Part Two.

Napoleon eased down on his couch, settled his head gingerly on a throw pillow, and waited optimistically for the aspirin to take effect. Illya had convinced him to go home, saying he could always come back to HQ if he felt better. Funny how he took Illya's suggestions more and more these days. Sometimes, he realized, the two of them weren't lovers at all, but took turns being parent, brother, or child. Or maybe lovers were supposed to be all things to each other. Napoleon knew he'd had little genuine experience before Illya.

The phone by his front door buzzed. He groaned and hauled himself up to answer it.

"Mr. Solo, you have a visitor," the doorman said. "Miss Angela Solo."

Napoleon was surprised, but pleasantly so. "She's welcome, Marty." He waited in his doorway for the elevator to arrive. It opened and he grinned when he saw Angela emerge. "Ahhh, here's my Jelly."

She smiled at him tolerantly. "I'm SO glad you didn't call me that at the wedding."

He chuckled, forgetting his headache, and took her into his arms for a big hug, then escorted her into the living room. "How did you know I was home?"

"I was trying to hail a cab on 57th and saw you whiz by in one," she said, her hands on her hips. "You could have at least stopped for me."

Napoleon looked at her apologetically. "If I'd only seen you. . ."

"Don't grovel; I forgive you," she said "Anyway, it looked like you were headed home so I took the chance of finding you here. Why are you? Home, I mean. I thought only us theater types were free in the middle of the day." She made herself comfortable on the couch.

"Headache," he said. "The kind on the commercials with the sledgehammer. But you know what?" He leaned down, bracing his arms on each side of her."When I laid eyes on you, it disappeared." He kissed the tip of her nose, then stood again and smiled. Napoleon was an only child, but she'd always brought out the big brother in him.

Her mood did not reflect his. "If I could just bottle that talent," she said, "I wouldn't wonder where my next paycheck was coming from."

The bitterness in the comment was obvious, but Napoleon let it pass. "Would you, ah, like a drink?" he said as he moved to a liquor cabinet at the side of the room.

"Thanks," she said, smiling politely. "Whatever's open."

Napoleon poured scotch in two glasses, then handed one to her. "Angie, if you're having problems making ends meet, I can help you out. I know with your talent it won't be for long." He sat back in his red leather wing chair and crossed his legs, prepared to listen.

Her manner softened. "I'm sorry. I've been under a lot of pressure lately. Nothing seems to be going my way." She took an unladylike gulp of her drink. "It takes more than talent to make it in the theater, you know. It takes luck, and that old saw, 'being in the right place at the right time.'" She leaned forward, resting on her elbows, her shoulders hunched. "Now that I can't play the ingenue any longer, the roles are getting fewer and farther between."

"You know," Napoleon said, "attitude is a big part of reaching any goal." He raised his index finger as a thought came to him. "I've got just the thing to cheer you up." He set his drink on the end table next to his chair and got up. "I'll be right back," he said, and disappeared up the hall that led to the bedroom.

***
 

Illya slid his tray through the line in the cafeteria, spying a gellatin concoction on display. "Excuse me, what is that?" he asked, pointing to a green cube.

"Shredded carrots in lime Jell-O," the hairnetted server informed him. "It's healthy."

He was pondering the combination when a voice came from his left.

"Uh, Mr. Kuryakin?"

He turned his head to see Tim Harrigan, the U.N.C.L.E. comptroller, next to him. "Please call me Illya."

The man didn't have occasion to deal with Section Two operatives very often, and they made him nervous. "Oh, yes, of course, I forgot." He pointed to the entree he wanted as they moved along. "Uh, it probably isn't important, but, do you remember asking me about those auditors that were here last year? There's something I forgot to tell you."

"Oh?" Illya said, exhibiting only mild interest and looking ahead to the dessert shelf.

"You wanted to know if I'd mentioned them to anyone outside headquarters."

Illya mechanically picked up a piece of pie, and continued to the end of the line. "Let's find a table and talk about it, shall we?"

Five minutes later Illya Kuryakin paced his office, his lunch abandoned in the cafeteria, his mind reeling. "It's just a coincidence," he said out loud. "It has to be."

He told one of the secretaries he was leaving for the day.
 

***
 

Angela found herself alone in the living room. She got up and wandered to the french doors, opened them and exited onto the rooftop terrace. The day was warm for November, the sun bathing her as she stepped to the stone balustrade. She looked down to a rooftop across the street, pulled herself up to her full height, and swept her arm gracefully into the air. She was Guinevere, surveying the courtyard at Camelot, graciously greeting her subjects. The crowds below cheered their adoration of her, and she spied Lancelot astride his horse among them. Her heart yearned for him but she dared not make any gesture of---

There was a sound behind her, and she dropped her hand. Arthur?

No, it wasn't.

"Oh, here you are," Napoleon said. He held something behind his back, and drew her down to sit in a wrought iron chair, taking one facing hers. "Close your eyes, and hold out your hand," he said, smiling like a little boy on Christmas morning.

She frowned a little, but did as she was told. Instead of placing something in her hand, Napoleon fastened something around her wrist. Her heart beat a little faster.

"Open."

She looked down to see a gold bracelet, probably fourteen carat, some scratches on the high polish, a design that was outdated art deco. She looked up at Napoleon and saw his eyes sparkling with expectation.

