“I want to know U.N.C.L.E.’s financial status and where its accounts are located, here and overseas.”

“I don’t know any of that!” he spat, as an unfamiliar chill rushed down his legs to turn his feet to ice.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kuryakin,” the interrogator said with false sympathy, “but I don’t believe you.”

Terror gripped him. He saw the technician reach for the dial again and clenched his teeth, anticipating the worst.

 ***

Napoleon Solo peered at the crumbling warehouse from a heavily wooded rise a hundred yards away. His powerful binoculars revealed every broken brick, every rusty door hinge, but they couldn’t show him what he needed to see. They couldn’t show him if his best friend was dead or alive.

Illya Kuryakin had disappeared off the streets of New York thirty-six hours earlier, and an infuriatingly intermittent tracking signal had finally led U.N.C.L.E. to this disguised Thrush installation. The evening raid was about to commence, and Solo and his army of agents were poised to rush the building as soon as the advance team had pumped in enough non-lethal gas to render everyone inside harmless.

The enemy had become aware of the impending attack, however, and as a dozen vehicles exploded out of a camouflaged door, U.N.C.L.E.’s contingency plans went into play. Solo and his team leaders barked orders, and half the agents pursued the escaping Thrush while the other half entered the building to secure it.

The entire facility was underground, a tightly organized complex of sixty rooms off six corridors arranged like the spokes of a wheel, the hub of which was a state-of-the-art eavesdropping station. It was designed to monitor everything from wiretapped phones at the United Nations to satellite signals from Telstar. It was even recording U.N.C.L.E. transmissions, but had not yet broken the organization’s scrambling codes.

Solo was not immediately concerned with the structure’s purpose. He had a more personal priority. He moved efficiently through the hallways with only the minimum of caution, his gun at the ready, looking for clues to his partner’s whereabouts. Two junior agents were a step behind him, giving him cover. A familiar combination of smells wafted down one hallway---disinfectant, alcohol, strong clinical odors. He took that route and checked each room as he made his way, until he saw Kuryakin through a small window in a metal door, strapped onto a gurney by leather restraints.

“Open it,” he ordered the two agents at his heels. They wired the door and blew the lock in seconds. “Continue your sweep,” Solo instructed them, as he alone entered the room and closed the door behind him, holstering his weapon as he reached his partner’s side.

Illya was fully dressed and didn’t appear to be injured, but was deathly pale. Napoleon squeezed his cold hand and leaned over to make eye contact. “Illya. Talk to me,” he ordered. There was a flicker of recognition, a slight nod, enough to satisfy him that the Russian was coherent.

Napoleon’s hands flew as he unfastened the dozen buckles that held Illya’s arms to his sides and his ankles down. The Russian’s clothes were damp, and Napoleon realized that Illya had been in this position for some time, and not allowed the most basic considerations.

Napoleon moved to a sink, turned on the faucet to an impatient torrent and filled a paper cup to overflowing. His hand went under Illya’s head and his partner took a swallow. “Save some for the rest of New Jersey,” he said as he gently laid Illya’s head down again and smoothed his hair back from his forehead.

He crossed the room and yanked the doors of a cupboard open, finding what he’d hoped to--clean surgical drapes and scrubs. He returned to his partner and quickly divested him of his wet clothes, one piece at a time, drying him as he went. The cloth was swept across Illya’s skin with speed if not thoroughness. It was something all Section Two agents did for their partners when necessary, preserving each other’s dignity, sparing the other from having to climb into a rescue vehicle or helicopter in less than presentable condition.

As Napoleon pushed the dry scrubs up Illya’s legs, he watched his face, talking to him, hoping he would become more alert. “If preliminary inspection is any indication, tovarich, you’ve led us to the Thrush find of the year. I supposed you’ll want a medal or something.” He tsked as he tied the belt at Illya’s waist. “I’ll see if I can get you a free lunch at the cafeteria.”

Other than some cuts and bruises probably received during the actual abduction, Napoleon did not observe any unusual marks or blood on Illya’s body, except for some nasty chapping on his back and buttocks from lying in the soaked suit of clothes. He slowed his attentions as he gently blotted the tender, red skin.

Illya was watching him now as he gently rolled the Russian to his back again and carefully flexed knees and massaged leg muscles through the scrubs. Illya groaned at the manipulation of joints that were stiff from disuse. Napoleon came around to his side and hefted him into a sitting position. Everything seemed to be in working order, but Illya was still unusually subdued. Napoleon moved in front of him and steadied him with one hand while he put the loose v-necked garment over Illya’s head with the other. He fit his arms into the sleeves, flexing elbows and massaging muscles again.

“Illya,” Napoleon said as he lifted his partner’s head in his hands to make eye contact, “did they drug you?”

Illya looked at him blankly and shook his head. Napoleon was mystified, but guessed that the dazed condition might be just from lack of nourishment and sleep. He put his arms around Illya and coaxed him to lean forward, to rest his head and upper body against him while he massaged the Russian’s neck and shoulders. Illya fell onto Napoleon’s shoulder, and moaned in appreciation of Napoleon’s hands bringing his body to life again after the long period of total immobilization, holding him close while he worked the muscles.

Napoleon’s hands slowed at last and smoothed Illya’s hair, a gesture that had nothing to do with physical therapy. He took him by the shoulders and looked at him again, searching his eyes. “Better?”  Illya gave a little nod, and Napoleon stepped to the side, put Illya’s arm around his shoulders and helped him to stand, taking most of his weight and steadying him until sensation returned to his numb legs.

“Come on, let’s get you out of here,” Napoleon said, and urged him ahead a step at a time. When they reached the hallway, he gave an order to one of the agents coming his way. “Get me an office chair with wheels.”

“No,” Illya said hoarsely, “I can walk.”

At last, Napoleon thought, a normal reaction. He smiled at Illya and gave his waist a squeeze. “I was beginning to think they took out your vocal cords.”

They made their way slowly back to the entrance of the building, other agents dodging around them, communicators going off, the sound of doors bursting open at the farthest ends of the hallways. All the usual activity it took to secure an area. Another close call, Napoleon thought. Another happy ending.

 ***

Solo strode into the Medical section of Headquarters the next morning with a spring in his step. He’d remained there the night before until the doctor on duty assured him that Kuryakin’s vital signs were strong and that he was in good condition. Now he was looking forward to a dull day after the adrenaline charged events of the previous evening.

“How’s the patient?” he asked when he came upon John Harrison, the physician in charge at the moment. Solo and Kuryakin considered Harrison to be a friend, someone who was as skilled at his job as they were, someone who didn’t mollycoddle them but made sure they got the care they needed.

The doctor hesitated a second too long with his reply, and Solo’s mood changed instantly. “Is there a problem, John?” he asked flatly.

“A word, Napoleon,” the doctor said, cocking his head toward his office.

Once the door was closed, Harrison walked around his desk and took his chair. Solo’s eyes never left the doctor’s face as he hovered over him.

Harrison looked up at him. “Please sit down,” he said softly.

Solo complied. “I’ll stand on my head if it’ll start the information flowing,” he said with an uncharacteristic raise in tone.

Anxiety translated into anger in Section Two agents. The doctor was accustomed to being glowered at, interrogated like a criminal, even manhandled occasionally. But his voice stayed calm and he didn’t mince words. “Did Illya tell you he was tortured?”

Solo leaned back in the chair and drew his mouth into a thin line. “No. He didn’t say much at all. I didn’t see any evidence of it, though.”

Harrison ignored the typical statement of denial. “And you politely didn’t look at his penis?”

Solo went pale. For once he didn’t demand the doctor continue. “I didn’t... ahh, I mean... I didn’t see anything unusual,” Solo said, suddenly unsure. And worse, negligent for not noticing an injury to his partner.

“They used a very thin metal band, only about a quarter inch wide. The electrical burns delineate it quite clearly. There was pain to the immediate area, then the shock traveled through him, intensified by the fact that his body was wet.”

Solo’s mouth opened, then clamped shut again as he stared at the top of the desk.

Harrison felt a pang of sympathy. He’d pulled the bandage off with one clean jerk, however, and now it was time to let the wound breathe a little. “Thrush wanted to cause him pain, but not enough to skew his thought processes or prevent him from communicating. It was rough on him, but the voltage was relatively low. His foreskin took the brunt of the damage. There are two layers of skin there, protecting the glans, so there isn’t any tissue damage to the penis. The neurological tests we ran on him this morning were clean.”

Harrison paused and then explained further when Solo didn’t ask any questions. “It was meant to be more psychologically terrorizing than to inflict serious injury. You can imagine what kind of a threat it must have been, how vulnerable he must have felt.”

Solo nodded.

“Otherwise, he has a couple of cracked teeth that require some attention. The chapped skin should heal quickly, along with the bruises on his wrists and ankles, the few abrasions. There won’t be any long-term effects, but...”

Solo looked up at him. “But what?”

“A urologist will be coming in today. He’ll want to do a circumcision right away to remove the damaged tissue.” Solo winced as the doctor continued, “It’s a pretty simple surgery. Maybe he won’t be bothered by it.”

“How many more bombshells do you have up your sleeve, John?”

“Well, this ordeal will haunt him,” the doctor said bluntly.  “Aside from the usual flashbacks and nightmares, it may make him impotent until he can separate feelings of pleasure from the memory of pain. I’m sure the psychiatric team will prescribe the usual anti-anxiety and sleeping meds to help him get through the next few weeks, even months. And they’ll be fascinated to learn the after-effects of this type of torture.”

Solo glared at him. “He’s not a specimen in a petri dish.”

Harrison smiled sympathetically. “I know. And YOU know that their findings can help other agents who might be unfortunate enough to be subjected to the same thing.”

The CEA nodded in resignation.

Even though they were in a private office, the doctor dropped his voice to an even more confidential level. “Listen, Napoleon, he’s going to need someone to help him cope.”

“Try to tell him that,” Napoleon said. “He won’t tolerate any hovering.”

“From past observation, I think he’ll only tolerate it from you,” the doctor said with a knowing smile. “Maybe you can persuade him to move in with you for a couple of weeks. If the psychiatrists know he’s going home alone, they might want to keep him here. And, let’s face it, that might not be such a bad idea.”

 ***

His hand rested on the metal plate for a long minute as he stood with his head down, thinking, then he pushed the door open and strolled into the room.

