DUST

by Kitty Fisher

Prequel to ASHES

With a sigh of relief that the working day was finally over, Napoleon Solo set the last of the security locks on his front door and sauntered into the living room to frown at the curled–up figure of Illya Kuryakin. Waiting a pulse–beat to see if his arrival had registered, he twisted his lips wryly before saying an excessively cheerful, "Hi."

Glancing up, the Russian blinked, almost smiling, "Good evening."

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine." Illya made a face, his shoulder sketching a shrug that belied his words and refused to comment further, retreating back into the volume of Pushkin.

"Did you go and see the doctor?" Napoleon leant on the back of the couch and tried not to be too demanding, too prying. Though it was very difficult.

"Yes."

Napoleon could quite cheerfully have thrown his lover across the room and sat on him until some sort of eloquence was produced. But he didn't, contenting himself with waiting in what he hoped was a speaking silence.

Without raising his head, Illya almost smiled. "Do you know, I think I can hear your teeth grinding from here."

"I'm surprised I've got any left, you close–mouthed, awkward..."

"I give in, you can stop the list of compliments!" Illya placed the book down by his side, rubbing with one hand at tired eyes before looking up. "He said — or should I say, they said, this time there were about four of the ghouls — that I was a mystery. Whatever it is I picked up in Europe last month, it's more elusive to pin down than the common cold."

"Brilliant!"

"Hmm, not quite what I said to them, though I think I managed to restrain myself to the use of Russian, so with any luck they're not aware of quite how stupid I think they are."

Napoleon thought that was very doubtful but decided to leave Illya his illusions.

In the face of such an obvious lack of enthusiasm for the subject, he tried for a note of levity: "I still think it's all a con–trick to get out of work."

"I wish!" Illya stood up, his usual fluid grace slightly marred, circumnavigating the couch to stand in the circle of Napoleon's arms. "The longer I spend here, doing nothing but catching up on my reading, the worse it seems to get and I'm sure that's because I'm worrying about you so damn much."

"I told you: there's nothing much doing at the moment. I'm quite safe with Steve Clayton until you get back." But the doubt sounded in his voice and this close there was no way he could disguise his concern, or his own worry.

The last of the small, infected bites had healed. But the skin around Illya's face, neck and most particularly his hands was still covered in tiny, fading scars. The doctors had treated them, dismissed them as not being serious and packed the U.N.C.L.E. agent off home. But he wasn't getting better; he was instead seemingly worse every day.

"Perhaps you should go and see that new chap Waverley was talking about. He is supposed to be an expert on rare illnesses." Napoleon tried very hard to be casual, but he was almost as worn down by Illya's illness as Illya. And the old skill at prevarication seemed to have deserted him. "It might be a good idea."

Illya grimaced, "Am I that bad?"

"Only if you like having skin the colour of cellophane."

"Cellophane's transparent."

"I know." Napoleon whispered, tracing his finger from the fine blond hair at Illya's temple, down under the line of his jaw until it rested on the hard jut of the bones that sat too obvious in the shirt's open neck. "I can count your veins Illya; you're fading away."

"I'm eating enough!"

"Yeah, and turning into a rampant carnivore as well. Perhaps you should try some cheese and eggs for a change?" Illya made a face. Napoleon sighed. "I'm sure you used to like them."

"I did — probably still do — but at the moment the idea of them makes me feel sick. Sorry."

It had been the throwing up that had alerted Napoleon to the problem; Illya content to suffer in silence as long as he could get away with it. At least the drugs he was on now seemed to have that under control.

Napoleon frowned, that thought making him suspicious. "Have you taken all your pills and potions for the day?"

"With you around I wouldn't dare forget any of them!"

"Good," Napoleon growled. "I must be here for something."

"You, my love, are worth your weight in gold as a foot warmer — whatever this bug is, it seems to affect my circulation too."

Napoleon raised an eyebrow and sketched a grin, "I'd noticed."

"Thought you might have done. Perhaps I should get a hot water bottle?"

"And deprive me of my main function in life? No way!" He slid both arms around the slim body and tried not to make any comparisons with how much more solid it had been a few weeks ago. With a gentle kiss to the tip of Illya's aristocratic nose he smiled. "Besides, I like to know where you are — and if your legs are wound around mine then you can't escape me."

"As if I'd want to!"

"What about those nights I've found you in here reading at three in the morning?"

"I didn't want to wake you."

"A likely excuse."

"It's true! You'd only moan if I put the light on for a few hours."

"Me?"

"You."

Napoleon considered for a moment. "How about if I promise to buy myself one of those dinky little sleep–masks that were so popular with the old movie stars, then you could have the light on all night." He nibbled absentmindedly at a handy earlobe, making the body in his arms shiver.

"Gloria Swanson rides again." Illya smiled, catching his breath as skilful hands played down his spine.

"Mmm, though I refuse to wear diamonds and furs even for you."

"Damn."

"Mmm." His trail of nibbles had reached the pulse beating at Illya's neck. Napoleon shivered, aroused by the life coursing under his tongue; the feel of it light and fast as if Illya had been running. Of their own accord his hands slid down to cup the elegant swell of buttocks and, with gentle pressure, squeeze. "How about," he spoke breathily into Illya's ear. "How about going to bed?"

"Mmm." Eyes closed, Illya was more than content to float on the cloud of sensuality that had been created with such ease. Despite the inconvenient illness he still lit up as soon as Napoleon touched him, still wanted this, thought of this, virtually all of the time. He got tired climbing three fights of stairs but sex acted as a tonic. Though that was one piece of information he'd carefully kept from the doctors.

The grip on his body was changing, letting him feel the arousal fighting with the constraints of clothing Napoleon was wearing. With a small sound, Illya arched, pressing the need at his groin to answering heat. "Did you say something about the bedroom?"

"Yeah..."

"Oh, good." The smile that played so wickedly around the tempter's lips was too much. Napoleon opened his mouth to seize a deep kiss, burying his frustration in the wild, heady sweetness of warmth and flesh.

He woke from the hypnotic embrace when his back collided with the wall, "What?"

"Be still..." And the long, pale fingers were efficiently stripping off the dark suit he'd worn to work; almost ripping the shirt to peel down to the body inside, pulling cuffs peremptorily over wrists, hands shaking as the zip unfurled, briefs catching on the eagerness waiting inside. Then, with a deep breath to try and still the pulse that clamoured in his ears, Illya slipped out of his own clothing and knelt to look on his handiwork.

Breathing very fast now, bare against the pale cream wall, all rumpled hair and wide eyes, Napoleon waited. The warm honey of his skin was shadowed here and there with dark, soft hair that scattered down his belly, the darkest clustering around the curving need of his erection.

Napoleon swallowed hard, the signals from his brain saying — move, take, do something. But Illya was in control, so he stood weighted to the wall as if by chains, not just by the sorcery in such blue, blue eyes.

"Touch yourself." The command was soft but unequivocal and Napoleon's hand was moving before he'd even registered the words, touching the slight curve of his own breast, the tingling ache in his nipples, skimming breathlessly down to his cock.

When his fingertips brushed against the heated flesh, he shivered, a viscous tear of arousal trailing slowly to the floor.

"Go on, touch yourself the way you like me to do it." Illya's voice was wicked: sex and sensuality woven into the exotic intonation. Kneeling back to watch, he felt every inch of his own skin alive to the need in the other man; feeling a prickling like thunder pulsing with his blood. When Napoleon grasped the thickness of the shaft, Illya gasped as if the hand was curling around his own flesh.

