He shifted, trying to relieve the cramp in his shoulder from the unnatural position he’d been forced into.  It was nothing new, he’d been in this situation before; tied to a chair, robbed of every piece of useful equipment on his person.  Oh, yes, he knew the routine.  

      He just wished they’d get on with it.  

      “Could we hurry things along a little,” he said insolently to his host.  “I have a hot date tonight.  I’d hate to keep the lady waiting.”

      This brought a smile to his captor’s face.  Victor Marton, still wearing his fedora despite the warmth of the basement, carefully considered the man before him.  Regardless of the fact that they were on opposing sides, Victor couldn’t help but admire Napoleon Solo.  He had intelligence, bravado, wit – all attributes sadly lacking in his co-workers.  How he wished there were a few like him in Thrush.  

      Marton turned away from his captive to pluck something from the top of a nearby crate.  The silver needle of a syringe glittered in the overhead light.   “I’m afraid the young lady will have a long wait, Mr. Solo.  You’re going to be very busy in the next few hours, doing a lot of talking.”

      Napoleon pulled a face as he watched Marton push the hypodermic into a small glass bottle and draw the contents into the body of the syringe.  “That won’t work, you know.  We’ve been programmed against all Thrush truth drugs.”

      “I assure you this one will work.”  The Frenchman brought the needle up, pushing down on the plunger to purge the air.  He liked this method of persuasion, unlike the physical torture that many of his colleagues preferred.  Their way was messy – very, very messy.  And often unproductive: these U.N.C.L.E. agents were well trained to resist such brutal methods.  No, the only reliable way was truth serum and this latest concoction had proven to be very effective indeed.  

      Marton thoughtfully cleaned the area of skin before pushing the needle home.  He felt the muscle in Solo’s arm jerk in response and smiled down at his captive.  “This will take a little while to take effect, I’m afraid.  We may have to wait, say,” he glanced at his watch, “about twenty minutes.”  He carefully pulled the needle out and dropped it onto a nearby table.  “You’ll like this one, I think.  Its main component breaks down resistance and circumespection.  The effects are similar to those of the excessive intake of alcohol.  No inhibitions, no reticence – no willpower.  You’ll be more than happy to tell us the truth, I assure you.  And you’ll be pleased to hear it has some very pleasant side effects for a change.  I think you’ll like them.”  He smiled down at his prisoner.  “See how nice I am to you?”

      “Gee, thanks,” Napoleon snarled.  Marton chuckled and moved to sit on top of one of the smaller crates that littered the basement, pulling a newspaper from his side pocket to pass the time while they waited for the drug to take hold.

      Napoleon continued to tug at his restraints, useless though he knew it to be.  Without any of his hidden devices, he had no chance of getting out of the tight ropes binding his wrists together.  And if he did manage to get free, how was he going to get past these guards?  

      He glanced about.  Two guards, besides Marton.  Two armed guards.  But maybe, if he freed himself, he could reach Marton before they could react, and use the Frenchman as a shield while he made his way to the door.  Still, the exit was a long way off, right at the other side of the large basement.  

      The odds of his escaping were looking shorter as his mental plans continued.

      He began to feel light-headed.  The drug was taking effect.  He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the insidious wooliness that had started to invade his mind.  

      Why bother?  He wasn’t getting out of here without help and Illya had no way of tracking him down.  

      Illya.  He was probably still at the office, finishing that paperwork Solo had managed to persuade him into doing.  All because Napoleon had a date.  Illya was a good friend to him.  Everyone should have a friend like Illya.

      The thought of his friend warmed him.  He was beginning to feel good.  He was beginning to feel very good.  Just as though he’d consumed a few glasses of the finest malt whiskey.

       His vision began to distort.  Oh, boy!  He hadn’t felt this giddy since the time he and Illya had downed almost two bottles of vodka with one of the Russian’s old university buddies.  After consuming the best part of one bottle, Illya had grinned inanely like a Cheshire cat before turning green and puking off the hotel room balcony into the swimming pool below: they were promptly thrown out.  Poor Illya, whoever heard of a Russian who couldn’t hold his vodka?  Napoleon began to giggle.  

      Marton looked up from the paper he was reading.  “Well, I think our guest is almost ready.”  He glanced at his watch.  “Another ten minutes should do the trick.”  He shook out his paper and went back to the editorial.

      Illya Kuryakin blessed the lackadaisical methods that Thrush used to select its operatives.  Their guards were not only bottom of the pecking order but they were apparently last in line when brains were being issued.  This one had been no exception.  Brimming with self-preservation, the guard had squealed like the metaphorical pig under the intimidating glare of the Russian.  Helped along by the close proximity of the gun at his temple, he had happily divulged to Kuryakin his partner’s whereabouts.  For his assistance, Illya had left him alive and sleeping peacefully in a utility closet before making his way down the lower levels of the building.

      Marton glanced at his watch.  It was time.  He rose from his uncomfortable seat and sauntered over to the chair-bound agent.  “Now, Mr. Solo.”  He leaned forward, resting his hands on his thighs so they were face to face.  “Let’s have a little chat, shall we?”

      “No,” Napoleon said, sulkily.  His head wobbled as he tried to keep it upright on a neck that seemed to be made of rubber.  “Don’t wanna talk.  Wanna go home.  Where’s Illya?”

      “Mr. Kuryakin won’t be joining us tonight.  Why don’t we talk, instead?  Tell me about the new plans for this year’s summit meeting?” Marton said sweetly.

      “Can’t,” Napoleon said defiantly.

      Marton dropped his head, mustering his patience a moment before raising it to smile encouragingly at his captive.  “I’d bet you’d tell Mr. Kuryakin, though, wouldn’t you?”

      Napoleon seemed to consider the question.  He nodded enthusiastically.  “Sure.  He’z m’ friend.”

      “Well, Mr. Kuryakin is going to be late.  He said you were to tell me instead.  So, what are the plans for this year’s summit meeting?”

      Napoleon stared intently at Marton, scrutinizing every feature of his face.  “D’you know, you look jus’ like th’ guy from the monster movies.  Waszisname?”  Solo’s brow creased in concentration before his face suddenly brightened.  “Oh, yeah!  Vincent Price.  Did anyone ever tell y’ that?  That y’ look like him?”

      Marton sighed.  Only a thousand times.  He tried to turn his captive’s attention back to the business at hand.  “Please concentrate, Mr. Solo.  Illya would like you to tell me the plans for the summit meeting?”

      Napoleon shook his head, trying to clear it.  He had an overwhelming urge to talk, but not

      about the summit meeting.  Besides, he shouldn’t, should he?  He really only wanted to talk to Illya.  Where was the sneaky Russian?  “Wanna go home,” he told Marton petulantly, with a pleading edge to his voice.

      “Well, you can’t,” Marton said, losing his patience.  “Not until you give me the information I require.  You’ll stay here until then.  No one is going to find you here, Mr. Solo, no one is going to come to your rescue, so you may as well talk!”

      “When Illya getz here….”

      Marton snapped, cutting him off.  “Will you shut up about Mr. Kuryakin!  That man is a menace!”

       “Won’t say that when he getz here,” Napoleon slurred, vehemently.  “Illya’ll come.  Then you’ll be sorry.”

      Marton smiled maliciously.  “We are two stories below ground level, Mr. Solo, and we’ve removed all your location devices.  I’m afraid you’re on your own.  Your partner will never find you here.”  The oily smile slipped a fraction as Marton turned aside to his assistant and quietly ordered, “Double the guards outside.  Mr. Kuryakin has an annoying propensity for arriving at the worst possible moment.”

      There were two guards outside the basement door when Kuryakin arrived.  He approached them boldly, marching towards them with an air of authority.  Caught off guard, they warily watched the stranger approach, pulling their rifles from their shoulders in preparation for trouble.

      “Hi!” he called cheerfully, before pulling his gun from its hiding place and shooting two darts in quick succession.  The guards fell, floored in seconds, before having a chance to react.  Illya grinned happily.  These new darts were instantaneous, although their tranquillizing effect on the human body was shortened to just an hour of unconsciousness.  Adequate for most agents’ needs.