Two blue eyes looked up at him.

Solo mimed a pipe in his hand and said with a stern expression, “Still lying about, Mr. Kuryakin? I wish I had time for such things, but I have work to do.”

His partner winced as he rolled from his side to his back. “You should go on Ed Sullivan, Napoleon. Crank me up a bit, will you?”

Napoleon moved to the foot of the bed and rotated the handle until Illya was raised to a forty-five degree angle, then put his hands in his pockets and walked to Illya’s side. He searched his partner’s face, observing the pallor, the dark circles under his eyes.

“So, how are ya?”

Illya searched back, his gaze unwavering. “I’m sure the doctors have been more candid with you than with me.”

Napoleon sat on the edge of the high bed. “They told me what Thrush did to you,” he said. “I’m sorry, partner. I didn’t even...” He searched for words.

Illya looked at Napoleon’s downcast expression. “There is no reason for you to be sorry,” he said, then stared straight ahead as his voice turned to ice. “Someone will be sorry, however.”

Napoleon rested his elbow on Illya’s raised knee and changed the subject. “We’ll be debriefing you in another hour---I’ll try to keep it short---then the Psych guys are coming in after lunch.”

“What a surprise.”

Napoleon glanced around the stark room. “The sooner you cooperate with them, Agent Kuryakin, the sooner you’ll be able to leave these posh accommodations.”

Illya sighed. “Yes, SIR.”

“And the sooner I can take you home with me.”

Illya frowned with indignation. “Why? I’m not physically handicapped.”

“No, but Harrison told me they’ll be more likely to discharge you if you won’t be alone every night for the next couple weeks. You know what you’re in for -- ‘sleep disturbances.’“

Illya nodded.

“You’ll be more at ease at my place anyway. That brownstone you live in just isn’t safe. Too many damn windows.”

“They’re secure,” Illya argued, frowning again.

“I seem to remember someone forgetting his key, shinnying up a drainpipe, and climbing into one.”

“I tripped the alarm, and Section Five was there in five minutes.”

“You can be dead in one minute,” Napoleon said. He gave the knee he was leaning on a couple of pats, then stood up again. “No more discussion. I’ll see you later, huh?”

Illya’s gaze dropped to the foot of his bed and he nodded absentmindedly. Napoleon didn’t make a move, and his partner looked up at him in question. They were silent for a moment.

Illya reached for Napoleon’s hand hanging loose at his side and squeezed it, fingering the pinky ring, gazing up at his partner. “Go.”

 ***

 One surgery, two sessions with the psychiatric team, and three days later, Dr. Harrison and the head psychiatrist, Dr. Sierra, met with Illya at his bedside before he was to be discharged.

“Ready to get out of here?” Harrison asked him in standard physician small talk.

Illya braced himself for a litany of instructions. Lists were handed to him, phone numbers, and bottles of medications, both necessary and optional. Some time later Harrison asked, “Do you understand everything?”

Illya concisely summarized the fifteen minute talk. “I must follow the instructions on this sheet...” he brandished one of the papers “...for post surgical care. I must call you if I develop a fever or any sign of infection. And, until the circumcision heals...” he looked at them with a bit of defiance “... sex is out of the question and erections are to be discouraged.”

“Uh, yes, that’s about it,” the doctor said. “Just keep those drugs I gave you within reach.”

The Russian agreed and thanked them politely. “May I leave now?”

“Napoleon said he’d be down at five to collect you,” Harrison said as he moved toward the door. “Take care of yourself, Illya, and try not to worry about anything, huh?”

Illya did not reply, but merely stared at the door to his room as it slowly drifted shut behind them.

 ***

 “I’ve made some room in here for your clothes,” Solo said as he carried his new roommate’s bag down the hallway to the bedroom of his penthouse apartment. Illya followed slowly. His clothing was rubbing on bandages that were tightly wound around raw tissue. “Here’s an empty drawer in the dresser, and there’s another one in the bathroom vanity, plus--”

Napoleon saw the look of discomfort on his partner’s face. “Why don’t you get undressed and put on one of those hospital gowns they gave you?”

Illya grimaced. “I do not feel that any article of clothing called a ‘gown’ is appropriate for an international agent.”

“Uh huh.” Napoleon said, disappearing into his walk-in closet. “I’ve got a couple of robes I’ve never worn,” he said, his voice muffled from within the small room. He emerged again. “Here’s one that’s got ‘spy’ written all over it.”

Illya held it at arm’s length. “It’s purple.”

Napoleon looked it up and down, gesturing. “No, it’s a. . .grape color.”

Illya looked at him like he was demented. “Which is purple.”

“Well,  it’s more of a deep Concord than---” Napoleon ceased to be accommodating. “It’s either this one, or the one with the dragon.”

Illya reluctantly gave in.

“Don’t worry,” his partner teased. “No one’s going to witness your humiliation.”

Solo put some steaks on the broiler for their dinner, and they ate while they watched the seven o’clock news, speculating on the outcomes of various international skirmishes between passing the wine and the Worcestershire sauce. The evening went by quickly as the house guest settled in. Illya would be on leave for the next two weeks, but Napoleon planned to find plenty of U.N.C.L.E. homework to occupy his partner’s time.

Napoleon looked at his friend as they sat together on the couch, observing Illya’s feet up on the coffee table, black socks against the pale shins.

“I’ll ask Gloria to pick up some slippers for you on her lunch hour tomorrow.”

“Don’t ask her to give up her lunch.”

“She loves getting a little comp time at the end of the day. Besides,” Napoleon said, leaning closer, “I think she’d do anything for you.” He teasingly elbowed his partner in the ribs, only for Illya to jump at the touch. Napoleon sobered. “Sorry.”

Illya was uncharacteristically flustered. “Maybe it would be better if I slept here on the couch.”

Napoleon looked down at his plush carpeting. “So if I want to keep an eye on you, I’ll have to sleep on the floor?”

Illya eyed the same spot of carpet and realized he wasn’t going to win the argument. “It’s advisable for an agent to sleep on the floor occasionally. It keeps him from getting soft.”

Napoleon stood, grabbed a handful of robe at Illya’s shoulder and persuaded him to rise. “It’s good for an agent to sleep where he can GET some sleep.”

“All right,” Illya said with exasperation, “but keep your elbows to yourself, please.”

Napoleon steered him from behind into the bedroom, where Illya adjourned to the master bath to run a tub of warm water. It was two days after the surgery and, per doctor’s instructions, it was time for the bandages to be replaced. Illya sank down into the tub and lay back to wait for the gauze to become saturated and loose.

The water stained pink as the dried blood in the wraps liquefied, tendrils rising above his groin like wisps of smoke, reminding him of his agonizing ordeal. Images of the room at the Thrush installation filled his mind, the faces of the technician and interrogator vivid. He shut his eyes tight and gritted his teeth, gripping the sides of the tub, stifling the urge to cry out in objection.

“You all right in there?”

Illya opened his eyes at the sound of the voice on the other side of the bathroom door, the voice that was so frequently his salvation. “Y-yes,” he called and swallowed. “I am quite capable of taking a bath, Napoleon.”

“Okay.”

His breathing and his heart rate slowed as he leaned against the side of the tub. With a final shudder he returned his attention to the task at hand, gingerly unwinding the first layer of bandages. He disposed of them, then relaxed again, waiting for the next layer to loosen.  It would be a relief to get the tight bandages off, to release the pressure, and yet he was in no hurry to see what was under them. When the last blood-stained layer gave way he didn’t look, but busied himself with its disposal, then simply stood up in the bath and began to dry off, carefully avoiding the tender tissue.

When he could no longer put off the inevitable, he sat down on the edge of the tub, spread his legs and cradled his penis in his left hand. He stared at it, battered and bruised purple, a few black stitches adding to the abomination of what had been done to him. He’d had a lot of stitches in his life, and a lot of bruises, but these were so personal, so---

He shook himself and gingerly applied the antibiotic ointment that the doctor had provided, then reached for the sterile gauze and began to bandage himself, winding the roll around and around as tightly as he could, relieved when the injured part of him was out of sight for the time being.

A chill came over him as he finished the task, and he reached for the jockey shorts that would hold his penis tight against his body. He pulled them up his legs, then stood and tucked himself into them. He donned a pair of pajamas and walked out of the bathroom with his recently acquired swagger.

Napoleon was sitting in bed, making notes in a manila folder thick with papers, and barely looked up when Illya climbed in and pulled the covers up to his chin.

“Everything go all right?” Napoleon said.

Illya mumbled an affirmative.

Napoleon cleared his throat. “Ah, I’ve got the personnel files on our new graduates.” His partner exhibited no interest, so he purposely let one of the photos slide off his knees onto the bed between them.

Illya took a sidelong glance at the photograph, then sat up and examined it. He leaned toward Napoleon to see the other fresh-faced recruits. “Do you wish you were that young again?”

Napoleon jotted something in a margin. “Mmm, I wish I had fewer aches and more stamina, but I wouldn’t trade the last seven years for anything.”

Illya looked at him. “You’ve been an U.N.C.L.E. agent for fourteen years,” he said. “You’ve been with ME for seven years.”

Napoleon studied the photos. “Oh, that’s right,” he said absentmindedly.

Illya smiled. He turned away and curled up on his side, his back to Napoleon and the light, comforted by the indication of how much he meant to his partner.

Napoleon gathered his papers and set them aside. He gazed thoughtfully down at the figure huddled beside him. “Illya,” he said quietly, “do you mind if I ask you how you feel about the circumcision?”

Illya shrugged. “I guess I can pass for an American now. That’s the real tragedy.”

Napoleon looked at him with affection, his smile unseen.

 ***

 Illya’s body jerked violently and woke both of them. Napoleon waited in the blackness, listening to the rapid breathing, feeling the trembling through the mattress. “Illya.” He reached to find his partner’s arm, and kneaded it through the pajama sleeve.

Illya rolled toward him, accepting the reassuring touch. “I’m all right,” the shaky voice whispered. He did seem to recover quickly, his breathing soon returning to normal. Napoleon swiveled to the edge of the bed and turned on the lamp, looking back at Illya carding his fingers through the wet strands of hair on his forehead. Napoleon went to the bathroom for a towel, collected a dry t-shirt from a drawer on the way back, and handed them to his partner.

