Illya Kuryakin had to admit it, he couldn’t have planned things better himself. He’d never have such a golden opportunity again: two weeks in Napoleon Solos apartment, sharing Napoleon Solo’s bed — in a purely platonic way, of course. Napoleon himself had said it: what are friends for in times of need?

Illya had decided his time of need was now, and this was the best opportunity he’d ever have for telling his partner how he felt.

The fire that had gutted his apartment had been a blessing in disguise. Okay, he’d lost most of his furniture in the fire, but most of it was second hand anyway. There was nothing that he couldn’t replace, nothing of any real value. The only thing he’d cherished had been his record collection and that, too, could be restored, given time.

Faulty wiring, that’s what the fire officer had told Napoleon as they wandered around the remnants of Kuryakin’s apartment. The walls were seared black and the remains of the once blue curtains fluttered through a large hole in a window cracked wide open by heat. The reek of smoke was still overpowering, despite the welcome breeze coming through.

Napoleon found his partner in what was left of the bedroom. He had managed to crack open the charred door to the closet and was in the process of emptying the fire damaged clothes into a pile on the floor.

Solo picked up one of the soot-blackened shirts, eyeing it with distaste. “Well, at least it’s in your favorite color.”

“Black isn’t a color,” the contrary Russian muttered. “Besides, it might be more accurate to describe this as charcoal grey.”

He continued to empty the scorched shell, while Solo strolled about picking up charred objects, trying to identify what they might once have been.

“What was this?” Napoleon asked, toeing a carbonized heap in the corner.

“Mose Allison through to Fats Waller, alphabetically.” Sadly, lllya regarded his once treasured collection of jazz records. Their covers had burned away and the discs were melted together like a stack of badly made pancakes.

“You alphabetize your records?” Napoleon shook his head. He didn’t know why it should come as a surprise; the Russian was methodical in most things he did. Napoleon wondered if he was the same in bed, making love in alphabetical order: ass, breast, cunt, dick....

“What’s so funny?” his partner asked, catching Solo grinning at his own lewd thoughts.

“Oh, nothing. Can I be of any assistance?”

“Yes, could you give me a lift to a hotel? I’ll stay there until my apartment’s sorted out.”

Napoleon’s eyebrows rose in mock horror. “And leave yourself wide open to every Thrush agent who has a grudge against you? Certainly not. You can stay with me. What are friends for?”

“Napoleon, it may have slipped your mind, but you only have one bedroom. And one bed. Unless you expect me to camp out on the sofa - in which case, for the sake of my back, I will take my chances with the hotel.”

“lllya, we’ve shared a bed before,” he said reasonably. “Surely you can put up with it for a couple of weeks. Just until your apartment is restored to its former glory.” He grinned widely. “We can be roomies. Won’t that be nice?”

Illya smiled to himself. “Oh yes. Just perfect,” he murmured.

It didn’t take long for the news to spread around headquarters. Napoleon had always maintained that the secretarial grapevine was a much faster way to distribute information then an office memo.

April had heard it from Mandy in Translations, and in the true spirit of the office gossip, was currently sharing the information with her partner, Mark, over lunch in the cafeteria.

“Napoleon is sharing his apartment with Illya? It’ll never work. They’ll kill each other,” Mark pronounced. He gave up trying to eat his apple pie with a fork and picked it up with his fingers.

“Why not? They’re partners, they work well together without any problems. Why shouldn’t they share an apartment?’ April smiled as some of the cream that was piled on top of Slate’s apple pie stuck to the end of his nose. Her mothering instincts kicked in and she picked up a napkin and wiped it off.

“Because, my dear, they’re like fire and ice. The two don’t mix - just not possible,” Slate stated confidently, stuffing the last piece of pie into his mouth.

“Oh, I don’t know. Put the two together and what have you got?”

Mark looked at her expectantly as he swallowed.

“Steam heat,” she supplied. She wiped another wayward blob of cream off her partner’s chin and gave him a wink before getting up and leaving the table.

