guessed it must be about six o'clock, though with the days getting so short it was difficult to tell. "We could go there for dinner, but if you fancy it we could stay on and see the floorshow."

"You mean you deprived me of that the last time we were there?"

"I seem to remember that we had other things on our mind."

"Oh, yes." Napoleon smiled in fond remembrance.

"So, do you want to go?"

"Yes."

"That's a quick decision."

"Am I going to regret it?"

"Depends on what you think of the show, doesn't it?"

"I've got a sneaking feeling that I really am going to live to regret this evening."

"A little trust Napoleon, that's all you need...and twenty dollars each."

"Twenty dollars? What do we get, gold plated dancers waving platinum tassels?"

"Wait and see." Illya almost wriggled in anticipation, but he held still; if Napoleon suspected anything odd then he wouldn't go. Instead he stretched, easing the kinks in his muscles.

"You all right?"

"Fine." He smiled up at his partner, very content to lie where he was for a while yet. "Just fine. I like this you know, just being able to lie here holding each other — it's not something I've ever done before."

Napoleon looked back over his sex life and nodded in agreement. "Nor me, I'm usually too busy plotting when I'll get to screw the girl again to bother with just holding her for the sake of holding her."

They both stared up at the ceiling, gently rubbing their feet together, rather like two cats idly swishing their tails. They knew it would be necessary to get up soon, but the pleasure of the moment was so intense it didn't matter that it was transitory. Besides, it was a pleasure they could repeat whenever they wanted, a fact that only enhanced the enjoyment.

As long as we stay together, Illya's ever quibbling mind tagged that on the end of the thought.

"Do you fancy a run around the park before we go out?"

"No."

"Okay."

Napoleon prodded the arm that lay across his chest. "Aren't you going to argue in favour of your run?"

"No."

"Why not, it's not like you to be so amenable?"

"I think it's raining." Illya tucked himself further around Napoleon.

"Is that it? I was sure we'd have to go for a slog in the cold."

"Does that mean you really want to go for a run after all, but only wanted to be talked into it?" Illya propped his head on one hand to glare more efficiently at Napoleon.

No, but I was curious how far you'd take something you really want. If only I knew what you really want. Don't change on me Illya, stay the way you are; I love you, spikes and all. But all those things were too difficult to say, so instead he settled for: "No, I'm just being silly. What time is it?"

Illya twisted to have a look at the bedside clock. "Good God — it's nearly eight o'clock!"

"What time do you want to eat?"

"It'll be ten by the time we're ready and have got over there."

"Ten o'clock then." Napoleon swung his legs off the side of the bed, then paused. "Er, how do I find the number, I've got a feeling that they won't be in the phone book."

"I'll ring." Illya climbed onto his knees behind Napoleon and slid both arms around his neck. "And that way I get to order the seating."

"Do you get a kick out of being dominant?"

"Only sometimes. Well, you're so masterful that I have to get my bit in or you'll walk all over me."

"Illya..." Napoleon turned to see the wicked humour in the blue eyes. "You swine..."

"No, Napoleon!" And they were twisting, fighting as they laughed, wrestling in the wild tangle of sheets.

When Illya was pressed deep into the mattress, Napoleon crowed with delight. "Got you! Now say 'cave'."

"Cave!" He managed to breath the word through gulps for air.

Napoleon stared down at the expression on the Russian's face, seeing the happiness, the uncomplicated joy. Perhaps all the insecurity was his own imagining, perhaps Illya really had wanted to do all the things that Napoleon had suggested over the past few days. It hadn't been long since Illya had almost died. He'd only recovered from all that so recently that perhaps it was pushing things to expect him to be back to normal in every way.

But seeing the THRUSH agents had stirred up more than Napoleon would have liked. He should have gone alone — would have, except he knew that Illya wouldn't have let him. Damn them. They could have left them alone for a while longer.

"What are you thinking about?"

"That I think you gave in to me — let me win."

"I wouldn't want to hurt you." That smile was skirting around Illya's mouth again.

"I knew that somehow it would be my responsibility. Well I've got something here that's definitely your fault." Napoleon circled his hips, letting Illya feel physical result of their wrestling bout. "What do you think?"

"I think I accept all accountability." Illya's smile was positively wicked as he opened his mouth hungrily for the kiss.

It was eleven o'clock when they finally got to the club.

Ferdinand admitted them with a discreet smile in Illya's direction, ushering them, after they had deposited their coats, to a table at the back of the room. The same as the first time, he stood back so that Illya could hold Napoleon's chair.

"Ferdinand?"

"Yes, Mr. Kuryakin." As they settled themselves at the table he unfurled their napkins, then stood back.

"What time does the cabaret begin tonight?"

"Midnight, sir. Are you thinking of attending?"

"I think so." Illya glanced at Napoleon, who nodded.

"Then I would advise reserving a table."

"Whatever you think, we'll eat something that doesn't take too long, my friend has never seen the entertainment."

The finely plucked shape of Ferdinand's eyebrow rose towards his brylcreamed hairline. "In that case I'll make sure you get a good view." Napoleon considered that the smile he shared with Illya to be distinctly conspiratorial.

"Thank you."

The Maitre D' bowed and walked off, gesturing for a waiter to attend their table.

After they had ordered, Napoleon tilted a look at his companion. "I'm getting more and more intrigued by this entertainment — are you sure I'm not going to end up as part of it? I mean you haven't volunteered my services without my knowledge have you?"

"No. Nothing so devious."

"Mmm, then why have I got this prickling feeling at the back of my neck?"

Glancing automatically over Napoleon's shoulder, the smile froze on Illya's face. "I don't believe it."

The prickling this time for real, Napoleon held his gaze on the pale face before him. "What is it?"

"Elston."

Very slowly, Napoleon turned to see the massive figure of the THRUSH controller seated at a table behind him. He was accompanied by the prettiest boy Napoleon had ever seen. So pretty that if this hadn't been where it was he'd have thought it a girl.

Napoleon felt slightly ill. Especially as the boy could have been Illya when he was a youth.

"Do you want to leave?"

Napoleon gathered his wits and shook his head. "No, I don't want to give him the satisfaction. Besides, he probably doesn't know we're here."

"He knows." Illya averted his face as Elston slid an oyster between the parted lips of his boy.

Napoleon expelled a long held breath, "I think you're right. Damn him!"

"Is everything all right?" Ferdinand must have seen something was wrong, for he hovered by their table, concern on his face.

"Ferdy, the big man sitting by the gilt mirror, does he come here often?"

Ferdinand had a discreet look. "No, I think this is his first visit — though he would have to have been recommended by one of our regulars."

"Can you find out who that was?" There was doubt on the Maitre D's face. "As a favour?"

"I'll see what I can find." And without further words he walked off.

The two U.N.C.L.E. agents looked at each other. "So much for our night out." Illya bunched his hand into a fist to stop it shaking.

"Life can't be perfect all the time — you told me that." Napoleon tapped a white knuckle with one finger.

"I think I wanted to be proved wrong." Illya uncurled his hand and let the strong fingers take hold of it.

"I wish I could."