“Thank you,” Illya said as he sat up and took off the damp pajama top.

Napoleon opened the drawer to the bedside table and pulled out some prescription bottles. “There’s always these, you know.”

Illya glanced at them and shook his head. “They don’t cure. They just postpone.” He gazed thoughtfully at the towel in his hands. “If you don’t mind a little more laundry, I think I’ll sweat it out.”

There was a nightmare each night for a week, sometimes two. Solo would wake to the tremble through the mattress, the breathless, “Napoleon?”

“I’m here,” he would respond, switching on the light. Night after night, it was all that was needed.

 ***

 U.N.C.L.E.’s ever helpful medical personnel had made an appointment for Agent Kuryakin with one of their approved, under-contract dentists. Any agent who had ever been subjected to torture was hard pressed to endure the dentist’s chair. It wasn’t the nominal pain that gave them pause. It was having to recline under a bright light, in the control of a man with needles, drills, and assorted sharp objects.

Solo and Kuryakin were no exceptions, and for Illya, the timing was particularly bad. Napoleon insisted on taking a long lunch hour and escorting him. Illya made the expected objection, but was easily talked into it. “Napoleon, if you hold my hand in front of that man, you will find yourself on the floor with a dental probe up your nose.”

The Russian took his place in the chair, Solo insisting to the dentist that he stay in the room “for your own protection, Doctor.” The white jacketed man was happy to permit it. He examined Kuryakin’s teeth and found two cracked molars that would require caps, and a couple of damaged fillings, a typical diagnosis for an U.N.C.L.E. operative. The dentist had learned long ago not to ask how or why, but just to do the job. He set about arranging the instruments that would be needed, while Kuryakin watched him warily.

Illya tore his eyes away from the preparations to look at Napoleon eight feet in front of him, standing at the window with hands in his pockets, gazing out from the 14th floor. Illya swallowed as he heard two metal objects clang onto the tray. “What are you looking at, Napoleon?” he asked, desperate for a distraction.

“A fabulous panorama of other windows,” his partner replied without turning around.

“Open, please,” said the dentist, and he began probing with one of his many pointed tools. Illya studied the hair up his nose, the pores of his skin, then lowered his eyes in search of his partner. The doctor was blocking his line of sight, but Napoleon’s head soon wandered into range, trying to see what the dentist was up to.

“So, how long will this take, Doctor?” he asked.

“I’ve allowed two hours for this first appointment.” the man replied.

Napoleon nodded. “Uh huh. But you’ll be finished long before then, right?”

The dentist looked annoyed with Solo, then Kuryakin looked annoyed with Solo because he’d annoyed the man with all the sharp objects. The senior agent retreated to the window again, taking up a magazine he’d brought from the waiting room.

An hour later, Illya’s emotions had run the gamut, unbeknownst to the dentist. But now a particularly long “hold still, please” session had him just barely holding down his panic. Solo, whose small talk had saved Kuryakin’s sanity a couple of times, now suggested that Illya might need to stretch his legs. The doctor started to object, then thought better of it and said he needed to make a phone call.

Once the dentist had disappeared, Illya got up shakily from the chair and went to the window to stand next to his partner, flexing his arms and arching his back on the way.

“Take some deep breaths,” Napoleon advised him.

“Can we open this window?” Illya asked testily, and Napoleon sprung the tight latches, then tugged at the stubborn sash until it gave. A fresh, mid September breeze wafted into the room, and Illya closed his eyes and inhaled.

“I’ve been watching those pigeons down there,” Napoleon said.

Illya opened his eyes and looked at the lower rooftop next door. “Fascinating.”

“Do you see that one up on the water tower?” Illya saw it. “That’s Waverly Pigeon,” Napoleon explained quite seriously. “And that group on the ledge, those are the Intelligence guys comparing notes.”

Illya became mildly interested. “And the one in the corner, preening, is that Solo Pigeon?”

“Noooo,” Napoleon said patiently, “Pigeons Solo and Kuryakin aren’t on the roof. They’re down on the street, dodging the taxis, being spit on by the pedestrians, doing all the dirty work.”

Illya chuckled, releasing some of the tension that had built up in the chair of torture. “And leaving a little dirt of their own behind as well?” he asked. Napoleon grinned at him and nodded.

The dentist was clearing his throat on the other side of the door, signaling his impatience. Illya sighed and turned toward the chair. He was stopped by the feel of his partner’s hands on his shoulders, kneading them like a coach sending his player back into the fray. He leaned back into the touch for a minute, allowing the contact to soothe him, then Napoleon clapped his shoulders a couple of times and let him go.

“Ah, come in, Doctor.”

The next hour went smoothly, the Russian’s nerves calmed by private jokes, and his teeth being repaired with efficiency.

 ***

 Solo felt the now familiar jump of his partner’s body as Illya awoke from the nightmare. He reached to turn on the lamp and groggily looked toward the other side of the bed to find it empty. He slid from under the covers and walked out to the hallway, rubbing his eyes with one hand. “Illya?”

The soft light coming down the hall reached the living room. The Russian was standing in his pajamas by the French doors that led to the rooftop terrace, gazing out at the night through his own faint reflection.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” he said quietly “I’m sorry I wake you every night.”

Napoleon leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest, giving into a yawn. “S’okay.”

“It’s not getting any better,” Illya continued, staring out the black windows. “The dreams are never going to end.”

Napoleon bowed his head with a sigh.

Illya’s tone changed, his voice becoming like the soft fizz of a fuse. “Unless I become their worst nightmare.”

Napoleon raised his eyes and waited.

“Will you help me?” Illya said quietly, still gazing into the night. “Waverly won’t condone vengeance, so you’re the only one I can count on.”

“Let’s talk about this when we’ve had a little more sleep.”

Illya spun to look at him, took a few strides and came to a full stop in front of him, his breath coming faster, his anger now obvious. “That’s just the point. We can’t get any sleep. And we never will until we find the two who kidnapped me, and the rest of them as well.”

Napoleon studied him, unanswering, his eyebrows steepled.

Illya enunciated every syllable. “Will you help me?” Napoleon’s unresponsiveness angered him further. He grabbed his partner’s shoulders. “Say something!”

Napoleon looked at him both warmth and regret, his regard for his longtime partner obvious.

Illya stared into his eyes for a minute, reading the understanding there. He loosened his hold, his body relaxing, and a long sigh came out of him, his arms sliding down to fumble at his sides as he stood sheepishly in front his partner, waiting for some act of mercy.

He was gently gathered into Napoleon’s arms, a hand stroking his hair and a soft voice in his ear, disarming him further. “I’m always here for you.”

Illya slid his hands around Napoleon’s back and held on to him in the silence, Napoleon instinctively swaying them both with a small, hypnotic movement, never varying, never changing tempo, a timeless act that soothed the human psyche. Illya gave himself over to it, surrendering his pain, letting Napoleon take the whole of it. He closed his eyes and let himself be lulled. He felt a kiss in his hair, some consoling whispers as he drifted with the motion.



When he opened his eyes again, the sun was lighting the room. He was in bed and Napoleon was asleep beside him. He stared thoughtfully at the position of the sunbeam on the wall, then turned and grabbed his partner’s arm. “Napoleon!” The only answer he received was a combination of a groan and a growl. “You’re late!”

Solo frowned, his eyes still shut. “Wha. . .?”

Illya jumped out of bed and yanked open the drapes to let in more light. “Come on,” he said insistently, standing over Napoleon, shaking him by the shoulder. “You have a conference at nine-thirty, and some preparation before that.”

Napoleon, suddenly alert, twisted his head to read the clock. “Why didn’t the alarm go off?”

“It doesn’t matter; you’re an hour behind schedule!”

Napoleon bolted into the bathroom to shave, and Illya went to the kitchen to stay out of his way. He made some coffee, peeled a banana and an orange and separated the sections, stuffing one in his mouth and licking his fingers, then toasted some bread and spread it with butter. He poured some coffee into a cup to cool.

Napoleon came into the kitchen, the ends of his tie flying up and over and through. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said, spying the food prepared for him.

“It’s my fault you’re late,” Illya said, standing back against the counter while his friend helped himself to the continental breakfast.

“Illya,” Napoleon said with his mouth full, “it’s Thrush’s fault I’m late, nobody else’s.”

Illya watched his partner take a big bite of toast. He spoke softly. “Thank you for ... taking care of me last night.”

“That’s in my job description, isn’t it?” Napoleon said. He stared at Illya, then took a step toward him, his chin tilted up as he studied him closely. His hand reached for Illya’s jaw. “You’ve got a little something there,” he said as he stroked the corner of Illya’s mouth with his thumb, wiping a bit of orange pulp away. He looked at him thoughtfully for a few seconds, then stepped back to the table and chuckled. “You know, I’ve seen you fall asleep in some odd places,” he said, “but never standing up.” He washed down the breakfast with a gulp of coffee, bit off a chunk of banana, rinsed his hands while he chewed and headed out of the kitchen, pulling on his shoulder holster as he walked.

Illya picked up Napoleon’s jacket from where he’d draped it over a chair and held it for him, then stood poised by the front door, waiting to open it.

“How’m I doin’?” Napoleon said, looking at his watch. “Plenty of time,” he said, buttoning his jacket and adjusting his cuffs, “I’ve still got most of the day to save humanity.”

The Russian raised an eyebrow as he opened the door. “The EARLY bird gets the worm, Napoleon.”

Napoleon paused to look at Illya as he stepped past him. “Thrush deserves the worms, partner.”

 ***

 “Do you have a date tonight?” Illya asked a few mornings later.

Napoleon was standing at the kitchen counter with his back to him, waiting for the coffee to percolate. “No, I’ve curtailed my whirlwind social life for a while.”

“You’re not indispensable, you know,” Illya said, munching on some cereal and leafing through a scientific journal that lay on the table.

Napoleon filled his cup and took a seat . “Are you giving me the evening off?”

“I feel guilty keeping you home on a Saturday night. I’m sure you’d rather be out with Jane or Judy or Jasmine.”

Napoleon raised his eyebrows in mischief. “Or maybe all three?”

“Nothing would surprise me,” Illya said, squinting at him. “But you can’t watch over me forever. We’ve gotten through the worst of it. I didn’t even dream last night.”

Napoleon’s eyes swept over him, evaluating him. “Well, I’m not worried, but Waverly and the doctors would call me on the carpet if anything happened to you.”

