This story is a prequel/companion piece to Balance of Power. They are meant to go together, although I think each can stand on its own as well. Enjoy!

When Illya woke, he was lying on his side and the whole length of his body was suffused with warmth. He felt Napoleon’s slow, even breathing tickle the back of his neck and stir the tousled blond hair at its nape. Napoleon’s arm was flung across him, lying heavily over his rib cage. He lay still, keeping his eyes closed and absorbing the sensation of his chest rising beneath that arm and then falling under its weight.

The feeling of being held – trapped – bothered him rather less than he had expected, if he was completely honest with himself. That fact alone was highly disturbing. In the first place, his plan had not included spending the night in this bed. He had intended to wait until Napoleon was asleep and then stealthily make his escape, maybe to the nearest late-night bar he could find; he could certainly do without sleep for one night. But instead he had apparently dropped off before his partner. The last conscious memory he had was of Napoleon’s fingers gently playing with his hair. He had been too tired and too – he hated to accept the thought – too sated to resist.

This would not do. Napoleon was not an equal, not a peer without influence to wield over him. Not like Dmitri. Napoleon was his partner, true, and in their world that word implied complete trust and complete loyalty. Your partner held your life in his hands. And vice versa, of course. Though their partnership had existed for only six months, that six months had included eleven missions and several life-threatening situations for both men. Illya had come close to death for Napoleon’s sake on some of those occasions, and had seen Napoleon do the same for him. Neither would hesitate for a moment to do so again. That, after all, was expected. They were partners. To risk any closer relationship would be pure folly. It would be just one more bargaining chip, one more potential means of blackmail, one more sword to be dangled over his head. One more weakness. And Illya despised weakness. He especially despised it in himself.

And of course there was Napoleon himself. A more irritating individual Illya had never met in his life. He hated the thought of giving the arrogant American any more perceived advantage than he already held. Napoleon was his superior as well as his partner, though he was admittedly an easy-going superior. Since their first couple of assignments they had proven to be such an excellent team that little order-giving was necessary; each usually knew instinctively what the other was thinking. But if orders were given, it was Napoleon who gave them, not Illya. And it was Napoleon who so often adopted that infuriating “Let me take care of you” attitude. As though Illya’s fewer years and smaller frame made him a child. He had hoped that once Napoleon saw just how capable he was of taking care of himself that overprotective urge would wither away. Instead, it had gotten even worse.

On their last assignment, he had refused to let Illya go into the THRUSH munitions warehouse on his own, saying two pairs of eyes were needed to look for booby traps. Of course, when the explosive device went off, Napoleon was standing within a few feet of it while Illya was at the other end of the building. That little piece of foolishness had cost Napoleon a stay in the hospital, during which time Illya’s own effectiveness was compromised. Pacing back and forth in a hospital waiting room while waiting to be told whether your partner would live or die was not conducive to the clear thinking their job required. Illya despised guilt, too.

It was a fine line an enforcement agent had to tread – between too much detachment, which could get one’s partner killed, and too little, which could get one’s partner and oneself killed. Obviously, leaning slightly toward the former would be the wiser choice.

All of which meant he had absolutely no business lying here in this bed with Napoleon.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

He really should have seen it coming. In fact, he had. The very first time he met Napoleon, when Mr. Waverly introduced him to his new partner, he had seen it -- the look in the senior agent’s eyes. Illya had seen that look so often, in so many other men’s eyes, that he had no doubt of it, even though in this case the look vanished almost instantly. Napoleon was very good at hiding his feelings when he wanted to.

The first time Illya could remember seeing that look, he had been thirteen years old and the labor camp guard who tried to touch him had died from an inexpert but effective butcher knife thrust to the heart. Kitchen duty had its advantages. The look had followed him through the rest of his time in the camp, through the KGB training and his stint in the navy. It had never meant him anything but pain, and he had learned never to trust anyone who wore it.

Until Dmitri. He was at university in Kiev when he saw the look in a nonthreatening pair of eyes for the first time. Dmitri had been small and lightly built, with wispy brown hair and green eyes that reflected only tenderness. Dmitri had taught him that the look could be a precursor of pleasure as well as pain, that desire and satisfaction could be mutual. Since then, he had cautiously put this new knowledge to use, on a very selective basis.