      Illya quietly opened the door and sneaked inside, treading carefully down the stairs until he reached the bottom.  It was dark at this end of the basement room, where lighting was obviously deemed unnecessary.  Forced to move cautiously, he felt his way forward, one hand in front of him, as he moved slowly towards the pool of light at the other end of the room.  As he edged towards the light and the murmur of voices echoing in the cavernous room, the growing illumination made it easier for him to see his way around the pipes and packing cases.

      He slowly moved nearer, fighting his anxiety to get to his partner as soon as possible.  The voices were clearer now, and familiar; his partner and a Thrush operative, Victor Marton.  Carefully, Kuryakin peeked around the corner of a large packing case.

          Napoleon was seated in a chair, his head bowed, while Marton pelted him with questions.  Illya slowly eased further forward until the two guards were in sight, one posted at either side of the cleared space where his partner was being held.  He needed to get closer in order to get a clearer shot at Marton’s henchmen.  He waited until their attention was on his partner, then softly padded across the floor as quickly as he could.

       Quick, but not quick enough.  

      As Illya began his maneuvre, Napoleon happened to look up, spotted his partner’s stealthy advance and called out at the top of his voice, “ILLYA!  HEY, ILLYA!  OVER HERE.”  

      Simultaneously, Marton cursed and spun at Solo’s traitorous call, before self-interest had him dashing for the cover of a nearby crate as his minions stood their ground and fired at the Russian interloper.  

      Lead flew in all directions, forcing Kuryakin to duck back as a chip flew from the crate concealing him, mere inches from his face, but Illya had already memorized their positions.  These two were either overconfident in their abilities or very, very stupid.  Very stupid, Illya decided, as he crouched down close to the floor, changing his position.  He steadied himself, left his cover and rapidly fired off two shots at his attackers.  They fell, instantly overcome by the tranquillizer darts.  The basement fell quiet.  Illya pushed himself upright and sauntered over to his partner.

      “Told ya he’d come,” Napoleon crowed triumphantly at Marton crouching nearby.  “Never letz me down.  He’z the best partner anywunever had.”

      Marton looked up slowly, first taking in the muzzle of the gun aimed at his head, before moving his gaze upwards to the angry face of the Russian U.N.C.L.E. agent.  Marton attempted to smile but it came out looking like the half-hearted attempt that it was.  “Mr. Kuryakin.  It’s a pleasure to see you.  Again,” he added sourly.

      “The pleasure’s all yours,” Illya replied.  He gestured with the gun, and Marton pushed himself upright.  “Now, if you don’t mind untying my partner, we’ll be on our way.”  

      Marton nodded obsequiously.  There was a time and a place for bluster and this was not one of them.  Kuryakin had won this round, and Marton would give in gracefully, like the gentleman he imagined himself to be.  He hurriedly released Solo and stood as proud and erect as he could, given the circumstances.  “You realize, of course, that this place is surrounded.  If you give yourselves up now, you may avoid being killed.”

      “But not avoid being drugged senseless.”  Illya lifted Napoleon’s chin, seeing with despair the state his partner was in.  Napoleon’s pupils were as large as saucers, giving his chocolate-colored eyes a blackness that was strangely attractive.  He grinned happily at Illya as the Russian helped him to his feet.  “Can you stand?” he asked his partner with concern.

      “Sure,” Napoleon replied, swaying slightly.  “If the floor stops moving.”  Illya was pushing Marton into the chair and using the same rope that had held his partner prisoner to tie the Frenchman.

      Napoleon shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned over, teetering on his toes, to look into Marton’s face.  “Told y’ he’d come,” he said smugly.

      Marton’s reply was cut off by his own handkerchief as it was bunched up and pushed into his mouth.

      “Come on, let’s get out of here.”  Illya took his partner by the elbow and steered him towards the exit.

      The night was cool in comparison to the suffocating heat of the basement.  Solo took a hit of fresh air and staggered as a wave of dizziness hit him.  Illya was there, as always, with a helping hand, steadying him, keeping him safe.  Napoleon looked at the back of his partner as Illya took his hand and pulled him along in his wake.  In the moonlit night, Illya looked like a sleek black panther, hard muscle and sinew moving below his dark sweater and pants.  With admiration, Solo watched him silently slinking along the tarmac from one doorway to the next.  They stopped behind some parked vehicles to pause for breath and Illya pushed in beside his friend.

      Illya’s attention was riveted on the perimeter fence a hundred yards away, unaware of Napoleon’s quiet contemplation of him.  

      Illya had a beautiful profile, Napoleon thought, smooth lines and elegant features.  His finger rose to touch the soft skin on the blond’s cheek but Kuryakin shook him off.  “Keep still, Napoleon,” he whispered.  

      Undeterred, Solo rested his hand on his partner’s shoulder.  “Y’know, you’re beautiful.  Did I ever tell you that?”  Why hadn’t he noticed that before?  No, now he thought about it, he had – he’d just never verbalized it aloud.

      “Shh,” Kuryakin said.  .

      A guard was approaching, sauntering slowly towards them as though he were out for an evening stroll and taking in the sights.  One hand gripped the strap of the rifle slung over his shoulder, while the other searched about and found a pack of cigarettes in his jacket pocket.  

      Napoleon’s attention was still on Kuryakin.  “Knew you’d come, told ‘em you’d come,” he muttered quietly.  

      “Shhhh.” Kuryakin said again, with more force.

      “Just wanna tell y…mmph….”  Illya had reached an arm around Napoleon’s neck and clamped a hand over his mouth as the guard neared.  The man paused outside their hiding place to light a cigarette, and was taking his own sweet time about it.  Illya prayed Napoleon would remain silent.  He was down to one dart and he didn’t want to use the last one and leave them defenseless unless absolutely necessary.

      As Illya watched the Thrush guard, he became aware that Napoleon’s tongue was slowly licking at the fingers over his mouth.  Illya flinched when his partner’s mouth suddenly opened and engulfed his index finger, sucking quietly at the digit like a babe at the breast.  Illya silently sighed and rolled his eyes.  For practical purposes, he allowed the intimacy - with his mouth occupied, Napoleon wasn’t going to speak.

      At last, the guard decided to move on.  Illya pulled his finger from Napoleon’s mouth and pulled him up and away from the parked cars, towards the outer fence.  

      He found the spot where he’d cut the wire and pulled away the shrubs he’d used to disguise the hole in the fence.  Napoleon was hanging onto his arm.  He disentangled himself and pushed his partner through the gap first.  They found Kuryakin’s car just two minutes’ walk away, hidden in the trees.  

      It was a blessed relief to be on their way from this place.  With luck, no one would find Marton and the guards for some time.

        Illya decided to take Napoleon straight home.  Thrush truth serum wasn’t usually dangerous, but the after-effects often included an almighty hangover-sized headache.

      In the car, Napoleon was unusually quiet.  He shifted his position on the seat to face the Russian, his head resting against the back of the seat so he could look at his friend.  

      As Illya drove, Napoleon studied his partner’s hands; slender, long fingers, wrapped tightly around the leather cover on the steering wheel, sliding sensually along its curve as he pulled the wheel to one side and back to the other to change lanes.  Beautiful hands with fingers that were sensitive enough to detect the click of a tumbler when cracking a safe, yet strong enough to deliver a lethal karate chop to the neck of an opponent.  Hands that had pulled him to safety, hands that had massaged his knotted muscles.  Beautiful hands that Napoleon had often longed to feel on his body.  

      He looked up at the pale face, solemn in concentration.  Illya.  So sober, so pensive, spending too much time in serious contemplation.  He never had any fun, never had time for the more pleasurable diversions in life.  It wasn’t fair.  There was nothing Napoleon would have liked more, at this very moment, than to bring a smile to those full lips.  He edged a little closer, drawn by Illya’s scent, familiar and unique, and stronger after their recent exertions.  It was a wonderful scent, manly and sensual.  Illya was sensual, though he was apparently unaware of it.  Napoleon remembered thinking it the first time they’d met.  Everything about the Russian, from the graceful way he moved to the way he ate his lunch, was done with unknowing prurience.  