"Remember this? It was Aunt Amy's favorite piece, given to her by a suitor in her younger days," Napoleon explained. Angela just stared at him, expressionless, and he didn't think she understood. "She wore it all the time. That's why it wasn't in the safe deposit box with the rest. I found it after I moved in, tucked away in a drawer in her armoire. I'm sure it'll bring you luck."

She stared at it for a moment, then brought her wrist up to examine it more closely. "I suppose it's worth a couple hundred dollars," she said. "Maybe fifty at a pawn shop."

Napoleon sat back in his chair, his mouth agape, until he found his voice again. "Angie, this has sentimental value. . ."

She looked up at him, callousness in her eyes. "I'll tell that to my landlord next month when the rent is due."

He took a shaky breath, and tried to think of something clever to say that would charm her out of her the idea. He couldn't. "Sweetheart, I'll write you a check for six months rent right now. But don't pawn the bracelet."

"I pawned the rest of it, you know," she said smugly. "My share of dear Aunt Amy's jewelry. I used the cash for hairdressers and new head shots and bios and--- oh, yes, food."

"But she left money to you, too," Napoleon said. "You should have had enough to see you through at least a couple of years."

"It paid for some dental work I thought would help me get into film, let me attend acting classes, bought some decent clothes so I could be seen on the arm of a producer or two. But it didn't go far enough." She stood again and began to pace the length of the terrace. "Why couldn't Amy have left her estate to the eight of us cousins," she said, her voice full of resentment, "instead of including the hordes of offspring, too?"

Napoleon stared at her, failing to hide his disappointment in her and for her. She wasn't the fun-loving girl he used to treat to dinner occasionally when she first came to Manhattan, a few years younger than him, but many years younger in naivete. He watched her impatiently brush her bangs back from her forehead and realized she looked older than she should. Still attractive, of course, beautifully groomed, but jaded and. . . wounded. She bore scars just as he did, but of a different type.

She spun on her heel and looked at him. "Do you have any cigarettes?"

"Ah, no, I rarely smoke."

"I haven't had one in days," she said, her nerves apparently frayed. She resumed her pacing. "Where was I? Oh, yes, money. Everybody wants money." Her gaze across the rooftops saddened and lost its focus. "Unless they want something else."

Napoleon's heart sank. He'd dated a lot of starlets and Broadway hopefuls, and bedded more than a few, but he'd never made or insinuated any promises. Not that he was in the position to, but there were plenty of men in Manhattan who were, and took full advantage of it. He propped his elbow on the metal arm of the chair and stared at his feet, rubbing his forehead with one hand. "Angie. . ."

But she had disappeared through the French doors again, returning to the living room, and Napoleon got up to follow. He stood just inside the doorway as she walked the perimeter of the room, running her hand across the spines of the books on their shelves, fingering the drapes, shaking her head at the furnishings."You know, I could do a lot with this apartment." She stopped and sighed. "But no, Aunt Amy chose to leave it to you. Even though Frank and I live in Manhattan, too." Then she laughed, a warm genuine laugh, a glimpse of the carefree person she used to be.

"Napoleon, can you imagine?" she said, her hand flat on her stomach as the humor of it overwhelmed her. "Frank? Living in this apartment?" Napoleon smiled guardedly. "All he wants out of life is a refrigerator and a TV so he can watch baseball or hockey or whoever is throwing a ball back and forth. Did you know he actually took me to a Yankees game last summer?"

Napoleon stared at her, stone still, as she resumed her examination of the room.

"He said he'd asked everyone he knew, including you and Illya, but you were going out of town. Then he expected me to GUSH with gratitude."

A heavy weight of dread came over Napoleon and he hung his head. His survival instincts put him on alert, however, and his eyes followed her with intensity as she meandered.

He had no choice but to ask the question.

"Angela, you don't know anyone named Hopkins, do you?"

He watched for any sign of surprise, but there was none. "Hopkins...Hopkins..." she pondered as she strolled. "You know, I do remember talking to a man named Hopkins." She stopped and looked at him. "But I think you killed him, didn't you?" she asked casually. "Or was it Illya?"

Napoleon's jaw dropped, his gaze glued to her as she stopped at the fireplace.

She examined his model of the Pursang. "You should get rid of this tacky model sailboat, dear cousin."

"WHY???"

"Because it's just not sophisticated; it doesn't go with the elegance of the room," she chided.

Napoleon tried to grasp what was happening, tried to rein in his anger and hurt. "Why did you hire Hopkins to kill me? Do you hate me???"

She leaned against the fireplace and crossed her arms in front of her, considering the question. "Hmm. I don't think so."

Napoleon stammered uncharacteristically. "Did--did you think with me gone, you'd get this apartment?"

A smile came to her face. "The parties I could give..."  Something across the room caught her eye. "Tallulah!" she called, raising an imaginary glass, "the play is wonderful!" She turned the other way and appeared to listen for a moment. "Please, Arthur, don't be so impatient. I told you I'd give you my opinion after I've read it."

A wave of nausea came over Napoleon. "Angela. . ."

She looked at Napoleon abruptly. "Why not? Why shouldn't it be mine?!" She dropped her gaze, and her tone changed again. "No, I knew it couldn't be. But I thought I'd get a share of your estate, a share of what this apartment would bring, enough to keep me going." Another thought suddenly occurred to her. "Oh, and enough to pay poor Mr. Hopkins. But I guess I don't have to worry about that bill," she said with a shrug.

