The game of seduction was over, and now more would be required from the Russian. After a long, slightly unnerving walk from the elevator to his room at the very front of the hotel, Andrei unlocked the door, and he and the professor stepped from the lighted hall into the semi-darkness.

"Let me find a lamp," he said, but Kelly objected, drawn to the window. "No, no, I'd like to look at the view."

The museums to the south were spectacularly floodlit. The illuminated waters of Buckingham Fountain were in the center of the landscape, with the red and white lights of the traffic racing north and south beyond it. Beacons pulsed far out on the lake, and sailboat masts were bobbing in the marina, ghostlike. The scene was incredibly romantic.

They stood close together in the dim light from the window, the professor breathing audibly. He turned to Andrei and coaxed his blazer from him, then fitted it over the back of the chair at the desk.. He removed his own jacket and meaningfully placed it over the Russian's, making eye contact while he did. He returned to the blond and took him in a tender embrace, followed through with a passionate kiss. Andrei responded in kind, if a bit nervously. They drew back from each other.

The Russian was breathless. "I am sorry. I am a little... "

Kelly found his butterflies endearing. "Don't worry. We'll be good together."

Illya was startled. Those were Napoleon's words. "You and I are always good together, Illya."  It was disturbing that Kelly had spoken them. The professor sensed his uneasiness, and continued to reassure him.

"I am all right." Andrei smiled. "I need a minute to prepare, however. Please make yourself comfortable." The Russian retrieved his robe from the closet and strolled toward the bathroom, glancing back at the professor longingly just before he closed the door.

Kelly was ecstatic. He turned on one small lamp, then stripped off his clothes and climbed into the bed, sitting up against the headboard, pulling the sheet up to his waist. His physique was exceptional for
a man his age, and he was confident the younger man would enjoy his body. His anticipation had already excited him, and the sound of his new lover moving around in the next room aroused him even more. He pictured the clothes coming off the slim body, piece by piece.

A voice in the back of his consciousness warned him again. He was not being the least bit vigilant. ~How could this man be treacherous?~  he rationalized, entering into a dialogue with himself. ~Andrei IS Russian. He could be KGB. But they wouldn't use someone who admitted to being Russian.~

Just the same, Kelly decided to investigate his immediate surroundings. His fingers ran along the edges of the headboard, reaching behind it an inch or two, feeling for any shape that was not
consistent with the grooves and beveling of the wood, and did the same with the nightstands and the lamps on each side of the bed. He eyed the ceiling and the walls for any fixture that could disguise a
camera. ~I'm not a spy. I don't know what I'm looking for.~ he admitted to himself. He would just have to take the chance there was no camera. There was nothing he could do about that. The only thing
he could control was his words. That would be difficult in the throes of passion, but he resolved to do it.

Illya undressed and donned the lightweight robe. He had secreted Napoleon's handkerchief with the transmitter in his pants pocket before he joined Kelly at the window, and now he stashed it in the pocket of the robe. The Russian steadied himself, his hand on the doorknob. He took a deep breath, a sense of purpose and control coming over him. When he emerged from the bathroom, he locked eyes with the professor and held his gaze as he slowly walked toward him.

Kelly moved to sit at the edge of the bed, and put his hands on Andrei's waist as he came within arm's length. He drew him closer and unbelted the robe.

"Do I please you?" Andrei asked him, shyly.

The professor did not reply, but boldly fondled him.

"What would you like from me?" Andrei asked him, leaning in and caressing his dark hair.

Kelly looked up, then his eyes dropped down again, as he demonstrated exactly what he would like, a little too enthusiastically.

"Slowly, slowly," the Russian admonished, pushing Kelly's shoulders back. The professor paused. He regretted appearing too eager. It had been a long time since his last assignation.

"May I get on the bed with you?" Andrei suggested.

Kelly sat back further, ushering the Russian onto it.  Andrei knelt on the bed, moving to the headboard, his arms stretched wide to rest on top of it. He allowed his robe to drop open farther, inviting the mouth again. The professor needed no persuasion. He crawled over to taste Andrei, this time more carefully so his efforts would be welcomed.

---Illya's voice had been muffled, but Napoleon could hear clearly now.---

Andrei began to swoon a bit from the stimulation, murmuring endearments in Russian. Kelly loved the sound of it. He abandoned what he was doing and knelt up to take Andrei into his arms, reaching inside the robe and around to the small of his back. With one hand he slid the thin garment from the Russian's shoulders. Andrei let his arms dangle so it could glide away and drop onto the bed. The professor breathed hard, lavishing kisses on his neck, his throat, then moving down his torso.

He stopped, alarmed at the scarred body. "Andrei, what happened to you?"

"I told you I escaped to the West, but just barely," the Russian impatiently explained. "It is a long story."

The professor looked into his eyes. Waves of protectiveness and passion washed over him. He captured Andrei's mouth, kissing him with a new hunger.

Breathless, Andrei pulled away for a second. "You overwhelm me, Gregorii." But he kissed him back just as fiercely. "Tell me I do the same to you," he said with a plea in his eyes.

Kelly buried his nose in Andrei's hair, whispered in his ear. "Yes, yes."

Illya persisted. "How would you have us make love?"

The professor said matter-of-factly,  "I was doing what I enjoy most just a few minutes ago."

---Solo proxied a groan of frustration in his partner's place.---

Andrei pulled out of Kelly's arms and moved around him, diving onto his stomach with his head at the foot of the bed, denying him access to his favorite activity for the time being. The Russian would have to be verbally coaxed to turn over.

The professor saw his new lover as coy. He smiled. "If I can't have..."

"What? What will you have?" Andrei asked softly, glancing over his shoulder.

The professor's mouth started at the nape of the Russian's neck and slowly moved down his spine, hesitating as he observed more scars, then sucked and nipped at cushiony flesh. He insinuated his hand between Andrei's legs, gripped his inner thigh, and attempted to turn him over.

Andrei jerked out of his grasp and sat up to face him. "You are a typical, self-centered American. You want me in your mouth again, but you have not even asked me what I want."

---Napoleon shifted in his chair uncomfortably. In his mouth? Well, that was the least of a few evils.---

Kelly was shocked. He always pictured himself as a genteel lover, a man concerned about his partner's needs.