But Dmitri was simply a fellow student who had no hold over him. And had always been somewhat in awe of him, as well. He had never felt out of control with Dmitri. When they left school, Dmitri to return to his family in Minsk, Illya to attend the Sorbonne, he had mourned the loss but moved on. Dmitri had no power over him other than emotionally; their lives were not bound together by danger and duty.

At first, he had been wary of his new partner, until he realized that Napoleon’s eyes were as gentle as Dmitri’s, at least when they were turned on him. He had not seen the look in them since that first day until last night. In the intervening months, he had seen Napoleon casting looks at quite a few other people – mostly women, of course, but not exclusively – and he had gotten used to being awakened late at night while on assignment by his partner’s return from some dubious assignation or other. He was learning that in their profession, such activities might take place as much out of expediency as for pleasure, though he had not yet personally experienced such a situation. He couldn’t deny that Napoleon’s particular skills had proven useful on a few occasions. If they also tended to arouse somewhat inconvenient feelings of resentment in him at times, that was hardly Napoleon’s fault.

Illya also understood that sexual release could be a convenient and easily achieved method of handling the overflow of adrenaline that sometimes threatened to drown one after a particularly close call in the field. It was frequently impossible to settle down after such an event without, as Napoleon termed it, “blowing off steam.” He knew from his own experience that indulging in some sort of sexual catharsis was often the only way he could quiet the pounding pulse and singing nerves that kept him awake at night after intense action, and especially after he had killed. Not a pleasant realization, perhaps, but Illya had never been one to shrink from facts because they were disagreeable. It was just that his catharses tended to be more circumspect than Napoleon’s. And, quite often, solitary.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

He felt Napoleon shift slightly in his sleep, pressing closer and tightening his hold unconsciously. It really was frightening how natural it felt, how comfortable, how – safe. He was immediately disgusted with himself for the thought. It was one thing to rely on Napoleon to watch his back in the field – that was part of the job. But to become dependent on him in any other capacity, to let down his guard, to become soft – that was intolerable. Mischief was everywhere, and allowing oneself to become distracted to the point of forgetting that fact was suicidal. He really must be getting out of this bed.

In the dim gray light that struggled through the curtains, he could see his shoulder holster and automatic draped over a chair. That would make him feel safe, too, if he could reach it. But it was on the other side of the room and he felt a surge of anger at himself for leaving it so far away from where he was sleeping. What could have possessed him last night to make him forget something so basic? He tried very cautiously to squirm free of Napoleon’s arms, only to feel his partner’s grip tighten around him again. The older agent’s breathing had become faster, shallower, and the slight tremors that shook his hands and lips told Illya that Napoleon was dreaming. REM sleep. That probably meant he would wake soon. Illya sighed in resignation. It looked as though his chances of escaping without waking Napoleon were slipping away.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

His own dreams had become a bit problematic of late. He was not particularly given to erotic dreams or fantasies, though he had had his moments, especially when he was with Dmitri. But several months ago, very soon after their partnership began, he had gone home with Napoleon for a drink after work. Napoleon had made some half-joking remark about them both needing to loosen up after their last case, and since that case had involved a serious run-in with THRUSH which included Illya’s first experience with the enemy agency’s more physical methods of persuasion, he had agreed. He was still very tense, and had probably had more vodka than was advisable, but then Napoleon had had more whiskey than was advisable, too. Neither of them was exactly drunk, but they had attained Napoleon’s objective of “loosening up” and were sitting on the leather-covered couch laughing a bit giddily at something – Illya couldn’t remember what – when Napoleon suddenly reached out and ran his fingers through the blond hair, brushing the bangs away from his eyes and saying gently, “You’re in dire need of a trim, tovarishch.”

Something about the easy, open gesture, the soft voice, and the use of his own language to reach him combined to send an unexpected, but not unfamiliar, shock through him. Thanks to the slightly anesthetizing effects of the alcohol, it took him a moment to recognize it for what it was. Then he stood up, made an excuse about having to work the next day, and left quickly over Napoleon’s confused objections.