"I know." Illya almost smiled, then sat back as their Stroganoff arrived. "Do you still want to stay for the cabaret?"

"Do you?"

Illya considered, then shook his head, "No. I think I've gone off the idea; especially if Mr. Slime is staying as well."

"No problem, we'll go home and have our own entertainment." And setting himself to be relaxed and charming, Napoleon managed to divert Illya for the remainder of their brief meal. When it came to get the check, Ferdinand delivered it with a second slip of paper tucked beneath it, which Illya slipped into his pocket.

They drove home in silence for the first ten minutes, then Illya spoke what was obviously on his mind. "Do you think he knew we'd be there?"

"Our phone would have to be tapped."

"Not difficult to arrange."

"No." Napoleon drove slowly as he considered. The boy had looked so like Illya, what was the purpose of that? To prove that THRUSH was as full of queers as U.N.C.L.E? There was no need to have a look–a–like for that. Perhaps he wanted Illya. Now that was not a pleasant thought.

"The boy looked like me, didn't he?"

"I hoped you hadn't noticed."

"Be difficult not to."

Napoleon sighed, "You're right, that hair was incredible — let alone the jawline."

"God, the thought of him with that slimy monster." Illya shuddered in disgust, he hadn't even noticed Napoleon's oblique compliment. "I hope it was all a set up, and that Elston's going home to his wife just about now."

Napoleon didn't say anything; the likelihood seemed remote to him that Elston was doing anything but anticipating a night of lust with that beautiful body. In his place Napoleon would be doing the same. Except that he had the real thing to take home, and as far as he was concerned, an adult Illya was preferable to all the pretty boys in the world. Elston had looked the sort to disagree.

Illya answered the silence as if Napoleon had spoken. "No, you're right; that was wishful thinking."

"Perhaps he'll enjoy it."

"And pigs might fly. Would you fancy being fucked by Elston? No, of course you wouldn't, but then you wouldn't fancy being fucked by anybody."

"I wouldn't mind if it was you."

The bombshell silenced Illya with his mouth open; all he could do was gape.

Napoleon, glanced away from the road, and smiled at the effect of his announcement. "Aren't you interested in making love to me?"

"Yes." Illya's voice was very small.

"Then what's the matter?"

"I would like to make love to you very much, but we have done that quite a lot already."

"Don't be deliberately difficult, you know what I mean."

"Are you sure you mean it? I never thought... Are you sure?"

"What are you so worried about? Is it just that you thought I'd never want to be so submissive as to let you take me, or what?" He looked across again, trying to gauge Illya's reaction. "Or are you worried that I'll want the same in return?" Yes, that must be it, Napoleon cursed his own arrogance that had made him miss such an obvious line of reasoning. "That's it isn't it?"

"I guess so." Illya shrugged, his face set in lines of unhappiness.

Napoleon pulled the car over to the side of the road. "I don't expect you to trust me completely so soon, especially after the way I behaved before. But believe this, I won't ever make a move on you unless you ask me. I couldn't, not after..."

"...Callahan." As Napoleon hesitated Illya finished the sentence for him. "I'm sorry, I don't want to doubt you."

"You have good reason. But I am telling the truth."

"Yes." Illya nodded, as if agreeing with an internalised question. "Take me home, Napoleon?"

"Home." And with a little sigh, Napoleon moved the car back into the stream of traffic. He wanted to explain; to elaborate on why what he had offered meant so much, but now wasn't the time. Why it should be necessary to see Illya's eyes when he spoke to him was confusing, but they did speak the truth regardless of what Illya's mouth might be saying. Not that he would lie exactly, but he was very skilled at skirting around the truth. Napoleon knew that trying to explain now would be like talking to himself; fascinating but not exactly productive.

Besides which, all Illya's doubts made too much sense. In fact the changes in his own outlook confused Napoleon, so he had no trouble realising what they did to his lover.

Napoleon's mental rambling had got him precisely nowhere as he locked the door to their apartment and switched the lights onto their dimmest setting. Well, nowhere wasn't exactly true; if you counted depression as a place, he'd managed that journey quite well.

>From the door he watched Illya throw his jacket and vest over the back of a chair. His tie followed as he undid his collar, cuffs and went to sit by the dead hearth, kicking off his shoes. He looked as down as Napoleon felt.

With six long paces, Napoleon was kneeling at his side, very intense. "I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"For jumping the gun. You see I've been thinking about it for a while, and I had meant to ask you in a more romantic way, but Elston destroyed my good intentions. There was never going to be an element of barter involved, believe me."

"I know." Illya rubbed his fingers tiredly over his eyes. "Well, in moments of sanity I know, but I don't think I'm sane very often these days."

"You are sane enough for me and, selfish though it may be, that's all I care about."

"But I don't feel it. I get flashes when everything seems fine, and then the world slips out of kilter again."

"You're trying too hard. How can you expect nothing to be different? What you're seeing as touches of insanity might just be that, but then again they might be just your mind readjusting to everything that's happened. You were tortured by an expert, Illya, you almost died and now we are living as lovers. How can you think you should be the same? Give it time, you have to give it time."

"Napoleon." Kuryakin spoke the word as a statement. Indeed, he was seeing his friend clearly for the first time in what seemed like hours.

"Illya."

They both smiled and some of the tension left the room.

"Sane or not, if I'm going to fall to pieces every time I see a THRUSH agent I'm going to have a wonderful time back at work — do you think I should ask Waverley to employ me only when they aren't involved?"

"I didn't expect you to act like a long lost son to them."

"No." Illya held a hand out in front of Napoleon's face. "Did you know I was shaking?"

The hand was quite steady now. "No, I didn't. Does it matter?"

"To me."

"What do you see it as, some sort of weakness?"

"Of course." Illya raised his eyebrows, as if no alternative was possible.

"I wasn't exactly steady myself, so am I weak?"

"No!" Illya gripped Napoleon's shoulders and shook them. "You could never be weak; that's one of the things I most admire about you."

"Well, I was. I was scared stupid that they might kill you; I was so scared that I was shaking. In the club, when I realised who the boy looked like I was shaking again, because I knew what it would mean to you. I could still operate efficiently, but then so could you. You were far more efficient with Elston than I was."

"I was taught how to be a good actor, for when the occassion demanded."

"Don't you ever believe in making allowances for yourself? Illya, if I didn't love you I'd beat you black and blue."

There was a glimmering of a smile on the austere, pale face. "You and whose army?"

Napoleon flashed a grin, then returned to seriousness. He reached up and touched the discreet frill that bordered Illya's evening shirt. It was warm from its closeness to the slender body. "Does the thought of fucking me disgust you?" He could feel the start that ran through Illya's frame. "I won't ask again, if it does."

The Russian shuddered, his hands gripping convulsively to the strength of Napoleon's shoulders. He whispered, "No, it doesn't disgust me."

Napoleon let out the long held breath, allowing his body to function again. "Good." He'd intended the word to be quite hearty, but his voice cracked as he spoke. He cleared his throat. "I'm glad about that."

"Are you really?" Illya let his hands trail up the line of Napoleon's neck, stopping when they cupped his face. "Tell me truly, Napoleon. Because I think I could never forgive you if you lied to me."