      Solo slid even nearer, until his chin was leaning on the Russian’s shoulder.  Unconcerned, Illya glanced at him before returning his attention back to the traffic on the turnpike.  

      Napoleon looked down at the Russian’s groin.  He’d seen his partner naked before – in the showers, in hotel rooms – but he’d never allowed his gaze to linger too long.  He had noticed that his partner was respectably endowed – not bad, considering he had no Italian blood in his veins.  It had crossed Napoleon’s mind, on more than one occasion, to wonder what his friend’s reaction might be if he did more than look.  

      It might be worth finding out.

      He chuckled at the thought and sighed happily as he looked up at his friend’s face.  “Mm, you’re hot,” Napoleon whispered.

      “I’m fine,” Illya assured him with a frown, keeping his eyes on the road.

      Napoleon smiled, sliding his hand down to caress Illya’s thigh.  “No, I mean, you’re hot!”  Illya’s eyes briefly left the road to stare at him.  Napoleon winked and squeezed the flesh under his hand.

      Kuryakin blanched.  Oh, Lord!  “Napoleon, please sit back and try to get some sleep.  We’ll be home in an hour or so.”

      “Can’t wait that long.  Waited long enough…” Solo informed him as he pulled at Kuryakin’s belt and dropped his head onto his lap.

      “Dammit, Napoleon!”  Illya tried to shake him off while keeping the car on an even keel.  He could feel his partner’s hot breath through the material of his pants, as Napoleon’s questing mouth sought intimate contact with the object of his desire.

      The car swerved as he tried to manhandle Napoleon back to his seat one-handed, forcing Illya to relinquish his hold on his partner in order to correct the car’s course.  It was all Napoleon needed.  Freed from Illya’s grasp, he returned to his quest of freeing the Russian’s organ from his pants.  

      Illya growled a warning, “Napoleon!” which went unheeded.  Forced to take action in order to avoid an accident, he twisted the steering wheel to the right to park the car on the hard shoulder.  

      Solo was adept, and relentless, when he had his target in sight.  Before Illya had managed to slow to a stop and pull on the hand break, Napoleon had already managed to wrestle Kuryakin’s pale penis from the cover of his pants and shorts and now his mouth was gravitating towards it, as it hung, limp and pale, from the open fly of his partner’s trousers.  

      Kuryakin left the engine running and reached down to pull Napoleon away before he could wrap his lips around his exposed cock.  He pushed Napoleon upright in his seat while he attempted to refasten his pants.  Napoleon was still captivated by his friend and turned his attention instead to that beloved face.  A finger prodded at the corner of Illya’s eye.  “I luurv your eyes, ” he slurred, drunkenly. The finger moved to clumsily fondle his ear.  “An’ this ear.”  Down to his bottom lip.  “An’ your mouth.  Most of all, your mouth.  You have a beautiful mouth.”  

      Happy that Napoleon’s focus had moved to safer ground, Illya allowed the tactile exploration of his features while he busied himself putting everything back into its rightful place.  He was tugging up the zip when he noticed the flashing blue light in the rear-view mirror.  “Oh, no,” he murmured, as one of New York’s finest parked his black and white behind the U.N.C.L.E. car and exited his vehicle.  

      Illya tried to settle himself in his seat, pushing the over-amorous Napoleon once more back into his.  He wound down the window.  “Officer,” he acknowledged.

      “Is there a problem, sir?” the police officer asked, bobbing down to look at the car’s passenger.  

      “Er, no,” Illya hastily explained.  “We had to pull over, my brother doesn’t feel too good.”

      “He looks pretty chipper to me,” he said, as Napoleon smiled goofily back at him.  “Your brother, you say?” he said dubiously, noting the obvious difference in coloration.

      “Different fathers,” Illya hastily explained.  Napoleon was brushing the side of his face against Illya’s arm, like an over-friendly cat.  Illya pushed him away with an elbow without taking his attention from the policeman.  

      “He looks like he’s had a snootful,” the officer said.

      “Erm, yes,” Illya replied, casually removing Napoleon’s hand from his thigh.  “He’s been celebrating a promotion.”

      “You been celebrating too?” the cop asked suspiciously.

      “Certainly not,” Kuryakin replied, genuinely affronted.

      The cop looked dubious.  “Okay.  Just take it easy driving home.”

      “We will, thank you.”  Illya wound up the window and watched in the rear-view mirror as the police car pulled away.  He flinched as Napoleon leaned closer and began to chew at his ear.  He sighed, reaching inside his jacket for his Special.  “I’m sorry, Napoleon, but at this rate, you’re going to get us arrested.”  He pulled the trigger, glad he’d managed to save a dart, and shot it into his partner.  With a brief look of surprise, Napoleon collapsed face first, back into his lap.  

      By the time they made it back to Napoleon’s apartment, Napoleon was beginning to stir from the effects of the dart.  Illya hauled him bodily from the car and half carried, half walked him up the steps of the apartment block.  

      In the lift, still under the effects of the truth serum, Solo had recovered slightly but, to Illya’s chagrin, he’d gone from being the happy drunk to a maudlin drunk.  

      Illya smiled apologetically at the elderly lady and her dog who got on at the second floor.  She gave them a look of disgust and shied away into the corner furthest away from them.

      After an interminable amount of time, they arrived at the sixth floor and Kuryakin shepherded his partner to Solo’s apartment.  Kuryakin opened the door with one hand, while the other prevented his partner from sliding to the floor.  Halfway across the living room floor, Napoleon tried to coax him into a dance, but Illya wheeled him around and maneuvred him into the bedroom.  

      Napoleon grinned when Illya pulled his jacket off and loosened his tie for him before pushing him effortlessly back onto the bed.  

      Napoleon frowned.  Illya didn’t seem to be joining in.  He floundered around, trying to get up, but Illya planted a hand firmly on his chest and pushed him back down.  “Stay!” he ordered, as though Napoleon were a pet dog.

      Napoleon obeyed, watching as Illya tugged off his shoes for him, and decided to help the proceedings by taking off his pants.  Illya stayed Napoleon’s hands as they enthusiastically pulled at his belt.  “That’s as much as I can cope with, at the moment.  Lie down, Napoleon,” Illya ordered, pushing Napoleon back onto the bed again.  Napoleon remained still, while Illya shook out the comforter and spread it across him.  “Get some sleep,” he advised his partner quietly.

      Napoleon was strangely pensive, regarding the blond as he straightened the cover out over him.  “You’re beautiful.  Did I ever tell you that?” Napoleon murmured.

      “Several times in the last couple of hours,” Illya replied with a smile, lifting Napoleon’s head and placing the pillow more comfortably.

      “No, I mean really beautiful.  Not just on the outside, but in here,” he said, touching the Russian’s chest.  “Where it counts.”

      “Thank you.  Now go to sleep.”

      “Illya?”  Kuryakin paused as he leaned over his partner to pull up the covers.   Napoleon grabbed his hand.  “Don’t leave me,” he pleaded quietly.

      “I won’t,” Kuryakin replied.  “I’ll be in the living room.  I’ll stay until you wake up.”

      “Nononono,” Napoleon said, shaking his head.  “I mean, don’t leave me.  Don’t ever leave me.”

      Illya just shook his head, an amused smile on his face as he gently disentangling himself from his partner’s tight grip.  “I won’t, I promise.  Now, sleep.”

      Illya switched off the bedside lamp and paused in the doorway as Napoleon softly called his name.  “I love you, y’know?” Napoleon said sleepily over a huge yawn.

      “I know,” Illya replied quietly.  He watched from the doorway until Napoleon closed his eyes and the steady rise and fall of his chest told him Napoleon was sleeping.  

      The first thing Napoleon Solo became aware of when he woke was a warm feeling of security.  Beneath him, a soft bed, and above, the familiar feel of the comforter Aunt Amy had given him.  

      The second thing he became aware of was a vague sense of uneasiness.  He carefully cracked open an eye and cast bleary eyes around the room.  Bedroom.  His bedroom, to be precise.  He sighed in relief, the comforting surroundings doing a lot to ease the feelings of anxiety that niggled at the back of his mind.  

      How had he got here?  Thinking hard, his mind replayed the memories of the last few hours, from his capture by Marton, to the failed interrogation in the basement, to the subsequent rescue by his partner.  