"Do it slowly..." Illya commanded. "Very slowly..." And his own hand reached to echo the rhythmic caress, his breath hissing through parted lips as his demand was awkwardly obeyed.

Napoleon's hand fought intense arousal to obey. It was unsteady, as if all its strength was needed to force this pace, to not snatch at the moment.

Very slow, Illya had said.

Very slow.

After a minute of torment Napoleon had to brace his knees, the sweat trickling down the planes of his chest. "Illya, I can't..."

"Kneel down."

And with a groan Napoleon fell to the floor, his hand still fast to his cock, his eyes brilliant with need.

Illya kissed him, a hand to either side of his face stilling movement as he took possession of his lover's mouth. After a moment he tilted his head back and whispered, his lips never losing touch, turning the words into part of the embrace, "I love you." Smiling before turning, offering himself to the clumsy haste that he had bequeathed on his lover. "Fuck me, go on..."

Napoleon found the entry oiled, ready. The thought of Illya preparing himself, thinking of this when he was on his own, wanting this, was almost too much. He joined their flesh together with a shout; cock sliding home, truly home, as his hand reached for the heat of Illya's arousal.

Then, for a while, it was his last coherent thought.

Reality coalesced with Illya held tight, half buried under his weight. Napoleon cleared his throat, moving before he spoke. "I'm sorry. You okay?"

Twisting around on the carpet, Illya stretched the kinks out of his muscles. He looked, Napoleon decided, sated, sexy and definitely better than he had an hour ago. Illya clearly thought so too. "I feel fine. Do you think I could put you forward as a cure to the doctors?"

"I'm not sure they'd agree with sex as a remedy; they probably wouldn't even want you to indulge in it as much as you do." Despite the warm post–orgasmic contentment, Napoleon's thoughts were edged by the same constant, nagging worry that these days never seemed to leave him.

Illya gave a disgusted snort and sat up. "I told you, they know nothing. Surely anything that makes me feel better has got to be good for me. Besides, if they had their way all I'd do all day is sit around and eat vitamins. Anyone'd think I'd got T.B or something."

"I, er...I do assume they tested for that?"

"Yes." Illya sounded very long–suffering, which was unfair, as Napoleon was very careful not to be too obviously anxious .

"Good. Well, I don't know — a few months in a Swiss sanatorium sounds like a rather nice idea."

"A boring idea."

"Maybe." He shrugged. "Do you want to share a shower?"

Illya wriggled. "I don't know. It's rather good having a nice warm reminder of you inside me."

"I hate to disillusion you, but I think most of it's on the carpet."

Illya shifted, looking with unabashed interest underneath himself. "Mmm, you could be right. Come on then, haul me up."

Napoleon groaned, "I still think this is all a con to get me to do all the work."

"Ah, poor down–trodden weakling that you are. Come on, before my energy runs out, get in the shower and I'll give you a wash."

It almost worked out, but in the end Napoleon dried Illya off, wrapped him in a bath robe and sat him down in front of the fire. It was almost as if the energy had been turned off with a switch, leaving Illya wan and scarcely able to keep his eyes open.

He did wake up for dinner, devouring a steak cooked almost raw the way he liked it with ravenous hunger, though the enthusiasm didn't stretch to the rest of the meal, Napoleon ending up dumping the broccoli and french–fries in the trash.

* * * * *

The hospital corridor was a cold, soulless place. Napoleon had been sitting, on a chair that had been designed by a sadist, for far too long. He shifted for the thousandth time to try and find a comfortable position, then gave up and stood, beginning to pace the distance to the window, then back again.

He almost wished he liked smoking cigarettes.

If only he really knew what was going on. But Illya had glared at him when he'd tried to charm his way into the examination room, telling him silently but thoroughly not to make a fuss.

That had been over two hours ago.

Chewing at the side of his thumb, he fought hard the bleak images his imagination conjured so easily — Illya dead being the worst and most frequent of his personal nightmares.

He found himself staring out of the window and with a sigh leant his forehead against the cool glass. Outside in the real world the day was bright, clear and warm — though Illya had worn almost enough clothes to survive a snowstorm in Siberia.

Napoleon hoped the temperature was warm enough in that room. He'd had enough of Illya shivering to know that whatever was wrong had upset his body's natural balance. Hot and cold were all that he seemed to feel, the occasional moments of being just right so few that they were almost to be treasured.

If Napoleon had ever doubted that what he felt for his partner was love, these past few weeks had proved that fact incontrovertibly. In all his life he'd never felt this way, never been this out of his depth. Without doubt, any threat to Illya's well–being was a threat to his own; in many ways, that had always been true. Yet this was different, as if this slow, hungry illness that was eating his friend alive was devouring him as well; the watching almost as hard as the suffering.

Damn the doctors! They must be able to do something! Turning, Napoleon was heading towards the door which hid Illya from him, prepared to break it down along with anyone who stood in his path when it slammed open and Illya pushed past, his face set in fury, heading for the stairs.

"Illya!" Napoleon recovered and set after him, turning at the fire–door to see two white coated doctors in turn heading after him. Ignoring their calls, he stepped through the door. The stairs down to the exit were empty. Napoleon scanned up and down and chose down — there was no way that Illya would head further into the hospital.

After the shadowy interior, the sun made him wince and narrow his eyes. Think. Where would he go? The car park was just round the back. At a jog, Napoleon checked it over, but their car was empty and there was no sign of Illya anywhere. Cursing, he headed back to the building, his eyes searching as he ran.

The hospital was old, built onto over a period of time so that it was a miss–mash of styles, with odd bits tagged on here and there as money came in. Skirting around the exterior, Napoleon found an alleyway that, from the smell, ran down the back of the kitchens.

Unsure of the impulse, he headed down it, turning a corner to stop in his tracks.

Illya was here. Slim body dressed in old jeans and a soft plaid shirt he was facing the wall, his shoulders hunched, his head bent. At first, with a twist of pain deep in his gut, Napoleon thought he was crying. The world seemed to dim because Illya in tears could only mean the very worst of his nightmares was coming true.

Hand outstretched, his own vision blurring, Napoleon took the last couple of steps closer. His foot caught on a tin can, kicking it loudly against the wall. At the noise, Illya turned, fast. Napoleon shook his head, convinced that what his eyes were telling him was all wrong.

"Illya..." The shock was too great to disguise. "What..." he couldn't find the words to ask any further.

The pigeon in Illya's hands was still alive, but its flutterings were fading, dying. Apart from the flash of bright scarlet around Illya's mouth there was surprisingly little blood.

Napoleon watched as the wide blue eyes stared him in the face. Then with a blink, they lowered to the limp bundle of feathers that must have been still warm in his hands. With a convulsive shudder, Illya let the bird fall to the ground as he pressed his fingers to his face, the horror wild in his eyes before he hid them from Napoleon's sight.

"Illya? I don't understand..." Shaking his head in denial, Napoleon went to take the taut body in his arms, but Illya slipped away, backing up until he hit the wall where he stood as if awaiting execution.

His hands fell to his sides, the slight movement embodying despair. "Go away, Napoleon."

"What?"

"You heard me, please, go away..."

"Illya, I'm not going anywhere until you explain what's going on here — what you were doing."

With a slight stiffening of his spine, Illya took a deep breath. "I think I was drinking its blood." He finally looked into the dark eyes and saw only confusion, nothing else. From somewhere he found the courage to go on, "The doctors in their infinite wisdom, have decided that this illness isn't really that at all. Though I knew... I knew." He blinked hard. "My metabolism is changing. I'm becoming, becoming..." He balked on the word, the fear and pain suddenly wide in his eyes. "Napoleon...please..."