Napoleon could feel the rage rising within him, and his voice dropped to a menacing register. "Hopkins wasn't only going to kill me, but Illya, too. There was no reason for that. NO REASON."

His stern voice seemed to have no effect on her. She rolled her eyes and started to walk again. "Oh, Napoleon, of course there was." She came to the hall that led to the bedroom and casually followed it. "A pinstriped wallpaper would look nice in here," she said, "maybe burgundy on cream."

Napoleon followed behind her, amazed at his own restraint at not throttling her, but at the same time aware that she wasn't the Angela he knew. Or even a rational person.

She stopped at his bedroom door and looked in. "So this is it," she said as she entered. "This is where you screw your partner."

Napoleon had thought nothing more could surprise him. "Stop it."

"Stop what?" she said. "Does the truth hurt?" She nonchalantly browsed the room, picking up personal items and examining them, including a photo of Illya and Napoleon at a social function, engrossed in conversation and unaware of the photographer. "This is a rather sweet picture of the two of you," she said with surprising sincerity.

"Put it down," Napoleon said flatly.

She opened her mouth to reply, then noted the dark look in his eyes and did as he said. She wandered to the antique armoire in the far corner. "Now this is worth keeping," she said, swinging open the doors. "Yes, here are some of Illya's clothes, hanging right next to yours, and----oh."

Too late Napoleon remembered that Illya's spare handgun was on the shelf inside, and loaded. He took a step toward her but she already had the gun in her hand, backing away to put the bed between them.

"What a stroke of luck," she said with disbelief. "I can get the job done after all, and it won't cost me a dime."

Napoleon watched her remove the safety and suddenly felt cold all over.

"Yes, I know how to use it," she said. "I've done a few murder mysteries, handled my share of props. It's too bad you don't have a butler, though." She giggled like a little girl at her own joke, her personality constantly in flux.

Napoleon heard a sound behind him and turned to see Illya standing in the doorway, his Walther aimed at Angela, an expression on his face that said he was prepared to kill.

"No," Napoleon said, waving his hand in front of the gun.

"Well," Angela said, sobering, "welcome to our little drama, Illya. I'm glad you're here because you have to die in this scene, too." She stood erect and held the gun with competence.

Illya moved into the room and stood a few feet to Napoleon's side. He kept his gun leveled at Angela, and Napoleon didn't protest again. His life wasn't the only one in jeopardy now. "I spoke to Tim Harrigan," Illya said to him, his eyes never leaving Angela. "He said he and Angela dated."

"Such a coincidence," Angela said. "I met this fellow in a bar, and when I told him my name was Solo, he said he knew someone else by that name. Nice guy, Tim, but he just couldn't appreciate the theater. One night he told me there were auditors in his office all week, running him ragged. I gave the story to Hopkins so he could approach you." A thought occurred to her and she smiled at the two of them. "I guess this is the part in the play where I explain everything before I kill you."

"All right," Napoleon said, seizing the offer, "enlighten us."

"Just to bring you up to speed, Illya," she said, then hesitated and looked at him with confusion. "Why are you late anyway? Couldn't you find your ticket?" Her annoyance was clear. "I'll tell you what's happened so far, but it's very disturbing to the rest of the audience. Now, Napoleon was just telling me that I had no reason to have BOTH of you killed," she said, gesturing with the gun, "but that's just not so." She looked back and forth at the two of them. "I realized you were lovers some time ago. And your natural inclination, my dear cousin, would be to leave your estate to Illya so he could stay in the apartment, leaving your family, and me, out in the cold. So, you see, Illya can't survive you." She looked at Napoleon's partner. "Nothing personal, Illya. I've always liked you."

"How did you know about us?" Napoleon asked.

She thought a minute. "Do you remember when I visited you just after New Year's?"

"I remember."

"I dropped by unannounced, sort of like I did today. Illya wasn't here, but some of his things were."

Illya frowned, remembering how careful they'd been, but his curiosity was piqued, and he used that curiosity to buy time. "For example."

"Napoleon hung my coat in the hall closet, and I saw your fur hat there. You told me at Christmas that it was one of the few things you'd brought from home, and it was obviously precious to you. I purposely looked for more evidence then, and found a comb with blond strands in the bathroom drawer; a grocery list on the kitchen counter, written in a masculine handwriting, but not Napoleon's."

She continued her monologue. "Of course I really didn't need physical evidence. Anyone who paid attention could see what was going on. I saw you together at Traviotti's once. On the surface you looked like a couple of businessmen out to dinner, but every now and then you would look at each other in a certain way, or you'd both reach for something at the same time so your hands could touch. I saw it at the family picnic in June, too. . ."

Her voice trailed off and she gazed at them with a wistful expression, almost drifting into a daydream.

Napoleon cocked his head and continued the questioning. "Does the rest of the family know?"

She smiled, not unkindly. "No, they still think you're sort of a playboy, like you always were. They just can't see you as anything else. And you've brought Illya to a few family events over the years, so they still assume it's because he has no family of his own."

Napoleon relaxed slightly at her softening demeanor and tried to nurture it. "I love Illya, Angela, and I'd be devastated if I lost him. There's no need for anyone to get hurt here. We can keep all this between the three of us and pretend it never happened."

"Yes, I believe we will keep it between us, Napoleon," she said firmly.

She fingered the revolver and Illya extended his, and no one breathed.