      And the details of that trip home.

      That trip home!  He groaned aloud.  Oh, no.  He remembered, in startling and cruel clarity, every word he’d said, every move he’d made, every touch and every feeling.  He recalled his strong desire to make love to his partner, to pleasure him, take him in his mouth and make him come.  He’d wanted it so much.  It was an act he’d only ever performed once in all his adult life.

      But worst of all were the feelings this drug had laid bare.  For the emotions he’d keep firmly under control, the desires he’d managed to curb, now ran rampant and free.  The things he’d dreamed about saying to Illya - but never before dared - he’d said last night.   The body he’d longed to touch so desperately for two years, he’d fearlessly touched last night.  

      The drug had left him emotionally exposed, even though the effects of inebriation had worn off.  All he could hope for was that, in time, he could gather up his errant emotions and box them back in.

      Carefully, he sat upright, expecting the timpani orchestra thumping in his skull that usually followed one of Thrush’s doping sessions.  To his surprise – and utmost relief - the headache didn’t materialise.  He pushed the comforter aside and swung his legs off the bed.  

      He heard the quiet sound of Brahms coming from his living room and went to investigate.  

      Just as he’d expected, Illya was on guard, prepared to defend Napoleon, should he need it.  Well, perhaps, not quite.  His blond partner lay stretched out on the sofa, head back so that his hair fanned out over the cushion he was using as a pillow.  His eyes were closed and one arm was thrown back over his head in a strangely unguarded gesture.

      Napoleon moved away from the open door, treading barefoot on the deep pile carpet to look down at his partner.  Illya.  He looked so innocent like this, though his forehead never lost that little frown, even when his body was relaxed in sleep.  The full, pink lips were parted, drawing in air and expelling it in silence.  Napoleon wished he could see his eyes, one of Illya’s most attractive features.  

      What am I thinking?  Napoleon scrubbed at his face, his emotions in turmoil.  Perhaps the drug hadn’t worn off yet; perhaps he should go back to bed and try to sleep a little longer.  Then, when he woke, he’d be back in control.  

      Same as always.  Business as usual.  

      So intent on his study of his partner, Napoleon jumped when Illya’s eyes suddenly snapped open.  Solo chuckled at his own nervousness.  Despite his stealth, Kuryakin was always alert.  There was no creeping up on him.

      Illya sat up quickly, his head tilted to one side in an enquiring manner.  “Napoleon?” he asked, uncertainly.  

      Solo sat down beside him, close but not too close.  “It’s okay.  I’m back to being me.”

      Illya grinned.  “I’m not sure that’s something to brag about.”

      “Neither am I, after my recent behavior.”  He looked down, his face reddening with shame.

      “It was the drug, Napoleon.  There was no harm done.”  Illya’s hand came to rest on his thigh, a gesture intended to comfort.  Napoleon felt his cock jerk in reaction.  He crossed his legs to hide his embarrassment and Illya’s hand slid away.

      Napoleon still needed some sort of contact with his friend, something innocuous, and settled for resting his hand on Illya’s arm.  Illya patted his hand in sympathy before standing.  “I should go now you’re awake.  I have an early start in the morning.”  He pulled his jacket off the chair and slipped it on, taking the captured syringe from his pocket and waving it at Napoleon.  “I managed to get a sample.  If I can replicate it in the lab, we might be able to create a counteragent.”

      Napoleon walked him to the door, his feelings still in turmoil.  In one respect, he was glad that Illya was leaving – it gave him time to think without the distraction.  But he was also sorry to see him go.  Napoleon had always enjoyed Illya’s company.  They blended so well, both at work and socially.  Two compatible halves that made the perfect whole - there was no wonder he was in love with the man.

      Illya turned in the open doorway.  “By the way, I spoke to Mr. Waverley while you were asleep.  He doesn’t expect you in today.  You should rest, in case there are any lingering effects.”

      Napoleon nodded.  Lingering effects?  Oh, yes, he had those, all right!

      He didn’t get any rest that day, even though he tried.  His mind wrestled constantly with thoughts of his partner.  What did Illya think about his behavior last night, about the things he’d said, the things he’d done?  How did Illya feel?  He’d seemed calm enough at the time, but it was hard to tell what the Russian was thinking at the best of times.

      When it came to emotions, Illya was a closed book.  He could blank out expressions in the blink of an eye.  Mark had said that Illya had the perfect poker face, and Illya had proved it by thrashing them both during a late-night game.   He gave nothing away; no twitch of the mouth, no blink of an eye.  Illya was harder to read than a Thrush code.

      How he wished he knew how Illya felt about him.  He knew the other agent cared about him, even loved him, in a platonic sort of way.  But when they’d shared a bed together, as they so often did on assignment, did Illya get the same feelings of contentment and security that he did?  The same thrill of being so close to the object of his secret desires?  Did he ever feel that same need for contact that Napoleon did, just a reassuring touch or a comforting gesture?

      He’d never know, for even if his friend harbored the same inclination, Illya would never put his emotions on display in such a bold manner.   Even so, Napoleon knew he now had to confess all to his partner, knew that he couldn't hide behind a pretense of normality anymore.  If Illya didn’t – or couldn’t – return his affections, than he’d talk to Waverley about a transfer.  Illya didn’t need the distraction of a partner who couldn’t be counted on to keep his ardor in check.

      When Napoleon woke the next morning, things hadn’t improved.  His sleep had been interrupted by dreams about himself and his partner.  It was nothing new; Napoleon had such dreams, occasionally.  They were sometimes scary nightmares that replayed the worst moments of their assignments, but occasionally, as tonight, they were erotic and arousing.  It left him feeling emotionally drained.

      Consequently, he was edgy and tired when he picked up his badge at reception and almost failed to produce his customary smile for the receptionist before heading down the corridor to the center of the building’s operations.

      When Illya was at headquarters, he could always be counted to be in one of three places; his office, the commissary or the lab.  This time, he guessed correctly: Kuryakin was in the lab, putting to good use one of his many talents, successfully analysing the sample he’d brought back from the warehouse basement.  

      Napoleon smiled fondly at his partner.  Surrounded by state-of-the-art scientific paraphernalia, the Russian was scribbling furiously in a shabby notebook with a badly chewed stump of pencil, his tinted glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose.  And though Illya had his back to him, Napoleon wasn’t surprised to see the blond head rise from the notebook and turn.  

      Illya always knew when he was around.

      Solo grinned.  “How do you do that?  How did you know it was me?”

      His partner grinned back.  “Your aftershave precedes you by twenty feet.  I’ve told you before, Napoleon, you shouldn’t use so much of that stuff.  Thrush would have no trouble tracking you down, even without a bloodhound.”  Belatedly, he noticed the underlying serious set to his partner’s face and asked, “Is anything wrong?”

      “Illya…” Napoleon paused, looking uncertainly at the back of the female lab assistant, bent over a microscope across the room.

      Illya recognized Napoleon’s thinly disguised need to speak in privacy.  “Louise,” he called to the redhead, “why don’t you take your break now.”

      She looked over her shoulder at the two agents.  “Sure,” she said agreeably, quickly changing out of her lab coat before he changed his mind.

      Napoleon waited until she left, then looked directly into his partner’s face.  “Illya, I want to…”

      The door banged open as someone came in with a box, dropped it on the work surface and waited patiently for Kuryakin until he signed for it.  Napoleon stood silently by until the man had left.

      “I want to talk about….”  The door swung open again as another lab technician walked in, chatting animatedly to a woman at his side.  “Dammit!” Napoleon muttered.  “This place is like Grand Central in the holiday season.”

      “Let’s go to the office,” Illya suggested.  He slid off his stool and slipped his jacket over his shoulders. “I want to talk to you anyway.  I’ve managed to replicate the serum,” he said proudly, tapping a finger against a small glass test tube of clear fluid.  

      The short walk from the labs to the offices was made in silence, Illya glancing occasionally at his friend’s solemn face as they paced side by side down the corridor.  He was acutely aware of the tense set of his partner’s shoulders, tuned to Napoleon’s mood as unerringly as a mother to her child.