"Illya Kuryakin, I want you very much."

"But, you want me — not the other way around. I mean you want to fuck me, don't you?"

No lies, no prevarications, no half–truths. "Yes." Napoleon tried to let the word speak for itself, but Illya closed his eyes.

When Illya said nothing at all, Solo took hold of one still hand and held it in his own. "Illya, how could I love you and not want you, you are beautiful, I look at you sometimes and get a hard–on just from the way you turn your head, or the way your arse curves so deliciously as you walk. I love everything there is about you — which you know — so how can you expect me to not want you. I've tasted the delights of your body once, but did I say I was going to do anything about it again? No. All I said was the truth." He took a shallow breath. "And the other side to that is that I need you to want me that badly too."

"I do." Illya bowed his head further, curving down, away from Napoleon's sight.

"Then make love to me. No strings, scouts honour."

With an audible swallow, Illya raised his head, looking directly into the dark brown eyes. His face was damp, glistening in the light cast from the lamp. "I want to believe you; I want to so much."

"Why can't you?"

"Because, if this was all the other way round, I don't know if I could be as strong."

It took a second for Napoleon to work out the ramifications, then he gave a big sniff. "I thought for a moment there you didn't fancy me."

"You thought nothing of the sort!" Illya pulled the tail of his shirt out of his waistband, using it to wipe his face.

"No." With a shaky laugh Napoleon borrowed a tail and did the same.

All movement stilled, they searched each other's face. "Illya, if I had a God to swear by, I couldn't mean what I say more; I will never hurt you — I couldn't. Trying to force you sexually, even trying to persuade you that its what you want would be hurting you, so believe me, I'll never attempt it. Besides, I might take to being fucked like a duck to water."

"I used to think that it had its moments." Illya looked at his shirt–tail, and decided against blowing his nose on it. He sniffed wetly instead.

"If you ever think the same again, let me know. In the meantime, you can have me, and we can do all that experimenting we talked about."

"I don't know if I can even do that yet — not the experimenting, you know what I mean."

"If it happens, it happens. Just remember that the offer stands."

"I will. Thank you, Napoleon."

"For goodness sake, I haven't done anything yet." Napoleon stood up, pulling the slighter man with him. "And even when I have, there still won't be any need to thank me, because I'll only be doing what I want to do."

"You are insufferable sometimes — try being more gracious, okay?" Illya leant into Napoleon, rubbing his hands over the black wool of his jacket.

"I'll try. But there I'm not making any promises."

"I knew my luck would run out sooner or later." But Illya was smiling as he parted his lips for a kiss, sighing as he worked his way along the soft flesh of Napoleon's top lip, feeling the slight border of stubble beginning to grow. "Shall we go to bed?"

"Thought you'd never ask."

Without loosing his hold on Illya's hand, Napoleon went to the light and turned it off before leading them into the bedroom.

He undressed the pale form as if worshipping at some arcane shrine: devoting himself to the twist of each pearl button as it slid through its hand–stitched buttonhole; kissing lightly each inch of newly exposed skin as the shirt was finally tossed carelessly onto the floor. He knelt to remove Illya's pants, tutting as Illya made to complain, wanting very much this singular delight, this singular exploration, to be unspoiled. Palming one hand upwards he touched Illya's lips momentarily, the sign saying; wait, be patient, be silent. Words would have been too much.

Illya stood quite still, though he breathed fast and light, his head falling back as an agile tongue snaked into his navel.

Napoleon smiled as the head of Illya's penis sought him through the rough wool. He kissed it, then set about freeing it, holding Illya's hand in support as he stepped out of the dark pool of cloth, peeling each sock off as its foot was raised.

Kneeling back, Napoleon looked at the results of his labours, a feeling close to awe tightening his throat. In the shadowy light cast from the single lamp, Illya was the embodiment of everything he had ever needed but never known he'd wanted.

He'd never knelt for anyone in all his life, but he knelt here as if born to it.

"Napoleon?" Unnerved by the intensity, Illya nonetheless was bound into stillness by the expression in Napoleon's eyes. Careless of his own nudity he was only aware of the fact that his lover was on his knees. It was wrong; Napoleon shouldn't feel like this about anyone, he needed his self sufficiency.

They both did.

With a kaleidoscope of redefined parameters, that thought changed everything. For another time it would be himself on his knees; another time when the need would be his own.

Love, affection, adoration, need. They all functioned both ways, shared as they would in future share all things.

Illya held his hand out, palm upwards and Napoleon placed his own into it, rising easily to stand at Illya's side. The Italian eyes were almost black in the subdued light, but they met the inscrutable blue with honesty. "Make love to me?"

"Napoleon." The word was spoken on a shaky sigh that was maybe trying to be a laugh.

"Please?" Napoleon stepped closer, cupping the seeming fragility of the Russian's neck with his outstretched palm, rubbing his thumb over the raised symmetry of collar–bones. "I wouldn't ask, but I need you very much."

"You have me."

"Then show me." He could feel the flutter of Illya's pulse under his fingers telling him all the things that the silence did not. Napoleon smiled crookedly. He tried not to beg, tried not to be scared of showing this vulnerability that had never been there before. "Show me, please."

Before his nerve could break, Illya pulled himself into Napoleon's embrace, reaching open–mouthed for the kiss that would communicate the confused jumble that was trying to be his thoughts. He was moaning as he seemed to try and burrow beneath Napoleon's clothes, even beneath his skin to join them into one dissoluble being.

But of the two of them, it was Napoleon who was shaking; Illya could feel it. If sanity depended on this man how could anything be refused him? And sanity clearly did depend on him, so where was the problem? Certainly not in the belief that Napoleon was trying to manipulate him. That thought was gone, now almost unthinkable. There was only honesty in this need.

The kiss had stopped a while ago; they held each other as the decision was churning in Illya's thoughts. In the end Napoleon knew that he'd asked too much, too soon. He ducked his head to hide his despair. Even though he was still fully clothed, Napoleon felt very cold.

The shiver stirred Illya into speech. "I love you. I won't hurt you if I can in any way avoid it."

It took a moment for the meaning of that to percolate through Napoleon's misery. Oxygen was suddenly in short supply. "Illya..."

"You might not enjoy it, I don't believe that everybody does; especially on their first time."

"It'll be fine." Besides, it wasn't really enjoyment he was after, it was fulfilment. Though there was a chance that the two feelings were the same. "It's like a superstition, I feel as if until you have really been part of me then you could be taken away. I want to bind you to me so strongly that you stay here forever. It must be something to do with all those Sicilian ancestors." He smiled sheepishly.

"I have every intention of staying here, with you, until...well, I'd say forever but if you really are superstitious then I'd better be careful not to tempt Fate."

"I think we must have been nice to her at sometime, for us to be together at all." He was speaking between light, shallow breaths as realisation and eroticism stirred his blood. "I'll get undressed."

"No."

Halfway out of his jacket, Napoleon stopped.

"Let me." And Illya gently pushed Napoleon's hands away, completing their task himself. When all of Napoleon's clothes were scattered on the floor, he guided him onto the bed. "Lie down."

