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!

“You never did tell us where Solo is,” Red continued, producing a length of stout rope and quickly securing his arms to the chair, “but we know he must be here somewhere. The two of you were spotted checking in to a hotel in the city this afternoon, and we can’t believe he’d leave his new partner – Kuryakin, is it? – all alone in such dangerous territory. He’ll come for you, won’t he?”

When Illya still did not reply, Benny laughed suddenly, took a step toward him and brushed the tumbled hair out of his eyes, letting his hand linger for a moment. “If he doesn’t, he’s a fool.”

Illya bit him.

Benny recoiled sharply, shouted “You little…” and had his arm caught in mid-draw by Red, who twisted it behind his back and remarked matter-of-factly, “We do need to keep some of the bait alive, Ben.”

“Hey, look!”

Whitey, who had been ignoring the entire scene in favor of examining Illya’s automatic and comparing it with his own weapon, had suddenly seen something that interested him. He strode forward to Illya and slid the Russian’s knife out of its sheath, holding the bright blade up to the light and handing it to Red.

“Well, well,” Red breathed after a tiny pause. Illya thought he sounded a bit shaken, perhaps dismayed that none of them had noticed the extra weapon sooner. “What’s this for, boy?”

The three THRUSH agents had converged on him now, surrounding the chair he was bound to, looming over him intimidatingly. He felt something push at him and glanced sideways to see Whitey holding his U.N.C.L.E. special, its muzzle touching his rib cage.

“That,” he replied with more icy composure than he felt, "is for people who take my gun away from me.”

“So’s this,” came a familiar voice from the doorway, and Illya dived awkwardly to his left, taking the chair with him as Napoleon’s first two shots caught Red and Whitey each in the head. Benny uttered an incoherent cry, tried to scramble away, tripped over the leg Illya thoughtfully held out in front of him, and crashed to the floor as Napoleon’s third round buried itself in his brain.

Illya took a deep breath as Napoleon hurried over. “The red-haired fellow has the key,” he said, wriggling his cuffed hands as best he could from his ungainly posture on the floor with the chair still attached. “The others would scarcely know how to use one.”

Napoleon rifled Red’s pockets expertly, extracted the key, and removed the uncomfortable bracelets. “They wanted to be sure you stayed put, didn’t they?” He picked up the younger agent’s discarded knife from the floor and swiftly cut the ropes that bound him to the chair. “You must have annoyed them immensely.”

“Some people are simply unable to recognize charm when they encounter it.” Illya took the knife from his partner and glanced critically at it, wondering if the thick ropes had dulled it. He would have to remember to sharpen it at the first opportunity.

He realized that Napoleon wasn’t listening, and followed his partner’s sober gaze to the body of the dead woman in the corner.

“They both died for nothing,” Napoleon said quietly. “THRUSH had already killed Graves before we got here.” At Illya’s questioning look, he continued, “I found his body in the kitchen. He was just bait to draw us here. Apparently, they don’t like traitors any more than we do. I suppose they got the formula out of him by, ah, one means or another, and then settled down to wait for us to show up.” He smiled slightly. “I would have been here sooner, but I wasted time trying to figure out how to disarm the security devices before I finally realized they were already off. They wanted us to break in. And by the way, we should clear out of here before the others find us. I don’t know how many more there are, but one of them took a shot at me as I was entering the house.”

“Then let us decamp.” Illya picked up his automatic from near Whitey’s sprawled body, holstered it, and followed Napoleon out the cellar door, the knife still clutched in his hand.

The weather conditions had not improved at all, and as they emerged from the harsh light of the cellar into the velvety, mist-filled darkness, Illya stopped briefly in the doorway to let his eyes adjust to the night. Napoleon did not stop, so he could not see, as Illya did, the figure which detached itself from the bushes behind him and raised a pistol, pointing it toward Napoleon’s head.

Illya had no time to consider his options. He leaped upon the would-be assassin’s back, knocking him to the ground, and buried his knife to the hilt between the man’s shoulder blades. In the same instant the pistol discharged, sending Napoleon plunging to the ground to avoid being hit. The shot went wild, and Illya heard the metallic ping as the bullet ricocheted off a rock somewhere in the darkness.

There was a moment of stillness, during which Illya could hear nothing except the roaring blood in his ears and the faint gasping sounds as the man beneath him lost his struggle for life. Then he looked up to see Napoleon getting to his feet, and the world steadied a bit. He scrambled off his victim, extricating the knife as he went.