Mark shouted after her, “Bet you five bucks it won’t last two days!”

“Hey, I’ll take that bet,” McKenzie on the next table offered quickly.

“I bet you ten it won’t last twenty-four hours,” Dimbleby chipped in.

“Nah,” Spender said playfully. “Anyone can see they’re in love. Betcha they’re picking out curtains together before the week is out.”

The laughter followed April as she walked out the door. Within ten minutes, most of the cafeteria’s clientele were involved in an impromptu sweepstakes.

It had been a long, arduous day. After bagging up and dumping most of his former belongings, Illya had spent the remainder of the evening buying replacement toiletries for his stay at Napoleon’s. He had a set of fresh clothes in a locker at work; they would have to do for now. Napoleon spent the better part of the day rescheduling his and his partner’s work, before attending a late meeting Waverly had called.

By late evening, both agents were glad to be home. After discussing the next day’s caseload together, the two agents shared a late supper before giving in to exhaustion and calling it a night.

Solo showered first, sighing as he finally clambered into the welcoming bed. He picked up a book from the bedside table – a little reading always helped him sleep – and leaned back against the headboard. He’d managed to get through a couple of pages of the latest James Bond thriller when Illya walked in, freshly showered and as naked as the day he was born. Solo glanced over as he pulled back the covers and slid into bed.

“Aren’t you going to put on your jammies?”

Illya rolled over and turned his back to him. “They were destroyed in the fire, remember?”

“Wear a pair of mine.”

Kuryakin’s head turned towards his partner. “They’re silk. It brings me out in a rash.” He went back to trying to sleep. Solo tried to go beck to his book, but he couldn’t concentrate, distracted by a slightly sweet aroma in the air, a delicate feminine scent. Napoleon sniffed at his partner. “Are you wearing perfume?”

Illya looked round, perplexed for a moment. His face relaxed with sudden understanding. “Oh, no. lt’s the soap. It is a little … scenty.”

“You’re using women’s soap?”

“Americans have different soaps for men and women?” Bemused, Illya shook his head. “Amazing. But soap is soap. It washes me clean, that’s all I require of it. Besides, it was the first thing I picked up in the store today. Still, if it bothers you...” he said, rising from the bed. Napoleon tugged him back.

“I didn’t say it was a bad smell. In fact it’s rather pleasant. It’s just not very... manly.”

Illya glanced over his shoulder to glare at Napoleon. Napoleon grinned. No man liked to have his masculinity impugned. “Just try reading the labels next time,” he advised.

*******

Napoleon was having a dream. Naturally, it involved a woman and as so often happed in his dreams, she was faceless. But it wasn’t her face he was interested in. He came up behind her, reaching his arms around her soft, yielding body, inhaling her scent, nuzzling her soft skin. He pressed himself up against her, ready for a little romance...

The dream retreated as he drifted from REM sleep to partial cognisance. It was a good dream - he was disappointed to lose it. But in his dream, his body became aware of another enticing body in his bed: the womanly smell, the soft, smooth skin. Still half asleep, he tried to recapture the eroticism of his dream. His arms went around the trim waist, snuggling up to sleepily kiss the shoulder facing him. He felt his erection rasp deliciously against a naked thigh as he nibbled at the tiny ear. He moved his kisses down, searching for a mouth — and a rough chin grated against his own.

Napoleon was jarred fully awake. He quickly pulled away, as though he’d found himself cuddling a cobra instead of his best friend, and distanced himself from his partner by two feet. In the gloom, he saw Illya turn towards him. Napoleon rubbed a hand over his face, hot with embarrassment. “Shit! Why the hell didn’t you wake me?”

Though he couldn’t see his expression, Napoleon could sense Illya’s amusement. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself. Besides, you were keeping me warm.”

Napoleon harrumphed. “If you’re that cold, get another blanket.” He straightened the covers with a brisk snap and turned his back to Illya.