That night he had dreamed, and dreamed vividly, despite the vodka. Dmitri was stroking his hair, kissing his face, whispering to him in Russian. He tried to speak, said Napoleon’s name, and then it was Napoleon, holding him tightly, running warm hands over his back and shoulders, soothing the muscles that still ached from the beating he had received at the hands of THRUSH. Napoleon’s mouth moved over him, kissing him everywhere he hurt, touching him all over his body except the one place he suddenly longed to be touched. He moaned, begged, arched upward – and then the dream was gone and he was lying tangled in sweat-drenched sheets, dry-mouthed and as hard as he could ever remember being.

The dream hadn’t worried him inordinately. He understood that the unconscious mind was largely beyond control. But that dream or a variation of it returned to haunt him on several more occasions, and gradually began to spill over into his waking dreams as well. On assignment, he could more or less ignore it, concentrate on the work and on looking after Napoleon and himself. But any other time, it could be a problem. To his tremendous annoyance, he found himself covertly studying his partner during briefings with Waverly, memorizing the suggestion of controlled danger in the heavily muscled shoulders; the ridiculous childish dimple set so incongruously in the strong masculine chin; the often ironic gleam in the brown eyes. Illya had long ago become adept at watching other people’s facial expressions closely while appearing not to notice, and without revealing any of his own thoughts. It was possible to hood one’s eyes in such a way that few people would realize they were being observed or that the observer was even particularly interested in them. This was much more difficult to do with Napoleon than with the average person, of course, simply because Napoleon was himself a highly skilled observer. But Illya was usually able to cast his eyes down an instant before Napoleon caught his gaze. It made him feel a bit like a guilty twelve-year-old stealing glances at his father’s girlie magazines, but despite the irritation he felt, he seemed quite unable to stop.

Rationally, he knew he should banish the feelings – the weakness – before things got too complicated to unravel. Not only was he angry at himself, he was becoming resentful of Napoleon as well. No one had the right to disturb his peace of mind this way. For as long as he could remember, he had cherished control. Loss of control was one of the very few things that truly frightened him. It meant leaving your mind, your heart, your body, open to invasion. It meant being overpowered and forced. It meant burning with mute fury while they took whatever they wanted from you and then laughed about it. Even with Dmitri, there had always been the grim determination to stay separate, to remain autonomous. He knew Dmitri had never understood his long silences, his guardedness, his almost fanatical sense of privacy. But Dmitri had not spent most of his life under the iron control of people who cared nothing for him.

Neither had Napoleon, and Illya sometimes thought his partner was just as puzzled by him as Dmitri had been. Although they seemed to share an almost telepathic rapport in the field, situations less fraught with danger had, in the beginning, produced mostly awkward silences between them. That night he had gone back to Napoleon’s apartment with him was the first time they had really talked, and Illya was surprised at how easy it was to talk to the American, how easy it was to make him laugh and even to laugh with him. No one had ever accused Illya of being a scintillating conversationalist, but Napoleon truly was, and his presence combined with the familiar friendly fire of the vodka had left Illya feeling more relaxed than he had been in a very long time. Until that one casual gesture had changed things. After that, though he still teased and kidded, Napoleon had touched him only when necessary, and always in a carefully neutral manner. Mysteriously, this had troubled Illya even more, until the day when he finally acknowledged to himself that he positively yearned to feel those fingers raking through his hair a second time, hear that intimate note in his partner’s voice again.

Then had come the incident in the munitions warehouse, and he had known that the situation had reached a crossroads. Waiting at the hospital, methodically tearing one magazine cover after another into minute shreds while the damned doctors were saving Napoleon’s life or letting him bleed to death – he didn’t know which since no one would tell him anything; he wasn’t “next of kin” and the imbeciles didn’t seem to understand what “partner” meant, not even when he showed them his U.N.C.L.E. id – that was when he realized he couldn’t go on this way. One way or another, things had to be resolved.