"I apologize," he said in a normal voice. "I certainly do care about your preferences."

Waverly's words came to Illya's mind,   "... must utter a certain number of unambiguous phrases..."

So far everything Kelly had said could have been conversation at the dinner table.

For the rest of their time together, Illya did his seductive best to get the professor to incriminate himself. He used every word of sexual slang he could think of, hoping Kelly would be drawn into the vocabulary.  His speech was filled with cocks and balls and shafts, licking and sucking and coming. He was hot and hard and throbbing and straining, until in Illya's mind the entire encounter had become an X-rated farce. Kelly seemed blissfully unaware, still exhibiting no need to voice his wants or echo a single word of lust to his lover.

At least the sex was not difficult for Illya. Oral activity was Kelly's greatest desire. All he really wanted was his mouth on Andrei's body, preferably below the waist. After that was clear to the Russian, he offered himself to be entered, hoping the professor would vocally object or try to persuade him otherwise. But Kelly, although not enthusiastic, seemed willing to comply with his lover's wishes. At that realization, Illya had Andrei change his mind and his position, granting Kelly what he wanted. There was no reason he should endure being penetrated needlessly.

Kelly was an expert at his specialty, Illya had to grudgingly admit. He let his mind drift and his genitals respond instinctively to the persistent mouth. The Russian came that night under the spell of the professor's lips and tongue, while the professor came with assistance from Andrei's hand.

It was long after midnight, and Kelly worried to himself about who might be wondering where he was, and who he was with.

"I have an early appointment in the morning, unfortunately, so I must go," the professor said reluctantly, his head resting on his new lover's shoulder. Andrei did not try to dissuade him. Kelly got out of bed and dressed slowly, looking back at the Russian languishing on the bed. He had pulled the sheet up over his legs, the top edge of it just barely covering his groin. Kelly was still hungry for him, but turned away, refusing the temptation.

Andrei put on his robe and walked him to the narrow entryway. Kelly ran his hand down Andrei's chest, caressing him through the material. "Can I see you again tomorrow?"

The Russian paused and looked away for a moment, thinking. "There are seminars all day, and a banquet tomorrow evening."

"Please." Kelly didn't give a damn now if he did appear needy. This couldn't be a one-night stand. He ran his hand through Andrei's hair, and lowered his voice. "I love the taste of you. And I could tell when you came in my mouth that you liked being there."

Andrei granted his wish. "Tomorrow night then, but not until ten."

The professor smiled, kissed him good-bye, and slipped out the door. Illya watched him through the peephole as he walked down the hall, turned and was gone.

"Now he tells me." he muttered, and stomped off to the bathroom.

---Napoleon didn't hear it.---

***
 

The carpeted hallway seemed endless. Finally Solo reached his partner's hotel room and tapped lightly. There was no answer. He unlocked the door and peered into the main part of the room, then entered.

The Russian was asleep in a wing chair, curled up in a fetal position, a blanket partially over him. The bed had been unceremoniously stripped and its sheets lay in a haphazard pile on the floor. The pillowcases had also been removed, and the bare pillows rested on the equally naked mattress. ~Destroying evidence.~ Napoleon thought, sympathizing. Only one lamp was on, giving off a low light.

Solo approached his sleeping partner. It was apparent from his damp hair and fresh pajamas that he'd recently showered. Napoleon investigated the rest of the room, feeling around the headboard for the transmitter and then deducing that Illya had already removed it. He took off his suit jacket, but hesitated about hanging it in the closet. That might indicate he expected to stay the night, and he didn't want to jump to that conclusion. Illya might prefer to have some time to himself. The Russian's coat was on the back of the only chair, so Solo settled for hanging his jacket on a doorknob.

Napoleon gathered the pile of bedclothes, compressed them into a ball and shoved them into the closet, out of sight. He retrieved two spare pillows and a blanket from the closet shelf. A glance at his partner confirmed that he was still fast asleep, and he made a mental note to chastise him later about being so oblivious to someone else in the room.

At the sound of the blanket being shaken out, Illya stirred. He was aware of fabric rustling and someone moving around on the carpeting. His sixth sense of Napoleon told him it was his partner, so he kept his eyes closed and let him finish whatever he was doing.

"Are you playing possum, Agent Kuryakin?"

The Russian opened his eyes to see Solo standing over him, hands in his pockets. He blinked and sat up, feeling disheveled and...what? Outsmarted? Used?

Solo rested his hand on Illya's shoulder and kneaded the muscle there. Kuryakin stood abruptly, leaving Napoleon's hand in the air. "I need to shower." He traipsed into the bathroom, dragging the blanket until it fell onto the floor unnoticed.

Napoleon did not point out that he'd already showered. He gathered up the blanket and spread it on top of the other on the bed, feeling slightly useless.

Illya lost himself in the feel of the water gliding over him, trying not to think of anything. He spent a lot of time drying himself, delaying any discussion with Solo. The room outside was very quiet and he wondered why Napoleon didn't turn on the television or something. The Russian put the same pajamas back on, and when he emerged from the bathroom he found his partner sitting patiently in the wing chair, still fully dressed except for his jacket, his tie not even loosened..

"Finished?" Illya nodded and Napoleon went past him into the bathroom and shut the door.

Kuryakin saw the bed all made up with the fresh blankets and pillows, and was silently grateful. Walking around to the other side of it, he noticed Napoleon's jacket hanging on the doorknob. Slipping
his fingers under the collar, he picked it up and felt the smooth fabric under his thumbs. He moved to the chair at the desk and carefully fitted the jacket over his blazer, smoothing the shoulders, stroking the length of its front to make sure it laid correctly.

He heard the faucet being shut off and turned away just as his partner again entered the room.

"While you were up here in the lap of luxury, I was in that cold truck, drinking a gallon of coffee." Solo said casually, trying to bait his partner into a tension-releasing argument.

Illya just looked at him blankly.

Napoleon moved toward him, stood closely facing him. "How are ya?" he asked in a soft voice, his concern evident.

His partner didn't answer, but gave the bottom of Solo's tie a tug. "Are you going to sleep in this?"

Napoleon smiled, relieved that he was welcome. He stripped down to his t-shirt and boxers, then turned out the light and climbed into bed with Illya.

The Russian's voice came out of the dark. "That was a fiasco."