“I appreciate your devoted concern,” Illya said with a smirk, “but nothing is going to happen..”

Napoleon thought for a minute. “Okay, I might just take you up on it.”

He set up a last minute date. Dinner reservations and tickets to a popular Broadway production were magically acquired, and that evening he was dressed to the nines.

“Call if you need me,” he said, patting the breast pocket that held his communicator.

“I’m not going to need you,” Illya said as he pushed him out the door. “Try to act like a spy and be quiet when you come in.”

Napoleon stood alone in the elevator and sighed. He didn’t have dinner reservations, or theater tickets, or even a date. He was headed for a small nightclub where he usually encountered a friendly female or two, danced, had a couple of drinks. Nothing that would keep him if his presence was required elsewhere. He knew he was spending too much time with Illya, and he should return to his normal way of life.

Why was it, he thought, that normal didn’t seem so important any more?

 ***

 Illya stepped out of the shower and pondered his blurred reflection in the steamy mirror as he dried himself. With some trepidation, he reached forward and swiped the glass with the towel to clear a spot that framed his groin. He was mesmerized by the sight, wondering how the penis he saw could belong to him. The stitches and bruises were gone, but this most personal part of him was unrecognizable.

“I’ll have to get used to you,” he whispered, then turned from the mirror and put the image out of his mind.

He stepped from the master bathroom to the chilly bedroom, and impulsively dove into the bed to get warm, temporarily ignoring the clean pajamas that were laid out on top of the comforter. He pulled the cover up to his chin and inched down under it even more, his body sinking into the soft mattress, the wonderfully smooth sheets, and the luxurious down pillows that had buffeted him against the cruel world every night for almost two weeks. He gazed around the room, taking in the dark woods, the lush forest green of the drapes and upholstery, the Winslow Homer prints on the walls. He was far above the street in a tower of comfort and solitude.

He closed his eyes, savoring the atmosphere, the silence broken only by the soft ticking of the clock. His hands moved from the edge of the comforter to rest on the warm skin of his chest and he let his mind drift, conscious of the lingering aroma of shoe polish. The image appeared in his mind of Napoleon sitting in the chair next to the bed, smiling up at him as he buffed the gleaming black leather, sweeping the brush back and forth as he told Illya the latest office gossip, a joke another agent had told him, and other inconsequential things, sometimes flashing that familiar grin . . .

Illya’s eyes flew open. He dove to the side of the bed and jerked open the drawer to the night stand, urgently rummaging for the medications he’d been given. He grabbed all the bottles and dropped them in his lap, found the correct one, opened it and dumped the contents on the comforter, sending the capsules skipping and rolling over hills and valleys.

SNAP. He held the broken capsule to his nostril and sharply inhaled, the chemical instantly accomplishing what it was formulated to do.

He sat very still for a few minutes, his breathing shallow and disciplined. He wouldn’t think of how at home he felt here. He wouldn’t think of how Napoleon had cared for him the past twelve days. He wouldn’t think of Napoleon, period. He slowly collected the capsules and dropped the bottles back into the drawer with a clatter, then reached for the pajamas and pulled them on.

He appeared to be asleep when Napoleon got home.

 ***

 The CEA was summoned to his superior’s office the first thing Monday morning.

“Ahhh, Mr. Solo, how is Mr. Kuryakin getting along?” Waverly inquired, glancing up from his console.

“He’s doing quite well, sir. He has an appointment with Dr. Harrison tomorrow, and I expect he’ll be cleared to come back to work the next day.”

The Chief nodded in approval. “Good, good. There is plenty of work to be done.”

Solo waited. Waverly didn’t call him into his office for pleasantries or small talk.

His boss turned his chair to the table, consulting a report that had been submitted to him. “As you know, we’ve been questioning the Thrush employees we took into custody at the warehouse, and we’ve pieced together some enlightening information. It seems that a pair of Thrush operatives named. . . Larson and Randall were behind Mr. Kuryakin’s abduction.”

A cold expression came over Solo’s face. “We interfered with their mischief in Mexico last year.”

“Yes, and apparently they didn’t take too kindly to you throwing a spanner into their works,” Waverly continued. “Their failed mission brought them a reprimand from Thrush Central. Unfortunately, they decided to take revenge on Mr. Kuryakin by handing him over to Thrush interrogators, who in turn attempted to obtain general information about U.N.C.L.E.’s operations.  Killing two birds with one stone, so to speak.”

Solo frowned. “Illya never actually saw them when we were on that assignment. He described the two who kidnapped him, but it didn’t occur to me...  Larson and Randall weren’t captured, sir?”

“No, they might have been with the group that eluded us. We have some Section Three agents on their scent.”

“Then Illya might still be in danger,” Solo said thoughtfully, more to himself than to his Chief.

Waverly raised his voice. “And what makes you think you are exempt from that danger, Mr. Solo?”

The change in tone made Napoleon straighten up. “Ahh, I guess I’m not, sir.”

“No. So see that your usual precautions are intensified. Both of you.”

Solo nodded. “We’ll be on our guard. Is there anything else?”

Waverly seemed distracted, but his voice softened. “No, my boy, you may go.”

Solo smiled at the rare paternal expression, spun on his heel and walked out.

 ***

 Illya Kuryakin stirred, half awake. He could hear the blades of a helicopter passing the building. He was in a penthouse, he reminded himself, and those things were to be expected occasionally.

But the sound was too close for comfort.

“ILLYA.” Napoleon’s voice had the deep, no-nonsense register that meant trouble.

Illya rolled off the bed, disentangled part of the sheet that had come with him, and grabbed his Walther. Napoleon rolled in the other direction, one hand closing on his gun, the other on his communicator. He darted to the steel bedroom door to close and secure it. The barrier was his last line of defense, and it locked shut with a reassuring solidity.

Illya joined him just as they heard a splintering crash through the french doors that led in from the rooftop terrace.

“Open Channel D.”

A female voice answered, “Headquarters.”

“This is Solo. I’m in my apartment and under attack.”

They listened to her relay the message. “Section Five, Code Two at residence of Napoleon Solo.”

He tossed the device onto the bed, leaving the channel open.

They stood clad in their pajamas, ears to the door with their heads down, listening to the apartment being vandalized.

“How many, do you think?” Illya whispered.

“Lowered from a helicopter? Three at the most.”

“Good odds,” the Russian said, seething. He clenched his fist, poised like a racehorse at the starting gate.

Napoleon winced as he heard breakables being shattered.

“SOLO!” A voice on the other side of the door yelled. “Come out or we’ll come in and get you!”

Something heavy slammed into the other side of the wall, accompanied by the sound of plaster and lathe breaking and raining down on the hardwood floor. Total destruction was occurring in other places, too, as if someone was venting his rage.

Solo whispered to his partner. “They don’t know you’re here. I’ll give myself up, you take them by surprise.”

“Napoleon,” Illya said, grabbing his partner’s wrist. “they must know Security is on their way. Maybe they just want to kill you, and quickly.”

“We’ve got no choice. They’ll be through the wall in a minute, and I’m sure they’ve got more firepower than we do.” Napoleon jerked his head to the left. “Go on.”

There was no time to engage in debate, so Illya relented and moved into the dark closet, pushing his way behind some clothing to a place where the bedroom door was still in his line of sight.

Solo yelled, “All right, calm down!”

The noise ceased as he slid the dead bolt and stepped aside just in time to prevent the door from knocking him over. His Walther was grabbed from his raised hand.

Illya peered through the space between the clothes rod and the closet shelf, his gun extended through the clothing and pointed at the intruder who was now facing his partner.

“Patience, patience,” Solo said to his captor, the message clear to Kuryakin as well.

The man in a black ski mask seized Solo’s arm and jerked him into the hallway, then prodded him toward the living room, the muzzle of his gun jabbing between Solo’s shoulder blades.

Kuryakin ducked out of the closet and hugged the wall next to the bedroom door, listening, trying to gauge how many intruders he would have to deal with.

“Surprised we were able to storm your little castle, huh, Solo?” Black Mask said.

The U.N.C.L.E. agent nodded, “My compliments to, ah, both of you on your resourcefulness.” He glanced around the room. “And your enthusiasm.”

Black Mask addressed his partner. “Let’s get down to the garage before the cavalry gets here.”

The second man disappeared into the inner foyer, and the first one motioned Solo in that direction. “Move.”

As Solo turned and Black Mask followed suit, Kuryakin stole from the shadowed hallway to crouch behind the leather couch, angling his line of fire so he wouldn’t hit his partner. He felled Black Mask with one shot to his back. Solo dodged to the side and the Russian fired at the surprised accomplice as he emerged from the foyer, hitting him square in the chest.

Napoleon picked himself up. “On the mark, as usual, IK.”

Illya knelt down by the first man and rolled him over. The man wheezed, trying to get air into his lungs, then gasped his last. A hard look came into Illya’s eyes as he pulled off the ski mask, and he fingered his Walther.

“It’s Larson,” Napoleon said, getting down on one knee next to him.

Illya rested his hand on Solo’s arm, still looking at the dead man. “They wanted you this time.”

Napoleon looked at his partner. “And they would have had me if you hadn’t been here.” He nodded at the lifeless form ten feet away. “That must be Randall.”

Illya moved to the other body and removed the similar mask. He checked for a pulse, then went through both men’s pockets. “Nothing.” He picked up one of their weapons and stood at his partner’s side. “Standard---”

There was a sudden explosion to their right. They were thrown down in the opposite direction and shielded their heads in reflex, at the same time hearing a heavy thud and feeling a reverberation through the floor.

Section Five had arrived.

Solo raised himself slowly and looked at the six men who had just blasted his front door off its hinges. “Did you guys lose your key?”

The leader of the team came forward, noting the bodies. “Sorry, sir, it was a diversionary tactic, in case you were being held at gunpoint.”

Solo nodded tolerantly. “Good work, uh, Babinski, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Check the rest of the rooftop,” he ordered. Babinski motioned to his team and they made their way out the opening where the french doors had been, wood and glass splintering under their shoes.

Solo surveyed the destruction in the room, taking a quick inventory of what was salvageable. He picked up an intact family heirloom.

“This lamp is indestructible,” he scowled. “Wouldn’t you know.”