To the two agents' surprise, Angela simply tossed the gun on the bed. "I can't shoot you," she said matter-of-factly. "I could never shoot you." She dropped down in the overstuffed chair behind her.

Napoleon retrieved the gun and tucked it into his belt behind him, while Illya lowered his. They glanced at each other in relief, then back to Angela.

"I knew you'd do the right thing," Napoleon said softly.

"Well, brace yourself, cousin, because I'm about to do the wrong thing again."

He frowned at her, not knowing what to expect next.

"I don't have to KILL you to salvage something from this mess."

"Go on."

Her voice was cold again. "Well, if Hopkins had only done his job, I could have been the bereaved loved one, but now I have no choice but to step into the villain's role. There's a plot twist here in the last act. From murder to blackmail."

Napoleon shook his head. "Our employer knows all about us."

"Your employer?" She was distracted for a minute. "You know, someday you're going to have to explain that organization to me. Carrying guns, running off to Timbuktu..."  She focused again. "I'm not talking about your employer, I'm talking about the family."

Napoleon sighed with weariness. "Oh."

"Think about it," she said. "Think about this mask of respectability you wear for their benefit. They all look up to you: the wise and successful oldest cousin, the man of the world, the charming and clever Napoleon." She relaxed back in the chair as she mocked him. "Imagine what their reaction will be when they find out. They're just provincial folks, you know. They'll be disgusted. And if some of them have more liberal ideas, they'll patronize you. Either way you'll be an outcast. How does that strike your ego?"

She'd anticipated the effect her words would have on him and was not disappointed. Napoleon came around the bed to sit on the edge of it in front of her, and dropped his head in defeat. "What do you want from me?" he said softly.

Illya stood to the side, observing the emotional toll Angela was taking on his partner, but held his tongue.

"First of all," she began, sitting up straight, her mind racing, "if the police or anyone ever get wind of all this, I'll expose you. Secondly, uh. . .you'll pay me a cash stipend every month." She paused to calculate a sum that would be possible for Napoleon to pay, but also allow her to keep her status quo. "Three hundred dollars. Money that can't be traced or questioned."

Napoleon nodded, submissive. "Anything else?"

Angela thought frantically about how to take advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. She hadn't expected total capitulation. She leaned forward and looked into Napoleon's eyes.

"I...I want you to treat me as you always have when we're with the family."

"All right," he said softly, locking eyes with her. "What else?"

She tried to think. "I need..."

"What do you need?" Napoleon took her hands in both his without breaking eye contact and stroked them with his thumbs, waiting patiently, focusing on her.

She squeezed his hands. "I need..."

"What, sweetheart?"

His gaze became too intense for her, and her eyes began to fill.

"What can I do, Jelly?" he said with a warmth that further disarmed her.

She swallowed down her emotion, trying to speak. "Don't."

"Would you rather I was angry with you?"

Tears tracked down her face. "Yes."

"I've decided not to be," he said. "It's not productive. And I've decided I care about you too much, in spite of everything."

She shrunk away from him in the chair, but he didn't let go of her hands.

"Napoleon," she said, her eyes pleading for mercy, "why do you have to be so. . ."

"Lovable?" he suggested, his eyebrows raised in question.

She sputtered a laugh, looked down at their clasped hands, and tried to swallow down her emotions. "Do you remember when you were in the fifth grade...?"  She couldn't speak any more and gripped his hands painfully.

He smiled and looked at her with affection. "I remember."

She laughed again briefly, but the tears still flowed and she seemed exhausted. She began to droop in the chair like a wind-up doll, until finally her head came to rest on their joined hands.

Illya stepped forward. "Napoleon," he said quietly, "maybe it's an act."

Napoleon freed one of his hands and caressed her long hair, hair the same color and texture as his. "No, Illya, it's not."
 

***

Angela leaned on Napoleon as they rode. "Will I have a private room?"

"I don't think so, sweetheart. Maybe later, when we get through all the red tape and you can transfer to another hospital." He pulled his arm from between them and encircled her shoulders. "Wouldn't you rather have a roommate? Someone you can talk to?"

"I guess," she said apathetically.

"And I'll visit you, as long as I'm not called away," he assured her. "Donna and some of the other girls will come, too. And if you're really lucky, " he said, looking at her mischievously, "Frank might drop by."

That drew a chuckle from her, but there was affection in her eyes. "I'd be glad to see him," she said. "He's family."

"That's right," Napoleon said, nodding and gazing out the window.

"Do you think Illya will ever forgive me?"

Napoleon raised his chin and thought for a moment. "I can talk Illya into anything."

"I don't know how you've managed to forgive me," she said, avoiding his eyes.

"We've been all through that, so now let's concentrate on getting you well, huh?"

She turned to him, sincerity in her eyes. "Napoleon, about you and Illya. I'll never hurt you again, in any way, I swear to you."

"I know," he said, patting her arm.

The car pulled up to the main entrance of the hospital. "We're here, Miss Solo."

The police lieutenant sitting on the other side of her stepped out of the car and held the door. Napoleon got out the opposite side and walked with them into the hospital, along with the female uniformed officer who had been driving.

They stopped at the elevator. "Ah, I have to leave you here, Angie," he said, "but you're in good hands."

She looked up at him.

He held her by the shoulders. "Even if we can't have any contact for awhile, I'll be keeping tabs on you, understand?"

"Don't worry so much," she said. "They're producing 'Cuckoo's Nest' here. It's Off-off-Broadway, of course, but it could lead to something."