Napoleon knelt down and gave the fallen gunman a cursory examination. When he finished, he rose and silently handed Illya a handkerchief. As the Russian took it, their hands brushed, and Illya felt a tremor run through his partner that matched the one in his own limbs. The quicksilver rush that always accompanied this kind of action was something he could never explain to anyone who hadn’t experienced it, but Napoleon understood it perfectly. He saw the glow of fear and excitement in Napoleon’s eyes and knew his own must look the same. He pulled his gaze away and hastily wiped his knife with the handkerchief.

“Let’s get the hell out of here before something else happens,” Napoleon muttered, and Illya nodded, not yet trusting his voice. They slipped silently away from the safe house toward the street beyond.

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

The hotel room was not the most luxurious they had ever stayed in, but its bathroom was roomy, spotless, and featured a shower head that dispensed excessively hot water in a bracing, needle-fine spray that was almost painful until one got used to it. It took Illya no more than three seconds to get used to it.

He put his head back and abandoned all thought as the steamy water beat against the front of his body for a bit longer than was strictly necessary, then turned and allowed his sore back and shoulders the same treatment. His injuries didn’t even deserve to be called that – a few bruises and strained muscles and a pair of chafed wrists were unusually mild souvenirs after a confrontation with THRUSH minions, even if they were idiots – but he was feeling uncharacteristically self-indulgent tonight.

He sighed as he remembered that Napoleon was waiting on the other side of the door for his turn. Napoleon didn’t have any injuries at all – except the ones resulting from the ill-fated warehouse escapade, which he was still recovering from and which still made Illya flinch mentally when he thought of them. His partner had managed to convince Waverly that he was fit for active duty, but Illya wondered how much pain he still had to deal with. And of course, the wet chill of the winter air had affected Napoleon much more than it had him…

Regretfully, he turned the water off.

When he emerged from the bathroom, wearing his blue bathrobe and vigorously rubbing his hair with a towel, Napoleon stopped in mid-stride. Illya wondered briefly if he had been pacing around the room the entire time. He looked as full of pent-up energy as Illya felt, despite the shower.

“Any hot water left?”

“Of course not.” Illya sat down on the double bed, then immediately bounced back up again. “I am merciless, Napoleon.”

Napoleon regarded him with narrowed eyes. “Probably used the only clean towel, too. They wouldn’t have more than one in a place like this.”

“And I found your toothpaste tube and squeezed it in the middle. No doubt you heard the maniacal laughter.”

Napoleon smiled blindingly. “What did I ever do to deserve you?”

Illya averted his eyes from the smile. “Perhaps you were a spy in a previous life.”

The water had been running a few minutes when a knock sounded at the door. Illya retrieved his gun from the nightstand, hid it in the folds of his robe, and cautiously opened the door a crack to see a bored-looking delivery boy standing in the hallway balancing several boxes of what Illya recognized from the smell as his heart’s desire: Chinese take-out. He silently blessed Napoleon’s name, then wasted no time in plundering the American’s wallet to pay the boy, and was just settling down to his repast when his partner reappeared, wearing a bathrobe with a damp towel draped around his neck.

Napoleon did an exaggerated double take at the sight of the mounds of food. “I never dreamed you’d leave some for me, Illya. Why so generous?”

“It was your money.”

They ate companionably, discussing the Graves case. Napoleon had already alerted U.N.C.L.E.’s Houston office to the death of their two agents, and a team would be arriving in the morning to collect the bodies and see to the disposal of the four THRUSH men. As for the nerve gas formula, Napoleon had found no sign of it on Graves’ body, and if any of the U.N.C.L.E. or THRUSH agents had it secreted on their persons, that too would have to wait for the Houston team to discover. Illya was of the opinion that none of the thugs he had met would have known a nerve gas formula from one for, say, floor wax.

When the food was gone and Illya was busy clearing away the boxes and wrappers, he noticed Napoleon selecting a shirt and a pair of pants from among the several he had hung in the tiny closet when they arrived that afternoon. Illya turned away deliberately while his partner got dressed. He looked back in time to see Napoleon in front of the dresser mirror, knotting a dark tie around his neck. Illya recognized it as the one he had given the senior agent for his birthday a week earlier. He wasn’t much accustomed to shopping for birthday presents, but the chocolatey brown silk had looked so like Napoleon’s eyes he had felt compelled to buy it, cursing himself all the while for his sentimentality, not to mention his extravagance. A key chain would have done just as well.