Illya walked around the room, uprighting chairs. “There is one consolation, Napoleon. At least you don’t live in one of those terribly unsafe brownstones, with too many damn windows,” he quoted, one eyebrow raised.

Napoleon twisted his mouth in reply, speechless.

The Section Five leader returned. “No one out there, sir.”

“Fine. I’m going to get dressed,” Solo said and headed for the bedroom, picking up a silver candlestick on his way.

Kuryakin addressed the team leader. “Get the clean-up crew for these two,” he said, motioning to the bodies, “and call some carpenters to secure this room tonight.” The man pulled out his communicator and followed his superior’s orders.

Illya went back to the bedroom to get dressed himself. He spied the open communicator in the folds of the comforter and retrieved it, handing it to his partner. “You forgot someone.”

“Solo here,” Napoleon said, sitting on the edge of the bed and toeing his feet into his shoes. “Who is this?”

“Jeanine Washington, sir.”

“Thank you for your help, Jeanine.”

“Glad you’re all right, Mr. Solo,” she responded. “Tell Mr. Kuryakin we thought the odds were good, too.” Illya smiled over his shoulder from the other side of the bed.

The two agents supervised the comings and goings of U.N.C.L.E. personnel for the next few hours, until Solo’s apartment was livable again, although just barely. By dawn the last of the throng had departed, and the two agents sank into the slashed leather couch, facing bare plywood where the elegant french doors had once stood.

“I think the time has come for me to go home,” Illya sighed.

Napoleon eyed him. “Because my accommodations have fallen from five-star to no-star?”

“No,” Illya said seriously, “because settling a score with an enemy has a way of banishing demons.”

His partner nodded.

 ***

 They stood in Napoleon’s private foyer that evening, waiting for the elevator.

“You sure you don’t want me to drive you?” Napoleon asked.

“A taxi is fine,” Illya replied.

“Do you have any cash?”

“Oh,” Illya said, slapping the pockets of his trousers, “no.”

His partner pulled out his money clip and handed him a five dollar bill.

“I’ll pay you back tomorrow at headquarters,” Illya assured him.

Napoleon shrugged. “No hurry.”

Illya folded the bill and tucked it into his jacket pocket. “Thank you again for your hospitality,” he said, avoiding eye contact.

“You’re always welcome here,” Napoleon said, staring at the elevator door, “you know that.”

The elevator arrived, and Illya stooped to grasp the handle of his well worn suitcase. He walked in and pressed the button, then locked eyes with Napoleon until the door obscured him.

“Be sure to write,” Napoleon joked at the last second.

Illya opened his mouth to respond but the door had closed.



***

 Illya dumped the contents of the suitcase onto his bed and began to put everything back in its place. Clean clothes into drawers, toiletries into the bathroom. A glimpse of purple caught his eye. He tossed aside a pair of trousers to see what he expected, and picked up the offensive garment. “Napoleon,” he growled softly, shaking his head.  His first night home started peacefully enough, but after a few hours he woke to the sound of a truck emptying a dumpster somewhere close by. Insomnia took over and he got out of bed and strolled to an upholstered chair next to the window, sitting down and pulling his knees up to his chin, his bare feet off the cold hardwood floor. The sheers on the window gave him a view of the street, and he watched as a produce delivery truck and other nocturnal vehicles occasionally lumbered by.

Tomorrow would be his first day back at Headquarters, and he reminded himself that he needed rest. He closed his eyes and a vision came to him from six months earlier when he’d sat alone and gazing out a window in the middle of the night. The scene, however, had been the harbor in Hong Kong, far below his surprisingly luxurious hotel room. He’d sat watching the everyday anachronism of junks weaving their way through sleek anchored yachts, and had mentally calculated what time it was at headquarters, imagined what Napoleon was doing, so far away. He’d felt the same ache then as the one that was creeping up on him now. An ache that hadn’t made sense, and still didn’t.

He got up from the chair and went to the closet, then got back into bed, determined to sleep. It took all of three minutes before he was dead to the world, securely wrapped in purple.

 ***

 “Not for two weeks?” Napoleon looked up from his phone conversation with exasperation as Illya entered the office and took his usual place on the couch.

“But I need this done so the plasterers can start.” His jaw tightened as he heard the reply. “Your brother-in-law? What’s his number?” He jotted it down. “And he can-- wait a minute, does he have U.N.C.L.E. clearance?” He listened. “Well, can he come over tonight to look at--”  He waited. “Between six and nine?” His mouth drew into a tight line. “Okay.”

He put down the receiver and slumped in his chair, spinning around in it, his head thrown back. “Kill me now.”

Illya grinned. “What method would you prefer?”

“Anything faster than death by redecorating,” Napoleon said, facing his desk again. He gestured to a pile of paint chips and wallpaper swatches. “I just want everything back the way it was. Is that so difficult?”

Illya raised his eyebrows and shoulders in helplessness.

“What can I do for you?” Napoleon asked impatiently, sorting through phone messages and business cards.

“Have lunch with me?”

Napoleon stopped and looked at his partner for a second, then his tone softened. “I wish I could, but I’ve got a dozen different contractors promising to return my calls.” He sighed, tossing an estimate aside. “U.N.C.L.E.’s paying the bills, but I have to coordinate it all.”

“Did you expect Mr. Waverly to call the plasterers?” Illya asked.

Napoleon rested his elbows on the desk. “It would do the Old Man good to deal with the mundane once in a while.”

“And Hilda in Housing won’t help our esteemed CEA?

“Hilda in Housing is on vacation in Scandinavia, searching for her Viking roots or something,” Napoleon said, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “And if I read that new assistant of hers correctly, my home would be furnished with black lights and bead curtains.”

Two hands were suddenly coaxing him backwards in his chair, until his head came in contact with Illya’s body. He felt the vibration through his partner’s diaphragm as Illya spoke. “You have a headache.” It wasn’t a question.

Napoleon rested his head against Illya. “How did you know?”

“I know that look in your eyes,” Illya stated simply. Fingers massaged Napoleon’s temples with gentle rotations and conversation ceased for a while, the silence drawn out while the kneading moved from temples to forehead and back again.

Napoleon felt his partner’s long, slow intake of breath. “So,” Illya said, “how are you managing in that appallingly unsecure penthouse, all alone?”

The CEA cleared his throat. “Well, I had a bodyguard, but he deserted me”.

Illya’s hands floated down Napoleon’s neck to his shoulders, where they rested. “I would never desert you, Napoleon,” he said.

Napoleon tilted his head back to see blue eyes looking down into his. They held each other’s gaze for a moment, then Illya leaned down and his arm came around Napoleon’s neck in a mock hold. He spoke softly as if he was afraid to be overheard. “Would you like me to pay a midnight visit to some of these evil workmen who are controlling your life?”

Napoleon flushed and a tingle went through his body at the feel of Illya’s breath on his ear. “Uh, I don’t think that order would be within my authority.”

Illya withdrew his arm and straightened up. “That’s unfortunate,” he said. “I suppose the only thing left to do is to get us some lunch.” He walked to the door without turning around, but only glancing back. “The usual?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Napoleon said. He stared at the door after it closed, then seized the first estimate he laid his hand on and tried to study it.

 ***

 “Welcome back to the CBS coverage of the launch of Apollo Seven, October 11th, 1968. We’re here at Cape Kennedy, counting down the minutes. . .”

Employees were crowded into the eighth floor conference room around three televisions built into the paneled wall. The room was filled with the murmurs of a dozen different conversations while everyone waited for lift-off. Kuryakin arrived at the last minute and took his habitual place next to Solo, who was standing in the back.

All socializing ceased and the room fell quiet. “...seven, six, five, four, three, two, we have ignition.”

The rockets beneath the capsule carrying three American astronauts slowly began to rise, white clouds billowing under them, gathering momentum as the spacecraft pierced the sunny Florida sky.

Even though space missions were no longer the novelty they once had been, a launch was still a thrilling sight, and everyone in the room broke into applause when it proved a success. Then came the inevitable moment of letdown when the tiny speck could no longer be seen on the TV screen, and personnel filed out of the room, the voice of Walter Cronkite fading away behind them.

U.N.C.L.E.’s two most senior agents walked down the hall toward their offices. “I hate to break this to you, tovarich,” Napoleon said, “but we are winning the space race by leaps and bounds.”

The Russian admonished him. “You’re not usually so chauvinistic, my friend.”

Napoleon chuckled. “I think it is you who are the reincarnation of Nicolas Chauvin, mon ami.”

Illya grimaced. “If you insist on that illusion, there is nothing I can do about it.” He changed the subject. “You’re taking off yourself this afternoon, yes?”

Napoleon nodded. “Administrative stuff with the London office. I’ll be back in a week.”

Illya frowned thoughtfully. “Is this Waverly’s bi-annual trip?”

Napoleon gave him a smug smile. “I wondered when you were going to figure that out. He wants me to start alternating with him.”

“And he actually trusts you with that?” Illya wisecracked, following Solo into his office. “Quite a feather in your cap.”

Napoleon stepped behind his desk. “I think he trusts me less and less with the New York office while he’s gone.”

Illya smiled at his friend’s self-deprecating humor. “Napoleon, you are the only man I know who can project vanity and modesty at the same time.”

“Thank you, partner,” Napoleon said, beaming.

Solo sat behind his desk and Kuryakin settled on the couch. Number Two was always briefed on the status of various projects and missions before Number One left the city.

“You might want to keep your eye on the Dixon team in Chile. Things are pretty unstable down there, and I don’t want them to wear out their welcome with the so-called government.”

“Right,” Illya said, reaching forward to grab a notepad from Solo’s desk and jotting himself a reminder. They talked shop for the next several minutes, Illya asking questions and taking notes.

“Oh, and I wanted to give you this,” Solo said as he finished the briefing, and reached into a desk drawer to draw out a large inter-office envelope thick with paper.

Kuryakin stretched to take the heavy envelope, holding his pen in his teeth as he unwound the string that held it closed. He pulled out an issue of Playboy.

“I was informed by Medical yesterday that you’re good to go, too,” Napoleon said with a look of mischief.

The Russian raised an eyebrow and leafed through the magazine. “I suppose some two-dimensional inspiration wouldn’t hurt.” He paused at a particularly pleasing photo.

“Mmmmm,” Solo growled, leaning over his desk to see it. “You’ll have to lend that to me when you’re through with it. If it’s not too much, ah, worse for wear.”