      Illya closed the door behind them and took the chair behind his desk, watching Napoleon pace restlessly around the office floor like a caged panther.  “Napoleon….” he said quietly.  Solo stopped his pacing and looked up.  “You said you wanted to talk,” Illya reminded him.

      Napoleon nodded thoughtfully, walked across to his desk, picked up a glass paperweight to give his hands something to do, and leaned against the desktop.  He kept his eyes on the decorative pattern on the paperweight, avoiding his partner’s concerned look.  

      “Illya,” he said slowly, “about that night, the night you rescued me from Victor.  The things I said….”

      Illya waved a hand at him dismissively.  “You were under the effects of the drug.  Forget it.”

      Napoleon sighed.  “I can’t forget it.”   He put the weight down and pushed away from the edge of his desk.  “You see, the things I said that night…” he paused, suddenly self-conscious, “…were true.”  He watched Illya’s face, waiting for a reaction.  Predictably, the high forehead creased into a frown.

      “Which part?”

      “All of it.  Everything.  Every syllable.”  Napoleon began to pace again.  The thought of what he was about to confess was pumping adrenaline into his veins; he needed to keep moving.

          Illya clasped his hands together and leaned on the desk. “Napoleon… it was the drug.”

      Solo halted halfway between their desks, finally giving his attention to his friend.  “Then why do I feel this way now?”

      Illya took his glasses from his pocket and slipped them on.  Napoleon recognised the gesture; Illya was uncomfortable and his shaded spectacles were an effective way of hiding his eyes.  The windows to the soul, Napoleon thought.

      “My tests showed the serum to be effective for up to six hours before dissipating in the blood stream.  But, perhaps I missed something.  I’ll run some more tests….”

      “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the tests.”  He sighed and prepared to bare his soul.  “Illya, I’ve felt this way about you for some time.”

      Illya’s hands were clasped together, his fidgeting thumbs doing a dance around each other.  “It won’t hurt to run the tests again.  I’ll ask Louise to get right on it this afternoon….”

      “Illya, I’m trying to tell you, I’ve always felt this way.  It’s just that, before, it was easier to ignore, to control.  If I didn’t think about you that way, then it wasn’t true.  Now I can’t turn a blind eye to it.  It’s as though someone’s switched on a light and now I can see everything clearly, whether I want to or not.”

      Kuryakin’s brow creased in thought, considering his partner’s words.  “The drug has similar properties to the effects of alcohol intoxication, but magnified tenfold.  It lowers inhibitions, impairs reasoning and judgement, lowers natural caution and self-control.  From what you tell me, it would also seem to unlock the… subconscious desires, makes you more aware of them.”  

      Napoleon planted his hands down on the desk in front of Illya and leaned forward until their noses were inches apart.  “Have you listened to anything I’ve said?” he asked quietly.

      Uncomfortable with the proximity of his partner, Illya sat back in his chair.  “Of course I have,” he replied indignantly.  “I’m just trying to explain to you why you feel this way.”

      Napoleon shook his head impatiently.  “Can you stop looking at it from a scientific viewpoint?  I’m pouring my heart out and you’re taking it apart to see how it works!”

      “I’m sorry,” Illya replied, dropping his gaze.  “It’s how I’ve been taught, to analyse and interpret.”  He looked up again, trying to explain.  “I’m trying to tell you that your behavior that day was excusable, the result of a chemical change….”

      “This isn’t about what I said or what I did that day!  It’s about how I feel, how I’ve always felt!  In here,” he said, tapping his chest.  Napoleon stepped around the desk, crouching down in front of Illya.  “This drug set something inside me free, something I buried deep, and now I have no control over it.”  He stood, gently taking his partner by the arms, and pulled him out of his chair.  “Illya…”  He shook his head in frustration.  “I’m not saying this very well.  What I’m trying to tell you is that I’m in love with you.”

       This was something he’d wanted to say for a long time and now he’d said it.  He’d laid his cards on the table, it was Illya’s call; would he play or stack?

      Napoleon’s hope sank as Illya pulled away and backed up till his back met the wall.  He shook his head.  “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

      Napoleon took a cautious step closer.  “I’ve never been so sure of anything in my entire life.  I’ve had the last couple of years to come to terms with it.  Eventually, I would have had to admit to it, but Victor’s untimely intervention precipitated the fact.”

      As his words sank in, Illya’s hand rose, pulled off the dark glasses, scrubbed tiredly over his eyes before fluttering in the air in a gesture that echoed his bewilderment.  “I don’t know what to say,” he finally said, settling for honesty.  

      Solo watched the blond’s features, now open and exposed, daring to move a little closer.  “Tell me how you feel.”

      “How I feel?” Illya repeated, perplexed by the sudden turn of events.  “I feel confused.  How could this happen?  Was it something I said, something I did?”

      “It was everything you said, everything you did,” Napoleon replied gently.  “I love everything about you, from your penny-pinching ways to your annoying habit of stealing half my lunch.”  He was just a couple of feet from his partner, now.  Another step would take him within inches.  Illya seemed to sense his intention and sidestepped his partner, moving away.  Napoleon winced.  He knew this wasn’t going to be easy.

      “Illya, I need to know what you think, how you feel.”

      Illya looked like a cornered animal.  He mutely shook his head and stepped back and away from Napoleon.  

      It wasn’t the reaction Napoleon had wished for.  Sadly, he said, “You can’t say it, can you?  Not even to save our partnership.  Why are you so afraid, Illya?”

      Illya looked stung.  “I’m not afraid.  What you’re proposing is unacceptable.”

      Napoleon dared move closer.  “You are afraid.  I’ve seen you look down the barrel of a gun and not even blink an eye.  I’ve seen you beaten to a bloody pulp and not utter a sound.  I’ve never seen you scared before, and never of me.”

      “Napoleon, this is ridiculous,” Illya snapped.

      Napoleon nodded sadly.  Despite his hopes to the contrary, Illya didn’t want him, didn’t return his feelings.  And it was unfair to expect him to.  “You’re right,” Solo said decisively.  This wasn’t Illya’s problem; it was his.  “I’ll see Waverly tomorrow, ask to be reassigned.”

      This did get a reaction.  “What!  Why?”

      “Because knowing how I feel about you and not having those feelings returned…” he gestured expansively.  “I can’t go back to the way things were, Illya, and knowing you could never feel the same….”

      Kuryakin’s stomach churned with anger.  “How dare you presume to tell me how I feel!”

      “Are you going to tell me otherwise?”

      “I…we have a good working relationship,” he argued.

      Solo shook his head.  “That’s not enough.  Not any more.”

      “We’re friends.  Doesn’t that count for something?”

      “Illya, don’t you see?  I’ve come to need more than friendship from you.  Can you offer me that?”

      Illya looked away.  “You know I can’t.”

      “Then there’s nothing more to say.”  Napoleon turned, started to leave.  Illya wanted to call out, stop him, but he couldn’t break past that self-imposed barrier, a shield he’d erected so long ago, it had become impenetrable over the years.

      Napoleon paused at the door, his back to Kuryakin, reluctant to leave and perhaps hoping that the Russian would stop him.  But his friend remained silent, putting the final seal on their relationship.  He didn’t bother to close the door.  Without a backward glance, he walked away.

      Coward!  Stupid, spineless coward!  Illya Kuryakin had spent the better part of the afternoon cloistered away in the lab, ostensibly reading a science journal, when in fact his mind was elsewhere.  

      The meeting between himself and his partner had been full of surprises.  Illya knew they’d become close lately – too close, apparently – but Solo’s declaration of love had caught him completely by surprise.   It wasn’t something he ever expected to hear from his womanizing partner.  Of course, he was aware that he and Napoleon shared a closeness that few partnered agents did.  Most agents viewed a partnership as a necessity of work, going their separate ways once they’d left their work behind.  

      Solo and Kuryakin were different; they spent a lot of their spare time in each other’s company, eating out or sometimes just staying in and watching the television with a few beers.  It had made them the subject of locker-room gossip on more than one occasion.

      Though Illya couldn’t admit as much to Napoleon, he loved being in the man’s company and was proud that Solo would choose to spend time with him.  It was the only place he felt truly safe, in Napoleon’s company.  