Napoleon hated the idea that Illya would have to endure Kelly's attentions again, but didn't express it. "We'll devise something surefire tomorrow,"  he told him. "Try to get some sleep now."

Illya was mentally and emotionally exhausted from the evening's activities. The charade had been rather fun at first, but the game got more difficult as it evolved. He fell into sleep again easily, perhaps even more for escape than from fatigue. It seemed like no time had passed before he awoke from a dream. Waverly was listening to the tapes, shaking his head. "This is of no use whatsoever,
Mr. Kuryakin."  Sitting up in bed, he held his head in his hands in frustration.

"You all right, Illya?" a sleepy voice said.

"Don't ask me that anymore." Kuryakin was annoyed with his partner, with everything.

Solo sat up next to him and put his hand on his shoulder. "Take it easy."

"And do not touch me, either!" Illya growled in a whisper.

Napoleon removed his hand and sat patiently, biting his lip, waiting out his partner's fit of temper. He leaned over to the side of the bed to squint at the clock. 4:15. Then he gave his attention back to Illya, who was turned away from him.

"Uh, I know tonight was difficult for you..." Solo wanted to help but didn't quite know how.

Illya faced him again. "Will you kiss me?" he asked softly.

Napoleon was caught off guard at the change of attitude. "What?"

"You heard me," Kuryakin said, annoyed again..

The Russian was in an unusually volatile mood. Napoleon speculated that he wanted some comforting, but at the same time, wanted to take a swing at somebody. Either way, Solo would humor him.

Napoleon took him by the shoulders and eased him down onto the bed. He looked at him warmly in the existing light, taking his mouth in his, kissing him firmly but tenderly.

Illya relaxed under him. Solo had a suspicion.

"Why do I get the feeling that our professor was the bacteria, and I'm the disinfectant?" he said wryly, attempting to banish his partner's gloom.

He was successful. Illya grinned. "You are more effective than a gallon of Listerine, Napoleon."

"I guess I've been called worse," Solo said philosophically. "And am I also a, quote, typical self-centered American?" he asked, recalling Illya's accusation to Kelly.

"You are the patron saint of self-centered Americans." The Russian was smiling in amusement, but at the same time, his eyes gazed at Napoleon's mouth. That mouth obligingly came down to his, and granted him a long, cleansing kiss, a kiss so deep it eradicated all traces of the trespasser.

Napoleon looked again at his partner, questioning. How much, how little, did he want? Illya's expression told him it still wasn't enough. Continued urgent kisses gradually changed to tender ones, tender to lazy, their heads cradled on the same pillow, lips just brushing. Illya drifted back into sleep.

Napoleon watched him for a few minutes, then fell asleep himself.

***
 

The communicator shrilled its two familiar notes. Solo felt around the bedside table for it, and cleared his throat. "Solo here."

"DeVolder, Sir. Just wanted instructions for the day."

Napoleon sat up in bed and shook off his drowsiness, shifting into his role of Chief Enforcement Agent. "Maintain routine surveillance of Kelly and report anything unusual. I don't anticipate any activity until tonight, but remain on standby. Have the mobile unit ready again at the side of the hotel at 8 pm."

"The mission is still active then?"

Solo snapped at him. "Until you hear otherwise, Mr. DeVolder."

"Yes, Sir. DeVolder out."

Napoleon turned and looked down to see his partner listening from his recumbent position. "He's wondering why it isn't over and done with," Illya observed.

"This is a need-to-know only operation," Solo said firmly, turning his face away.

"Where is the tape?" The Russian hoped that his X-rated dialogue--or rather monologue--was not accessible to the local U.N.C.L.E. officials.

"Nothing you do or say during this assignment will be fodder for internal gossip," Solo assured him.

Illya was puzzled at the evasive answer. "But where is the tape?" he asked again.

"I destroyed it."

"What?"

"It wasn't of any use, was it?"

"What if Waverly wants to make that decision?"

"I saved him the trouble," Napoleon shrugged, confident of his authority. Then he shifted gears, turning back to his partner again. "Say, I didn't know you knew words like that."

Illya sat up next to him, crosslegged. "I am proficient in sexual slang in five languages."

"Don't you know at least eight languages?" Solo inquired with curiosity.

"I have not actually bedded anyone who spoke Polish, Flemish, or Dutch," the Russian deadpanned, eyebrow raised.

Napoleon laughed, delighted that Illya was joking with him again. "There's a lot you haven't told me, partner."

Illya dropped back on his pillow. Normal banter with Napoleon was bliss. "What time is it?"

Solo looked at the clock. "Seven. Do you need more sleep?"

Illya thought of his planned late-night date with Kelly. "Yes."

"Sweet dreams." Napoleon said.

***
 

An hour later Solo returned from the bathroom with a towel around his waist. Illya was curled up on the bed, dozing. Solo sat on the edge of the bed to don his socks, glancing back at him, wishing this assignment was over.

The Russian felt the movement and rolled toward the American. He propped himself up on one elbow, rubbing his eyes, his expression troubled. "I am sorry that all your efforts were wasted, Napoleon."

"Efforts?"

"If we had known Kelly's tastes in the bedroom, you wouldn't have had to help me prepare."

Light dawned on Solo's face. "Ahh," he nodded.

"Our having sex was a complete waste of your time, and mine."

Napoleon turned and narrowed his eyes at Illya. "I could have gone to the ball game."

"And I could have had an afternoon's peace and quiet."

Solo shook his head with regret. "Hindsight is twenty-twenty, Illya."

The Russian chuckled and stretched, then rolled back and closed his eyes again.

Solo thought about lying on the bed against him, then decided he should deny his personal feelings during the assignment. He sighed quietly. Those feelings were getting complicated.

***
 

When the Russian woke next, Solo was seated at a cart full of dishes from room service.

"Well, you were dead to the world," Napoleon said, taking a bite of scrambled eggs. He was fully dressed in yesterday's clothes, and reading the morning newspaper, which was draped crookedly over a coffeepot.

Illya got out of bed and sauntered in his pajamas to the chair on the other side of the breakfast array, studying what was available.

"What are your plans for the day?" Solo asked him, gazing at his ruffled hair.

Kuryakin looked up with sleepy surprise. "Plans? I have the luxury of plans?"

"I thought you wanted to go to a couple of those lectures."