He searched her eyes and realized she was serious, and worry clouded his face. He tapped her nose with his index finger, preparing to leave her, then changed his mind and gathered her in his arms, closing his eyes and burying his nose in her hair. "I hope so, Jelly."
 

***
 

He was sprawled on his back, drifting into sleep, at peace for the first time in days. But a soft voice was dragging him back, and his hand was being lifted and settled in a different place.

"Napoleon."

"Mmmmm."

Illya slid on his back a few inches until his head was on Napoleon's shoulder. "Do you feel me under your hand?"

Napoleon stirred. ". . . made love twice," he muttered.

"But you can fondle me in your sleep," Illya said quietly, "and you do, quite often."

"You're insatiable..." Napoleon whispered, still half asleep.

Illya placed his hand over Napoleon's. "I just want to feel you touching me."

"Something wrong?"

Illya tilted his head toward Napoleon's cheek, knowing he liked the feel of his hair. "No."

Napoleon obliged the request without opening his eyes, gently curling his fingers around Illya's testicles, stroking his flaccid penis with his thumb. "You could return the favor..." he said sleepily.

Illya did, intimately caressing his partner.

"Hmmm." Napoleon came fully awake. "You know, if I work your body like this for five years, you're mine for good."

"What?" Illya smiled and frowned at the same time.

"That's the law of the Old West," Napoleon said, shifting a bit in the bed. "A settler claimed a piece of land, and if he worked it for five years, it was legally his."

"And you're working your claim?" Illya said, amused.

Napoleon repositioned his hand, his fingertips petting Illya's length. "I'm doing my best, as often as I can."

Illya chuckled in the darkness. "Since I now live in the West, I will accept those terms. And I'm glad you're back."

"I wasn't gone," Napoleon said.

"You've been preoccupied with Angela and her attorney and her hearing."

"It only took a couple of days for the judge to remand her to Bellevue," Napoleon said.

"I know," Illya said, "and I know you wanted to take care of her. But since I've been living in this decadent society, I've become more and more possessive."

"You're working your own claim, huh?" said Napoleon, pleased to belong to his partner.

Illya turned to look at Napoleon's profile. "Yes," he said. "As a matter of fact, the next time you have an erection, I'm going to raise a flag."

Napoleon's torso shook as he laughed quietly at the image, causing Illya to grin, too. "And what will this flag look like?" Napoleon asked.

Illya thought for a second. "I believe I'll cut it from a corner of one of those handkerchiefs you gave me for my birthday, the ones with the monogram."

They laughed together then, as Illya turned and their arms went around each other. Intimate laughter that bonded them as much as any lovemaking.
 
 

***
 

"Oh, Napoleon, this is such a treat."

Donna Valenti took the chair that her cousin held for her and looked around at the sophisticated clientele. "I feel just like a grown-up," she said confidingly.

Napoleon sat down opposite her and smiled in appreciation of her genuine personality. "We'll have to get you away from the suburbs more often."

"I forgot there was a world outside kindergarten and Little League," she said. "If I'm lucky, someone I know will see me and start a scandalous rumor about my having lunch with a handsome stranger." A uniformed young man filled their water glasses and told them the waiter would be with them shortly. Napoleon glanced about the room, uncharacteristically quiet.

"This is a cozy table," said Donna, her instincts telling her their conversation was about to turn serious. There was an awkward silence for a moment, relieved by the waiter handing them the menus. They opened them and perused the selections.

"There's nothing that isn't good here," Napoleon said without looking up. He was wishing that he'd never made this date with her.

Donna sensed his discomfort. "Napoleon," she said softly, leaning across the table. "I'm really not that hungry. I appreciate your offer of such a wonderful lunch, but maybe we could just take a walk in the park."

Napoleon was taken aback by her proposal, but welcomed it with relief. He nodded and beckoned to the waiter.

"Have you decided, sir?"

"We're going to postpone lunch," he said, standing. The waiter nodded politely and helped Donna with her chair. Napoleon took out his wallet and tipped the man generously, then escorted Donna to the coatcheck, his hand at the small of her back. Dressed warmly, they crossed Central Park South to the park and, after a short stroll, found a relatively isolated park bench and sat down facing each other. Donna's hand rested on the back of the bench, and Napoleon covered it with his, absentmindedly stroking it.

"Is there bad news about Angela?" she asked. "Have they decided to have a trial after all?"

"Ah, no, the DA is going to let the commitment continue indefinitely," Napoleon said. Waverly had used his influence to keep his agents out of the news, but the decision was reasonable without it. "No, I asked to meet with you for another reason." He hesitated and looked at her, uncertainty on his face.

Donna's nurturing instincts came to the forefront. "Tell me what's wrong."

"As a matter of fact, nothing's wrong. My life couldn't be more right, except that. . ." Napoleon took a deep breath. "I was going to build up to this, but it's probably better if I just come out and say it." He looked at her seriously. "Illya and I," he said, pausing. "Illya and I love each other."

She blinked, showing no reaction, not wishing to misunderstand.

He made it clearer. "In every way."

She relaxed a little and nodded, smiling. "I see." She rubbed his thumb with hers, then looked away nervously. "I don't know what to say."

He smiled, too, glad she was being honest. "I know the feeling."

"That must be novel indeed, for you, Napoleon," she teased, then looked at him earnestly. "I'm happy for you. Tell me all about it."