Kuryakin glared at him and stuffed the magazine back in the envelope, tucking it under his arm. “What time is your flight?”

“Not until one, but I’ve got to go home right now and get my bag. Then it’s straight to the airport.” Solo got up, walked around the desk and reached into the tiny closet for his trenchcoat. He adjusted his tie in a mirror on the closet door, then turned to face his partner. He examined Illya’s face while he shrugged on his coat, then cocked his head. “Have you been sleeping all right?”

“You have asked me that at least twice a week since I stayed with you. I am fine.”

Napoleon looked at him suspiciously. “Would you tell me if you weren’t?”

Illya smiled at him reassuringly. “I would tell you, my friend.”

Napoleon nodded, satisfied. “Well, keep an eye on the store, huh?”

“Do you mind if a few hundred other people who work here assist me?” Illya said.

Napoleon grimaced as he buckled the belt of his coat. “Well, I’m not sure about them. Just you.”

Illya grinned. “Give my regards to our favorite Indian restaurants,” he said. Then he raised an eyebrow in warning. “Remember what too much curry did to your stomach last time.”

“Duly noted,” Napoleon said, glancing back at his desk to see if he’d forgotten anything. He looked at Illya for a moment, then he took his partner by the shoulders and kissed him lightly on each cheek. Illya looked mildly surprised.

“Practicing,” Napoleon said in explanation.

“In case you haven’t read your itinerary,” Illya said, “you’re going to England, not France.”

Napoleon’s mouth opened and his chin went up as he considered it. “I always confuse those two.” They both chuckled and Napoleon went on his way.

 ***

 Helicopter blades chopped through the air. Wood broke and glass shattered. Illya took aim at the intruders. They fired first, bolts of electricity jumping from their gun barrels, pinning him to the floor by the sleeves and legs of his pajamas. He was helpless as they approached him, looming over him.

“NAPOLEON!”

He sat straight up in bed, breathing hard, fisting the covers with both hands. He looked around in brief panic, then searched for the bedside clock. He calculated what time it was in New York, then reached for his communicator.

“Overseas relay to New York,” Napoleon barked impatiently. “Solo for Kuryakin.” He tried to calm himself while he waited, waited for what seemed like an hour.

“Kuryakin here.”

Solo dropped the hand holding the device to his lap and sighed in relief.

“Napoleon? Is that you? Are you in trouble?”

Solo raised the communicator again. “Yeah--no--I’m not in trouble. I’m okay.”

“What’s happened?” Illya asked, alarmed by his partner’s stammering.

Napoleon fell back and his head sank into the pillow again. “Nothing’s happened.”

“Mr. Waverly isn’t going to like your using satellite communications for nothing,” Illya scolded, still trying to grasp the problem. “It’s rather late there, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I guess it is,” Napoleon said, then diverted the discussion. “Did you get that message I left earlier about the, uh...”

“London’s tip on Thrush activity in Iceland? Yes, I’ve had Intelligence investigating. It appears. . .”

Napoleon closed his eyes and let Illya’s voice wash over him as he lay in the bed.

“. . .might threaten the country’s supply of thermal energy.”

“Sounds like you’re on top of things, as usual,” Napoleon said softly.

“Everything but dinner. It’s eight o’clock and I haven’t eaten yet,” Illya said with a bit of grumpiness for effect. There was a moment’s pause. “What did you do for dinner, tovarich?”

Napoleon smiled at Illya’s rare use of the nickname. “Davies and Perkins insisted I go to Veeraswamy’s with them.”

“Aha!” Illya said. “Indian food! That’s why you’re up so late. Did I not caution you about heartburn?”

Napoleon’s grin spread to the other side of the ocean. “I can’t hide anything from you. I’ll let you go now so you can feed that bottomless stomach of yours.”

“That’s very considerate,” Illya said sarcastically.

“Before I sign off, how is your, uh, project coming along?”

There was a pause. “We will talk about that when I see you, and I will see you in a few days, da?”

“Da.”

 ***

 Illya strode quickly down the corridor with the single-minded purpose of retrieving some files from Section IV, only to round a corner and sideswipe U.N.C.L.E.’s chief psychiatrist.

“Mr. Kuryakin,” the doctor said before Illya could pretend to be too engrossed in where he was going to notice him, “you missed your appointment this morning.”

“Oh,” Illya said innocently, glancing up the hallway to his route of escape, “was that this morning?”

Dr. Sierra took his arm and began to steer him in the opposite direction toward the elevator. “Why don’t you come with me now, and we’ll take care of it.”

“I’m really quite busy--”

“Fifteen minutes at the most, Agent Kuryakin.” It was plain that Sierra was not accepting any excuses, and would not be above reporting to Waverly that one of his agents was resisting his care. Illya decided that cooperation was the most practical course. They rode silently in the elevator, then proceeded to Medical, Illya following the doctor into his office. The door was shut tightly behind him. “Take a seat. Make yourself comfortable.” Kuryakin did the first, but found the second more difficult.

Dr. Sierra opened a file drawer and withdrew a folder. He sat down at his desk and perused the contents excruciatingly slowly. Kuryakin had the spy’s knack for reading handwriting from the wrong angle, but the doctor’s penmanship was indecipherable. “Hmmm,” the doctor nodded as he refreshed his memory, then started the conversation with a bland question. “So, Mr. Kuryakin, how are you feeling?”

“I am quite well, thank you,” said the Russian, not volunteering any information.

The doctor looked at him over his reading glasses, and got to the point. “Are you functioning normally?”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Illya lied.

“Have you had an erection?” the doctor clarified.

“Yes.”

“And was there any discomfort?”

“A bit.”

“Tell me about it,” Sierra coaxed.

Illya took a deep breath. “Well, because of the circumcision, I guess that’s to be expected the first time or two.”

“Uh huh,” the doctor said. “And did you experience any emotional upset when you became aroused?”

Illya shifted in his chair. “Some, yes.”

The doctor persevered. “Did you picture yourself in the place you were tortured? Or see the faces of the persons who inflicted the pain on you? Hear their voices?”

Illya’s mouth was dry, and he tried to gather enough saliva to lick his lips. “Yes.”

“Yes to which?” the doctor asked.

“To all of it.”

“I see,” Sierra said and scribbled some notes. He was silent for a moment, then, “Have you experienced an orgasm?”

Illya shook his head.

The doctor thought for a minute. “Have you been with a woman, a lover?”

“Not for several months,” Illya confessed. “I am not particularly active, socially. U.N.C.L.E. keeps me busy.”

Sierra nodded. “Do you think being with a lover might help you achieve satisfaction? “

The Russian shook his head again. “I think I should resolve the fear on my own, rather than burden another person with it.”

The doctor studied him. “I know you agents avoid attachments, but if there’s someone you trust, someone you can confide in, that person might be able to help you through it.”

A hundred things went through Illya’s mind, including pigeons, Playboys, and a purple robe. He was quiet for a minute, then said softly. “No, there’s no one like that.”

“Well,” the doctor said as he sat back in his chair, “we should probably schedule regular therapy sessions for you.”

Illya showed no expression. “Therapy?”

“Yes. It would give you an opportunity to talk about what happened to you in detail. The terror you were subjected to, the people who were involved.” The doctor looked at him sympathetically. “You can openly express your emotions in therapy. Not just fear but anger, hatred, frustration. Unresolved, they’re all detrimental to your well-being, and would certainly be problematic to your effectiveness as an operative. You wouldn’t want anything to threaten that, would you?”

Illya stared dumbly at the doctor’s open file folder for a moment. “I’m sure I will make some progress in the next few days.”

“Of course,” Sierra said. He looked at his watch and stood up, and Illya did the same. “Let’s talk again in a week.”

Illya nodded. He left the office with a casual air, but once in the corridor his stride gradually picked up speed, steering him through halls, jogging him up stairways, until he reached his destination and the door  closed behind him. He locked it and sat down to think for a while, leaning back in Napoleon’s chair.

 ***

 “Welcome home, Mr. Solo.” It was almost midnight when the uniformed man opened the door for the uncharacteristically rumpled agent. “How was your trip?”

“Well, Marty, he who is tired of London is tired of life,” Solo quoted, making a beeline for the elevator. “But right now, I’m just tired.”

A short ride later the elevator opened and Napoleon glanced into the foyer warily, then stepped forward to unlock his door. He was instantly on alert when he realized a light was on inside his apartment, and drew his gun. The security alarm was set and he preempted its shrill, then listened.

“Illya?”

No answer. He peered around the edge of the wall and saw an almost full bottle of vodka on the coffee table. He walked over to it to find a familiar pair of black shoes rested on the carpeting beneath, one turned on its side. He bent down and righted it, smiling to himself, then looked toward the bedroom and made his way to it. The light coming down the hallway allowed him to make out his pajama-clad partner, curled up in the bed, sound asleep.

Napoleon stood motionless, taking in the scene. Never had the room seemed so welcoming, so like home. He crept to the far side of the room and sat down, still wearing his trenchcoat. The fabric whooshed against the overstuffed arms of the chair as he sank into it. He sat there for long minutes, sometimes staring at the form in the bed, sometimes closing his eyes.

“Napoleon?”

He kept his eyes closed.

“Why are you sitting in the dark?” Illya asked quietly.

“Mmmm.”

Illya reached up and turned on the small lamp on the nightstand. He squinted at his partner. “Are you falling asleep?”

Napoleon opened his eyes and smiled. “It’s just, ah, time zonitis.”

Illya lay down again, his arm folded under his head. “I’m sorry if I startled you. I’ve just made myself at home, haven’t I?”

“I said you were welcome anytime,” Napoleon said, getting up from the chair. He let his coat fall off his shoulders and moved to the closet to hang it up. “Have you been here all week?” he said from inside.

“No, just tonight.”

Napoleon emerged again after a minute, pulling his tie left and right, observing Illya lying comfortably in the big bed. “Nightmares again?”

“No,” Illya said.

Napoleon began to go through his nightly rituals as Illya watched. He sat down and and took off his shoes, then buffed a smudge from one toe with a cloth. He got up again and crossed the room in his stockinged feet, took off his tie and his belt and hung them in the closet, then went to his dresser and removed his cufflinks, watch and ring, placing them in a polished wood box. He emptied his pockets of his keys and money clip and and loose change, a dime whirling on the dresser top until it settled.