Illya's face brightened. "There is one in particular this afternoon I would like to attend."

"Go then. You need a break from this assignment. I have to go back to the apartment and get some fresh clothes anyway."

The Russian looked appreciatively at his partner as Napoleon studied the editorials. "All right. But what about tonight?"

"We'll wrestle with that problem over dinner. Unless you have any ideas right now, just put it out of your mind until then."

Illya thought about it while he spread jam on some toast. "You know, last night when Kelly was saying good-bye to me, he was afraid I wouldn't see him again. And that's when he started to talk sex."

Napoleon sat his coffee cup back in its saucer with a clatter. "Maybe you should play harder to get then."

Illya nodded thoughtfully. "I'll try that first. But just as a back-up..."  He went to the bedside table and picked up his communicator, summoning DeVolder or Mendoza.

"DeVolder."

"Kuryakin here. I need a camera. Nothing fancier than a tourist might carry. 35 mm, SLR, and two rolls of negative color film."

"What film speed?"

"The faster the better because there won't much light."

"Do you need a flash?"

Illya thought for a moment. A tourist wouldn't bring a flash attachment. "No."

"A courier will deliver everything within the hour, Sir."

"Thank you, Mr. DeVolder. Kuryakin out."

Napoleon had listened to the request with skepticism. "Do you really think the professor is going to smile for the birdie?"

Illya returned to the breakfast table. "No, but I think he might like it if I did."

***
 

It was 9:50 p.m. and Illya was taking a carefully timed shower. Five minutes later he walked out of the bathroom and heard the expected light staccato on the door. Confirming through the peephole that it was Kelly, he registered a look of surprise on his face, then opened the door and stood back to let him pass.

"Gregorii! I am not ready--I must have lost track of the time."

Kelly stood rooted in the open doorway, staring. He looked up and down the Russian's body, still dewy from a hot shower, clad only in a towel.

Andrei raised his eyebrows and motioned him in with a shake of his head, tossing his hair.

"Oh, sorry!" the professor exclaimed, taking two quick strides through the entryway so Andrei could close the door behind him.

He backed into the main part of the room, appreciating the view of the scantily clad man following behind him.

Kelly extended his arm, expecting Andrei to step into it, but the blond brushed past him and began darting about the room, picking up stray clothing he had shed before his shower, apparently making his home-away-from-home presentable. The professor's eyes followed, observing every inch of bare skin, every flex of muscle, any possible glimpse beneath the towel as the Russian stooped.

Andrei was apologizing, murmuring something about just getting back to his room a few minutes ago. "I met a colleague at the banquet that I knew a long time ago in Germany," he was saying. "As a matter of fact, I promised to meet him for a drink."

The words registered with Kelly and he frowned. "Do you mean tonight?"

Andrei stopped and looked up at the professor. "Yes," he replied. "I hope you don't mind." He began to bustle about again. "You and I must see each other before I leave, however. Maybe brunch tomorrow..."

Kelly couldn't believe it. He was being shunted aside for someone else, probably a former lover. He swallowed his hurt and anger, hoping to persuade Andrei to choose him over his competitor. An argument formed in his mind.

Smiling he said, "Umm, is your colleague staying here at the Hilton?"

"No, he's at the...Palmer House, I believe he said. Do you know it?" Andrei was still busy.

"Of course," Kelly answered. "It's not far. You know, I live quite a distance south of here and...well, since your colleague is staying downtown, maybe you could see him tomorrow and we could keep our date tonight." He held his breath.

The Russian did not look pleased. He headed for the closet and stalled, sliding the hangers back and forth, choosing some trousers to wear. Kelly could tell he was trying to think of a way to dispense with his unwanted guest. The silence in the room was deafening.

The professor walked toward him. "Listen--" he began, not really sure what he was going to say, not wanting to turn Andrei against him by being angry or threatening. "Andrei, last night was wonderful."

The Russian walked around him to where his suitcase lay open and began rifling through assorted socks and underwear.

"I've really been looking forward to being with you again, and I promise to--" Kelly hesitated. He wanted to say that he would drive the Russian wild with his mouth, make him beg for more, give him the most shattering orgasm he'd ever had. "--to make it good for you."  His voice was thick with desire.

Andrei still did not reply.

The professor was losing patience. He moved closer to him, his frustration surfacing. "You know, it's grossly unfair to greet me at the door like this..."  he gestured down at the towel the Russian was wearing,  "and then tell me you've made other plans."

Andrei looked up at him, considering the complaint, then dropped his eyes, still not speaking. Kelly daringly reached for him and snatched off the towel, tossing it away.

Andrei didn't flinch. "What are you doing, Gregorii?" he asked softly, threateningly.

"You owe me at least an hour of your time before you run off," the professor said in a low, equally threatening voice.

"What makes you think I owe you anything?" the Russian hissed. Maybe Kelly would explain further.

"Are all Russians this rude?"  Kelly asked, setting his jaw.

Illya hoped the man would whine and plead with him, but instead he was getting angry, maybe angry enough to leave. It was on to Plan B.

Andrei's expression softened and he reluctantly relented. "You are right. I did agree to see you. I must honor that."

Kelly relaxed. He regretted that the atmosphere was now strained, but he would salvage what he could of the evening, and he would leave satisfied.

He pulled the Russian into his arms and kissed him, boldly manhandling him, hoping his passion would be contagious. Andrei inhaled sharply as he was roughly scooped up and carried to the bed, then dropped on it from too great a height, his body bouncing on the mattress. The professor stood over him, not attempting to hide his lust. He stripped off his jacket, dropped a hand to his belt buckle, then paused when he noticed a camera on the bedside table.

His demeanor changed and civility returned. "I'm sorry if I got a little rough, Andrei," he apologized. "I thought it would be arousing for you."

---"It's about time." Napoleon said under his breath. Kelly had finally said something worth recording.---

The Russian looked only slightly wounded, but was breathing hard. "You startled me."

Kelly apologized again, then sat down on the edge of the bed and reached for the camera. He turned it around in his hands, examining it, getting familiar with the make. Images flashed through his mind. "Andrei," he said thoughtfully. "Do you want to see me again after tonight?"

The Russian hesitated. Kelly knew he was just reluctantly fulfilling an obligation right now. "I get the impression that you would rather keep company with your former colleague, and I understand that, really. Maybe if you would consent to letting me have a few mementos of our time together, we could part friends."