Of course, telling Napoleon how he felt was simply out of the question. He could not remember ever having said the words “I love you” to anyone in his life, not even to Dmitri, when it might have been true. Dmitri had said them to him once, in that breathless, adoring fashion of his that had always made Illya wince inwardly, and the words had so unnerved him that he had found it almost impossible to look Dmitri in the eye for days afterward. Many things had changed since then, but vulnerability was something he could no more afford to show now than earlier. He had learned to trust Napoleon as a partner, and even as a friend, but he had no wish to hand the senior agent a weapon that could be used against him at any time. After all, he had never known anyone who was completely trustworthy. One’s life was a fragile thing that could end suddenly and for no reason at all. Trusting that in the hands of another was child’s play compared to risking one’s self. In the end, that was really the only thing that had to remain inviolate. Handing it over to someone else would be foolhardy in the extreme.

Well, perhaps it wasn’t love he felt anyway. The situation with Napoleon was so different from anything else he had ever experienced that he felt out of his depth in trying to explain it to himself. With Dmitri, there was no ambiguity, no uncertainty, and, as long as he kept a reasonable distance between them, no conflict. Dmitri was as uncomplicated as he was loving, as submissive and undemanding as he was eager to please. Dmitri’s gentle green eyes never teased, never needled, never danced with mockery. Their relationship was as straightforward as a mathematical equation. So, in a different way, were all the other encounters of a sexual nature that he had had since, not that there had been any great number of them. It was a simple matter of hunger meeting hunger, resulting, usually, in mutual gratification and then in a rapid parting of the ways. There had been no bothersome nervousness, no agonizing worry, no disconcerting and definitely unwelcome melting sensation at something as trivial as a simple grin, a mere gentle inflection in a quiet voice. Illya detested unquantifiable, unfathomable emotions.

He sometimes wished he had something of Napoleon’s greater experience and apparently far greater sang-froid in these matters. Napoleon seemed to sail through life without letting it touch him. Illya could not imagine the older man letting himself become this bewildered, this confused over another person or over his own feelings. Napoleon was not likely to lose control over himself for any reason. He was master of himself in a way that Illya, to his infinite humiliation, evidently was no longer.

One thing, at least, was clear. For whatever reason, he wanted Napoleon, and with an intensity that he had never felt before toward anyone. Furthermore, the situation was becoming unendurable, interfering with his work, his concentration, and his sleep. Consequently, action had to be taken. Vaccines worked by introducing a tiny amount of the inimical agent into the bloodstream, thereby giving the host body an opportunity to attack it and build up immunity. Perhaps the same principle would apply to his situation. Napoleon, after all, was proving to be nothing if not an inimical agent.

As soon as the problem had been isolated and identified, and a course of action decided on, Illya had felt an immediate sense of relief. Now the time, place, and circumstances were the only remaining variables. The method was not a variable. He was fully prepared to give anything, on his own terms. He was not prepared to give in.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

He started slightly as Napoleon muttered something in his sleep. He must have just begun to doze off again, he thought in irritation, and rubbed his eyes vigorously with his free hand, the one that was not pinned down by Napoleon’s arm. It was not like him to loll about in bed, with or without company, after he had once awakened. For that matter, it was not like Napoleon to sleep so deeply; in fact it was not uncommon for him to hardly sleep at all while they were on assignment, and when he did, any slight noise usually brought him fully awake and reaching for his gun. It was one of the disadvantages of so often having to share a double bed with the senior agent. Waverly was not in the habit of springing for two rooms when one would do, and whether that one room contained two single beds or one double was of no concern to him. He expected his agents to make do and be happy they weren’t sleeping on rocky, rain-drenched ground on a stakeout.

But at least it was easy to force oneself to get up when awakening on rocky, rain-drenched ground.

Sleeping with Napoleon had other drawbacks as well. Sometimes he didn’t return from whoever he had been amusing himself with or gleaning information from or both until close to sunrise, and then the exhausted sigh, the creaking of the bedsprings, and as often as not the lingering second-hand scent of Chanel No. 5 were enough to wake Illya up. The damnable tangle of uncomfortable emotions that followed hard upon was usually sufficient to keep him awake. And when Napoleon did deign to spend the whole night in their room, the sound of his breathing, the enticing bulk of his body, the mere fact that he was there, on the side nearest the door – that misguided and totally unwarranted protectiveness again – tended to induce a whole other set of feelings that were just as inconvenient and even harder to hide. More than once Illya had felt compelled to flee to the bathroom to relieve the tension, both mentally and physically.