"Like this?" He was on his back, propped on his elbows as he watched Illya watching the curve of arousal that was swelling away from his groin.

"No, turn over onto your belly." Illya spoke very softly, clearly keeping himself well in command of whatever stray emotions that might be trying to break free. Then he was at his lover's side, smoothing his hands over the curves and plains of Napoleon's body as he moved to obey, remembering each inch anew as he concentrated solely on Napoleon's arousal, his hands unbelievably tender.

But when he sat back, Illya's own eyes were dilated, and there was no mistaking his enthusiasm for the task.

Napoleon, splayed and submissive across the bed was quite breathtakingly beautiful; the slight touch of the Mediterranean that dusted his skin with tones of pale olive and almond made him seem mysterious, alien. Illya laid his hand, fingers outstretched, on the small of his back.

"I'll try not to hurt you, Napoleon, but it won't be easy — not the first time."

Drugged by the narcotic of Illya's touch, Napoleon's words were slightly slurred, "I don't care, I want you to do it."

Illya nodded, pressing his hand firmly against Napoleon's back in silent agreement. "I'll be back in a moment."

He returned with the antiseptic cream and climbed back onto the bed. "Try and relax."

"If I relax any more I'll dissolve. Come on Illya I trust you, besides you went through this and enjoyed it once, so why shouldn't I?" Napoleon heard what he'd just said and sat up with a twist that almost dislocated his spine. "I didn't mean..."

Illya was shaking his head, close to laughter, "Idiot, I didn't think you were. Now lie down and be good."

"Good?"

"Mmm, if I have anything to do with it, very good."

And he was.

Illya teased Napoleon's body until he was writhing in delight, then he spread the cream lavishly in the dark cleft that divided the surprising softness of his buttocks, sliding one finger home with a gentle movement that brought a sigh from both men.

It was much tighter than he'd anticipated, so much so that it didn't seem possible that it would ever dilate enough to allow anything but agony. But Illya held tight to the thought that this was all for Napoleon, gritting his teeth as he slid a second finger to join its fellow.

Napoleon was moving his hips rhythmically into sheets, "Illya that feels great...just there..." He groaned again, shivering as the fingers spreading his body delved deeper. "Yes..." He wanted to continue talking, to give encouragement until his mind and mouth lost all coordination.

As a third finger pushed inside he shivered violently and moaned; Illya's name was woven into the sound.

Illya gasped, for all of a sudden the tightness relaxed, as if Napoleon's flesh was welcoming his own. Now was the time. There was no way he could betray this trust. "Napoleon..."

"Come on, I'm ready." Napoleon moved until his hips were raised off the bed, his body supported on elbows and knees. He could hear Illya swallow hard. "Illya, I love you dearly, but if you don't hurry up I'm going to come before you get inside me." In fact he was sweating with the closeness of the need; almost incapable of holding himself still and not taking the initiative. "Please?"

"Yes." Illya said no more than that, but some of the urgency cooled in Napoleon's blood — he could wait, it would be worth it.

Napoleon held quite still as the satin–smoth head of Illya's cock sought its purpose. His own existence narrowed to the immediate surroundings, as if for anything to achieve reality it had to be touched by Illya. He could feel the bed, dimly he was aware of the room. He could feel his own breath as it came fast and light, rapid with need. Most of all he could feel Illya, could tell every part and piece of him regardless of closed eyes, averted face.

Then with a swiftness that took his breath away, they were one.

The measure of flesh sliding deep into his body hurt, but there was not enough pain to take away any of the pleasure. Then with a bitten–down groan Illya began to move, leaving simple pleasure without any meaning.

Too strung out for it to last, for the first time in his life Napoleon screamed as orgasm hit; the ecstasy so intense that he could have died and yet still have counted this still worth the price.

When at last he could breath again, Napoleon realised Illya was pressed along the length of his back, cock hard and still deep–buried in his flesh. "Illya..." He flexed his internal muscles, delighting as the movement elicited a gasp.

Illya licked Napoleon's back where his own sweat was pooling, fighting the temptation to move. He managed to say, "Are you okay?"

Napoleon almost laughed, breathless with wonder, languor filling his voice "I'm so all right that I think I've gone to heaven, and if you come too I'll know I have."

"I should...are you hurting." He had wanted to come at the same time as Napoleon, but had been to worried about making it good to bother about himself. He was quite prepared to finish things on his own.

"No!" Napoleon clamped his muscles tight so that Illya couldn't move without just that hurt he was trying to avoid happening. "Come inside me, it's what I want."

"But..."

"And you want it too." Rousing himself, Napoleon flexed his hips reminding Illya of why he was there. At least his erection hadn't gone away; he could feel it pulse inside him as Illya responded. "Deny that if you can."

"I can't, Napoleon... But.."

"No buts..." Solo grinned to himself and took away all of Illya's options.

With a sob, Illya gave up on all his better intentions — none of which were wanted anyway — and let himself move. He was as gentle as could be, sliding into the heat of Napoleon's body, whispering his name, succumbing to the spell until blindly calling his lover's name out loud, he came.

As Illya's softening cock slid from his body, Napoleon turned, gathering his lover to him, speaking his name repeatedly, touching him.

After a moment Illya remembered how to speak: "Napoleon?"

"Yes, Illya?"

"Am I still alive?"

"Mmm, what about me?"

Illya kissed an over–sensitive nipple, making Napoleon wriggle. "Alive." Illya seemed to ponder that for a moment. "Yes, very much so." Then with a surge he was sitting up, his face showing twin emotions of exhilaration and concern. "But seriously, how are you?"

"Want to play doctor." Despite his lethargy, there was almost flirtatious invitation in Napoleon's words.

"Mmm, but not the sort you seem to be talking about."

"Spoil sport." Napoleon yawned widely, turning further onto his side to smile indulgently. "Illya Kuryakin, I am fine. Though I do have a bone to pick with you; I thought you said it would hurt?" The expression on Illya's face spoke louder than if he'd had the message read over the Grand Central Station tannoy. Napoleon had the grace to look sheepish. "Well maybe it hurt a little bit."

"Wait until tomorrow."

"Don't you mean today?"

"You know what I mean. You can be a very slippery customer sometimes, Mr. Solo."

"Only sometimes? I must be getting old."

"And stop trying to change the subject, turn over so I can have a look at you. Or would you rather see a doctor?"

"You really aren't going to believe me until I let you see for yourself."

"No."

"For heaven's sake."

"Stop complaining and turn over."

Napoleon slowly obeyed, muttering under his breath to no one in particular, "And he calls me bossy!"

Illya ignored the comment as he checked out the delicate tissue. "You'll live, but I don't think you'll be very keen on sitting down for long periods of time for a while."

"Then I'll just have to lie down a lot, won't I?"

"Hedonist."

"Mmm." With a stretching roll, he moved onto his back and pulled Illya into a bone–cracking hug. "Thank you." He was quite serious, the previous lightness quite absent from his manner. "I feel," he shrugged, even now slightly ashamed of the intensity of his emotional response. "I feel completed. I know it sounds stupid..."