It was obvious what he meant, but Illya wanted him to clarify his proposal. He looked at Kelly warily. "What kind of mementos?"

"Some photos of you, au naturale of course, just for my own pleasure." Kelly knew the Russian wanted to be rid of him, and the dangled carrot would be hard to resist.

Andrei was cautious. "My employer would frown such things. Who would develop these photographs?"

The professor smelled victory. "I have a discreet friend who has a color darkroom. He would do me that favor, and no one else will ever see them."

Andrei was on the verge of consenting. "How many pictures are left on the roll?"

Kelly checked. "You've only taken a few of the thirty-six. May I use the rest?"

"On one condition," the Russian warned. "I must cover my face. If you take one photograph that might identify me, I will not allow the film to leave this room." Illya thought his concern would be expected.

"Believe me, Andrei, I understand completely." Kelly turned away from him, a sly smile forming. He may have to step aside for a rival, but he would make certain he was compensated for his trouble. He stood over the bed,  focusing the lens on the reclining body, adjusting the settings. All the lamps in the room were on, so there would be enough available light. The color would be out of balance, flesh tones would be warmer, but that wasn't such a bad effect. The professor's mind was spinning.

The Russian crooked one arm over his face, straightened his legs and torso, and allowed a couple of photos to be taken. Kelly frowned. "Andrei, could you bend your legs a little?" Andrei put his knees up.

The professor was not pleased. He wanted sensual, erotic poses, hopefully leading up to explicit ones, and Andrei was either not getting the idea, or being stubborn. "Would you mind...lounging a little more?"

"Lounging?" Andrei asked, annoyed.

"Don't hold your body so stiff," he laughed. "Give me a really sexy pose."

The Russian grew impatient. Kelly saw him glance at the clock on the bedside table. "Tell me exactly what you want me to do, and I will accommodate you. But hurry."

The professor suppressed his anger and decided to take full advantage of the offer. "All right."

For the next twenty minutes he barked instructions, carefully framing the shots, the shutter firing again and again. Kelly was very specific about what he wanted, using street terms, never mincing words.

---Solo seethed with outrage at Kelly's commands to Illya. The professor was giving them plenty of rope to hang him with, however, and it would all be over in a few minutes. Plus, his partner was going to conclude this assignment with a minimum of physical contact. Clever Russian.---

The camera whirred in protest as the film reached its end. Kelly was incredibly aroused. Unable to restrain his desire any longer, he tossed the camera on the mattress and sat down, boldly lowering his mouth to the delectable body he had framed in the lens from every angle.

"Dr. Kelly," Illya said quietly, as the mouth moved down his torso. "Stop."

Kelly did not look up. "You promised me an entire hour, Andrei. And I guarantee you will enjoy this."

Illya's voice was calm and serious.

"That is not my name."

Kelly slowed his attentions, then froze. "What?"

"I am an U.N.C.L.E. agent."

The professor looked up at him, then shrunk away, almost falling off the bed. He shook his head in denial, dumbstruck.

"I am afraid so." Illya summoned up his coldest expression.

Kelly didn't breathe, shattered by the revelation.

Illya kept his eyes locked on him. "And you know what we want."

Kelly broke the eye contact, looking down to study a random spot on the bed, breathing hard now, trying to will his heart to start beating again.

Illya sat up and pulled the sheet up to his waist. "We approached you on friendly terms, but you refused to be reasonable and left us no choice. Every word you said tonight has been recorded. Now YOU have no choice."

Kelly couldn't believe he'd been duped again. He knew he would have to submit, or his career, his work, his professional future would be destroyed. Then further ramifications occurred to him.

"But, you don't understand," he said in a pleading whisper, involuntarily stealing a glance toward the door. "Thrush...Thrush will kill me for this."

"Not if U.N.C.L.E. has anything to do with it. And now we do."

Kelly was dubious. Then his expression changed yet again. His eyes swept down the Russian's body with bitterness. "How can you be so duplicitous? How can you seduce me and then stab me in the back?

"This was merely the means to an end, Professor. Don't read any more into it." Illya knew it was time to put some distance between them. He rose from the bed, not turning his back on the man, picking up his robe from where it had fallen from the bed onto the floor.

Kelly slid from his posture of total defeat to stand at the foot of the bed, then took three long strides to confront a surprised Illya.

"Don't do anything you will regret, Dr. Kelly," the Russian warned him. "I can hurt you." It was certainly true, even though the man towered over him. But Kuryakin knew he couldn't cripple him, couldn't send him to the hospital, couldn't even leave any marks for Thrush to observe.

"Do I really have anything to lose at this point?" Kelly asked. "Shouldn't I at least get what I came for?"

Illya looked up at him, incredulous. "You're not serious..."  But Kelly had dropped to his knees, wrapping his arms around Illya's hips in a bear hug, burying his face in his belly.

Illya dropped the robe in his hand and tried to squirm out of his hold. "Have some pride, man!"  he scolded, remembering to keep his voice low so no one loitering in the hall could hear. But Kelly had him in a lock, putting him off balance, and the Russian began to fall to the floor, arms flailing back to catch himself. He brought the professor with him, still hanging on, until they were laid out on the carpet.

---Napoleon slid the small window to the cab open to where Mendoza sat at the wheel, "My partner needs assistance. Stay put and let the tape run." He smoothly strolled from the truck to the side door of the hotel, walked quickly through the lobby, calmly waited in the elevator while the car rose to the sixteenth floor.---

Normally Kuryakin could extricate himself from such a predicament. But Kelly had him in a sensitive hold, and Illya wasn't discounting anything he might do in such a state of frustration. He could not knock the man unconscious or do any real damage to him. The situation called for some street tactics, and he settled for reaching down and twisting Kelly's ears, hoping not to leave any bruises. The professor yelped and released him, and Illya writhed out from under him, scooting out of his reach and any further impulses.

Kelly was still on the floor, wincing and rubbing his ears as Illya hustled around him to get his robe, keeping an eye on him. "Stay right there!" he ordered Kelly, exasperated.