      Now, if Napoleon carried out his threat to leave, he would be alone again.  Solitude had never been a problem for him.  In the past, he’d never had real friends and always avoided emotional entanglements but just the thought of Napoleon abandoning him left him with a terrifying sense of desolation and anxiety.

      He never realized until now, how much he’d come to depend upon his partner, how much he looked forward to their time together.  Napoleon had offered him something he’d hadn’t experienced since childhood – friendship, trust and love.  

      The magazine dropped from his fingers.  Napoleon did love him but, until now, Illya had never understood how much.  The drug had opened him up, liberated his innermost and deeply hidden desires.

      And now he was going to leave.

      This is all my fault.  How could I let him walk away from me like that?  And his own accusatory words came back to him: Because you’re a coward!   Napoleon had said as much.  A quote from Confucius came to mind – ‘to know what’s right and not to do it is the worst cowardice.’

      He knew what was right, what he should do, but how was he going to do it?  How was he going to prove to his friend that, deep down inside, he felt the same way?  He didn’t know the words; he’d never used them, had them spoken to him in turn – until recently.  He was unused to admitting to his desires, even to himself.  He was proud of his self-reliance.  The realization, the sudden awareness that he wanted someone so much, was a shock to his nerves.  They were raw nerves he wasn’t sure he wanted exposing – but if he exposed them to anyone, that someone would be Napoleon.  Always there, always by his side, whether offering friendship or comfort.  

      How could he tell Napoleon how he truly felt?  There had to be a way…

      He pushed the magazine he’d been reading aside and allowed his gaze to stray along the counter, trying to distract his thoughts, but it only served to stir them instead as his eyes settled on the solution of serum he’d managed to replicate.  

      The truth serum.  It called to him like a siren song.  Illya shook his head, denying its lure.  There had to be another way, perhaps a note – no, he knew that such words came no easier to him on paper.  Besides, Napoleon would accept no means other than a declaration from his partner’s own mouth.

      Frustrated, he picked up the test tube, swirling its contents around as he contemplated his next move.

      The serum.  It was a way, unethical and probably risky, but if it would allow him to convince Napoleon of his true feelings…..

      He placed the test tube carefully on the worktop, staring down at the harmless-looking clear fluid that could change his life forever.  For better or worse.

      He put it aside, along with his conscience, and walked decisively over to the cupboard of supplies, taking out a fresh syringe.  He ripped off the packaging and dipped the hypodermic into the solution, drew it into the syringe and carefully capped it, before wrapping it in his handkerchief for protection.  He hurriedly changed out of his white coat and donned his jacket, slipping the syringe into the pocket.  He glanced up at the wall clock as he headed for the door.  Four thirty.  Napoleon had said he’d be working till six, catching up on some paperwork.  That gave him a little time to make it to his friend’s apartment.

      He entered Napoleon’s apartment in the dark, settled himself in a comfortable chair and switched on the table lamp and radio.   The warm glow from the lamp and quiet background music was relaxing.  Illya needed to relax.

      He removed the syringe from his pocket and carefully unwrapped it.  It seemed a harmless piece of medical equipment, capable of delivering lifesaving medication or a fatal dose of poison.  Illya wondered which it would be, in his case: redemption or destruction.

      He’d been staring at the hypodermic for the last twenty minutes.  One small jab, a quick push on the plunger and his problems would be solved.  Or would they?  Supposing his innermost feelings couldn’t be reached, or he was simply incapable of expressing the feelings that Napoleon longed to hear.  He glanced at his watch.  Five-forty five.  Now or never.  Do or die.  Napoleon would be home in forty minutes.

      He gritted his teeth with determination, unfastened his cuff and pushed the sleeve back as far as it would go.  He swiped an antiseptic swab quickly over the spot and pressed the tip of the needle into his arm.  It slid in effortlessly and though the fine needle caused little discomfort, the solution he flushed from the syringe did.  It burned, causing him to hiss in pain, until the sensation wore off.

      That done, he laid the syringe onto the arm of the chair and dropped his head back to rest, awaiting his fate.  

      Napoleon had spent the day studiously avoiding his partner.  He’d managed to spend an hour on the shooting range before gratefully attending a meeting of section heads.  Just to be on the safe side, he checked with reception to make sure his partner had left the building before checking out himself and heading for home.

      His mind had been split the entire day, one part thinking about his partner’s words – or lack of them – and another part, considering his threat to ask Waverly for reassignment.  

      When he really thought about it, the consequences of the action he was considering could have a devastating effect on his partner.  Could he – should he trust Illya’s life to another?  Besides, they worked so well together; they were Waverly’s best team.

      As he drove home his mind shied away from the thought of abandoning his partner.  None of this was Illya’s fault, he shouldn’t be held responsible for Napoleon’s lack of control.  And if anything were to happen to Illya because of his partner’s departure, Napoleon couldn’t live with himself.

      When he reached his door, he wasn’t completely surprised to discover that he had a visitor, though he had hoped that Illya would just let the subject drop for a while.  Determined to remain unflustered, he entered and locked the door behind him before walking into the living room.

      He stopped in his tracks when he saw the limber body of his friend slouched like a rag doll in the chair, his head lolling to one side, one hand resting loosely in his lap.  Napoleon moved cautiously nearer, his eyes watching Illya’s chest, checking his breathing, quickly taking in his friend’s condition.   One sleeve had been rolled up to the elbow and his bare arm rested across his chest, rising and falling in a slow, regular rhythm.

      Napoleon only noticed the discarded syringe on the arm of the chair as he leaned over to touch his partner’s face.  Unsettled, Solo picked up the needle, a frown on his face as his mind considered the evidence before him.  “Oh, Illya,” he whispered.  “Please tell me you didn’t?”

      Always alert to his partner’s presence, the blond’s eyes fluttered open, alighting on Solo, and his mouth broke into a crooked grin.  “’Poleon.”

      Napoleon tossed the needle into the fireplace and grasped his friend in a bruising grip by the shoulders, shaking him like a rag doll.  “Illya, what have you done?”

      “Had to.  You were going to leave me,” he said sulkily.  “I wanted to show you… needed to tell you, how much I…” his voice snagged on the words, “…how much I want you to stay.”  His head shook sorrowfully.  “Don’t want you to go, Napoleon.”  Illya’s voice had taken on a child-like quality as his eyes began to fill with unshed tears, the dilated pupils making his eyes look impossibly large.  

      Napoleon knew it was the drug but his heart still ached for his partner.  He pulled Illya off the chair and wrapped his arms around him, burying his face in his friend’s neck.  “I’m so sorry.  How could I leave you?  You didn’t have to do this.”  

      Illya clung to him like a drowning man to a life raft.  This was the feeling he couldn’t adequately put into words for his partner.  Only Napoleon could make him feel this way, and if he left it would shatter the Russian into a million pieces.  Illya stayed there a while, leaning heavily against his friend.  This was what he needed, this closeness, this security, this sense of belonging.  It felt so right.  He rubbed his face against Napoleon’s neck, enjoying the feel of his friend, inhaling the faint aroma of his aftershave, breathing it in deeply.  “Mm.  You smell good.”

      He could hear the smile in Napoleon’s voice as he replied, “You said I shouldn’t use this stuff.”

      Napoleon shivered as Illya’s lips vibrated against his skin as he said, with a drunken slur, “Nooo, I said you shouldn’t use too much.”  Illya reluctantly left his warm refuge to look into Solo’s eyes.  Wrinkling his nose at his partner, he whispered, “I like your smell.”

      Napoleon grinned crookedly at him.  “I’m not at all sure if that’s a complement.”

       “Tis,” Illya replied with a grin, tapping Solo on the chin with his finger.  Illya’s attention suddenly focused on his face, creasing in concentration as he suddenly became fascinated with the cleft in Napoleon’s chin.  As if noticing it for the first time, he leaned nearer, studying it with the same intense scrutiny he might use on some interesting specimen in his lab.

      Illya’s close proximity was unsettling Napoleon, even more so after his recent confession to his friend.   He started to take a step back, releasing his hold on Illya but Illya staggered as his prop was removed.  “Whoa there,” Solo said, quickly returning his grip to Illya’s arms.  