“I’m, ah, going out for a while.” Napoleon smiled as he slipped into his overcoat. “Need to take the edge off, you know.”

The easy intimacy Illya had felt toward his partner since their return from the safe house vanished in a sudden surge of hot, unreasoning anger. Just what, exactly, did Napoleon expect him to do with his own “edge?” Burying himself in scientific journals had begun to seem progressively less appealing recently.

“Certainly,” he snapped. “One could hardly expect you to favor your partner’s company over that of some cheap whore.”

Even as the words escaped his mouth, he was appalled by them. He turned away quickly and stared at the wall, fighting to control his breathing. He was obviously losing his mind.

The silence behind him stretched out interminably. When Napoleon finally spoke, his voice was very soft.

“I’m simply going to that bar we saw down the street. You can come with me if you want to. I just thought – you never seem much interested in, ah, alcoholic relaxation, which was what I happened to have in mind for tonight.” He smiled again, a bit crookedly this time. “Of course, if a likely prospect happens to come along –”

“If a likely prospect happened to come along, you would trample me in your eagerness to get to her.” Dear God, what was he saying?

Flushing furiously, Illya turned around and flung himself on the bed. “Do whatever the hell you like, Napoleon. You will, regardless of what I say.”

Napoleon stared at him for a long moment, then turned toward the door.

Illya sat up abruptly. “What makes you think I am not interested in ‘alcoholic relaxation’? You have never bothered to find out, have you? For all you know about me, I might drink myself into unconsciousness every night that we’re not on assignment! How do you know I don’t find ‘likely prospects’ of my own? How do you know they are not –” He clamped his mouth shut savagely.

Napoleon turned on his heel. His lips had tightened to a thin line.

“You seem to forget, Illya, I did try to find out once. I thought since we were partners, we should be off-duty friends as well. The more a team knows about each other, the more effective they are. At first I thought we were making progress that night, getting beneath the surface, but then you suddenly clammed up and left, remember? In fact, you did an excellent impression of a scared rabbit.”

Illya was stung. “I did not – ”

“All I did was touch you.” Napoleon’s voice wavered slightly. “I realize now you don’t like to be touched, but all you had to do was say so. Instead you started treating me like something you couldn’t scrape off the bottom of your shoe. I’ve seen you looking at me sometimes the way I imagine you look at a bug pinned to a board in that laboratory you love so much. I’ve seen you choose to spend the night in a bathroom rather than share the only available bed with me. Apparently, everything’s fine as long as it’s kept on a kidding level, but anything more personal than that is repellent to you. So you’d better damn well keep your mouth shut when it comes to anything I might decide to do in my private life. Real friends are allowed to comment on those things. Mere business associates are not.”

Illya stared piercingly at the bedspread. Perhaps if he stared long enough, the bed would open up and swallow him.

“I do not pin insects to boards,” he muttered at last. “I am not an entomologist.”

Napoleon sighed, removed his coat, and slumped down in the chair against the wall. “Sorry. Science isn’t my strong suit.”

“I had observed that.”

A long silence followed, during which both men studiously avoided looking at each other. Then Napoleon spoke abruptly.

“Do you want to come with me tonight? Or should I bring back a bottle and a ‘likely prospect’ for you?”

The last words were spoken lightly, but Illya suddenly realized as Napoleon said them that he might never have a better opportunity. If he were ever going to perform his “immunity experiment,” as he had begun to think of it, now was the time. His heart began to pound, and he felt suddenly lightheaded.

“If you do,” he replied, still not looking at his partner, “the former had better be vodka and the latter had better be male.”

Napoleon made no reply for so long that Illya finally felt compelled to look up. His partner was still seated in the chair, gazing at him keenly. The fathomless dark eyes told him nothing.

Illya felt a sudden stab of panic. If he had read Napoleon wrong…

But no. There had been the look that time, after all.

He said quietly, “Even I have weaknesses, Napoleon.”

At last Napoleon spoke. “Ah. But some weaknesses are much less convenient than others, aren’t they?”

Was that pity in the senior agent’s voice? Indignation flooded through him.