His face showed his relief at her acceptance. He leaned back on the bench and stared across the landscape of the park, thinking about Illya.

"We've always been in tune with each other, from the day we met," he said, remembering. "Even though we resisted even liking each other at first. But we became like brothers as the years went by. Then, about last Christmas, we realized that our partnership had evolved into something even more meaningful, and permanent. No two people could have been more surprised than we were when it happened. We know it's not the ideal situation, but..." He looked at her again, "nothing has ever felt so right to me, Donna."

She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. "If it's right for you and Illya, then that's all that matters."

"You don't know how important it is to me that you said that, and I love you for it," Napoleon said sincerely, "but I doubt if the rest of the family is going to be so agreeable."

She avoided his eyes then. "I would guess that their reactions will run the gamut, but also that they'll come around eventually. If they don't, they'll be the poorer for it."

"If anyone can't accept Illya for what he is to me," Napoleon said with more of a threatening tone than he'd intended, "then I don't want to see that person again. If that will disrupt family gatherings, then I will excuse myself from now on."

"Don't, Napoleon," she said, stroking his arm. "Let's play this by ear, and not issue any ultimatums."

He was impressed by her tact and diplomacy. She would have made a good negotiator for U.N.C.L.E. "Will you tell them for me? All together, or one by one, whatever you think is best.  But I need you to be the messenger."

She rolled her eyes. "You know what people do to messengers."

He grinned, "I'll make sure you're armed, if you'd like."

She laughed and looked at him affectionately. "I'll do it. Give me a couple of weeks. And in the meantime," she said, squeezing his hand, "DON'T worry." She got up from the bench abruptly. "And now how about buying me a hot dog? I'm starved!"

***

"Open Channel D for Kuryakin." Napoleon waited impatiently, pacing his living room in his pajamas and bare feet.

"Kuryakin."

"Are you still in the lab?"

"Yes. I know it's late, but Wong and Kaminsky are here, too, and we're pretty involved in taking apart a new gadget that---"

"Illya. . ."

There was a second of silence. "Is something wrong?"

Napoleon was conscious of the possibility of a Communications specialist listening in. "We have a critical meeting with Waverly very early tomorrow."

There was another pause. "You're right, of course. I shouldn't work all night. I'll go home shortly."

Napoleon capped the communicator and immediately felt guilty about the call. He was CEA of U.N.C.L.E. North America, and this kind of emotional dependency was not like him. What's more, Illya had the right to stay in the lab as late as he wanted to without being nagged.

Napoleon returned to his bed, but each time he closed his eyes he imagined the faces of his relatives as Donna told them in turn. Her comforting words of that afternoon had worn off long ago, and he was worried. It would only take one. One person to become self-righteous, to make waves, to disrupt the whole family dynamic. Again and again he told himself that everything would work out. Again and again.

He heard Illya come in the front door a short time later, hang his coat in the hall closet, then make his way to the bedroom. He moved stealthily about in the dark as if he was on an assignment, a dark silhouette slipping off his shoes, pulling his black turtleneck over his head, hanging up his trousers. He accidentally stubbed his toe on the dresser and stifled a yelp.

"A little out of practice, are we?"

"Shhhh," the silhouette said, "I'm trying not to wake Napoleon."  The light gray T-shirt and briefs were shed, leaving the shadowy form an all-over darker tone. After a detour to the master bath, the figure returned to slip under the covers. Illya began to embrace his partner, then backed off. "You're wearing pajamas. Take them off, please."

Napoleon did what he was told. "I apologize for calling you," he said. "I won't do that again unless there's an emergency."

"I want to look at you," Illya said, reaching up to turn on the bedside lamp. He settled his body on top of Napoleon's, holding himself up on his elbows and searching his partner's eyes.

"You're sad about something."

Napoleon scoffed. "How could I be sad when we're together like this?" He held his partner tighter and lifted his hips to slide his cock against Illya's.

Illya responded with a writhe of his own hips, but wouldn't be deterred from looking at Napoleon's face. "Then you're worried."

"No."

"May I remind you that I've been able to read you for years, long before we became lovers?"

"I might be a little worried."

"Certainly not about this fictitious meeting with Waverly in the morning," he teased. Napoleon didn't smile or tease back, and Illya stroked his face with the backs of his fingers. "Tell me what's happened."

Napoleon stretched to turn off the lamp, then wrapped his arms around his partner again. "Sex now, talk later."

Illya slid off Napoleon and turned on the lamp again. "Talk now, sex later."

Napoleon took a deep breath. "All right," he relented. "I want the family to know about us."

Illya hesitated before responding, conscious that Napoleon was watching his reaction. "Are you sure?

"The wheels are already in motion. I met Donna for lunch today, and asked her to tell the rest of them."

"I see."

"You're not upset that I didn't talk it over with you?"

Illya lay pressed against Napoleon's side. He shook his head. "It's your decision."

"I can't deny us any longer," Napoleon said.

"And what if they ostracize you, as Angela predicted?"

Napoleon responded fiercely. "It doesn't matter if they do. You're my life now."

"Of course it matters," Illya said. "You're very soft-hearted when it comes to your family."

Napoleon turned his head from Illya's face to stare at the ceiling. "Soft-headed sometimes," he said. "If I'm forced to choose between you and them, it's no contest." He looked back to Illya. "Promise you won't do anything impulsive, like leaving me to save my relationship with them."