The professor had other ideas. He had been humiliated enough, by the Russian and by his own doing. He half stumbled, half dashed into the bathroom and locked himself in. Illya sighed and shook his head, tying the belt of his robe. He moved to the door and talked through it. "Professor, come out of there, please." There was no answer. Maybe he should just let him stay there. "What do you hope to accomplish by..."

The sound of glass shattering came from within. Illya was not prepared for a situation like this. Seldom in his career as an U.N.C.L.E. agent had an adversary tried to take his own life. Kelly wasn't exactly an adversary, but neither was he innocent. Illya realized that all would be lost if the professor succeeded--the retrieval of the research, the balance of knowledge between U.N.C.L.E. and Thrush, and...

He didn't know why he should care if Kelly lived or died, but somehow he did.

Kuryakin slammed his shoulder into the door once, then again. The flimsy lock in the knob gave way, and the door banged and ricocheted against the wall, the Russian's momentum carrying him into the room and crashing into Kelly. He seized the bloody hand that was about to make another cut in the wrist. Too late Illya realized he'd just put his full weight onto a piece of the shattered drinking glass, badly slicing his bare sole.

"AHH!"  Illya threw the larger man against the wall in anger, and watched him slide down the tile to sit on the floor. The Russian's rage, the sight of blood, and the professor's own mortification finally subdued him completely.

Suddenly there was a dark-haired man in the doorway.

Kelly cowered as the man looked at him, then at the bloody footprints on the floor, then at the Russian's injury. He was more afraid of this one, and not just because of the gun in his hand.

At least the stranger wasn't Thrush. He and the Russian knew each other. As the man Kelly had called Andrei sat on the vanity, wrapping his foot in a towel, there was an indefinable glance between them.

"Get out here," the dark-haired one said in a menacing voice, taking a step backward and gesturing with his gun.

The professor rose shakily, moved out of the bathroom and carefully past him.

"Sit there and don't move," the dark man commanded, indicating the wing chair. Kelly knew he was beaten and did what he was told. The man took two steps backwards into the bathroom, never lowering his gun, nor taking his eyes from Kelly until he was next to the Russian. A piece of glass crunched under his heel.

The professor couldn't see the Russian's face, just one leg dangling from the vanity, the other one crossed over it, his hand holding the towel against the foot. "How bad is it?" the dark man asked him. The Russian uncovered the wound so the other man could see it. "Just bad enough to annoy me for the next month," he said with disgust.

Seemingly satisfied that the Russian was not severely injured, the dark man glared again at Kelly, moved out of the bathroom and approached him. His wrist was seized in a viselike grip, turned and examined. The cut didn't look deep, and Solo concluded the attempt was half-hearted. "Wrap it up," the dark man sharply told him, throwing a towel in his lap.

He stood a few feet in front of Kelly and watched his every breath, taking a pen from his pocket and speaking into it. "Mendoza?"

"Mendoza here,"  a voice responded.

"Send our taxi around to the side door in ten minutes. You and DeVolder come up here for escort. And bring the first aid kit."

"Be right there, Sir."

Kelly watched him warily as he returned the pen to his pocket. The dark stranger spoke again, giving him a string of commands.

"Two men will be up here in a minute. They will follow you to the south door of the hotel. You will get into a Checker cab and go home. Tomorrow morning, you will go to your office and gather your research. You will go home again for an hour, then you will bring the papers here. You will be watched every second between now and then. Do you understand?"

Kelly swallowed and nodded.

"Repeat it."

"I go home in the cab...the Checker cab. Tomorrow morning... I go to my office, go home for an hour... come here."

The Russian emerged from the bathroom, limping with a towel wrapped around his foot. There was a knock at the door and the dark one went to open it. Two men entered, dressed like businessmen and carrying briefcases.

"One of you clean and dress the professor's wrist," he ordered, "so he doesn't bleed all over his clothes."

Bandages were produced from a briefcase, and Kelly's superficial wounds were treated and wrapped, the blood cleaned from his hands. The Russian had settled on the bed, putting his feet up to stem his own bleeding. The professor watched over the shoulder of the one who was administering to him as the dark man approached the bed, slipped a pillow under the Russian's foot to raise it higher, then almost imperceptibly let his knuckles brush the blond's ankle as he drew his hand away.

He turned back to Kelly and waited until the bandaging was completed. "All right, Professor, roll up your bloodied sleeves and get your jacket."

Kelly looked up at him with cautious curiosity, then toward the Russian, and opened his mouth to say something. The dark one lowered his chin, changing the angle of his cold stare, turning it into a warning. The professor flinched and rose to get his coat.

"Don't look like a scared rabbit, Dr. Kelly. Get yourself together. It's in your own best interest to look like nothing unusual has happened to you."

Kelly straightened up, attempting to look poised. It was less than convincing, but Solo figured he would be more composed by the time he reached the lobby. He nodded to DeVolder and the agent steered the professor out and down the hall.

"Mendoza..." said Solo. The second agent paused. "DeVolder can follow Kelly home. After he's safely in the taxi, retrieve the tape from the mobile unit and bring it back up here to me."

"Yes, Sir." Mendoza followed his partner out the door.

Solo moved to the headboard of the bed, removed the transmitter, deactivated it, and stuffed it in his pocket.

Illya collapsed further into the pillows. "I take it back, Napoleon. This assignment WAS worse than getting shot at."

Solo grinned and sat down on the foot of the bed, carefully unwrapping the towel and taking a closer look at the bottom of Illya's foot. "You're going to need some stitches." He retrieved the roll of bandages that Mendoza had left behind and wrapped the foot tightly. "That will hold you until you get dressed and I take you to an emergency room."

"Do you know which hospital we're supposed to go to?" Illya asked him, betting that he didn't.

"I'm way ahead of you. Passavant has U.N.C.L.E. clearance. A Doctor Carlisle." Napoleon said smugly.

"And do I have to ride there in a bakery truck?" Illya complained.

"If it's good enough for me, it's good enough for you."

The Russian still objected. "But I need tender loving care. Call a taxi."

Solo was sympathetic. "Sorry, no taxis. But I think I can fulfill that other requirement."

Illya smiled as Napoleon moved to sit next to him and slipped his arm around his shoulders, squeezing him. It was not unlike the kind of gesture they sometimes shared after a victory in the past, except that Napoleon planted a loud smack on his partner's cheek, making him laugh.