“Do not condescend to me,” he snarled. He swung down from the bed, then realized he had nowhere to go in the claustrophobic hotel room. He could hardly storm out into the night wearing nothing but a bathrobe. Angrily he tried to brush past Napoleon to reach his suitcase so he could get dressed. He would not stay here tonight. The experiment was not worth any further humiliation.

Napoleon rose and caught his arm as he went by. “The reason I understand your weakness so well is that I share it.” He smiled slightly. “Well, to some small extent, anyway.”

The younger agent pulled his arm away and stood facing him, breathing hard. Napoleon’s body heat was palpable through the thin shirt.

Illya was not by nature a boastful person. However, the situation did seem to call for a certain amount of bravado.

He licked his lips slowly. “I could make you share it to a far greater extent.”

He watched Napoleon’s eyes. And there it was – the look.

The sense of triumph he felt lasted only a moment before it was swept away on a tide of heat as Napoleon’s mouth descended on his.

He reciprocated fiercely, pushing back, forcing his partner’s lips apart, feeling the cool, slick incisors grazing him, the soft, warm tongue hardening as it encountered his. He reached for Napoleon’s zipper, slid it down, took the American’s cock in his hand and began steadily stroking.

He was rewarded with a gasp as Napoleon’s lips tore free from his, and then an iron hand on his wrist stopped his motions. “My God, don’t you know anything about pacing?” But the organ in his grip was pulsing madly.

Illya tilted his head, then said deliberately, “I suppose keeping up must be difficult, for one of your years.”

It was ridiculous – he knew Napoleon was barely thirty-four – but it worked. His partner’s eyes narrowed, and then he felt the belt of his bathrobe loosen and he could not stifle a groan as Napoleon’s warm hand took hold of him.

The mutual stroking was making him feel positively desperate. He pulled Napoleon toward the bed and they fell awkwardly across it, Napoleon pushing the robe off his shoulders as they went. His sudden nakedness made Illya feel at a disadvantage. He struggled out of Napoleon’s grip and straddled his partner, a knee pressing into the mattress on each side of him, and impatiently removed the brown silk tie. The shirt and undershirt followed, with Napoleon’s full cooperation, and then Illya’s shaking fingers relieved the senior agent of his shoes, socks, pants and boxers. He shoved the clothes off the side of the bed to join his robe on the floor, not caring what Napoleon would say later about their wrinkles. That was what dry cleaners were for.

At last Napoleon was naked beneath him, and he took a moment to glory in it, running an admiring gaze down his body. He had seen Napoleon without clothes before, but not slick with sweat, not flushed with arousal, not rock hard with desire for him and no one else. He murmured, “Krasivyy,”[beautiful] and rubbed his face against Napoleon’s belly.

“What does that mean?” asked the American’s strangled voice.

Illya smiled against Napoleon’s skin, then erased the smile and raised his head. “If I had wanted you to know, I would have said it in English. You simply must learn Russian, Napoleon.”

“I’ve been working on it,” Napoleon protested weakly. “But that damn crazy alphabet –”

He broke off with a cry as Illya’s mouth engulfed him suddenly.

Illya pulled him in as far as he could, then backed up slowly, teasing just the head, rolling his tongue gently around it, hearing his own guttural moans mix with Napoleon’s as his right hand found his own eager cock and pumped it impatiently.

“No,” Napoleon whispered, and then, more forcefully, “No.” He shifted, reached down, and peeled Illya’s hand away from the Russian’s erection. “Don’t do my job for me.”

Illya growled at him. “You will do it, I promise you.” He rolled over suddenly, pulling Napoleon with him, groaning slightly under the senior agent’s weight. It was frightening and exhilarating to be pinned under him. “Take me in your mouth.”

Napoleon did, and Illya felt his partner’s hands shake as they gripped his ass to steady him. Then Napoleon began to suck at him, and the sight of the beautiful mouth wrapped around his aching cock was so erotic he had to squeeze his eyes shut to keep from coming immediately. Vaguely, he felt a finger travel slowly across his backside and dip into the cleft, and then there was nothing vague about it as the stray digit pushed carefully inside him.

Desperately, he gasped, “Stop. Now,” and Napoleon stopped, raising glazed eyes to his.

“You don’t like –”

“Let me up,” Illya demanded hoarsely. Napoleon stared at him, breathing harshly, then rolled to the side.

Illya got out of bed, marveling at the trembling in his legs. He steadied himself a moment against the nightstand, then crossed to his suitcase and withdrew a small bottle of oily liquid. He was on his way back with it when Napoleon said matter-of-factly, “There’s some in my bag, too.” He looked innocently back at his partner. “Hope springs eternal, and all that.”