Wordlessly, Napoleon enveloped him in his arms, soothing with both hands until the shudders quietened. Even then he didn't let go, just held still, listening to the distant clatter of saucepans, voices calling, laughing, an aeroplane slowly passing overhead.

Despite where they stood, all he was seeing was the barren THRUSH cell where Illya had been almost bled to death by the vampire bats. Bats specially bred, genetically mutated. The old fool of a scientist must have done more than he guessed.

Words forced themselves past his lips. "Can they cure you?"

"They don't know." Illya lifted his head and took the clean handkerchief that Napoleon passed to him. "Mind you, I didn't stick around too long once I knew what they were going on about. Napoleon," he swallowed, quite audibly, "they want to use me as some sort of guinea–pig, they think its fascinating. Apparently I'm unique."

"I always knew that."

Illya almost laughed, but fear was closest to the surface. "Take me home. I want to get away from here." He looked down at the dead pigeon and shivered. "I didn't even realise I was doing that. Jesus...at least it explains the dreams." He swayed, weight pulling at Napoleon, eyes closing.

"Are you sure you shouldn't stay here?" Napoleon was only concerned, but at the accusation in Illya's eyes he nodded curtly. "Okay, home it is. Then we'd better contact Waverley."

* * * * *

Alexander Waverley sat in the most comfortable chair that the apartment possessed and sipped delicately at a glass of sherry. That his two best operatives were both out of commission was a nuisance he intended to rectify as soon as possible. Unfortunately, he knew Napoleon Solo too well to expect anything as long as Illya Kuryakin was ill. So the obvious solution was to cure the unhappy Russian as quickly as possible. He refused to doubt that as a feasibility.

Over the rim of his glass, Waverley watched the silent interplay between the two men seated opposite him. They communicated as easily without words as with — something beyond value in their profession. Since they had begun to live together that deep–seated awareness had only intensified, until even Waverley had to agree that their falling in love was an asset for U.N.C.L.E. Not that he'd wanted to see it that way, but sometimes it was necessary to bend or break. Solo had made it quite clear where his strongest loyalty lay.

And now what?

To Waverley's eyes, Illya Kuryakin looked ill, worn with stress. But he looked much as he had looked after other traumatic occasions in his life. He didn't seem different. Perhaps if he had suddenly grown six inch fangs then this would be easier to believe.

"Well..." After the silence, the two men on the couch jumped. "I'll get on to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters in Geneva, see if they can send Doctor Taubmann on the next available flight. If anything can be done, I'm sure he'll know."

"But what if he can't?" Illya spoke quite casually, as if he wasn't really discussing the rest of his life or its absence. "What if this is it?"

"Until he arrives there is really no point in speculating. Besides, I'm sure he can come up with something, even if he can't cure you."

"Great!"

"Indeed." Waverley finished the pale, exquisite Fino and placed the glass down. They had talked for more than an hour; it was time to get back to H.Q. "Mr. Solo, could you give my chauffeur a call, tell her I'm on my way down?" Slowly getting to his feet, Waverley stood for a moment and looked down at where the pale, difficult one of the team sat staring into space. He tried to imagine him ripping open the throat of a bird to drink its blood, giving up when his imagination balked at the outlandish concept. With a shake of his head, he said, "Well, good day, gentlemen. I'll inform you when the Doctor arrives, then perhaps you could both come in to see him?"

"Of course." Napoleon had finished speaking to Waverley's driver and stood up to escort his boss to the door. Once out in the hallway he closed the living room door behind him. "You will get him here as soon as possible, won't you?"

"Of course. I have no desire to see Mr. Kuryakin suffer for any longer than is necessary."

The reprimand was very gentle, making Napoleon smile. "Yeah, well, I guess I'm worrying a lot just now."

An understatement, considered Waverley, as he made his goodbyes and headed for the elevator.

Closing the door and setting the locks, Napoleon wandered back to Illya. "D'you want any lunch?"

"Why, have you got any plump little pigeons tucked away in the kitchen?"

"Illya..."

The sigh was heartfelt, "I'm sorry. I'm not feeling at my best at the moment."

"Well, I'm going to have a sandwich, so if you want anything, come and find me."

Halfway through the construction of a BLT, Napoleon realised he was being watched. "Hi, I can grill you a steak if you want?"

Illya shook his head. "No, I'm not hungry."

"Why don't you sit down before you fall down?" Napoleon watched with a cautious eye the progress from door to chair, sitting down himself when Illya was settled. He poured them both water from a pitcher on the table, sipping between mouthfuls of a sandwich that might have well as been constructed from ashes.

Wiping his mouth, he tossed the paper napkin onto the plate before reaching across and taking hold of Illya's hand.

"Now that I'm full and we're alone, would you mind telling me how you're really feeling?"

Illya considered, his head tilted to one side. He shrugged, "Unreal."

All the traces of blood had been washed, then washed again from Illya's skin when they'd got home; all Illya's clothing had been thrown into the laundry. There was no visible reminder of what had happened, yet Napoleon could never think of what had happened as unreal.

He rubbed his thumb over one of the small scars. "How long have you known?"

Illya sighed, "I think I guessed a week or so ago."

"Couldn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what? That I was dreaming every night of what happened, dreaming of hunting down animals and drinking their blood? That I fantasised about your blood, that I could almost taste it when you were fucking me? Yes, I can see that would have been a very sensible idea."

"Were you?" The idea was clearly new to Napoleon.

"Sort of." He shifted awkwardly. "It's almost as if blood and sex are confused. I need you so much all of the time that I don't really know what I want from you." He looked up, very still. "Then you kiss me and I know that all I want is you inside me, taking everything away but you and the reality of us. It makes me normal — making love."

"And does it still?"

"Yes. It takes away some of the...hunger."

With a supple movement, Napoleon stood, pulling Illya with him. "Come on then."

Bewildered, Illya asked, "Where?"

"Bed."

Illya sat back down with a thud, pulling his hand from Napoleon's grasp. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not...human." He was pleading.

"Don't be ridiculous!" Napoleon pulled him to his feet again, anger pinching his face. "I think I can be safely allowed to choose who I sleep with. And if you think I'm going to be put off by a few changes in you that you have no control over, that I can make feel a bit better just by doing something that I want to do, then perhaps you need your head, not your body examined."

After a breathless moment, Illya slowly said, "Well, if you feel that way about it..."

"I do!"

"And you're sure...?"

"Illya! Shut up."

"Yes, master." Illya was grinning though, the relief of not revolting his lover plain to read on his face. But as they walked through into the bedroom he swayed, stumbling slightly.

"Illya!"

"I'm okay, just a bit woozy. Perhaps if you kiss me I'll feel better?"

And for a while at least, he did.

* * * * *

Shrugging into his shirt, Illya wearily began to fasten its buttons, conscious that his fingers were clumsy with fatigue. A few medical tests shouldn't leave him feeling this enervated.

The smell of his own blood where it sat awaiting analysis was heady, making it hard for him to concentrate on what was being said. Finally dressed, he focused on the discussion that he should have been listening to from the beginning. Napoleon was, as usual, defending him. It made him feel a little less depressed.

Concentration wavering, he rubbed wearily at the ache in his forehead, wondering when they'd let him go home. Home; sleep; Napoleon. An irresistible combination.

Illya only realised he was smiling when Napoleon's hand touched his arm. Quickly looking up he saw the other two men staring at him. "Sorry, did you ask me something?"