"It doesn't." Illya interrupted decisively. "I know exactly what you mean." He continued more gently, "I felt the same myself, the first time we made love."

"But I was cruel." Napoleon could admit that now, though it still hurt to say.

"I know, but it didn't matter. You see that might have been all I'd ever had of you, so I couldn't hope for any more."

"And you don't let yourself hope for things you can't have."

"Not if I can help it, no." Illya settled himself with a sigh, quite content as all he wanted in the world was here.

"I love you." There was nothing else that Napoleon could say; apologies were cheap. He kissed Illya gently on the brow. "But I think we should have at least a wash before we go to sleep."

"Mmm. At least we won't have to think about clean sheets as we only made a mess of the counterpane."

"I knew there must be a reason for not pulling back the covers."

"Yes, impatience." Illya grinned up at him.

"Bath, come on."

Illya groaned. "How about a quick wash, and we'll bath in the morning?"

"Are you tired."

"I'm asleep."

But Napoleon proved quite successfully that he wasn't and eventually they both went to bed clean.

Three days later, Napoleon reluctantly went back to work. Early that morning, Illya had another nightmare.

It was hardly the worst he'd ever had, but it woke Napoleon and meant that for most of the day he was concerned about Illya, and managed to be quite absentminded. Luckily for his reputation he was working only in the office and Alexander Waverley was out of town on business.

The trouble with someone else's nightmares, is that you can never share them. You have to watch from the outside and imagine. Unfortunately for his peace of mind, Napoleon's imagination was very highly developed, especially where Illya was concerned.

The fourth time he caught himself staring into space with yet another screenplay for Illya's dream running through his mind, Napoleon decided that enough was enough. He checked his watch, deciding that four o'clock was a reasonable time to go home — at least on days when Alexander Waverley was away.

Whistling as he stepped out of Del Floria's, Napoleon turned up the collar of his overcoat against the biting wind that had come out of nowhere and headed home, via his favourite Deli.

Balancing a brown bag and several smaller parcels he rang the doorbell, waiting with a ridiculous sense of expectancy for Illya's voice.

"Who is it?"

The terse question made Napoleon smile. "Illya Kuryakin, you know just how to welcome home the hunter from the hill."

"Napoleon."

"That's me." The buzzer sounded and he stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind him. Too impatient to wait for the elevator he ran up the stairs two at a time, arriving at his door just as Illya opened it.

They were both grinning.

"How was the hill?" Illya stood to one side to let Napoleon in.

"Lonely." Dumping all the parcels on the floor, Napoleon swept Illya into a huge embrace, swinging him round with a whoop of joy.

Dishevelled and out of breath, Illya finally broke the kiss. "I think you missed me."

"I nearly went out of my mind. You do realise that today is the first time we've been apart for..." His mind gave up on the mathematics, the body in his arms seemed to have an adverse effect on his calculations. "...ages."

"And I'm sure there were more hours in today then there should have been." Illya placed a comparatively caste kiss on Napoleon's mouth. "And talking of hours, what time do you call this?"

"I was lonely, I told you."

"Alexander will dock your pay for that," Illya tutted.

"Alexander won't know, he's away on business."

"Ah ha! Lets hope he's away all week." Illya was pulling Napoleon's coat off. "Us housewives can get pretty lonely."

"Can't have that, you might start getting interested in the delivery boy." Napoleon was pulling Illya's rollneck over his head.

"As far as I know, there's only one boy delivering to this establishment, and as that's you," Napoleon's tie joined his jacket on the floor. "I..."

They gave up on talking, their mouths greedily involved in a deep, passionate kiss. Urgent, desire flaming through their blood, there was only time to awkwardly push their pants and briefs down to their knees, baring their cocks to each other and they were wound tight in an embrace, desperately grinding their flesh together in search of friction. The kiss held them centred while they spiralled closer to completion, until it all became too much and with a surge of pleasure that knifed like pain they came, gasping together, shaking as the waves of semen spattered across belly and thigh.

They managed to stay standing only by holding each other up.

Licking the sweat off his lip, Illya rested his head on Napoleon's shoulder and tried to still the wild beating of his heart. It was beating in counterpoint to the pulse of Napoleon's blood, the beat strong under his hand as he touched the naked warmth of the other man's chest.

Napoleon was alive, here. Illya pushed closer, breathing in his lover's smell, wanting to have this evidence of life proved again and again until he could never doubt it. He was unknowingly chewing the fleshy curve of shoulder, trying to eat him up like hard chocolate.

"Ow!"

Blinking in surprise, Illya looked down at the patch of skin he'd been biting, stunned at the damage he'd been inflicting. "Oh! Sorry."

"Didn't you have any lunch?" Napoleon rubbed at the offended skin. He could feel distinct teeth marks ridging the skin.

"Yes."

"Well, perhaps you'd better have a second helping tomorrow."

"Napoleon..."

"What is it, Illya? Tell me."

"There's a damp patch starting to run down my leg."

Napoleon considered murder, but decided it was too messy; besides, Illya had a point. "Mmm, I appear to have one too. But don't think I'm going to let you escape that easily." He had been desperate himself to feel Illya close, but there was something else getting at Illya. "Come on, let's have a shower; we'll talk afterwards."

Stepping out of the remains of his clothes, he waited for Illya to do the same, then he led them both to the shower, supervised while Illya washed, washed himself, then made sure they were both dry. When Illya was wrapped in a robe and curled despondently by the fire, Napoleon sat down next to him and proffered a glass of vodka. "Drink this."

Illya tossed the cold fire down in one, then gave the glass back to Napoleon.

"Okay. Now tell me what that was all about."

Illya closed his eyes and wondered where all this weakness had come from. It wasn't like him at all, but here he was acting like a child. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I don't know."

Napoleon snorted in disbelief. "Try telling me about last night's dream." As he spoke, he felt Illya's flinch quite clearly. "So this is all to do with that."

Illya nodded, plying the tail of his belt through his fingers. "I didn't want to tell you. I don't know why, superstition or something, but I dreamt that you were dead." Illya sniffed. "No, that's not really true either; I dreamt that you were killed very messily by THRUSH. I've found it difficult — even though I woke up with you — to remember that the dream wasn't true, and that though I might know a lot about the gypsies, I don't share their gift of second sight."

"Illya..."

"It was very real." Clearly ashamed, he turned his face away, only to have it guided back by Napoleon's firm hand.

"Don't lock it all away; share it with me. I can only understand if you talk to me — you don't give anything away, you know." He studied the pale features, noting the dark shadows that curved away from under the blue eyes.

"I've had these habits for a long time, Napoleon, I can only break them a bit at a time."

"Time is not a problem. I'm not going anywhere...and I have no intention at all of dying, so don't believe everything you dream about."

"I don't, but it was so real." His eyes showed his anguish, mirroring the pain that had built up into a desperate need to prove that Napoleon was truly alive.

"It'll be better when we're working together again."

"Yes. Yes, it will be." But Illya didn't like to think about that, not yet. "What are we going to have for supper?"

"Supper?" Napoleon stood up. "Hell, I forgot."

More slowly, Illya followed him into the hall where they had made such precipitate love. For the first time he noticed the packages scattered on the floor. He leant against the open door, "Supper?"