Illya climbed back into bed, handed the bottle to Napoleon, and turned over on his stomach. “I want you to come inside me,” he said simply.

A moment later, he shuddered as two oil-slicked fingers made their way into him. He lifted his hips to them, trying to relax as they loosened him gently. They withdrew, and he felt Napoleon’s warm weight press against him, heard Napoleon’s whispered, “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” he hissed. “Do not – talk so much.”

Then Napoleon was gently, gently easing into him, and he moaned and twisted, frantic for more. Still Napoleon moved so slowly, until he gasped, “All of it, damn you. All of you.”

Finally Napoleon complied, thrusting fiercely as far as he could go, and they cried out together.

“Bozhe,” Illya murmured helplessly. “Bozhe moy.” It was the only situation in which he ever felt true reverence.

Napoleon pulled back, then slammed forward again, and this time the Russian shoved back against him violently. He grinned triumphantly at the sound of Napoleon’s cry of delight, then reached around to his partner’s left hand and guided it to his own throbbing erection. Napoleon took the hint and immediately began pumping in time with the thrusting of his hips. Illya bit down on the pillow and rocked frantically backwards and forwards, aware of nothing now but his own desperation. //Don’t stop. Don’t ever, ever stop.//

At last, it was too much and he came, shuddering in ecstasy as his orgasm shook him, drenching Napoleon’s helping hand with warm seed. Napoleon followed him seconds later, shouting Illya’s name as the pleasure overtook him.

For a while, they simply lay still where they landed, waiting for the dizzy, swaying world to right itself. Finally they disentangled themselves, and Napoleon got up. Illya drifted pleasantly until he became aware of a warm, damp cloth moving over him gently. He grunted in sleepy protest as the rough washcloth was guided over his tired genitals. Then the lamp on the nightstand went out and the bed dipped as Napoleon settled back down. Wordlessly, he held out his arms. Illya moved into them without a thought. He fell asleep with Napoleon stroking his hair.

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

When Illya woke for the second time that morning, warm yellow light was streaming through the curtains and Napoleon was kissing the back of his neck. He tensed a bit, then relaxed and sighed, watching the bright pattern of sunlight. //The fog must be gone.//

After a moment, he turned in Napoleon’s arms and found himself face to face with the American. Napoleon’s eyes looked drowsy and very, very content.

“Well,” Napoleon said softly.

“Yes,” he answered, and rubbed his nose.

“I thought you’d never wake up.”

“I have been awake. But you were holding me so tightly I couldn’t get up without waking you. So I went back to sleep.”

“Very considerate. Thank you.”

“I knew you would appreciate it.”

“Yes. Well, I was pretty tired. Were you?”

“Mmm. Quite, yes.”

“These wintertime assignments can really take it out of you.”

“Is it winter? I had forgotten.”

“No wonder. It’s hard to remember it’s winter when you’re in such a nice warm bed.”

“And when the temperature is not even below freezing.”

“It’s cold enough here.”

He was silent a moment. “At the orphanage when I was small, we slept four to a bed to keep warm. The snow piled up past the windows. It was like being completely cut off from the rest of the world, as though nothing could touch us. I loved that feeling.”

Napoleon stroked through the unruly blond hair with gentle fingers.

Illya shook himself. “We should get up.”

“Not yet.” Napoleon tilted his chin up and kissed his mouth slowly. He told himself to pull back. Instead he cupped the back of his partner’s head and held on. //All right, we will get up when I am ready, and not before. And I am not ready yet.//

Napoleon drew back slowly and gave him a measuring look. “What’s wrong? You look just a little – disappointed.”

He sighed. “I am always disappointed when an experiment fails.” //And this one has failed miserably.// “Never mind. Kiss me again, harder this time.”

Well, he wasn’t a medical doctor, after all; this sort of thing really wasn’t his field of expertise. The vaccine analogy had obviously been a faulty one from the beginning. And he hadn’t been able to control the conditions of the experiment with as much scientific detachment as he had hoped. It was clear that the inimical agent had lodged itself firmly in his bloodstream. The best he could hope for now was an antidote. As Napoleon’s lips left his and began to travel slowly southward, he only hoped it wasn’t too late. The infection appeared to be spreading.

THE END
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