Strangely, despite the myriad annoyances, he could never manage to feel anything but disappointment when they happened to check into a hotel room that had more than one bed.

He yawned and closed his eyes again, letting the steady reassuring rhythm of his partner’s heartbeat seep through his bones. Last night, at least, he and Napoleon had both managed to sleep soundly and uninterrupted.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The opportunity to carry out his planned experiment had arisen unexpectedly the night before.

Occasionally, safe houses turned out to be not nearly as risk-free as their name implied. The imposing old Victorian in the Quarter was one such deceptive location. Napoleon and Illya had come to New Orleans to make contact with a man named Michael Graves, a chemist who had concocted a new nerve gas formula which THRUSH would have been willing to pay a pretty penny for, and which Graves had offered to sell them before apparently having a change of heart and notifying U.N.C.L.E. of the substance’s existence. He was being looked after in the U.N.C.L.E. safe house by agents John Trowbridge and Ginny Lawton, who had drawn babysitting duty, Illya assumed, because they worked at the nearest U.N.C.L.E. district office to New Orleans, the one in Houston. He and Napoleon would be escorting the chemist back to New York, a prospect which did not excite him. Anyone known to have worked both sides of the street in the past could be expected to do so again in the future, and turncoats did not number among Illya’s favored companions.

It was already dark when they pulled up behind the old house at the agreed-upon time of six o’clock, and the damp chill of a southern January was settling in for the night. Illya’s lips twitched slightly as he watched Napoleon hunch his shoulders and shove his gloved hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat, while muttering something about “this goddamn rotten weather.” To him, it felt almost balmy. If he hadn’t been wearing his shoulder holster, he might not even have put on a jacket.

But though the temperature did not trouble him, the fog was certainly a problem. It was hard to even make out the house through all the swirling mist, and the enormous old trees that dotted the wide rear lawn stretching before the two agents constituted safety hazards. With Napoleon at his side, Illya began feeling his way among them as carefully as possible with his automatic in hand, hoping that all was as it should be and that nothing unfriendly lurked in the darkness. After a few moments, Napoleon, who had now drawn his gun as well, reached out and placed Illya’s left hand in his own coat pocket, saying quietly, “Don’t get separated.”

Illya was about to make a caustic remark about his ability to take care of himself when his foot made unexpected contact with something large and soft, almost sending him sprawling. Napoleon grabbed at him and hauled him back to an upright position. He looked down to see the body of a man, nearly naked. The pale skin showed up only faintly in the darkness.

Napoleon produced a penlight from somewhere on his person, and knelt to play its small beam over the man’s face. It lingered there a moment, and Illya heard his partner curse under his breath. The beam slid down the front of the man’s body, revealing ugly red welts that looked as though they had only recently stopped bleeding. Illya also noted three bullet holes in the chest, and several impressive knife gashes.

Napoleon swore again, stood up, and said tersely, “Trowbridge.”

Illya said nothing. Napoleon had told him he had gone through Survival School with Trowbridge. He debated whether to touch his partner’s hand with his own, the warmth of a living friend.

But Napoleon was already moving away, stepping around the dead agent’s body, gesturing to Illya to keep up. “They may still have Ginny and Graves in the house,” he murmured. “They probably left him out here to warn us off.”

Illya had no doubt who “they” were. His heart began a heavy, steady throb and he could feel blood rush to his skin, making the cool winter air even less noticeable. Unconsciously, his right hand tightened on his gun, while his left unsnapped the knife scabbard on his hip. He glanced at Napoleon, and even in the faint light, he could see the gleam of the senior agent’s teeth as their eyes met. Napoleon was grinning at him with no teasing humor, no irony, only anticipation. He looked like a predator waiting in ambush, like the wolves roaming through the snow in the stories they had told in the orphanage when Illya was a child. The sight sent another jolt of raw adrenaline through his system. The “juice,” Napoleon always called it, this dizzying mixture of fear and exhilaration that ordinary people didn’t understand. Illya’s eyes burned and he felt sweat bead between his shoulder blades. He grinned back recklessly.