Solo got up and gathered some of Illya's clothes from the closet, some fresh underwear from his open luggage, and tossed them on the bed. He noticed the camera and picked it up. "Hmm. I'm sure the editor of the employees' newsletter could use these."

The Russian smirked and held out his hand. "Give me that, Napoleon."

His partner kept possession of it. "Let me." Illya watched as Solo flipped open the back of the camera and pulled the strip of film out with a flourish. "I've always wanted to do that," he grinned, eyes bright.

"I will get you ten rolls of film for your birthday, and you can expose them all," the Russian promised.

There was a knock at the door and Solo went to open it, shifting back into his CEA role, motioning Mendoza into the room.

"The tape is in here," the agent said, setting a briefcase on the desk, unlocking it and handing the key to Solo.

Napoleon took out the reel and inspected it, then returned it to the case, snapping the locks shut. "You and your partner have been invaluable to us, Mendoza."

The agent looked pleased, then glanced at Kuryakin, who nodded in agreement. "Thank you, Sir. I'll tell him you said that."

"This assignment isn't concluded, however," Solo continued. "Your office is responsible for Kelly until the information is in our hands. A number of surveillance personnel should be on duty until then. And let me remind you that you don't have to avoid detection from the subject, but from Thrush."

"We understand."

"We'll see you tomorrow morning then," Solo said, dismissing him. "Oh, and send a car to the front entrance for us. Mr. Kuryakin needs a quick trip to the hospital."

"A car will be here in five minutes." Mendoza was out the door.

Napoleon helped his limping partner down to the lobby. It was three a.m. by the time Illya was treated at the hospital and they were returned to the hotel. The cut was deep, so the Russian was given a pair of crutches and told to keep his weight off the foot for a few days. Napoleon had to tolerate the usual amount of grumbling.

"Get into bed and I'll tuck you in," he said. "Then I'll gag you."

Illya yawned, "Just try it, Napoleon," and fell fast asleep.

Solo got some towels and thoroughly cleaned the bathroom floor, making sure to remove every sliver of glass, and every trace of blood.

***
 

The CEA was up by 8 a.m. again, showered and dressed. He retrieved the complimentary morning paper from outside the door and sat down in the wing chair. The sight of his partner as he slept was a distraction, however. White t-shirt clinging to him, sheet crumpled around him, bandaged foot sticking out.

Solo thought about the complexities of their new relationship and played out various scenarios in his mind. He and Illya having sex occasionally, not taking it too seriously. He and Illya having an affair but seeing others, too, for the sake of appearances. Waverly's reaction if he discovered their feelings for each other. No, not if, but when. The reactions of people at Headquarters. Their careers. His own reputation. The stigma of homosexuality.

Nothing would be easy. Kelly's life was proof of that.

Napoleon watched Illya stir and roll over, his hair tousling. How many times had he seen him asleep? Hundreds. But now he looked at him from a different perspective. The object of his affection opened his eyes, blinking at the sunny room.

"What time is it?" the Russian mumbled.

"Time for you to get up."

Illya groaned. "How soon do we expect Kelly to be here?"

Napoleon sniffed, his thoughts dragged back to mundane business. "Maybe an hour. One of the surveillance team will give us a heads up when he leaves his apartment."

The Russian squinted into the light from the east windows, trying to see his partner's face. There was a strange tone to Solo's voice. He sat up on the edge of the bed.

"Is something wrong, Napoleon?"

Solo casually looked up from the still-folded newspaper. "What would be wrong?"

Illya shrugged and started for the bathroom. He forgot about his injury and winced as his weight came down on it.

Napoleon tsked. "Careful there."

The Russian hobbled to the bathroom on his heel, then returned a few minutes later, grabbing his robe and slipping it on over his slept-in underwear. "No breakfast this morning?" He sat on the edge of the bed again and looked at his partner with dissatisfaction.

Napoleon picked up the phone to order. "It won't be here for awhile. You can get ready for our visitor in the meantime."

~That sounded like an order,~ thought Illya. He dragged himself up and went into the bathroom. The doctor had told him not to get his foot wet for twenty-four hours, so he gave himself an inconvenient sponge bath at the sink. It didn't wake him up like a drenching shower did. He heard a knock at the door and held his breath. Was it Kelly already? The next sound was a rattle of plates on the rolling room service table. He inhaled deeply. The smells of coffee, eggs and toast permeated through the door, reviving him more than the washing had.

The Russian dressed quickly in his usual white shirt, black tie and black trousers, and sat down across from Napoleon. Illya sneaked a few glances at his partner as he ate. Solo was scanning the paper again, but looked up occasionally and caught Illya looking back more than once. Finally he tossed the paper aside and gave his full attention to breakfast, offering an orange section to his partner. Kuryakin returned the favor by holding out a piece of toast, sticky with honey, while Napoleon took a bite.

They stopped eating and looked at each other for what seemed like a long time, barely breathing, staring at each other's mouths. Illya leaned forward just as Napoleon's communicator went off, and their minds turned back to the assignment. "Solo here."

"Agent Williams, Sir. We're following Kelly---his ETA at the hotel is fifteen minutes."

"Thank you. Solo out."

They gulped the rest of the meal and cleaned up, wheeling the table out to the hall. Illya cleared the desk, preparing to examine the research transcription. Napoleon threw the spread over the bed, wishing he could fold the whole thing up into the wall. It would be a reminder to all of them of what had transpired there.

They donned their jackets, straightened their ties, and settled down to wait. Illya sat at the desk, staring out the window. Napoleon leaned back in the wing chair, legs crossed, hands folded. The knock came, and Solo rose to answer it.

Kelly walked into the room, followed by Mendoza and DeVolder. Solo wondered if the two agents ever slept. The professor strode up to Illya, opened his briefcase and belligerently slapped a folder of papers on the desk. He looked down at the Russian with disdain, but got no reaction.

Solo noted his change of attitude since the last time he'd been in this room. He'd had time to think about how he'd been treated, and was exhibiting some rebellion. The CEA knew that allowing an enemy to save face made him more cooperative in the future, so he let the behavior pass without comment.

"Professor." Solo indicated he should sit in the wing chair.

Illya was perusing the research, turning the pages, going back occasionally.

The two Chicago agents hovered in the entryway, patiently waiting, keeping quiet so the Russian would not be distracted. Solo stood between Illya and Kelly, occasionally looking out the window.