"Doctor Taubmann was asking if you would be ready to go back to his clinic with him tomorrow." A wave of panic swept over the tight–skinned face. Napoleon wished they were alone, but the doctor seemed to want an answer now. Illya looked so lost, it was almost more than Napoleon could do not to take him in an embrace and soothe all the insecurity away.

"What about you?"

With a start, Napoleon realised that the conversation had completely passed Illya by. "I'm coming too, we even get a double room..." He whispered the next bit. "We can always push the single beds together!"

"Bet the nurses will love that."

The dry comment was so typical that Napoleon flinched, though he recovered fast. "Yeah, we can see how many hearts you can break with those blue eyes and romantically fragile air."

"As long as you don't tell them I'm more interested in their blood than their knickers, I should be all right." Illya glared, then relented. "Sorry, sorry, I am tired. I shouldn't take this out on you."

"Why not, I'm here aren't I?"

"Yes, you are here." Illya answered a different question, the statement quite clear. "Take me home, I'm hungry."

The doctor overheard, "When I get you under observation, Mr. Kuryakin, we can start giving you whole blood. I'm afraid I can't recommend you to have any until then."

"That's all right, I'm sure Napoleon has a nice raw steak in the fridge for me."

"You really can't digest anything else?"

"Liver...raw." To Illya's disgust, the doctor looked fascinated.

"Perhaps with a few experiments..." The doctor turned back to Waverley, continuing without having seen the shudder Illya couldn't disguise.

"Told you they wanted to make a curiosity of me." He sounded very unsure under the bravado.

"Well, I won't let them be too cruel — if they bring out the rack and the thumbscrews, I'll remember to say something." He winked, then laughed at the disgust on Illya's face. "Come on, let's leave them to it."

"Yes, I don't want to know the gory details — I might loose my courage." He stood up, managing to give Napoleon's hand a comforting squeeze before saying good day to the two elderly men so deep in discussion of his future.

Illya dozed during the journey back to the apartment, his body feverish, nauseous until the uncooked meat was inside him. After a battle, it stayed there and a measure of energy seeped back into his muscles.

Napoleon cleared the few bits of crockery away while Illya went to sit on the couch. After a while he joined him, nursing a cup of coffee while he stared covertly at his lover. At least, he thought it was covertly.

"Have I grown a second head?"

Napoleon jumped, slopping coffee into his saucer. "No. Why, can't I look at you?"

"It felt more like you were practising your x–ray vision."

"No, just looking."

"What do you see?"

"Someone I care for very much enduring something I hurt to even think about." With his free hand he smoothed the smooth fall of Illya's gold–silk hair. "Illya?"

"Mmm."

"Was it true, what you said about fantasising about my blood?"

"Yes, I can't help it. I'm sorry."

"Then why don't you try some?"

Illya got away from temptation, moving fast to the far side of the wide room, where he stayed.

Napoleon stood, put his coffee down and followed him. "You've got some nourishment inside you, but even I can see that dead meat makes you feel ill, that each time you eat it, it's more difficult to swallow. I'm not suggesting you take all of my blood," he smiled, "but a glassful every now and then can't hurt. It might even make you feel better."

The voice was insidiously inviting. Illya licked very dry lips, feeling his temperature rise in one of its wild fluctuations. Sweat prickled on his back, his thighs. Cramp rippled through his muscles. Yet there was nothing he could do except try and pretend that Napoleon wasn't in the room.

But Napoleon wasn't playing; two hands gripped him by the shoulders, shaking gently. "Illya, please, try it."

The need was so strong that he was shivering despite the frantic heat of his body; saliva filled his mouth; the scent of Napoleon standing so close made him giddy. His cock was so hard it ached.

Unconsciously he was rubbing himself against Napoleon's body, needing some sort of release, desperate for it, but blind to which fire needed quenching first.

Napoleon was sure that this was right. Aroused by the half closed, sex–filled eyes, the press of heat arrowing towards his groin, the need so blatantly on display, he manoeuvred the awkward body until it leant against the wall. There, baring with clumsy fingers their skin, he let Illya take the initiative, let him lose himself in the white–heat of arousal until he was mindless.

Then with a deep breath, a swift invocation of half forgotten saints, Napoleon sliced a knife deeply into the heel of his thumb, gasping with shock as the open wound was found, held fast to the searching mouth. Analysis and objectivity were beyond him. Sanity ripped away by a need and lust so intense that he was drowning. And when Illya stiffened, crying out as he came, Napoleon was there too, lost on the same waves, stranded on the same distant shore.

* * * * *

Only Napoleon's arms kept Illya upright. Hard on the overwhelming sense of contentment, came the bitterness of utter shame. He tried to extricate himself from the strong arms, but their grip wouldn't budge. After a moment, he gave in with a sob, standing quite still, eyes lightly closed. He could taste the lingering delight of Napoleon on his tongue, the awareness of that far stronger than the vague discomfort of semen drying on his thighs. Very still, he waited for the judgement that must come.

"Illya."

The voice didn't sound as if it hated him, but it must.

"Illya will you open your eyes, or do I have to start shaking you again."

Very carefully Illya peered through the blurring of his lashes. As his head was tilted down all he could see was the tails of Napoleon's shirt and bare, muscled legs, their feet hidden by a soft pooling of cloth.

"If I really have to be literal, Illya, don't just open your eyes but look at me as well."

Illya stopped breathing, but his eyes flickered upwards, glancing away from Napoleon's face, then more surely back again.

"Take a look at this." He held his hand at eye level, making Illya see the gash he had drunk from. "See, it's almost healed." He smiled, intent on his lover.

"But..."

"You healed it, you must have done. Must be something to do with what's happening to you." He felt Illya flinch. "What's the matter? So you drank some of my blood, but I feel fine, really fine. And there isn't even any blood to mop up."

Though Illya kept his eyes open, even managing to leave them on Napoleon's face, they refused to focus, so all he saw of the closeness of his lover was a blur. "Why did you do it?"

"It wasn't very much, Illya." Napoleon shifted closer, stroking the warmth of flushed skin. "I wanted to make you try it," he shrugged, "and I couldn't work out any other way you would."

"I could have killed you."

Napoleon snorted derisively, "Don't be an idiot! Even if you got so carried away that you couldn't stop, I think I'm still capable of stopping you." He tried not to disbelieve himself, there could be no room for doubt here. "I want to help you, love you...and I can't do either of those things if I'm dead."

"Napoleon...how can you love me like this?"

"Easily." He leant in to place a perfectly chaste kiss on the full curve of Illya's lips, tasting with surprise the metallic, sweet remains of his own blood. "Besides — and I know this makes me pretty weird — I think I find it all rather sexy. Not you being ill," he reassured, "but the rest of it — especially as it seems to turn you on so much. All I have to do is watch you and hey, presto: liftoff."

"Am I stupid to worry so?"

"No, but while you're like this I think we should make the best of it."

"What if I'm like it forever?"

"We'll cope."

Illya swallowed the lump in his throat, hesitantly reaching out to give back the kiss.

"Better?" Napoleon asked, smiling affectionately when Illya nodded. "Then can we get dressed? I feel extremely silly standing with my pants at half–mast."

Illya released his hold on Napoleon's shoulders, still dazed, though now he'd got over the initial shock, feeling much better. As Napoleon shuffled back he contemplated taking a shower, then decided that the stickiness would have to stay. Another set of clothes in the wash wouldn't make any difference.

"Do you want to do anything?"

"Like what?" Illya was fastening his fly.