      “Keep still then,” Illya told him crossly.  “I’m looking at you.”  His fingers went back to their exploration of Napoleon’s features, from the dimple in his chin to the mole on his cheek, prodding clumsily at his face, while Napoleon patiently allowed the investigation.  Illya’s fidgeting hand finally settled for playing with the lock of hair over Napoleon’s forehead, curling it around his finger.  “You know, you have a very interesting face.  I like it!” he declared.  “I like everything about you.”  He grinned cheekily at Napoloen. “Even this,” he said, tugging at the lock of hair so it brought Napoleon’s face lower, nearer.  So close - and very tempting.  To Illya, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to close the short gap separating them until their lips met.  

      Napoleon froze a second, stunned by his partner’s uncharacteristic boldness.  Illya had never shown any sign that he was attracted to him – but then, Napoleon hadn’t voiced his secret longings either, until he was injected with the Thrush drug.  

      Perhaps Illya hadn’t known the depth of his true feelings.  It was Illya who had told him that the drug made a person act on their subconscious desires.  Now, it seemed, Illya was acting on his.

      Napoleon’s moment of indecision passed and he responded in kind, pressing his lips to Illya’s in a perfect fit.  The kiss was tender and slow as Napoleon reined in his ardor so as not to overwhelm his partner.  But Illya had other ideas.  Impatiently, his tongue pushed between Napoleon’s lips and laid claim to the territory within.  As their tongues met, Solo groaned, almost overpowered by the eroticism of this simple act.  That Illya wanted him, desired him – hopefully loved him - was all that he’d dreamed of.  How much he wanted to show his friend he was wanted in return - but now was not the time, not while Illya was under the influence of the drug.  

      While he still had control over his quickening arousal, Solo reluctantly tore his mouth away from Illya’s.  Napoleon sighed as he created a little distance between them, brushing the blond bangs back from his friend’s face.  “You really need to sleep this off,” he regretfully told his partner.

      Illya shook his head and pouted.  “Really need more of this,” he said, pressing his lips to Napoleon’s.

      It was almost impossible to refuse but he knew Illya was not in command of his emotions at this moment.  His own experience with the drug made him aware of how much a person can lose their inhibitions.  Illya would recall everything he’d said and done, just as Solo had, and Napoleon wasn’t sure how the Russian would handle it.  Kuryakin was renowned for his stolidity.  Once the drug wore off, would Illya put the brake back on his emotions?  Would he be horrified by his own loss of control?  Napoleon couldn’t take that chance.  Before taking this any further, Napoleon had to be sure it was what Illya truly desired.  

      All he could to do was sit and wait.

      “Come on,” he said, half carrying his partner towards the bedroom.  He eased the blond down on the bed, removed his shoes and covered him with a blanket, just as Illya had done for him the day before yesterday.  “Sleep now.  Talk later, okay?”

      “Kay,” the Russian said around a huge yawn, as he tugged the cover up under his chin.

      Napoleon picked up the spare pillow and a blanket and turned at the door to smile fondly at his friend as the sleepy blue eyes flickered several times, trying to stay open.  At last they closed and Napoleon left the room, leaving the door ajar.  He padded back into the living room, grateful at times like this that he’d splurged on a large, comfy sofa.   He dropped his burden onto the cushions and sat down wearily beside them.  

      What an earth had made his friend go to such lengths, intentionally doping himself with this obnoxious Thrush creation?  Napoleon knew the answer: desperation, need.  He badly wanted Napoleon to know how he felt, so badly that he’d abuse his own body with this drug, just to enable himself to say the words.  

      Deep down, Illya wanted him.  Now all Napoleon could do was wait patiently.  

      First, he’d get some rest – if that were possible.  It was still early but the lack of adequate sleep worrying about recent events over the last couple of days had finally caught up with him.  He may as well try to sleep, though he thought Illya’s unexpected declaration might keep him awake all night.

      He began to undress – Napoleon hated to sleep in his clothes, even if it was just for a couple of hours - and was in the process of pulling down his pants when a pair of slender, warm arms slid around his waist.  Napoleon almost jumped at the unexpected embrace.  Illya could be furtive at the best of times and on this deep pile carpet, Solo had no chance of hearing his partner’s stealthy approach.  He tried to turn but Illya was clinging to him as tightly as a limpet clings to a rock.

      With a little more force, he gently levered the arms from his waist and turned to regard his friend.  He gasped with shock.  Illya had stripped buck naked and his bareness left Napoleon in no doubt as to his state of arousal.  

      “Can’t sleep.  Hold me,” Illya demanded petulantly as he tried to wrap his arms around Napoleon’s neck.  Napoleon intercepted his arms and pushed him gently backwards.  “Illya, you need to sleep, then you’ll feel a lot better.  Trust me,” he said.  

      Illya’s eyes, a narrow corona of blue surrounding over-large black pupils, stared longingly at him.  “Feel better now,” he said with a sly smile.

      Napoleon sighed and studiously avoided looking at his friend’s groin as he turned Illya around, pushing him back towards the bedroom.  “Come on, I’ll stay with you until you’re properly asleep,” he offered by way of compromise.

      “Sleep with me?” Illya asked as he was shepherded towards the bed.

      Illya’s plea was tempting but Napoleon preferred the request to come from his partner when he was sober and in control.  “I’ll sit with you,” he said, by way of compromise, as he maneuvered Illya back into the bed – a difficult task as the Russian’s legs and arms seemed uncharacteristically uncoordinated.  He sat on the bed beside his friend’s legs.  “Now, close your eyes, try to go to sleep.”  Illya’s hand reached out, found Napoleon’s and pulled it to his chest.  Napoleon smiled.  Illya just needed something to hug.

      It was another twenty minutes before the change in his partner’s breathing signalled that Illya was, at last, deeply asleep.  Napoleon rose carefully so as not to disturb the sleeping Russian, kissed the blond head chastely and crept back into the living room.  His sofa no longer looked so inviting but he needed to sleep too.

      Napoleon woke at five in the morning and though he tried, his mind refused to go back to sleep until a reasonable hour.  He finally gave in, slipped on his pants and pottered about in the kitchen, bare-chested.  He had to do something until Illya came round.  There was no way of telling how long the effects would last, how much his partner had injected himself with.  All he could do was wait patiently.  

      The anticipation was almost painful.  Napoleon knew that Illya would retain the memory of the things he’d said, things he’d done.  The thing was, would he act upon them or would he crawl back to the safety of his shell?

      Napoleon stood against the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil and almost jumped when gentle arms once more slid around his waist.  He sighed.  Illya had slipped out of bed again.  

      He turned in the circle of his friend’s arms, gripping Illya by the shoulders.  He was grateful to see that the Russian was wearing a bathrobe, this time.  “C’mon you, back to bed,” Napoleon said, trying to gently push Illya away.

      Illya’s eyebrows rose and the corners of his mouth turned up in a gentle smile.  “If you insist.”

      Napoleon paused, his head tilting to one side as he studied his friend.  Illya’s voice sounded clear and rational, and his smile was that bright sunshine smile that always made Napoleon feel good inside.  It was one hundred percent Kuryakin, not the cockeyed smile artificially induced by the drug.

      “Illya?” Napoleon asked, as though he wasn’t quite sure this was the same man.  “How do you feel?”

      Illya brushed his hands down Solo’s back, leaving them resting lightly on his buttocks.  “I don’t know.  You tell me,” he invited, as Napoleon’s hands left his shoulders to slide down his forearms.

      “You feel pretty good so far,” he replied, with a lopsided grin on his face.  Daringly, he slid his hands further down onto the slim hips and with a gentle pressure, pulled his accommodating partner nearer.  “Mmm, very good.  This is you,” he declared softly.  It was his partner, the dishevelled hair giving him an endearing boyish look and the clean, soapy smell telling him his partner had just washed.  This was unmistakably his Illya and yet it was an Illya he’d never seen before: relaxed, wanton and looking as sexy as hell.  His cock twitched in anticipation.  

      “You said back to bed,” Illya reminded him, a pink flush dusting his cheekbones as he tried to keep his voice from sounding too eager.  If Napoleon didn’t do something soon, he would die from frustration.  