"Well, once upon a time it was fresh tortellini, a napoletana sauce, parma ham, melon, cheese, and a delicious looking cheesecake, but I'm not sure exactly what's survived." Napoleon stood up holding some rather forlorn looking parcels, he avoided Illya's eyes. "Could you bring the rest?"

"Yes, go on and start the rescue procedure." Crouching to pick up the remaining bits and pieces, Illya paused and sighed. Then banishing his black mood, went to watch Napoleon while he prepared the meal.

"Can I do anything?"

"Open the wine; it's in the brown bag."

Illya rummaged, extracting a lettuce, then a bottle of wine. "Ah, Napoleon, did you say there was some cheesecake in here?"

"Mmm, morello cherry."

"I think it'll be all right, if you don't mind eating with a tea–spoon."

Napoleon turned at the doubtful tone in his friend's voice, only to see Illya holding a bottle covered in a layer of mushed cream cheese liberally dotted with dark red goo. "Oh. I guess I put the desert in the wrong bag." Napoleon sounded as if he was amazed that he could do such a thing. "I...I must have been thinking about something else." Putting down the knife he was holding, he leant with both hands on the counter.

Illya went up to him and stroked the short, wiry hair on the back of his neck, "I didn't realise that today had been so bad, I'm sorry."

"Yeah, it was shit."

"I was so wound up in my own concerns that I didn't think about what your day really was like." His eyes were narrowed with concern.

Napoleon remembered the edge of anxiety that had made his entire day a misery, making him clumsy, inept, worried out of his mind. The feeling had gone as soon as he saw Illya, but the pain of the disquiet was like lead in his blood; a slow poison. It was too much that now, just when Illya obviously needed to go back to work, Napoleon knew that his own future was finished with Enforcement.

Sometimes, life really was a bitch. He wanted to say — this isn't working, I can't do this, but he didn't.

He was lost in his thoughts when Illya took hold of his head and pulled it around so that their eyes had to meet. "I'm sorry, Illya. Today was just...my first day back at the office." He managed to smile, "I guess I'm tired."

"Tired? You?"

"Yeah, it's far worse doing nothing all day than it would be if I was out battling our little feathered friends." Napoleon cupped Illya's face and kissed his lips with absolute tenderness. He leant into his body, resting his cheek against the sweet warmth of silky blond hair. "You know I can't stand paperwork."

"Is that why you get me to do most of yours?"

"Must be." Napoleon grinned as he kissed Illya again. "Now, let's see how much of the cheesecake we can rescue.

With a deliberate effort they brought the tenor of the evening back to some sort of normality, but the pleasantness lasted until they went to bed and had been asleep for exactly one hour and thirty–five minutes. Then Napoleon was shot out of sleep by a scream that sent icy sweat prickling down his back.

"Illya..."

Napoleon reached for the light switch before he turned to where Illya lay curled, foetal under the covers.

"Illya!" Careful not to alarm the shaking man too much, Napoleon curled around him, speaking his name softly but emphatically, trying hard to bring him back to reality with as little distress as possible.

But the distress was in the dream; the pain of Napoleon lying dead in his arms, blood soaking through the rags of clothing his captors had left him. So much blood, more than one man should contain. Surely there was enough here to drown in.

In his nightmare, Illya closed Napoleon's wide–staring eyes, knowing their message off by heart, not needing to be told it again. Why should he, when Napoleon could not accuse him of anything he had not already castigated himself for; betrayal, desertion, treachery. He should never have let Napoleon return to U.N.C.L.E.

The pain of that knowledge burned like acid through him, drowning him more surely than all the blood in the world.

Napoleon felt the shivers grow worse, and began to worry seriously. It was bad enough that Illya was suffering the dream alone, and that he couldn't do anything to help, but worse was the knowledge that somehow this was all to do with him — he had somehow caused this pain. "Illya, please, wake up, I'm here...I'm here..."

The distress in Napoleon's voice penetrated through the anguish that held Illya tight, finally loosening the hold the dream had on him, allowing fractions of reality to filter through. When he opened his eyes, his senses finally functioning, he could only stare at Napoleon, shaking his head, his eyes bright.

"Illya, please. it's all right."

"Napoleon?" The word forced itself past stiff lips, questioning. The dream had been so real that Illya's mind could scarcely tell reality from nightmare. His hands had been curled so tight that he had to force the left one open in order to reach out and confirm the truth. It was shaking, but after a moment it fingered Napoleon's face, the touch finally letting the brightness fall from Illya's eyes.

Napoleon held him for a long time, rocking him like a child, crooning words that meant nothing but had the sound and shape of comfort. He felt inadequate in the face of this grief or sorrow or pain; unsure even as to which this was, unless maybe it was a cocktail of all three.

When the storm of emotion had run itself dry, Napoleon stayed where he was, trying by touch to communicate his support and love. Something must have worked, for after a while Illya's breathing evened out and he slept.

Napoleon dozed lightly on and off through the night, but he didn't release his hold, waking each time his grip began to loosen. In the morning, when Illya awoke, he was ready.

He felt the change in Illya the moment he came out of sleep. "Hello."

"Hello, Napoleon." Illya raised his head off the curve of Napoleon's shoulder and assayed a smile. It didn't quite work.

"I'm not going to let you go until you tell me all about it."

"About the dream?"

"Yes." Illya's face was very pale, his eyes red–rimmed and swollen even after a few hours of deep sleep.

"I'm so..."

"Don't you dare apologise to me." Napoleon had to hold his temper in check; it wasn't aimed at Illya after all.

"No." Illya returned his head to its resting place and stretched his legs out along side Napoleon's. "There's nothing much to tell; I dreamt you were dead. I was holding you after they'd killed you; your blood was everywhere, all over you, the room, all over me. I could smell it." He shuddered convulsively, "I didn't think you were supposed to be able to smell things in dreams."

"Why was I dead?"

"They tortured you and then put so many bullets through you that there was no way you could have lived." He shook his head. "But I killed you really, because I wasn't there."

"The same dream as before?"

Illya nodded. "But far worse; there was so much blood I thought I was going to drown in it." He swallowed, all his senses revolting at the memory.

Napoleon thought for a moment, then asked, "Illya, what would you do if we left U.N.C.L.E?"

There was only silence from the vicinity of his left shoulder.

"Talk to me, Illya."

"What would I do? I'd spend twenty–four hours a day..." he shrugged, looked hard into Napoleon's eyes, then smiled, "...being with you."

Napoleon echoed the smile, "What about money?"

"We'd survive."

"Sell your nest egg?"

"If we had to."

"Is it what you want though?"

"I want you to be alive. I don't know what I'd do if you died, not like that. If the dream was a taster, I don't think I'd survive the reality."

Napoleon stroked Illya's hair, feeling almost choked by tenderness. "Why didn't you say so before."

"Because I thought you needed to go back."

"I thought you did."

They lay very still, then moved so they could look in each others eyes.

Finally Illya said, "You thought that I wanted us to go back to killing people and risking our lives?"

"Back in New England I thought you needed to go back too."