Illya smiled at him. "I would never leave you."

Napoleon kissed him deeply then, his need for Illya growing.

"Come back up here," he whispered, drawing Illya's body up to rest on his again. Napoleon's hands roamed his partner's back, quickly moving down to his ass, repeatedly pulling him up by his cheeks and then releasing him, creating an intimate friction.

Illya lay his head down next to Napoleon's to enjoy the sensations, his mouth an inch from his partner's ear, and Napoleon heard the sounds of Illya's arousal---the ragged breaths, the short whimpers.

"Illya," Napoleon moaned. He stopped the movement and encircled the lean torso with his arms, holding tight to the one he loved, burying his face in the shoulder above him. Illya nuzzled into him, laying soft kisses on his neck..

"I'm here."

Napoleon squeezed his eyes shut tight, hanging on to the lithe body that was draped over him. His hips began to rise and fall convulsively with a will of their own, and Illya responded in counterpoint, muscles flexing, until Napoleon sobbed his climax against the warm body, shuddering uncontrollably with love and sorrow and sexual release, coming again and again.

Illya suppressed his own pleasure and held Napoleon as his body shook, soothing him with small kisses to his forehead, his cheeks, his lips, smoothing his hair and caressing his face. The sparkling brown eyes, usually so full of confidence and humor, now looked up at him with vulnerability and raw emotion.

"You won't lose them," Illya said quietly. "And you won't lose me." He kept stroking Napoleon's face and kissing him softly, until his partner was calm again, his eyes closing, his breathing easy.

Illya slid his body off Napoleon's and went to the bathroom to wash, then returned and began to carefully clean his partner. The attention being given his body revived Napoleon and he opened his eyes, watching Illya wash him. The love he felt for his partner surged to the forefront of his mind again.

"Did you come?"

Illya looked up at him. "Go back to sleep. You're emotionally exhausted."

"You didn't."

Illya swallowed. "I don't need--"

Napoleon took hold of Illya's shoulders and rolled him over his own body and onto his back, pressed his mouth to his and kissed him urgently, wanting the feel of his tongue, the taste of him, the breath from his nostrils as their lips were sealed together.

When the kiss was finally broken, Illya panted, his cock half hard and begging to be touched. He reached for Napoleon's hand and brought it to his erection, his eyes asking, his lips mouthing what he wanted. It was only a second before Napoleon's mouth was around him, Illya's cock growing inside it.

The next few minutes were a blur as Illya succumbed to pleasure, entrusting his body to his partner, finally feeling the orgasm spread outward from his groin like ripples in a pond. He kept his eyes closed and floated on those ripples, suspended in time, in a world that Napoleon had made for him. Sexual euphoria gradually changed into sublime contentment.

Napoleon slipped his arm under Illya's shoulders, pulling him close and covering them both with the comforter.

A sleepy face looked up at him. "I don't say it enough, do I?"

"You don't have to," Napoleon whispered, kissing his cheek. "I know."
 

***

"You can still change your mind," said Napoleon as they loaded presents into the trunk of the car. "I can face them alone this time, and you can come to the next showdown."

"We're in this together," Illya said, slamming the lid shut for emphasis, "Besides, I'm not worried about your family. I'm going along to protect them from YOU." He plucked the keys from Napoleon's hand. "And I'm driving."

The radio kept them distracted from their thoughts during the ninety minute trip to Connecticut. Bing Crosby and Gene Autry standards dominated the airwaves, along with frequent weather reports that the snow would hold off for another few hours.

"We'll have a white Christmas by morning," Napoleon said. "It might be slippery driving back."

"It won't hurt to stay in Connecticut another day," Illya said.

Napoleon did not reply.

"I wish you wouldn't be so pessimistic," Illya said, looking over at his partner. "I'm sure that, after a few awkward moments, everything will feel quite normal." He glanced over his shoulder before changing lanes. "You're usually lecturing ME about dourness and negativity."

As they got closer to their destination, Illya was uncharacteristically talkative, reminding Napoleon of his family's regard for him, of their good natured dispositions, until Napoleon looked at him suspiciously.

"Are you trying to convince me or yourself?" he said.

It was Illya's turn not to answer.

The houses on the tree-lined suburban streets were decorated for the season, colored lights festooning shrubbery and outlining windows. Illya pulled up in front of Donna's house and turned off the ignition.

"Looks like no one has decided to boycott us," Napoleon said as he observed several familiar cars occupying the driveway and overflowing onto the street.

"See," Illya said, "there's nothing to worry about."

Napoleon looked over at him. "We can still make a run for it. The Canadian border's only a couple hundred miles."

Illya smiled, then risked leaning over to kiss Napoleon in the dark car. "Do I have to carry you in?" he said when their lips parted.

Napoleon thought about it. "No, just bring the presents."

Illya got out of the car, muttering, and opened the trunk while Napoleon retrieved some packaged liquor from the back seat and casually strolled up the front walk. Illya watched him stand in front of the wreath-covered door for a few seconds before he rang the bell. The door swung open and he was bathed in light. Donna stepped out and welcomed him with open arms, then followed his gesture and looked out to the street. She waved to Illya.

He waved back and gave a nod. They waited for him while he struggleed up the front walk with a shopping bag on each arm and some oversized gifts balanced between, his chin holding them in place. Donna stepped aside and let him pass into the foyer, then relieved him of his packages a few at a time. The sounds of boisterous conversation came from behind the double doors that led to the living room.