      Napoleon nipped gently at his mouth.  “I don’t think I can wait that long.”  It was nothing but the truth.  Napoleon had thought about this moment all night.  No wonder he hadn’t slept much.  

      He covered the unresisting mouth with his own, once more gently tasting Illya’s lips with a cautious tongue, elated when Illya’s tongue returned his hesitant probing.

      Immediately he was lost, caught in a vortex of passion that threatened to rob him of control.  His hands were sliding inside his partner’s robe of their own accord, knowing precisely where they wanted to be.  He pressed the bare flesh of Illya’s chest against his own, desperate to feel skin against skin.  His heart flipped as he felt Illya’s trembling hands tug at his fly, releasing the catch on his pants, sliding both his cool hands down inside to push the garment to the floor.

      All the while they continued to kiss, as if the passion between them would disappear if the connection were broken.

      Illya wasn’t aware they had moved position until he felt the table against the back of his legs and heard the clatter of the condiments as they were swept off the surface.  Napoleon’s grip on his hips slipped lower, his powerful hands on the back of Illya’s thighs, ducking slightly to effortlessly lift the Russian’s light frame up, depositing him on the table top.  Illya had a brief moment to think that this would ruin Napoleon’s tablecloth, but then Napoleon was pushing between his legs, pulling him close.  Illya wrapped his long legs around his partner, drawing them even nearer until their bare cocks were trapped between their heated bodies.   In this tight embrace Illya felt, more than heard, Napoleon groan with pleasure.

      Illya gasped as Napoleon pulled away from his mouth and drew in a desperately needed hit of oxygen.  They paused, staring at each other a moment, foreheads touching, hands incessantly stroking, making reassuring caresses.  Illya tightened his legs around Napoleon’s waist and began to undulate his hips, causing a delicious fractioning of their cocks.  

      Napoleon groaned, leaned in to briefly kiss his partner’s swollen lips before trailing his tongue down Illya’s body.  He paused to gently suck in one nipple before applying pressure to his partner’s shoulder, encouraging him to lie backwards on the surface of table.  Napoleon’s mouth and tongue continued to follow a path south, over the prominent ribcage and flat stomach, his nose tickling the hair at the base of the pale penis as his hand brushed upwards, blindly finding the Russian’s face, caressing the fine cheek bones, the proud chin.  A finger stoked feather-light over Illya’s full lower lip before slowly pushing into the wetness of his mouth, at the same time that Napoleon’s mouth engulfed his cock.  Illya shook and shivered, closed his lips around the digit and suckled, just as Napoleon had done that day, the day that had changed their lives forever.

      The twin stimulation was overwhelming.  Illya was partly grateful, partly disappointed when the finger pulled slowly from his mouth.  But Napoleon had other plans – and other places – for his moistened finger.  Illya’s respiration increased as Napoleon gently pressed the finger against his anus and slowly worked it inside the tight channel as he continued to suck at the Russian’s cock.  Illya moaned, his head tossing from side to side.  The stimulation was almost torture.  Illya had experienced this gentle violation only once before with an adventurous female he’d encountered on assignment.  At the time he was shocked by the act, not so much by the woman’s audacity, but by his own excitable reaction to the stimulus.  

      And now Napoleon was probing him in the same way, pushing slowly forward with his finger until it connected with Illya’s prostate.  “Aagh!” The Russian bucked in surprise, forcing his cock further down into Napoleon’s mouth.  Napoleon breathed around the gag reflex as the long cock touched the back of his throat.  Illya’s hips pulled away from the painful pleasure but Napoleon followed, determined to keep the organ as deep in his throat as he could.

      His partner was almost there, another stroke of his finger against the sensitive organ in the tight channel and Illya cried out as he exploded down Napoleon’s throat.  Solo pulled his head back to catch Illya’s come on his tongue, wanting to taste it before he swallowed.  He released the organ as the last spasm died away.  When he looked up at his lover, Illya’s hair was plastered to his head in damp, spiky strands and his face had a look of blissful contentment.

      Napoleon pulled Illya upright and gathered the blond up in his arms. “I love you,” he whispered as he kissed the side of Illya’s sweaty neck.  

      “I love you too,” Illya replied with a sappy smile on his face.  He leaned forward to kiss his new lover and Napoleon’s hard cock prodded him in the stomach, reminding him that his partner hadn’t yet come.  Illya pulled back to look into his lover’s eyes.  “Now it’s your turn.”

      Solo almost flinched as he felt his partner’s warm hand wrap around his swollen member, standing to attention.  The organ was sensitive, already leaking pre-come at the tip.  Illya’s thumb rubbed over the top, spreading the liquid across the smooth head.  Kuryakin was rewarded with deep moan of satisfaction as he slowly began to milk the hard cock in his hand.  In response to his partner's touch, Solo jerked his hips frantically in the tight cage of his lover’s hand.  Already on the edge of orgasm, it took barely a minute for his ejaculation, the thick creamy come shooting over Illya’s fingers.  Relieved and satiated, Napoleon rested his head against his partner’s shoulder for a moment, till he had his breathing back under control.  

      With his clean hand, Illya cupped Napoleon’s face, planting a quick kiss on his lover’s mouth.  He looked at his other hand, at the glutinous white strands covering his fingers, and had a most outrageous, uncharacteristic impulse.  If Napoleon could do it, he could do it to.  He put the sticky fingers in his mouth and carefully cleaned off the come.  

      Jesus!  Napoleon groaned and his softening cock began to pulse.  He’d never seen a more erotic sight in his life.  Napoleon kissed him urgently, tasting his own ejaculate on his lover’s tongue before pulling away with a smile.  “Hey, now we’re blood brothers,” he exclaimed.  When Illya’s eyebrows rose in silent question, Napoleon explained.  “We’ve exchanged bodily fluids.”  He kissed the rosy lips before him.  “Now I’m yours and you’re mine,” he said seriously.  Just the way it was meant to be. He kissed the blond again, aware that the passion between them was already beginning to burgeon.

      “I’m hungry,” Illya said in between breaths.

      Napoleon looked at him and grinned.  “You already ate.  Do you know how much protein is in that stuff?”

      “Not enough,” Illya said wickedly, pulling Napoleon nearer so their cocks rubbed together.  “I’m hungry, I need more.”

      “Your wish is my command,” Napoleon replied, trying to push his partner back down on the table.  

      Illya resisted the move.  “Bed,” he demanded quietly.  He’d be damned if he’d let himself be taken on the table like a bit player in a bad porno movie.  Besides, they had to eat off it later.

      The last three hours had passed far too quickly, Illya thought as he gazed up at Napoleon’s bedroom ceiling, a dopey smile on his face.  He thought that he had never felt so content in his entire life.  The bed was a wreck, half the sheets strewn on the floor while those remaining on the bed were a tangled mess.  Kuryakin didn’t care.  All he cared about was here and now, this man lying by his side, this new beginning that had started for him just three hours ago.  Somehow he knew this was going to be a glorious life.  

      Napoleon watched his new lover stretch languorously.  Not the lethal black panther any more but a domestic pussycat, purring with satisfaction – Napoleon had seen to that.  He sighed blissfully, rolling from his back to his side to drape an arm over the Russian’s chest.  He snuggled in closer, nibbling playfully at his lover’s shoulder.  “You know,” Napoleon began, pausing a moment to taste the skin below his lips, “When we’re done, I think I’m going to write a letter.”

      “When we’re done, you’ll be too tired to write,” Illya promised.  He turned to face Napoleon, his hand sliding around his waist, tugging him closer, sliding his body sensually against his lover’s.  “Who are you going to write to?” he asked curiously.

      Napoleon softly kissed his partner’s chin.  “Victor Marton,” he replied, moving his kisses down the neck and onto his partner’s chest.  “I think I should send him a thank you note.”  

      “Aaah.”  Illya sighed with pleasure as Napoleon’s teeth nibbled gently at a taut nipple.  Impatiently, Illya guided his partner’s head south and smiled when Napoleon successfully hit his target.  “Mm, be sure to sign it from both of us.”  

      The End