"What is this reference?" the Russian asked Kelly, breaking the silence, leaning back in the chair and pointing to a spot on the page in his hand. The professor crossed to him, studied it, and explained it. Illya nodded and Kelly went back to his chair. After a few minutes, Kuryakin looked up at Napoleon and nodded again.

Solo spoke. "All right, Professor, your research will be verified by an authority this afternoon, but in the meantime, you can go. We know where to find you."

Kelly rose from the chair, pulling himself up to his full height. He sneered at Solo, then at Kuryakin.

"You two are lovers, aren't you?"  he said, raising his voice, making sure the other two agents heard the accusation.

For a split second Napoleon and Illya were caught off guard, but neither of them showed it. The Chicago men glanced into the room with subtle curiosity.

Solo cocked his head and gave the professor a cool smile. "Now that WOULD be ironic, wouldn't it, Dr. Kelly?" He stepped aside and swept his hand toward the door, dismissing the man. One of the agents opened it, and Kelly huffed across the room and hurried out.

Napoleon looked after him, still smiling at the absurdity of the comment. "Gentlemen, I think the professor has grasped his last straw."

Illya stood, turning to share the joke with DeVolder and Mendoza. The four of them laughed and shook hands all around, the CEA telling the two agents that it had been a pleasure to work with them, that they would receive a lot of credit in his report for the successful operation. Solo turned the research over to them, and saw the Chicago men to the door as they left to deliver it.

Napoleon slowly walked back into the room and slipped off his jacket. Illya had turned toward the window. There was an uneasy silence.

The American walked up behind him, and the Russian turned. "Your response to Kelly's accusation was quick thinking, Napoleon."

Solo smiled at him sadly. "We'd better get used to it, partner." They held each other for awhile, sharing a moment they knew was a turning point in their lives.

***
 

They were booked on a Monday morning flight back to New York, remaining in Chicago for one more night. The hotel was paid for, but the two agents had other ideas. By Sunday afternoon they had left behind the upscale room with the fabulous view, and returned to the humble little north side apartment. It was like coming home.

Napoleon relished the thought of being alone with his partner, and Illya craved some time with Solo, time to heal from the assignment.

Solo foraged in the cupboards and the refrigerator, filling the table with an odd combination of things, but plenty to fill their stomachs.

"We've still got half a bottle of wine," he announced triumphantly.

Kuryakin had unfolded the sofa bed, taken off his shoes and was making himself comfortable.

Solo joined him and they enjoyed a casual meal together, relaxing against the back of the sofa, not needing conversation. Eventually the debris of their meal was set aside.

Napoleon put his glass on the floor, reached forward and began to slowly unbutton Illya's shirt. Kuryakin felt a sudden shyness.

"Something wrong?" Illya shook his head and dropped his gaze. "Yes, there is," Napoleon observed.

The Russian thought for a minute, then spoke quietly. "I am feeling slightly...diminished, Napoleon." Solo looked at him askance as he continued. "I'm now picturing all the lewd things I did with Kelly, and imagining you in the truck, listening to me prostitute myself."

Solo frowned. "It was an assignment, Illya, a job. What were your words to the professor? 'Don't read any more into this?'"

Kuryakin remained subdued. "I know."

Napoleon put his hands squarely on the Russian's shoulders. "Illya, you're...don't you know what you mean to me?" He looked into his eyes with as much meaning as he could convey. "I treasure you."

Illya relaxed and smiled at him, and Napoleon gently let him go, satisfied. "I don't ever want that last part quoted back to me, though."

The Russian grinned, leaned forward and overwhelmed Solo with his weight, forcing him backwards, then kissed him passionately. He managed to undress himself and Solo while seldom losing contact, now yearning to satisfy Napoleon to his very bones.

He covered him with his body, rotating his groin into Solo's, caressing his genitals with his own, feeling arousal course through him. He ravaged Napoleon's mouth, hands in his hair, never stopping the movement of his hips. His partner's cock swelled against him, his legs embraced his. Solo grabbed Kuryakin's ass in both hands and squeezed, eliciting a gasp from the Russian, stealing Napoleon's own breath from his mouth.

"Illya..." Solo moaned with desire, gazing up into his partner's eyes.

Kuryakin swept down his body and took his erection into his mouth in one fluid motion. He was almost desperate to please Napoleon, but found the scent and taste and texture of him inflaming his own arousal as well. His tongue swirled around the hard shaft, his lips working it, granting it every sensation he could manage, until Solo arched and froze, emptying into him.

Illya stroked his own shaft once, and Napoleon's cock left his mouth as he came.

He lay spent, resting his head on the mattress next to Napoleon's hip. After a few minutes he felt two hands under his arms, gently hauling him up. Their mouths were together once more, Solo's hands sliding from Illya's neck and weaving into his hair, holding him in place, lengthening the kiss. The Russian's head dropped onto Solo's shoulder, nuzzling him, enjoying the feel of their bodies together as they drifted into sleep.

Napoleon woke sometime later and sat up against the back of the sofa, Illya slipping from his arms. He picked up the wine bottle that they had emptied, tipped it up and waited until the few remaining drops drained into his mouth. Illya sleepily propped himself up next to him and Solo licked his lips. "Just one taste left. Wanna share?"

The Russian sat up, shoulder to shoulder with him, just as they had for their first awkward try at making love. Illya leaned toward him and explored Napoleon's wine-flavored mouth with his tongue.

Solo slid the back of his hand down the front of the uncovered body, letting it roam to Illya's groin as they kissed. His fingers grazed a limp penis and he looked at Illya with quiet awe. "It's amazing how quickly I've adjusted to my lover having a cock."

The Russian smiled and placed Solo's hand more firmly over his genitals, pressing it tight. "I make it my gift to you." he stated lovingly. Then he frowned. "You don't already have one, do you?

Solo smiled back at him, took Illya's other hand and placed it over his own cock, holding it there. He gazed at his partner with affection. "No, I gave mine away, too."

They felt their organs stir as their mouths met again, and they continued to bond to each other, far into the night.
 
 

End.
 

My thanks to Kate D. for her editing (all "creative" punctuation is mine, however, and she is not to be faulted!), and to both her and Jan for providing us all with File Forty.