They were close to the house now, and as they reached the tree nearest to it, Napoleon stopped and backed up against the trunk. There was still no sound except their own breathing, but Napoleon took no chances. Illya had to strain his eyes in the darkness to see his partner’s movements. Napoleon held up one finger, pointed to himself, and then gestured to his left. Illya nodded once and mirrored the charade. They had no choice now but to separate. Two men together could be seen too easily from the brightly-lit windows. Napoleon smiled again briefly and laid a hand on Illya’s shoulder for barely a second. Then he was gone, vanishing into the fog like a wraith.

Illya turned quickly and headed in the opposite direction, bending low, creeping along just out of range of the lights from the house. Somehow, he needed to get close enough to ascertain, if possible, whether Graves and his sole remaining caretaker were still in the house alive. Failing that, he needed to find some way to get inside the house without alerting every THRUSH agent on the premises. Frankly, the prospects seemed dim. Safe houses were outfitted with so many security devices, he didn’t see how he could bypass them all before he was discovered. Still, THRUSH had apparently managed it.

He was hurrying along, trying to look in all directions at once, when a loud report split the silence some distance behind him. He had seen Napoleon attach a silencer to his gun before they got out of the car. He whirled about, heart pounding – and suddenly crashed to the ground, stunned, as a heavy weight fell across his back. The impact jarred his gun out of his grip, and he heard it clatter away beyond his reach. Hands grabbed his shoulders, gave them a painful wrench, and then he was being jerked to his feet, his arms twisted behind his back.

It was so dark he couldn’t even tell how many opponents he had. He thrashed fiercely in his captor’s grip and managed to land a solid kick to someone’s groin area, from the sound of the agonized groan that followed. Then his head was being pulled back by the hair and he felt something cold and sharp press against his throat. He went very still.

“Do that again, boy,” said an unconcerned male voice at his ear, “and Benny won’t have anything left to give you. He’d have to leave you to the rest of us, and we wouldn’t be as affectionate. You don’t want that, do you, boy?”

Illya clenched his teeth, forestalling the impulse to announce that he was twenty-eight years old, and that he felt fairly certain Benny’s predilections would not include swift and sure castration. He could still feel the familiar slight heaviness at his hip, where his own knife rested, unseen in the night.

“Where’s Solo?” demanded a second voice from the darkness. “Is he with you?”

He felt a surge of relief. If they didn’t know where Napoleon was, maybe his partner was still safe. Or as safe as it was possible to be under the circumstances.

Still he said nothing. The blade at his windpipe would have made conversation uncomfortable, he was sure.

He heard a metallic clicking as handcuffs were snapped around his wrists. Then the man holding the knife withdrew it, repositioned it just over his kidneys, gave him a shove, and snapped, “Move.”

Illya moved, stumbling under the force of the push, heading in the general direction of the big house’s back porch. His captors fell in behind him, and he heard one, Benny perhaps, directing an almost unbroken stream of muttered obscenities at his back. He sighed at the next sound – the familiar snap of the clip of his U.N.C.L.E. special. He had hoped it was too dark for them to find the gun when he dropped it.

“Here,” someone said, and he was prodded toward what he took to be a cellar door just to the right of the porch. One of the men pushed it open, and he was marched through the opening into what was indeed a cellar. A naked high-wattage light bulb swung suspended from the low ceiling, and he almost gasped as the sudden brilliance assaulted his eyes. He squeezed them shut, then opened them a slit. When his vision steadied, the first sight to meet his gaze was that of a young blonde woman sprawled in the corner. Blood clotted her bright hair, and her head was cocked at an obscene angle.

“I’m afraid your friend took her job a little too seriously,” said the man with the knife as he pushed Illya down into a rickety chair. Illya finally got a good look at him, noting that he was tall and slender, with red hair and horn-rimmed glasses. The second man, who was holding Illya’s gun in one hand and a THRUSH-style automatic in the other, was younger, shorter, and had hair so blond it was almost white. Benny was the most nondescript of the three – average height, average weight, brown hair, pale eyes – but with a look of such thorough hatred on his face as he stared at Illya that the U.N.C.L.E. agent wondered if he had never received a kick to the groin before.

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To Proceed to Part Two
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