"Like go for a walk in the park?" Napoleon tucked the last bit of his shirt in and turned to examine the outward state of Illya's health. "If you feel up to one, that is."

"Yes, I think I do. In fact," Illya narrowed his eyes and considered, head tilted to one side, "I feel better than I have for ages. Not that this means I'm going to be drinking your blood all the time, I can't — you need it."

"At least I grow more—"

"No! I am not going to get into he habit of taking from you. Besides, that doctor might wave his magic wand and make everything all right." He slid his arms around the breadth of Napoleon's chest. "I'm very glad you're coming with me tomorrow."

"Did you think I could stay behind if you went?"

"No more than I could have stayed had this been the other way around."

"Thought you'd understand...now you can work on Waverley."

"Has he given you leave though?"

"Oh, yes." Napoleon grinned. "Though I've got a feeling he wants me to act as escort. Only stay a couple of days. Well, he'll learn." He watched the amusement light Illya's strained face. "So, which park are we going to prowl?"

* * * * *

The flight seemed to be taking forever. Napoleon sat by Illya's side and watched as the long hours drained him of energy and interest, leaving him half asleep, half unconscious in the tilted seat. He had tried to read; even now the first finger of his right hand was dividing the pages of a paperback he'd found at the airport shop. Napoleon had found 'Vampyres and Vampyrism — From Count Dracula To The Present Day' and pointed it out, hardly expecting Illya to be interested in such unscientific nonsense. But with a faintly defensive glare in the direction of Doctor Taubmann, Illya had purchased it.

The short, pale skinned specialist had met up with them at the airport, his flight from Rio connecting there for Europe. Quiet, a gleam in his eye whenever he looked at the Russian, he'd endeared himself to neither of the agents. But he was the only hope for Illya, so swallowing their unease they had been civil at least. Luckily their seats were at opposite ends of the aircraft.

Reaching across, Napoleon gently slipped the book out of Illya's grasp. The pale fingers were very cold.

The stewardess answered the summons immediately. She leant over him, smiling, clearly prepared to do her utmost to see he had a comfortable flight. "Can I help you, sir?"

"Yes — my friend here is feeling a bit under the weather, I was wondering if you've got a spare blanket I could put over him?"

"Of course." She smiled again. "I'll be back in a moment."

She returned with a light–weight wool cover, watching as it was tucked with great care around the sleeping man. As he turned, she caught such a look in the dark man's eyes that it made her give up on the idea of dropping a few hints about her own stay–over in Geneva. With a sigh and a backward glance, she walked away.

As they finally began the approach, Illya stirred. Already his body was beginning one of its rapid temperature changes. Throwing off the blanket he grew restless until Napoleon's hand, stilling his own firmly, finally brought him to reality.

"Napoleon... Where are we?"

"Circling over Geneva. We'll be landing in a minute. Are you okay?" In fact he looked dazed, ill.

"Sort of."

"We'll be at the clinic soon. Taubmann said it's not far from the airport."

"Wonderful." Then he shook his head. "I'm sorry, I am trying to be positive about this."

"I know. I don't suppose reading this helped?"

"Not really. Though I wouldn't mind having a few of the supernatural powers those sort of vampires have."

"Don't say that. If you did, Waverley would have you working twenty–four hours a day." They both smiled, then settled in their seats as the plane came in to land.

Expedited through customs by their U.N.C.L.E identification, they followed the doctor out onto the airport concourse where a large black Mercedes limousine, laid on by Taubmann's clinic, was waiting for them. Napoleon was still very aware of the precarious state of Illya's energy levels and the prompt arrival of the car made him feel slightly better. It was only after they had settled in the back that a prickle of suspicion set the fine hairs on his neck on end. But before he could do anything, even lean forward to knock on the glass partition, the compartment was flooding with gas and he had time only to reach towards Illya before unconsciousness overtook him.

* * * * *

He never knew exactly how long they kept him under. Like a dream, reality would occasionally impinge on the drugged darkness, though each time he came close to awareness the bright pain of a needle slipping beneath his skin would take him back again. Wrapped in a cocoon of sleep, the only constant in his brief moments of almost lucidity was the drone of engines. Different notes as if different vehicles were being used to confuse their trail, making U.N.C.L.E.'s task of finding them difficult, if not impossible.

When Napoleon finally broke through the stupor, he realised that the cell they had chosen to keep him in was similar to the one Illya had been caged in to be attacked by the vampire bats. Maybe it was the same. Though if it was, then someone had done a good job of cleaning out all the bat droppings.

The cell was furnished for a long occupancy. In one corner stood a chemical toilet, in another a heap of blankets was piled on the floor.

Standing on legs that really didn't want to cooperate, he staggered over the wall of metal bars and clung to them. The old stone room with its high, vaulted ceiling was cold, the section partitioned off to construct the cell dripping with damp.

Napoleon shivered. At least he was still fully clothed, though they had taken his Vicuna coat away.

With concentration he finally managed to bring his eyes to focus on the rest of the room the cell was joined on to. More laboratory equipment, ultra modern in the ancient surroundings. A table, scoured and banded with restraints. Operating theatre lights. A camera high on the wall to record all the events. Another pointing at the cell.

There was no sign of Illya.

Shouting as loud as he could, Napoleon tried to make someone hear. The echoes of his voice rang around the room, yet no one came; the walls too thick to allow his demands to carry. He shouted at the camera, trying for a reaction, but nothing happened.

Giving in for a moment, Napoleon allowed himself to sit back down on the pile of blankets he had been left in lieu of a bed. His whole body ached from the enforced immobility of the journey and his head pulsed with every beat of his heart. Dry mouthed with fear and dehydration, he sank down and closed his eyes. Only to open them a moment later as the door at the end of the room creaked open.

Two uniformed THRUSH soldiers preceded the doctor Waverly had so heartily recommended, though Napoleon hardly noticed him, for between them the guards carried the semi–conscious form of Illya Kuryakin.

Taubmann was in the middle of conversing with another white–coated individual: "...won't take even animal blood voluntarily. If you're not careful he'll just starve himself to death and then where will your experiments be?"

"He can't be allowed to do that. If necessary, we can always force feed him—"

"No!" Napoleon was on his feet, outrage boiling in his voice. "You bastards, leave him alone!"

The taller of the scientists walked near to Napoleon's cell, though he kept well out of reach. "So, you would rather he killed himself, would you?"

"No, I'd rather you let us go."

"We can't do that I'm afraid."

The man was blond, genial, utterly composed. Napoleon was more frightened of him than he wanted to admit. "Then let just him go."

"Why should we do that? It has taken a lot of planning to get him here. You must realise how exciting Mr. Kuryakin's condition is; how important it is to find out exactly how it came about; what accident created such a fascinating mutation." He spoke with all the excitement of a pioneer. "We need to know how to create more of the same, so I'm afraid neither of you are going anywhere."

As he turned back to the others, Napoleon started to shout, to demand, to protest. But at a command, one of the guards fired a dart through the bars and though Solo plucked the barb from the skin of his neck, the drug was flooding through him, taking sense and awareness away. Just before he gave up on the unequal fight to remain conscious, Napoleon looked across in despair to see the naked body of his partner being strapped unwillingly to the steel table.

* * * * *

"Napoleon... Napoleon!"

The voice wasn't very loud but its insistence made up for lack of volume. For a fraction of time, Napoleon imagined he was back in the New York apartment and that all the rest had been a dream. Then his eyes focused on Illya's face.

"Illya..."

"Thank god! I thought you were never going to come round." He laughed uneasily in relief, a hand finding Napoleon's where it clutched for reassurance at the curve of his shoulder.