"Blame it on temporary insanity. I think I'd find it easier to go back myself, than to think about you out there without me."

"What about with me."

Illya frowned and shook his head. "No, not even then. Even if we end up running a diner in Hibbing, I'd rather do that. I know I thought I needed to get back to work, but I can't have been thinking clearly," Illya smiled.

"We have to be sure, there won't be any going back if we're wrong. Not unless we go and work for a different organisation."

"I know I won't miss it." Illya paused, reaching out to touch Napoleon's stubborn chin. "But what about you?"

"Illya, the worst nightmare of my life was when I thought Callahan had killed you...I don't know what I'd do if it ever happened again."

"I might get run over crossing the road."

"The sky might fall on our heads. I don't want to live wrapped in cotton–wool, I just don't want to live every day as if it might be our last."

"No."

As one, they leant together and sealed the agreement with a kiss, an open–mouthed meeting that had them sighing. The understanding had been reached quietly and with a harmony that neither man could scarcely credit. Almost as if the decision had been there, waiting for the realisation of their need.

Napoleon pulled away and took a deep breath, the feeling inside him close to vertigo as the decision settled in his mind. He found he was grinning inanely, "Waverley's back today."

Illya smiled too, "That sounds like an invitation to me."

"It is. How do you feel about a combined resignation?"

"Indulgent enough to offer to work out my notice."

"You'll have to keep your temper first or we'll be out on our ears without a pension."

"They can keep the pension."

"I'll let you tell Waverley that little gem. Come on, let's get ready and go and tell him the good news."

Illya groaned and pulled the sheets over his head. His voice was rather muffled, "I knew there had to be a drawback to this."

"Coward. Up you get." With a tug all the sheets ended up on the floor.

"Cruel, very cruel, Napoleon." He sat for a moment looking disconsolate, but couldn't keep up the pretence, bursting into uncomplicated laughter the minute Napoleon turned around and started to look concerned.

In honour of the occasion they both put on their favourite clothes. Napoleon — according to an appreciative Illya — looked like a river–boat gambler; the fob–watch curving over the double–breasted vest of his prince–of–wales check suit completed the suavity of his image. Freshly shaved he smelled of amber and pine forests. Illya also considered with amusement that Waverley would not relish any of the finery.

His own clothes were spartan in comparison; a black suit with a black cashmere rollneck underneath. Chelsea boots as opposed to Napoleon's brogues. He wore no cologne, but when Napoleon kissed him he smelled of sunshine, though afterwards it was touched with amber.

Though they both needed overcoats, the weather bitingly cold even with the sun bright overhead, Illya wore his dark–glasses to shade his pale eyes from the dazzling light, making Napoleon observe that for someone who was so good at being a chameleon, his lover could look amazingly dramatic when he chose.

It felt very good to be walking down the street with him, knowing they were a couple. Lovers — Napoleon relished the word in his mind. It all felt very good indeed. He watched the attention Illya received and wanted to announce to all these anonymous admirers that they were out of luck, the blond was taken.

They got a cab over to U.N.C.L.E. and wished Del Floria a cheery hello as he let them through. The receptionist pinned on their badges with a look that didn't quite fit in with her welcome, as if she wanted to say something other than her actual words but couldn't quite work out how to do it.

Illya and Napoleon glanced at each other and shrugged. Internal politics were a continuing problem around head–quarters, though neither of them was particularly interested in knowing what this example was all about. In their time they had both been involved on the nasty edge of various rumours and factions, but never through their own instigation.

Napoleon asked, "Is Mr. Waverley in?"

"Oh!" The question seemed to fluster her. "But I thought that was why you were both here; Mr. Waverley's asked to see you as soon as possible. Didn't you get the message?"

"No," said Illya dryly, "we must have had our communicators turned off." They had indeed turned them off themselves and just forgotten to reset them.

"Well, he wants to see you straight away."

"Good." Napoleon slid his hands into his pants pockets and looked down his nose at her. "Because we want to see him, too. See you later."

Her slightly wary, "Yes, Napoleon," followed them through the closing doors.

They headed for Waverley's office, passing several fellow agents on the way. There was nobody either man knew well, but after the third rather strange reaction to their presence, Illya asked in tones of light conversation, "Do you think we've got the plague?"

"It was more leprosy that came to my mind; I was wondering if I should be ringing a bell."

"So I'm not imagining things."

Napoleon adjusted a slightly out of alignment cuff, "Not unless we both are."

"Is that likely?"

"Unfortunately, no."

Illya considered, then stopped in his tracks. "Do you want to bet on good news or bad being at the root of all this?"

Napoleon walked backwards for a few paces, his hands clenched deep into his pockets. He shrugged, "I don't think I'd get good enough odds on what I believe."

"Damn." Illya started walking again.

Remaining silent until they reached Waverley's door, there they looked at each other in sombre accord. Napoleon took his hands out of his pockets and straightened his shoulders, "If we can cope with the worst of THRUSH, we can cope with this."

"Hah! I'm not sure I wouldn't meet Elston down a dark alley with four of his henchmen than go through that door." He sighed, slid his glasses off his nose and pocketed them. "But, needs must. After you..." and he knocked on the door.

Alexander Waverley was holding an unusually solitary court, not even a secretary was in the big control–room as the two agents walked in.

"Good morning, Mr. Waverley," Napoleon said cheerfully.

"Sit down, both of you."

"Sir, we..."

"Be quiet for once in your life Mr. Solo, I've got something to say to you before we get on to pleasantries." From his tone of voice it sounded as if that was a doubtful conclusion to this interview anyway.

Illya and Napoleon sat obediently, keeping their silence as they shared a glance that wondered what had managed to put the head of U.N.C.L.E. in such a bad mood so early in the morning.

They turned to find his impassive gaze assessing them with minute care. After a minute, Waverley threw the pen he was holding down on the table and cleared his throat as if choking on something unpleasant. "Neither of you look as if you have lost your senses, so why did I receive this from section one last night?"

Napoleon picked up the letter that was tossed across the table at them. He read it then passed it on to Illya.

"How long have you been ordering section one to investigate us?"

"Since Mr. Kuryakin came out of hospital; before that you were watched individually. It started off as routine, then I started to get reports — of which that is only one of a series — telling me a few things I had a lot of trouble believing."

"You mean in that we are living together?"

Waverley managed to look utterly disgusted without really moving the muscles of his face. "Exactly. Not the sort of behaviour I expect from my agents, not at all. You'll have to stop it immediately, go back to living apart and realise that this just won't do," he cleared his throat again. "I realise that this whole affair has been difficult for you both, but I would have thought there were easier ways of healing Mr. Kuryakin than taking him into your bed."

"I took Mr. Kuryakin into my bed — as you so quaintly put it — long before he was kidnapped by Callahan." Napoleon softened his voice, "I realise that it will seem strange to you — hell, it was strange to me — but we intend on living together. In fact that was why we came in this morning together; to hand in our resignations."

"What balderdash! Are you trying to inform me that you believe yourselves in love?"

"No." Illya spoke the single word, startling Waverley who was concentrating so hard on Napoleon that he'd almost forgotten the other man's presence.