“Somebody at the airport handed me a Nixon/Agnew button,” he said, twisting his mouth as he studied it. He tossed it to Illya who held it up and inspected it without interest. Napoleon took off his shirt and trousers and tossed them in the hamper, then picked up his alarm clock to set it. “Hmm, tomorrow’s Saturday, isn’t it?” he asked rhetorically, and put it back down again.

He went into the bathroom and Illya could hear him brushing his teeth and sliding the door of the medicine cabinet back and forth. He took a quick shower, then emerged again with a towel around his waist. He pulled some pajamas out of a drawer and put them on, then rubbed his hair with another towel and combed it with his fingers, fluffing his forelock several times. He snagged the towel with one of his nails, grimaced, then rummaged in a drawer until he found a file. He sat on the side of the bed again with one leg bent, and filed down the sharp edge of the broken nail. He dropped the file on the bedside table.

He turned and looked steadily at his partner, waiting.

Illya looked back at him for a few seconds, then spoke.

“That ‘project’ you asked me about from London? It’s not progressing as it should.”

“No?”

Illya shook his head almost imperceptibly. “You will be surprised to learn that, a couple of nights ago, I even asked a rather high-priced lady to assist me.”

Napoleon didn’t smile, searching his friend’s face. “And did she?”

“She was quite understanding. But when we were in bed, when she. . . touched me, I broke out in a cold sweat and it frightened her,” Illya said with a shrug. “She made a hasty retreat with my two days’ pay.”

A wince of sympathy crossed Napoleon’s face, and he squeezed his partner’s knee through the covers.

Illya sat up and moved over to face him, sitting close. “I want to be normal again.” There was a hint of desperation in his hushed voice. “I’m afraid it’s never going to happen.”

The deep brown eyes studied him seriously. “What makes you say that?”

Illya took a long breath and continued. “Whenever it starts, my mind shifts to the warehouse, and I see them, I hear them...” he swallowed “... and then, it’s lost.”

Napoleon nodded, looking him up and down.

“I lied to you,” Illya said.

“About what?”

“I slept here last night, too,” Illya said. His mouth opened again as if he was going to continue, then closed, and Napoleon waited patiently for the confession to resume. “Sierra said that if I didn’t make progress soon, I would be expected to start therapy. I thought that I might have more success here, where I feel so. . .comfortable.”

Napoleon waited again, his heart warmed by Illya’s words.

“But apparently,” Illya continued, “I need something more.”

Napoleon reached for Illya’s shoulders, his hands roaming over them and down his arms. “The esteemed doctor means well,” he said, “but you just need someone who cares about you.” He squeezed Illya’s wrists. “Like his life depended on it.”

Illya saw the sincerity in Napoleon’s eyes. His pulse began to race as he realized what his friend was offering. “You would do this?”

“Of course.”

“If the doctors should ask you, for their reports---”

Napoleon shook his head, stroking his partner’s arms. “What goes on in this bed is none of their business.”

Illya thought about it. “What if I still can’t. . .?”

Napoleon sighed patiently. “Norman Vincent Peale would love to take a crack at you.” He ducked his head and looked up into Illya’s eyes. “Listen, there are no stopwatches or timers in this room. Maybe it won’t happen right away, maybe we’ll have to try more than once, but it WILL happen. I promise.

Illya looked at him with suspicion. “YOU promise? Since when do you control my sexual responses?”

Napoleon gave him an exaggerated leer.

Illya pulled back from him warily. “I can see I’ve asked one question too many.”

Napoleon grinned and ruffled the blond hair. Illya grabbed his wrist and forced his hand away. They grappled until they were stretched across the bed, Napoleon pinning his partner with his weight.

“Napoleon,” Illya said, the seriousness in his tone putting a halt to the horseplay, “before we do this, you should know something.”

Napoleon looked down at his partner’s face, so close to his, at the slightly open mouth and unguarded expression. “Tell me.”

“I’ve developed some very complex feelings for you lately,” Illya said quietly. “I’m not sure I understand them myself.”

Napoleon slid off Illya to lie on his side. “I know exactly what you mean, partner,” he said with a sigh. He looked into Illya’s eyes, then leaned over and pressed his lips to Illya’s in a brief kiss. “We’ll be all right,” he said. “I have no doubts about that.”

They lay together for a minute, toying with each other’s hands, taking comfort in their familiarity with each other. Napoleon waited for Illya to initiate something more intimate.

“Why don’t we take off our pajamas?” Illya suggested, fingering his partner’s top button.

“Shocking,” Napoleon said, and they both chuckled quietly. Napoleon propped himself up on his elbow and began to unbutton Illya’s pajama top with one hand. When the top was open, he glided the flat of his hand across Illya’s chest, pushing the garment open further in the process. “How does that feel?”

Illya swallowed his apprehension. “Quite nice.”

The hand continued to slide under the pajama top, up to Illya’s shoulders, around his ribs, down to his waist, baring his torso, until the fingers slipped beneath the waistband. “Do you want me to take them off?” Napoleon asked, easing the elastic an inch down his partner’s belly.

Illya nodded and raised his hips, allowing Napoleon to draw the bottoms down his body, then kicked them off when they reached his knees.

Napoleon looked at him from head to toe. He lightly touched a scar on Illya’s chest, caressed another on his leg. He inhaled deeply and slowly let it out again.

Illya lay watching him, motionless, his breath coming faster. “Now yours.”

Napoleon began to unfasten the buttons as he watched Illya’s face. Illya dropped his gaze to see Napoleon’s chest being revealed, his pajama top shrugged off, his bottoms slid off and onto the floor. Illya gave Napoleon the same visual examination that his partner had given him, his eyes pausing at his scars, his nipples, his groin. Then he looked up again. “What do you propose we do now?”

“Do you want me to take the lead?” Napoleon asked. “Or do you want to?”

Illya thought for a second. “You decide what to do.”

Napoleon rested his hand on Illya’s belly and felt a flinch. He cozied closer to him, the length of his body touching his, and leaned in to whisper. “This is just you and me.”

Illya relaxed at the assurance, and Napoleon moved his hand down his partner’s belly to his hips, then stroked his leg. Illya raised his knee and Napoleon caressed the back of it, his hand wandering down to the softness of his buttock. Illya tensed again, holding his breath. Napoleon stopped his exploration and grasped him around the waist, coaxing him to roll toward him, taking him in his arms. “Come here, Lusha.”

The endearment disarmed Illya, and he tumbled into his partner, the momentum taking Napoleon onto his back with Illya’s body following. Illya laid his head down, his cheek against Napoleon’s neck, and Napoleon peeled the pajama top from Illya’s shoulders and down his arms, tossing it aside, leaving him naked. They lay still with their arms wrapped around each other, until Illya began to rock his hips, rubbing himself against the body beneath him.

Napoleon smiled and rocked with him. “That feels good, huh?”

Illya nodded into his partner’s neck, his breath on Napoleon’s skin. Images drifted through his mind as he became increasingly aroused. Mental photographs of Napoleon shouldering his weight as they walked out of the warehouse, Napoleon’s hands kneading his shoulders in the dentist’s office, Napoleon swaying him in the darkness of the living room.

He lifted his body from his partner’s to free their erections, and knelt over Napoleon on all fours, his gaze sweeping down his body. Napoleon smiled up at Illya and reached for his cock, handling it confidently, as if he did it every day. Illya closed his eyes and moved with the hand that was holding him, squeezing him, fingers tracing up and down his length, caressing his balls, making him moan--- making him---

His eyes opened and Napoleon saw the fear in them. He tried to stop it in its tracks.

“Illya.”

“No.” Illya climbed off Napoleon in slow motion and turned his back to him, lying on his side, curling into himself.

“Illya,” Napoleon said quietly in his ear, pressing his chest against Illya’s bare back. “Partner.”

Illya responded, tucking himself back into Napoleon’s body, pulling his legs up into a tight fetal position. “I’m all right.”

“I knew you would be,” Napoleon said softly, trying to sound certain. He wrapped his arms around the bundle that was his partner, stroking him from his knees down to the soles of his feet, soothing him further. “You just need a minute.”

“Why did they have to hurt me that way?” Illya said under his breath.

Napoleon’s hand stilled. “What?” He backed away and encouraged Illya to turn toward him.

Illya slowly uncoiled and turned with his partner’s hands, looking to Napoleon for an explanation. “Why didn’t they beat me?”

Napoleon saw the pain in Illya’s eyes, and began to suspect there might be some wisdom to the suggested therapy. “There’s no explanation for them,” he said, smoothing Illya’s hair.

Illya rolled onto his back, his gaze straight ahead, unfocused. “They took part of me.”

Napoleon’s hand glided on one bare shoulder. “I know.”

“It was part of me.”

Napoleon nodded.

Sweat formed above Illya’s lip, on his forehead. His eyes were shining. “I could smell myself burning. My own flesh.”

Napoleon’s breath caught and he was at a loss. He watched one tear escape the corner of Illya’s eye and slide into his hair.

Illya turned his head to look at his partner and saw a reflection of his own pain. “Napoleon. . .” he said, choking down his emotion.

“Hmmm.” Napoleon blinked. He wasn’t prepared for this from his stoic Russian. Illya had seemed so convincingly normal the past few weeks.

“They won’t let me alone.”

Napoleon’s arm encircled Illya’s waist. “Tell me about it if you want to. Or don’t. Whatever you need.”

“I didn’t know what they wanted to know.”

Napoleon nodded. “I know you didn’t.”

Illya looked at him earnestly, as if to his confessor. “I might have told them if I had, to make them stop.”

Napoleon squeezed him, pulling him into him. “Don’t speculate,” he said. “There’s no point in that.”

“I might have.”

“You expect too much of yourself,” Napoleon said gently.

Illya allowed Napoleon to pull him close, and slid his arms around Napoleon’s shoulders. “Would you have forgiven me if---

Napoleon covered Illya’s mouth with his own, stifling his words, wanting him to forget, willing him to heal. A hunger began to rise in him, his cock growing harder. He pulled out of the kiss and closed his eyes, poised with Illya in his arms, summoning control. He slowly opened his eyes and looked at his partner, his desire revealed on his face.

Illya drew his leg up and around Napoleon’s hip, levering himself into his body, hugging him around his neck.