He was suddenly afraid to sleep in case he had another dream. Having his male partner sleeping naked with him could be a problem. He was too cozy in Illya’s company - it lowered his natural defenses. He could still feel the heat from the Russian’s bare body and found it too much of a distraction. Tomorrow, he decided, he would slip out at lunchtime and buy his partner some pyjamas. Some nice, thick pyjamas.

Even so, he couldn’t help smiling at his mistake. Illya had taken it rather well, all things considered.

He punched the pillow into a more comfortable shape and slowly slipped back to sleep.

*****

Mark Slate couldn’t possibly have known how right he was.

Less than a day and Napoleon was beginning to have serious regrets about the wisdom of making the offer of accommodation to his friend. It hadn’t been like this when they shared a hotel room together. Then, Napoleon could tolerate the Russian’s untidiness — people were employed to clean up after him. But on the very first morning after his partner had moved in, Napoleon rose and went to the bathroom and found, not only Illya’s discarded clothes piled in an untidy heap in the corner of the room, but his socks soaking in the wash basin.

“Illya!” Napoleon screamed.

After a few moments, his partner appeared round the door, a misshapen cooking utensil clutched in his hand.

Suddenly Solo forgot the offensive socks and stared at the deformed head of his plastic spatula. He snatched it from the Russian’s hand and waved it in his face. “What have you done to my utensils?”

At least Illya had the good grace to look shamefaced. “Oh.” he murmured. “I was making breakfast... scrambled eggs, just how you like them... and it slipped onto the burner..” his voice trailed away as Napoleon’s face turned red.

“And what about the socks in the wash basin?”

“I was going to wash them out after breakfast. If you tell me where you want me to put them....”

Napoleon wasn’t listening. He was sniffing at a familiar odor in the air, an odor he had recently smelled in his partner’s apartment. “Something’s burning!”

“The eggs!” Illya disappeared into the blue haze filling the kitchen, with Napoleon close on his heels. The kitchen looked as though a tornado had blown through, leaving debris in its path: an empty milk carton lay on its side, the residue of milk spilling out onto the work surface, eggshells and their glutinous contents littered the counter next to a pile of burned toast that was completely unredeemable. The frying pan was pouring thick, grey fumes into the air. Illya yanked it off the burner and threw it into the sink, chipping the enamel basin in the process. Then as he reached over to open a window to let out the fumes, he knocked over a vase of flowers, spilling water everywhere.

Napoleon sagged wearily against the doorframe. He’d been here less than twenty-four hours. Only another thirteen days to get through. He wasn’t sure he was going to make it with his sanity intact.

They sat down to the cremated remains of their breakfast in a tense silence. Cooking was one of the few skills the Russian had never managed to master. After a while, Kuryakin tentatively asked. “Should we take my car or yours?”

“We’ll take mine.” Solo wasn’t sure he was in the mood to cope with the chaotic jumble of his partner’s car; the glove compartment overflowing with notes in Illya’s spidery scrawl, the discarded Styrofoam cups tossed carelessly onto the back seat. How could a man, who carefully alphabetized his records, both at home and at work, be so slovenly with the space he occupied?

“...Napoleon?”

Solo realized IIlya was talking. “Hm?”

“I asked if you would you like me to cook dinner tonight?”

Napoleon looked down at the charred remains of the scrambled eggs and blackened toast he’d left untouched on the plate. “Why don’t we pick up something from the deli on the way home?’ he suggested, as he checked his watch. It was time to go. He tapped the watch face meaningfully in his friend’s direction and rose from the table, picking up his dish at the same time. Illya was already at the door, but turned to watch Napoleon scrape the plate debris into the bin before washing his plate and putting it back in the cupboard. Illya decided, under the circumstances, to follow suit. Napoleon still seemed tetchy.

After he tidied his plate away, he looked for his suit coat. He’d left it hanging over the back of the chair last night. but it wasn’t there now. “Where’s my jacket?”

“I hung it up,” Napoleon replied, combing his hair as he checked out his appearance in the mirror.

“Where?” the Russian asked impatiently.

“In the refrigerator,” Napoleon replied flippantly.