"Are you all right?" Pushing upright, Napoleon sat and scanned the white face, seeing reddened marks and scrapes, a band of abrasion around his mouth. "What have they been doing to you?"

"Seeing what I can eat..." Illya spoke the words evenly, but Napoleon could feel the fine trembling of revulsion that swept through his muscles.

"Illya..."

"It's okay. I managed to throw up all over one of them last time." He looked slightly heartened at the memory.

"Force feeding?"

Illya nodded, keeping quite still as Napoleon's finger traced lightly over the marks around his mouth.

"The sadists."

"No: the scientists."

"Same thing."

"Yes." Illya nodded slightly, his face schooled to indifference.

"What else have they been so scientific about?"

"Everything." Illya tried, but he couldn't quite meet Napoleon's eyes. "If I had the chance I would kill both of them with no more thought than treading on an ant." He was shivering openly now, his flesh chilly to Napoleon's touch.

"Come on, put one of these around you." Napoleon shifted and pulled a blanket over the slumped shoulders, noticing the dark bruises from countless needle marks scattered down the long vein of Illya's arm.

"Very touching."

They leapt apart at the sarcastic voice and accompanying slow hand clap.

Napoleon recovered himself first: "Oh, it's Mr. Sadist, or is that Doctor... I do so like to get the formalities right."

"The ever urbane and witty Mr. Solo. Well if you feel you need to call me something other than unpleasant names, try Doctor Ackerly."

"Where's your friend?" Illya startled them both by speaking.

"He's at the butchers." Ackerly smiled as his experiment looked thoroughly nauseous. "Not that I mean that literally because there isn't anything resembling a shop way out here in the wilderness. The hunters are having quite a fine time bringing in various animals though — alive and dead, so I'm sure he's going to come up with something interesting for you to eat."

"Like last time."

"Ah, but the ingredients for that came from one of the finest delicatessens in the world. I don't know why you took such a dislike to the Tiramisu; cook spent so long preparing it and the rest of us enjoyed ours." He chuckled.

Napoleon turned to Illya. "I thought you said he wasn't a sadist?" But Illya wasn't up to answering, his whole body too concerned with fighting the churning nausea conjured by a mere memory of the rich, cream and alcohol laden dessert.

"I wouldn't say I was a sadist Mr. Solo, but your friend's reactions are fascinating. Quite unlike anything I've come across before."

"Lucky you."

"Indeed." The scientist took the words at face value, ignoring the dry tone in which they were delivered. Then he turned, moving to greet the four men who were filing through the open door.

"Hey!" Illya was on his feet, blanket wrapped toga–like about him, both hands holding tight to the bars as he called Ackerly back. "I know you won't let me go, but why keep Mr. Solo — he can't be of interest to you."

The thin lipped smile was wide. "Can't he? Wait and see."

Illya watched him walk away to confer with Taubmann, then turned back to Napoleon. "I don't like the sound of that."

"He's probably just winding you up."

Illya raised an eyebrow. And Napoleon didn't really believe that either.

"Come back here and sit down before you fall down."

"I'm not that bad!"

"Just sit down here and stop making a fuss." Much to Napoleon's surprise, Illya did just that. "There." He waited for the other man to settle. "Now, what tests have they been doing on you?"

"The usual: blood — seemingly gallons of it, sweat, urine, cell tissue, semen."

"What!"

"Well, if you want to produce little vampires..."

"Did you...did they?"

"I gave it to them." He didn't mention that one of the guards had held a blow–torch close to Napoleon's unconscious face until Illya had agreed to the request. Not that production of the relevant sample had been easy, but in the end they had left him alone and he'd managed. "It seemed the easiest way."

Not believing a word of it, Napoleon frowned, but didn't dispute Illya's claim. The cell door was being unlocked.

Held still with a THRUSH gun tucked under his chin, Napoleon watched as Illya was unwrapped from his blanket, then easily forced onto the examining table. When they brought out their probes and knives and instruments he stood it for a while, keeping silent because he knew that protests would get him nowhere. But in the end he couldn't stop the shouts and pleas of remonstration, glad that they brought the guards into the cell to bind and gag him; the diversion at least serving to take his mind temporarily from the muted sounds of pain and misery that his lover couldn't help but make.

* * * * *

Though the high, mullioned window admitted nothing but the faint glimmer of the moon behind clouds, the cell was not in complete darkness. The prisoners had been left the courtesy of a dim light fastened to a bench out of their reach.

When Illya finally came round he lay still. Groggy and disorientated he blinked hard, staring for a moment at Napoleon as if unsure as to his identity, before whispering as if to reassure himself, "Napoleon."

"Hi." Napoleon smiled stiffly, trying to appear as if he hadn't spent the past few hours worrying himself stupid. "D'you want some water? They brought some food and stuff before they packed up for the night."

"Yes, please." Illya struggled to sit up, Napoleon supporting him as he lent giddily against the wall. He sipped the water with a grimace of distaste, stopping after a very little as both stomach and throat protested.

Napoleon watched as Illya dropped his head against the wall, his eyes closing wearily. He looked wasted, worn to the bone by suffering. His mouth was blistered at the edges where it had been so cruelly forced open. Napoleon kissed his hand instead.

"Napoleon..." There was moisture blurring Illya's sight but he blinked it back, striving to put energy into his request. "I don't suppose you would consider killing me?"

"I can't say it's an idea I've thought about." Napoleon held tight to the hand clasped between his own. "There is always hope, you know."

"Do I? H.Q will never think to look for us here. This castle was supposedly cleaned of vermin over two months ago." He shuddered, spilling water down his chest and the blanket that Napoleon had wrapped around him. "The bats were bad enough, but this... And what if they can isolate whatever it is that's changed me? Do you want hordes of THRUSH vampires in the world?"

"No. But who's to say that they can't do the same sort of tests on your dead body — who's to say that killing you would help?"

Illya closed his eyes in defeat.

"Besides, I'm not sure if I could do it. Not now, not when you mean so much to me. Maybe that's what Waverley was getting at when he said he didn't like his agents 'liaising'."

"No, he's just an old bigot — he had no problems with Gaynor and Ralf Stich."

Napoleon was very serious. "No, but for me it's become a factor."

"I know you love me, Napoleon."

"I've never really said it."

"You've never had to."

They stared at each other in silence. Then Napoleon settled himself next to Illya, arm curling around to draw them close. Without saying a word he brushed dry lips against Illya's, murmuring incoherently as the kiss was accepted and returned.

Afterwards, they sat forehead to forehead for a long time, the need for words past. There was no doubt in either of them; no need for anything but the simplest of touch.

Napoleon was the first to move. He shifted slightly and with mute invitation placed his forearm on the blanketed lap. "I've never doubted that you love me either, so go on, take some."

Saliva was flooding Illya's mouth; he was swallowing hard, rapidly. Turning dilated eyes to Napoleon he shivered, hunger akin to nothing he had ever experienced pulling the bones of his face into harsh relief.

"Go on, it's all right. At least it will give you some strength to cope with whatever they've got planned next."

"I'm too...hungry."

"All the more reason to drink."

"But—" The desperation and pain sheened his skin with sweat; sanity fought for its very existence. He knew that Napoleon was talking, but the words made no sense. The only logic in the world was centred on the sweet flow of blood that pulsed so beautifully under the olive skin. "But I would be better dead."

"Don't be ridiculous, drink." Without waiting for an answer, Napoleon took the nail he had found and opened the skin at the base of his thumb with a quick gouge.