Napoleon’s hand slid down the long expanse of skin that was Illya’s spine and buttock and leg, the leg that was wrapped around him. He stroked the large muscle at the back of it and his fingers brushed his partner’s sac. He felt more surely for it, cupped it, and his hand stilled.

Illya closed his eyes and felt the warmth of Napoleon’s palm as his balls were nestled in it. The touch was so intimate, yet so protective. He whispered close to his partner’s ear.

“Don’t let go of me.”

They lay very still, the silence in the room allowing them to almost hear their hearts beating. Minutes passed, and the emotion building in Illya’s chest became a whimper. Napoleon’s hand moved, gently palpating his balls. Illya felt a shiver go through him, and he reflexively rubbed himself against Napoleon’s belly. His partner’s breath brushed his ear.

“Turn on your back, partner.”

Illya slid his leg from around Napoleon’s hip, stretched out and turned, settling back in Napoleon’s arms. His eyes lowered to watch Napoleon’s hand slide across his chest, down his belly. His cock swelled further and he could feel Napoleon’s eyes on him, looking over his shoulder. He realized Napoleon was going to stroke him the way he would stroke himself, and a picture of his partner doing just that, here in his bed, flashed in his mind.

He watched Napoleon reach for his cock, listened to the voice in his ear.

“We can do this.”

“Yes,” Illya breathed. But at Napoleon’s first touch, his erection wilted. He groaned in frustration, his body going limp.

Napoleon continued to nuzzle his earlobe, whispering, nibbling at his neck.

“You’re just trying too hard.” His breath was in Illya’s ear. “It’ll come.” Napoleon’s hands stroked him everywhere but his cock, reassuring him, bathing him with his touches.

Illya turned his head to look at Napoleon in appreciation. He gripped the arm that was around him and strained his neck back, arching his throat to reach Napoleon’s mouth. The kiss of gratitude evolved into an all consuming union, deep, wet, lasting, both of them moaning into it, stealing each other’s breath.

Illya’s cock swelled and lengthened as the kiss went on, so hard it protested the restrictions of its own skin. It was totally healed, and ready. Illya broke away from his partner’s mouth. “Napoleon,” he gasped.

Napoleon looked down and breathed hard at the sight, then looked at Illya again as he reached for him.

“We can do this, partner.”

He grasped Illya’s erection and Illya moaned.

“This is an easy mission.”

Napoleon massaged slowly up the taut penis, increasing the pressure of his fingers. His lips brushed across his partner’s flushed cheek, then dipped to his earlobe, nuzzling.

“It’s been so long for you.”

Illya didn’t resist, didn’t think.

“We can do it.”

He listened to Napoleon’s wonderfully familiar voice, let himself be carried with it.

“Just feel.”

Illya’s hips surged with his partner’s hand wrapped around him, pleasure blotting out all other thoughts.

“Let it come.”

His mouth fell open and he closed his eyes, hypnotized by the intimate instructions, immersed in the heady sensations, his cock snaking through the hand that massaged and stroked and squeezed and pulled relentlessly.

“My partner.”

Body and mind focused on completion, driving his groin higher, lifting him to the brink.

“My Illya.”

He came hard with a heart wrenching sob, Napoleon gripping him, pumping him until his cum was a lather on his cock, his head thrown back over Napoleon’s shoulder, his body shuddering, shuddering, his chest and belly heaving for breath, the release going on and on, tears of completion and relief and joy running down his face.

Napoleon’s vision blurred as he brought Illya down from the peak, still stroking his cock gently, petting him, treasuring him. Illya turned his face to him again and stared at his partner with barely open eyes. They kissed each other, their cheeks wet, words forgotten.

Napoleon coaxed Illya to roll over onto him, needing his own release. Illya moved as he was directed, and Napoleon gathered him up, positioning him high on his body, his hands traveling down to knead Illya’s buttocks. Illya lay panting into Napoleon’s ear, his arms drawn above his partner’s shoulders. He felt Napoleon bucking beneath him, Napoleon’s cock moving against the inside of his thighs. He tried to find speech.

“...feel you come.”

A stream of wetness was suddenly between his legs, a puddle of seed on his balls, a cry in his ear, the movement under him slowing, the body beneath him relaxing. They drifted together, small sounds escaping their throats.

A hundred heartbeats later, Napoleon’s arms tightened around his partner again and gently rolled them to lie on their sides. Illya became conscious of the patches of semen on his stomach and elsewhere. He wiped his finger across one spot and thumbed the sticky fluid, the tangible evidence that confirmed all was well. They looked at each other and smiled, Napoleon with a twinkle in his eye. He took Illya’s hand and steered it to his own belly, picking up more evidence of their coming, then began to chuckle, his muscles moving under their hands.

“Not bad, huh?” he said, beaming. Illya joined Napoleon in the triumphant afterglow. They sneaked little kisses between grins, until the mood changed, and the kisses became quieter.

Illya spoke softly when they parted. “Thank you.”

Napoleon smiled at him affectionately. “Easy,” he said around the lump in his throat.

***

The room was barely lit with dawn when Illya slipped out of bed and padded to the bathroom. He drowsily relieved himself, then stood over the sink, splashing water on his face, slurping a handful to rinse his dry mouth. He looked at himself in the mirror and glided his hand over his body, realizing that Napoleon must have cleaned him while he was asleep. He smiled at that, imagining Napoleon doing it, imagining himself so comfortable with it that he didn’t even wake.

Napoleon...

Illya closed his eyes, his lips parting, his mind recalling the whispering voice, the masterful hands, the glorious orgasm. His body joined his mind in the moment.

But a part of him wasn’t yet ready to give up another memory. He opened his eyes, startled, and stifled an impulse to rush back to the bedroom, back to the person who could make everything right again.

Napoleon HAD made everything right, just as he’d promised-- “maybe it won’t happen tonight, maybe we’ll have to try more than once, but it will happen...”  Napoleon had helped him jump that hurdle, helped him become sexually functional again. No, Illya thought, sexually alive. His partner had saved his life countless times, and this act of intimacy qualified as that. He could hardly expect more.

He moved to the doorway of the master bath, lost in thought, pausing to absentmindedly switch off the light. He looked up to find Napoleon’s eyes on him. He stood still for a moment, then took four slow strides to the bed.

Napoleon was lying on his side, propped on his elbow. He reached for Illya’s hip, coaxing him closer. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

“Did you wake up erect?” he asked clinically, eyeing the flaccid penis that was level with his eyes.

Illya thought he should be uncomfortable with the intensely personal question, but suddenly felt there wasn’t anything he couldn’t tell Napoleon, couldn’t show him, couldn’t do with him. He’d bared so much to his partner, so much more than his body.

“No, I’m still having some memories.”

Illya watched Napoleon’s hand come up to his groin, watched him take his penis between his thumb and forefinger. He held his breath as Napoleon’s mouth came close and placed a light kiss on the head of his cock. It responded. Another soft kiss. Illya’s body trembled as he watched. A third kiss. A surge of arousal went through the Russian from his head to his heels.

He shut his eyes to the erotic sight, and concentrated on the brush of the lips, the warmth of the breath, the press of the wet tongue. The mouth left him and he opened his eyes again. Napoleon had rolled onto his back, tossing the sheet off in invitation. His eyes and arms beckoned.

Illya climbed onto Napoleon and began to writhe on him, lost in desire. He’d never felt such total need, and Napoleon’s hands touched him in ways that inflamed him further. Startling touches, even more intimate than the night before. Illya felt a finger slide into him and gasped, then kissed Napoleon with such passion he thought he might smother him. He pulled back and they stared at each other for a second before Illya got enough breath to speak.

“I want to love you.”

Napoleon didn’t say anything, only smiled through a haze of arousal.

Illya grinned with delight at the signal of consent, and began an urgent trail of kisses down Napoleon’s torso, across his belly, down one leg and up the inside, nuzzling under his testicles, mouth and tongue setting his partner on fire. He laid more kisses up the underside of Napoleon’s full cock, observing the gentle upward curve of the erection, sweeping his tongue around it, wrapping his hand around the shaft. He sucked at the sensitive spot on the underside of the flare, and Napoleon’s hips jerked. He looked up and saw Napoleon clutching the pillow under his head, trusting himself to him. Illya took the whole head of Napoleon’s cock in his mouth and sucked hard, sealing his lips around it, his hand and his mouth obsessed with pleasing him.

“Illya!” Napoleon gasped. It was a warning, Illya supposed, but he didn’t heed it. He wouldn’t release Napoleon now, wouldn’t abandon the one who had never abandoned him. The rush of semen almost gagged him, jolting his libido back to reality, and he forced himself to swallow quickly, to keep sucking, to suck until Napoleon was totally satisfied.

He held Napoleon in his mouth until the cock started to soften, then kissed him tenderly once more and crawled up to be level with him. He propped himself on his elbow and smiled as he watched Napoleon floating on a post-orgasmic cloud, his own need postponed. Napoleon finally opened his eyes and looked at him.

Illya swallowed hard before he spoke. “That felt good, didn’t it?”

“That’s understating the obvious,” Napoleon said, his chest still heaving. “I didn’t think you’d...” He gave Illya a solicitous look. “Need something to wash it down?”

Illya shook his head. “It’s fine.”

Napoleon shook his head, then turned from his partner to rummage in the nightstand drawer. He pulled out a pack of gum and unwrapped a stick, handing it to Illya. “Maybe this will get the juices flowing.”

Illya folded it into his mouth and chewed for a minute, Napoleon’s eyes on him.

“Better?”

Illya nodded, excitement bubbling up inside him again.

Napoleon smiled almost shyly. “Do you think you could get used to it?”

Illya’s heart lept. “You or the gum?”

Napoleon grinned. “Me.”

“If you can develop a similar taste.”

Napoleon fondled him, causing Illya to start in surprise. “Never let it be said that Napoleon Solo doesn’t give as good as he gets.”

Illya smiled and leaned in for a kiss, a deep and thorough kiss, a kiss that left Napoleon with a wad of gum in his mouth. “Then you’re going to need that in a few minutes.”

Napoleon chuckled, pulling Illya over on top of him. His smile stayed and his eyes sparkled but his tone was achingly sincere.

“Oh, partner,” he said, “this bed has been so empty without you.”

 The end.