“Whatr?”

Napoleon sighed as he turned to his partner. “It’s in the closet. Where it belongs.” he said, stressing the last word.

“Oh.” Illya retrieved his jacket and slipped it on, annoyed when his partner straightened his lapels and brushed him down.

“Napoleon!”

Solo just smiled disarmingly at him. “Don’t want the neighbors thinking I have a vagrant staying over.”

lllya growled and left.

****

It was almost lunch time when Napoleon slipped into the labs looking for his partner. Instead, he found Martine, bending over as she looked through the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet, her petite derriere swaying as her foot tapped to the music coming from a radio on the desk. Napoleon eyed the two perfect globes fondly, two perfect handfuls, if his memory served him correctly. It had been a few weeks since they’d dated. Perhaps it was time to renew old acquaintances.

She stood and jumped, startled by his silent presence. Her wide, ruby lips, broke into a genuine smile. “Hi. Were you looking for Illya?”

Napoleon sighed. He loved the French accent, it was so sensual. In fact, any accent pretty much did it for him. He’d even teased Illya about it once. “

Well, I was,” he told her with a predatory smile. “But you’ll do much better.”

“Oh?” Sensing his interest, she moved nearer, removing her glasses in the process. Napoleon stepped closer too, meeting her ha1f~aray. His hand rose to play with a lock of her hair, twisting it around his finger and drawing her nearer, like a fish on a line. “It’s been a while, Martine.”

“Too long. I was beginning to think you had forgotten me.”

“How could one forget a companion as charming as yourself? No, I’ve just been a little busy lately, that’s a11.”

“Yes, I know. With Jennifer, Constance, Judy, Adelle…”

Napoleon cleared his throat. “Well, maybe it’s time to renew old acquaintances. What are you doing tonight?”

“Seeing you,” she replied with confidence. “You see, I think we should renew our acquaintance, too. And I have some new toys at home. Why don’t you come over and play?”

Napoleon smiled. Martine was fond of her ‘games’ and had an extensive collection of sex aids. Not that he felt he needed them, but he was always willing to please a lady.

“You have a date. See you about eight?”

“Fine.” She gave him a wet kiss, a promise of things to come.

Reluctantly, they parted and he turned to leave, startled by the sight of his friend standing in the doorway. “Illya! I just stopped by to see if you wanted to go for something to eat.”

“It looks like you’ve already eaten.” Illya pulled Napoleon’s handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped the ruby lipstick from his mouth. “I’m too busy, but Mark’s looking for company, why don’t you ask him?”

“Okay. See you later.” He winked at Martine and left.

Illya sat down at his workbench, ostensibly studying his notes, but anyone who knew him well, as Solo did, knew that inscrutable look on his face. Illya was busily plotting, finding a solution to a problem. The problem was that while Napoleon had access to any number of willing females, he was unlikely to notice his partner.

This problem, however, wasn’t too difficult to take care of. He turned to his assistant. “Martine, I need you to finish the tests on that last batch of truth serum. I have to write a report for Mr. Waverly first thing tomorrow morning.” He did have a report to write, though it wasn’t urgent. He’d already ascertained the serum to be useless. Still, it never did any harm to run the tests twice.

“But that will take me most of the afternoon and the evening. And I have a date with Napoleon.” Her disappointment showed on her pretty face, and Illya almost gave in. He knew what it was like to be frustrated, but Martine had her fair share of suitors practically falling over themselves for an invite to her den of delights. There would be other nights and other men — but not Napoleon. Not if he could help it.

Illya pushed his guilt aside, leaving no room for argument. “That’s okay. I’ll explain to Napoleon you have to work.”

“You’re too kind,” she replied, without meaning it in the least.

He stayed there himself until seven, making sure her tests wouldn’t be completed, before he left for home.

Home. It was nice thinking that way. A simple, four letter word that represented everything he missed in his adult life: security, warmth and, he hoped one day, love.

When he walked through the door, he playfully called out, “Honey, I’m home!”