The intensity of the smell was too much. Though he was shaking his head, almost sobbing, Illya lent into the offering, sucking hard at the elixir his body craved.

It was sweet, too sweet. He scarcely had enough sanity left to stop when the hardest edge had gone from the hunger, dragging his mouth away.

Dazed, Napoleon slowly opened his eyes to find Illya weeping openly, his face quite still as silent tears poured unheeded.

"Illya... It's all right, I'm fine." Napoleon moved, fighting the dizziness, the weakness; fighting the unwanted arousal that pounded through his depleted blood.

"I shouldn't have done that."

"Why not?" Napoleon focused on Illya's face, seeing nothing but a death–like mask. "It must have helped..."

Illya held his hand out. It was quite steady and he cursed under his breath.

Napoleon tried to smile, "See, it has."

"Napoleon, I'm still so hungry that if I wasn't who I am and if you weren't who you are I would rip your throat open and sate myself on your blood. I can smell it, taste it — my whole being is screaming for it—" He broke off, a spasm of savage emotion distorting his face. "Don't offer that to me again, I can't promise anything." He closed his eyes and whispered. "I can't even promise that you'll be safe alone with me." He curled over, wrapping both arms around his body, despair almost palpable.

Napoleon said nothing, just lightly stroked the tangled blond hair, trying to impart with touch alone all the support and love that was in him.

After a long while, Illya straightened though not quite looking Napoleon in the eye. "I must apologise for that fit of self pity — I think I must have lost my backbone along with my pride."

"Put it down to indigestion."

Illya almost smiled. "Would you put up with anything from me?"

"Yes. Neither of us has to pretend to be Superman."

"Just as well."

They were quiet for a while, then Napoleon fussed until Illya was lying down, tucking the blankets and himself around him. Exhausted, Illya slept. Napoleon stared in space for a long time, though no answers came to the questions he asked of the darkness.

* * * * *

Napoleon was awake and leaning against the cell bars when their captors returned. With a scornful snarl in their direction he turned to crouch at Illya's side. The Russian was still in the almost unconscious state that was the nearest thing to sleep he had achieved. It was a shame to wake him up, but at least this way it would be gentle — better than a rifle butt in the ribs.

"Illya, rise and shine — the doctor is on call." Napoleon shook him gently, almost holding his breath until the pale eyelids fluttered open. "Good morning."

Illya glanced at the preparations going on in the laboratory and winced. "I see it's breakfast time."

"Mmm. The chef de jour has prepared what looks," he scented the air, "and smells, like garlic on toast."

"What!"

"At a guess, I'd say they've been reading up on vampires."

"I wonder whose going to get the job of chief stake sharpener?"

With a levity far away from the feeling the words had provoked, Napoleon shrugged. "I doubt if they're worried about how to kill you — it's not as if you've shown any evidence of supernatural powers?" He raised an enquiring eyebrow.

"No, no powers at all."

"They'll be so disappointed."

"Good."

They both watched for a moment as the scientists began to turn on various machines. Illya sat up, very tense; the waiting almost as bad as the moment they opened the cell door. He tried to gauge his body's state but couldn't do it with any efficiency, his mind too muddled, too tired. He thought he didn't feel quite as bad as the previous day and silently thanked Napoleon for the gift of his blood. If only this vague feeling that could almost be strength held out then maybe, just maybe, this could be survived until U.N.C.L.E came to the rescue.

Getting his feet underneath him, Illya stood up. If it hadn't been for Napoleon's steadying hand he would have fallen; the room spinning around, his stomach churning with nausea.

"Illya!" Napoleon whispered the name, his own distress painful.

"I'm all right." The room was steadying and he was getting control of his body. Illya risked a deep breath, sighing with relief as he let it out, muttering to himself: "And I thought I was feeling better." He straightened. "I'm all right."

Napoleon wasn't so sure. This close, Illya's skin was tinged with grey under the film of sweat. He looked close to the limits of what he could take. Napoleon watched as his eyes registered the fact that the guards were reaching for the key. In turn his face showed revulsion, pain and finally a despair so total that Napoleon wondered if his gut reaction had been wrong — that killing Illya would perhaps be the right thing to do.

The thought was a knifing pain. The situation wasn't that bad yet. It couldn't be.

Napoleon shivered, making Illya look at him. He smiled and leaned towards the naked body, kissing him with a fine disregard for the spectators.

It was only after the cell had been relocked that Napoleon realised he could taste something strange. Turning away, he wiped his mouth, then stared blankly at the back of his hand. There was a smear of red bright across it. Blood. His own blood.

He recalled the feel of Illya's lips parting so sweetly against his mouth and, with an icy shiver of foreboding, knew exactly what the sharpness his tongue encountered there had been. Turning away from the lab, he shivered. Did the scientists know? Would it make much difference if they did?

Then, with bitter prescience Napoleon realised that the real question was nothing to do with their captors. The real question was Illya; did he know?

And perhaps even more importantly, what else about him was changing?

There was no opportunity to ask, for turning back to the room he realised it was empty. The guards, the scientists and Illya were all gone; the door banging shut behind the last of them. And though he shouted — demanded — their return, it was once again night before anyone returned to open the door.

Eight hours of contemplating what was going on did nothing to sweeten Napoleon's temper and when the guard appeared with a tray of supper, he was already on his feet. "What have you done with my companion, where is he?"

The guard slid the tray through a gap in the bars. He was hard faced; a thug. He also ignored what Napoleon asked.

Frustrated, Napoleon shouted at him as he left. "Come on you bastard, tell me something!" Achieving nothing but a scowl as the man closed the door.

Napoleon leant his head against the cold bars and closed his eyes. His brain was whirling, fighting the twin uncertainties of what they were doing to Illya and what Illya's metabolism was up to. His own ineffectuality ate at his confidence, until he could imagine the most appalling scenarios for Illya's absence.

Time moved very sluggishly. Left to his thoughts Napoleon paced the cell for hours. Trying for calm, reasoning with himself, he pushed the dark thoughts into the back of his mind. When Illya returned he'd need all the strength that both of them could muster. There was no point going to pieces now.

It had been daylight for a long time when he next had a visitor. It was the white coated figure of Doctor Taubmann.

Napoleon didn't bother with formalities. "What have you done with him?"

"Nothing."

"I wonder why I don't believe you, you bastard." Napoleon gritted his teeth as the doctor smiled blithely. "If you aren't doing anything with him, why isn't he here?"

"Because our experiment needed him to be kept away from you for a while."

Napoleon digested that and hoped none of the fear the words induced was written on his face. "If its an experiment, then you must be doing something."

"Not really. Tell me something, what is it like making love to a monster?" He smiled. "I know all about your relationship with him, from the very austere Mr. Waverley — though I don't think he approved even when Illya was normal."

"He might not be normal but he isn't a monster. And what are you doing to him?"

"Nothing." Taubmann, paced to the side of the room and perched lightly on a bench. "Unless you think simply observing him is something?"

"Observing."

"Mmm. Very interesting it is too."

"God, you disgust me. What did THRUSH offer to get you here working for them? Was it money, or the possibility to do whatever you wanted to Illya?"

"The latter, of course — I wouldn't care anything for the money."

"But I bet it helped." Napoleon smirked nastily, making Taubmann frown indignantly. "Go on, tell me how much they're paying you."

"The money is no more than your own organisation was prepared to pay."