She took their coats and scarves. "I'm afraid the hall closet is overflowing, so these will have to go in a bedroom," she said, starting to go upstairs with them.

"Let me take them," Illya said, hurrying to intercept her. "I assume you've already walked a hundred miles today."

She smiled at him and drooped a little to confirm his assumption. "Thanks, Illya. Oh," she said, putting her finger to her lips, "the kids should be asleep by now. It's the only night of the year they'll go to bed early. Santa Claus won't come until they do, you know."

He smiled and whispered. "I would never interrupt visions of sugar plums."

Napoleon watched his partner disappear up the stairs. "Is everyone here?" he asked Donna quietly.

"Yes," she said, then opened the double doors and escorted him in to the gathering. The hush started closest to him as people noticed his arrival, then spread through the room and around the corners, curious faces appearing from the dining room on the right.

"Merry Christmas, everyone," Napoleon said, wondering if the cool facade that would not crack under Thrush torture would stand up to the eyes on him now. He smiled cautiously, searching the faces.

One by one, they looked at each other, stifling a chuckle here and there. Some covered their mouths with their hands, some flushed a bit, some whispered.

Napoleon was confused, but guessed that some were ridiculing him, and anger began to build in his chest, threatening to make him say something he knew he would regret. He lowered his chin in defiance, and took a deep breath, then Donna stepped in front of him.

"Look up there," she said, pointing behind him.

He looked at her and frowned, then turned around and followed her direction. Above the double doors he'd just passed through was a homemade banner that stretched from wall to wall. It bore dozens of signatures and surrounded huge letters that read: Welcome Illya.

Not since his parents had died had his family seen tears in Napoleon's eyes. He couldn't speak, but bowed his head, and Donna took him in her arms. "We love you," she said, her hands rubbing his back. He lifted his head and withdrew from the embrace to nod to all of them, and they smiled affectionately at him in return, some of them wiping their eyes as well.

He turned to look at the sign again to be sure he wasn't dreaming, but dropped his gaze as Illya walked into the room.

Illya stopped cold, his eyes riveted to Napoleon's face. He charged toward him and pressed himself to Napoleon's side, gripping him by the arm, his protective feelings for his partner obvious, his anger building. "Let's go," he said quietly through clenched teeth. He tugged on Napoleon, and turned toward the door.

The sign caught his eye, and he did a double take. Time seemed to stop as he stood rooted to the spot, dumbly staring, vaguely aware of silence in the room. He finally looked to Napoleon, who was watching him in anticipation. No one spoke. Illya looked back and scanned the faces of the family members, turning almost 360 degrees in the process, then swiveled back to look up at the sign again, his mouth open.

"Well, say something," said Napoleon, neglecting to mention that it was only then that he himself had managed to speak.

Illya tried but nothing came out. Family members got out of their seats then, crowding around him, patting him on the back and kissing him on the cheek. Napoleon was forgotten and found himself on the perimeter of the crowd. Donna's husband, Ben, came to keep him company.

"This will be a Christmas to remember, huh? Although right now," he said, looking at the circle around Illya, "you're being ignored."

"I guess I don't have to be the center of attention ALL the time," Napoleon said, his sense of humor restored.

The evening proceeded with lively conversation and reminiscences of Christmases past. A few holiday photos of the Solo cousins when they were children were passed about, and a young Napoleon in earmuffs and galoshes was brought to Illya's attention.

"I think we should give the man of the hour a little break," said Ben after a while. "You'd better get some food before it's all gone, Illya."

"Thank you," the Russian said with a happy sigh. "I am a bit hungry."

Napoleon glanced about at his family members. "That means lock the refrigerator if you want breakfast."

Illya smiled and touched Napoleon's arm as he passed him, almost afraid to look into his eyes, afraid of the emotions that were still being tightly held inside both of them. He continued into the dining room to help himself to the buffet, bumping into a lurking Frank Solo as he came around the corner. He took a step back in surprise. "Happy Christmas, Frank," he said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. He didn't remember having received any welcoming gestures from the man.

Frank wiped his mouth with a napkin while he mumbled something..

Illya stepped past him and began working his way around the colorfully decorated table, piling his plate with hors d' oeuvres and Christmas cookies, conscious of Frank leaning against the wall, watching him.

"So," Frank said after an awkward silence, "you and Napoleon, huh?"

Illya's foraging brought him around the table again to stand right next to him. "Yes," he said as he raised a cube of cheese to his mouth. "Me and Napoleon."

Frank looked at him sideways, then into the living room where Napoleon sat talking animatedly, then at Illya again. His mouth twisted and he shook his head. "I just can't picture it."

"Actually, Frank," Illya said with a serious expression, "I'm rather glad you can't picture it."

Frank frowned and thought for a second, then turned toward the table again. "You want some punch?"

"Only if you'll have one with me," Illya said, stifling a mischievous smile.

"Yeah," Frank said with a scowl, "I guess."
 

The end.
 

My thanks to my beta, Lee, for her infinite patience. To Jackie Thomas because I borrowed the photograph of NS and IK from her story, "Sorting Things Out." And to Jan and Kate for File Forty.

Kindly send me some feedback, readers. Don't be afraid to tell me what you DON'T like about the story. That you can tell me what you DO like about the story goes without saying. <g> Even one word reviews are valued.

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