"Good, for a moment there I thought you had both gone insane."

"Oh, we have." Illya smiled coldly. "You see we know we are in love, there's no doubt about it at all."

"No doubt at all." Napoleon nodded, fighting a quirk of humour that told him this was probably the most unlikely conversation this room had ever heard. "That's why we are leaving."

Waverley settled in his chair, tapping the table with one finger as he thought. "You mean that you, the most womanising man I've ever met, whose relationships rarely last longer than it takes you to discover the brand of lingerie that she wears, are about to set up home with a man?"

"Yes."

"Forgive my scepticism, but how long do you expect this to last — Kuryakin won't be a bird with a broken wing forever."

"The fact that Illya was hurt might have brought us together, but it's not what made me fall in love with him. I did that a while ago, it just took me a while to realise it." Napoleon glanced at his partner and was buoyed by the answering smile.

"And what about you?" Waverley turned to the Russian, but Illya wasn't going to dignify the question with an answer.

"We can work out our resignation period if it makes things easier for you."

Illya's concession didn't have the desired effect of pouring oil on the troubled waters, rather it set fire to them "No, you won't, because you are not resigning." Waverley nodded to himself with a decided look of triumph.

"You can't stop us, this is America, not some petty little dictatorship where the chief of police can get away with that sort of thing. We have the right to leave when ever we want to."

"Mr. Kuryakin, you seem to have very romantic ideas about the land of the free that I would never have credited you with; I can do what I want, and at the moment I want you both working for me and out of this ridiculous fancy you seem to have taken for each other,"

"It's not a fancy, neither is it ridiculous." Napoleon held on to his temper with great difficulty; this interview hardly what he had expected. "We're both sorry if you are going to find this difficult." He glanced at Illya's face and received a terse nod. "But we've made up our minds."

"Well, you'll have to unmake them."

"Why?" Illya was on his feet, leaning one–handed on the table while he gestured with the other. "What will you do to us if we refuse? Have us killed? Have us slung in prison for indecency? I thought you had a sense of right and wrong, but I was mistaken. It's not as if we want to do something criminal."

"That is your opinion, not mine."

Illya finally saw the utter disgust that shadowed Alexander Waverley's eyes. The realisation made him sit down, silenced.

Napoleon spoke for them both, "You really can't force us you know, we've got enough money to do what we want."

"But have you? Can your money buy you a way out of a murder charge?"

"What!"

"Whose?"

Napoleon and Illya spoke together.

Waverley almost smiled, "Callahan's."

Napoleon waited for several heartbeats, then said, "So you know about that."

"I know almost everything, Mr. Solo. I know that one of you killed him in cold blood while he was chained up in your cellar. I know that you kidnapped him in order to effect this. I know where he is buried." The recitation of knowledge seemed to cheer him up slightly, for he went on, "But I don't expect to have to use any of this information, I don't think either of you would be happy in a prison."

"And I suppose you would revoke any protection that our connection with U.N.C.L.E. would have given us." Illya spoke through stiff lips, and didn't wait for an answer. "Do you think that we would be the sort of agents you want us to be if we returned to work under this sort of duress?"

"Of course. Your survival will always depend on your skill, so of course your work would not be affected. After a while I'm sure you will both come to your senses and realise how right I am."

"You seem very sure that this leverage will work, who else have you used a similar sort of blackmail with?"

"Strong words, Mr. Solo. This isn't blackmail, I think of it more as security."

"For you, maybe!" Illya spat the words.

"No, not for me — for U.N.C.L.E. I haven't spent the last and best years of my life building this agency up only to have two of its agents treat it in such a cavalier way. You signed more than your time away when you joined; you signed your loyalty and your lives. I am only holding you both to your sworn word."

"No, you aren't."

"Pardon, Mr. Solo, I don't think I understand clearly, are you telling me that you would risk a life sentence in gaol rather than return to work for me?"

"I never thought I would say it, but after this interview, yes."

There was so much fury in the room that the air crackled.

"Then I will inform the New England police of the circumstances. You are both being exceedingly foolish, behaving more like adolescents than grown men. I'm beginning to think I will be glad to see the back of you."

"But not glad enough to just let us go?"

"No."

"So are we prisoners?" Illya stood up with a curl of his lip. "Are we going to be treated to the pleasure of a visit to the cells here?"

"I'm not so clumsy, Mr. Kuryakin. You can go home, but you will be watched, so don't try and leave the country. I think you'll find the police will call on you tomorrow. They'll probably want you to be present when they exhume the grave. Goodbye."

He didn't stand, and he didn't offer to shake their hands as they walked in bitter silence through the sliding doors.

Just before he stepped through them, Napoleon turned and said, "I once respected you more than almost any man I've ever met, I don't think I'll ever make the same mistake again."

"Come on, Napoleon, it's not worth upsetting yourself over." And with a tug on his sleeve, Illya guided him out of the office into the corridor.

Headquarters no longer seemed anything but a cold and impersonal place. None of the agents they passed would look them in the eye, though two of them started to laugh as they turned a corner.

With a hand on his arm, Illya stopped Napoleon from pursuit. "Let the morons be, I want to get home."

Napoleon nodded, though bile was churning in his stomach. He was silent all the way through reception, scarcely noticing the girl who took his and Illya's badges. As they walked through the dry–cleaners Del Floria was serving a genuine customer, though he sketched a farewell to them as they closed the door.

As a final goodbye to so many years work, it was not very impressive.

With both his feet firmly planted on the sidewalk, Napoleon took a deep breath. After a moment he glanced ruefully at his partner, "You didn't think it would be easy, did you?"

Illya shook his head as he slipped his dark–glasses back on. "No."

"Are you always right?"

"Only when it comes to never underestimating the depths to which the world will stoop to achieve what it wants." He moved close to Napoleon. "Though I must admit that Waverley surprised me there; I didn't think he was a bigot."

"One of the old school in every way."

"Be thankful, at least we're out of U.N.C.L.E. and we don't even have to work out our notice."

"No, we just get to see the inside of Sing–Sing for twenty years or so."

"Oh, I don't know, a good attorney might get us off with less. Besides, they might put us in a cell together — I think I could cope with that."

"Don't even joke about it."

They began walking, keeping an eye out for a cab, close enough to each other to brush hands as they went. As comfort went it was paltry, but it was certainly better than nothing.

"Do you think he will have organised the police in time for tomorrow?"

Napoleon took his eyes off the traffic for a moment and smiled bitterly, "I think he could organise the Second Coming if he thought it would benefit U.N.C.L.E."

"You might be right. In that case, I think we should get an early night, if I'm going to be interrogated by amateurs I'll need my sleep in order to keep my temper."

"Mmm, or you might start telling them how to do it — I wouldn't like that very much."

Illya protested, "But I've never interrogated you."

"No," Napoleon smiled, "But I've seen you in action often enough not to want to experience it, or even to experience one of your pupils in action."

"Well, let's hope Alexander doesn't give them any tips either."

"Taxi!" Napoleon caught the eye of a passing cab, holding the door for Illya to enter before giving his address and settling in himself. "Let's hope they take us straight out to the cabin —