He sounded quite insulted. Napoleon shook his head; trust THRUSH to know the best bait to catch this particular fish. If he'd been offered a fortune he'd have only refused it, his ethics above such worldly considerations. Offering him unlimited research facilities without any moral restraints had been a stroke of genius. "So you're doing this because here no one is going to look over your shoulder to stop you torturing—"

Taubmann stood up, interrupting. "I was hoping you would give me some information about the progression of your friend's condition, but you are obviously only prepared to insult me."

"What do you expect?" Napoleon shook his head in exasperation. "You have us kidnapped, you torture my friend—"

"No, no! I must protest, we haven't tortured him."

"Then what would you call the pain you've inflicted on him? Pleasure?"

"No! It was incidental, certainly not an end in itself."

"And that excuses it? God, you are warped."

"No, I'm a scientist." Taubmann was off his bench, finally roused to anger by Napoleon's words. "I do what I do to further our knowledge; it is essential that we understand what has caused the transformation."

"Why?"

The word hung between them, ringing loudly from the intensity with which Napoleon had spoken. He repeated it, more quietly, trying without success to keep the despair from his voice. "Why?"

"For reasons you clearly will never understand. Good night."

Taubmann was at the door when Napoleon forced himself to speak again. "Please, I'm sorry." He swallowed pride and professionalism to ask one last time: "Please tell me, is he all right?"

Taubmann paused, the door weighing heavily in his hand. He considered, then very slowly nodded before stepping silently out of the room.

Slowly, Napoleon released his fingers from the bars, rubbing them to ease the tension.

Observing. That was what Taubmann had said. It could mean almost anything. If only it could be certain that they wouldn't kill Illya just for another experiment. The joke about sharpened staves was really not funny at all.

Very cold, Napoleon finally sat down and wrapped himself in the blankets. Wherever Illya was, hopefully it was warmer than here — he didn't like the cold at the best of times. Strange really, when you considered he came from such a cold country. No, Illya liked fires and warmth and sunshine. Though he hadn't been too fond of that recently, always reaching for his sunglasses as soon as they stepped out of doors — sometimes before that.

Napoleon sat up, eyes wide. So the change had begun even then, almost as soon as he'd been released from Count Zark's clutches. Did Illya know? Or had he just dismissed the light sensitivity as a side effect of what he was trying to think of as a nasty case of influenza?

Allowing himself to lie back down, Napoleon stared at the high ceiling. He did sleep eventually, though his dreams were infested with images of vampires that always had Illya's face; images that smiled until the the moment their fangs sank deep into the skin of his neck and he awoke, cold sweat slippery on his skin.

* * * * *

In the end, it was three days before Napoleon saw Illya again. Prepared to see a guard with yet another plate of bland food, prepared to demand and plead for information, he stood upright with a jerk as Illya was dragged into the laboratory. His head was hanging, the thick blond hair sweeping forward, dirty and unkempt.

Napoleon stood back to let them unlock the door and throw their burden carelessly through it.

"You might want this." One of the guards threw a key onto the floor.

Scrambling for the glint of bright metal in the dust, Napoleon manoeuvred the lax body over and gently unfastened the metal cuffs. Illya looked bruised and if possible even thinner than before. His forehead felt fiery to the touch, yet dry as sand; his whole body sweatless despite its heat.

"There, I told you he was not going to be harmed." Taubmann was at the bars, standing with a guard at his side.

Napoleon didn't answer, it wasn't worth it. Instead he tried to make Illya more comfortable, shifting him onto the blankets, covering him up.

"You're not being very talkative, Napoleon. I thought you'd be pleased to see your friend." Taubmann placed strange empasis on the last word. There was still no answer so he shrugged, turning to the guard. "Very well, bring him round." The guard nodded lifted his gun, firing a dart into Illya's side before Napoleon could protest.

The reaction was immediate, Illya groaned. Then after a moment his eyes flickered open. He struggled to sit, avoiding Napoleon's assistance. Very still, he stared at his companion with unblinking eyes that contained not a fragment of recognition.

"Illya, are you all right?" Napoleon took hold of a thin shoulder. "Illya?"

The only answer was a hiss of distaste as Illya took hold of the offending hand and forced it from him. "Don't touch me!"

"Illya, it's me, Napoleon...you're hurting me..." The grip on his wrist bit to the bone, though Illya showed no sign of exertion.

Looking into his eyes, Napoleon saw the worst of his fears truly realised. There was nothing there, nothing left at all. Fear nudged its way through the panic. "Illya." This time it was said as a command. "Remember me, it's Napoleon. For God's sake—"

He broke off with a gasp of pain as his arm was twisted viciously as the Russian moved, fast and supple as a panther. Held tight in an unbreakable grip, Napoleon watched the pale features turn slowly to the standing observers. He bared his teeth in a grimace of hatred and with shock Napoleon saw the hard shape of newly sharp incisors.

"Illya..." Compassion won over the rolling wave of fear and unwanted fascination. "What's happened?"

"Don't speak..." The familiar voice was deepened, harsh. "I don't want to talk to you."

"What do you want?"

"This..." And blue eyes fixed on him as with a fluid movement of muscle he brought them close, until his mouth forced Napoleon's dry lips open, taking a kiss that promised only pain.

His body weak, powerless in the impossibly hard grip, Napoleon fought the body of the man he loved and also with his own reluctant arousal. He found air and gulped some in, trying for speech but finding only a gasp as Illya's mouth fastened on his neck.

As the sharp teeth cut their way through his skin, Napoleon screamed Illya's name in denial. Yet even as he whimpered, his body held fast by inhuman strength, he was losing the will to resist. The spell cast by this appalling creature taking away will and self; taking everything but the wildness of desire.

Unknowing, Napoleon was mouthing his lover's name, calling him as if in the throes of passion, his body rising off the hard stone as if plundered. The hand that had been beating on the so–close head stopped fighting, the gesture turning to a faint caress, almost a benediction as energy drained away.

He could hear the sound of Illya drinking. The sound soft and seductive, weaving its way into the spinning world that was left to him, until he was trying to force himself into Illya; to give more than his life; to pour his very soul itself into the waiting mouth.

In an ecstacy that was almost religious, he knew that this was death and welcomed it. When the darkness came he sighed into it, his mouth forming his lover's name, the whisper taking his last breath.

* * * * *

The vampire stayed crouched over the dead man for a long time. He could hear the hated ones talking excitedly behind him but ignored them, pushing their presence from his mind.

There was something wrong but he couldn't quite tell what. Sitting back on his heels he looked down with surprise at the body sliding out of his arms. There was a trickle of blood on its neck. With a murmur of satiation the vampire gracefully leant forward and licked the kill clean.

The movement made the head fall to one side so that two sightless brown eyes stared up at him. He frowned, a shiver of unfamiliar emotion momentarily breaking through the ice.

A name fought hard to take shape in his mind but there was nothing there to recognise it. With a supple twist he stood, letting the body fall unheeded to the floor.

Outside of the cage the hated ones were gathered by some brightly lit machine. Hatred burned in him, fuelled by the new blood that sang through his body, feeding his strength and his need.

He realised he was still hungry. Starvation meant that one kill was not enough and outside of the cage were more; he could smell their blood, its intensity making him giddy with need.

He held his hands out, staring at the blue veins in his own wrists. He sniffed one, licked it but grimaced, instinct making him know that this was wrong. Turning, his eyes fell on the body.

There was something. Illya shook his head, unsure, confused.

When his hand reached out to close the staring eyes he frowned. When his hand gave the dark head a final caress he didn't know why. He only knew that there was an ache inside that was more than the hunger; a pain that feeding wouldn't take away.

He shook his head in impatience and moving to the far side of the cell he settled into stillness, waiting intently for the cell door to open.

END