Napoleon’s grinning face peeked round the door, acknowledging the Russian’s presence, before returning to his preparations for the evening. “I left you some lasagna in the oven and there’s some pecan pie in the refrigerator for later,” Napoleon called as he came out of the door.

“Going out?” Illya enquired politely, though that was patently obvious judging by the way his partner was bustling about.

“I have a hot date with your delightful assistant, Martine,” he called from the behind the door.

Illya watched him walk from the bathroom, towel round his waist, and into the bedroom to dress. Undeniably, he felt some shame for his unscrupulous stratagem, but as his grandfather was fond of telling the young Illya Nicovetch, All’s fair in love and war. Illya’s grandfather had had a saying for every occasion.

Guilt had robbed him of his appetite. Instead, he poured himself a drink and sat down with a book, waiting for his friend to reappear. Ten minutes later, Napoleon came out of the bedroom, suitably attired for the evening’s games, and smelling of his beat cologne. Out of the corner of his eye, Illya saw him glance at his watch and retrieve his overcoat from the closet.

“How do I Iook?” Napoleon asked.

“Dapper.”

“Thanks. Don’t wait up for me,” Napoleon replied with a grin. He pulled on the overcoat and headed for the door. As his hand reached for the handle, Illya said loudly, ‘Ah!”

Napoleon halted. He was finely tuned to all of the Russian’s little nuances, his facial expressions and his distinctive speech patterns. That small exclamation told him that there was something important his partner had neglected to tell him. He turned, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. “What?” he asked carefully.

“Martine. I forgot to tell you, she has to work tonight.”

Napoleon stepped back into the room. Illya, seated on the sofa with a glass of vodka in one hand, didn’t look up from the book he was pretending to read.

“And you only just remembered this? As I was about to walk out of the door? You’re her boss, how could you forget?”

Illya’s shoulders shrugged, as he kept his eyes firmly on the print. “It slipped my mind. I’m sorry.” Though, of course, he wasn’t.

A shadow loomed over the page as Solo stood over him. “You have an eidetic memory and you forgot?”

Illya looked up into the angry face. “Was it important?” he asked, with as much innocence as he could muster.

Napoleon removed his overcoat, throwing it down on the chair. “I’ve been looking forward to this evening. I spent most of the morning writing out reports, half of the afternoon chairing a dull meeting on staff development and the rest of the time giving the same welcome speech over and over to each of the new recruits.” He sighed, conveying his disappointment. “I was kind of looking forward to a little R and R.”

“We could... play?” Illya suggested hesitantly.

Napoleon’s impatient glare told him that now was probably not a good time to make any moves. “Chess, I mean. Or... what’s that other game you like? Oh, Parcheesi.”

“Oh, joy,” Napoleon said in a mocking tone. He pulled his tie loose and started to rise.

“Where are you going?” Illya asked.

His partner paused in the bathroom doorway. “To take a cold shower!”

*****

Waverly had gone to a Section Head conference in Switzerland — which left Napoleon in charge. Solo didn’t particularly mind, but he and his partner had seen little action for the last few days, which left him with a lot of energy to burn off. Nevertheless, he didn’t have time to contemplate the fact. The phones rang constantly with queries and information from agents around the globe: Taylor in Jamaica, asking for consent to unlawfully enter the home of the local police chief: Gaston in Germany, following the trail of an ex-nazi scientist, calling to give an update: Veros in New England, requesting information. The cells were endless and the problems varied.

Napoleon gave up on the idea of lunch, snatching a few bites out of the sandwich the secretary had considerately brought him. How on earth Waverly didn’t suffer from terminal indigestion was anybody’s guess.

Things became quiet by seven, and by eight-thirty, he gladly made his way to the parking lot and headed home.

There was something wonderful about walking through your front door after a gruelling day at work. A feeling of contentment, of well-being spread over him. It was a feeling he wished he could bottle and take a spoonful of whenever he felt that things were getting on top of him.

Tvo things struck him as he entered his apartment: the peace and quiet, and the smell of food. Illya was busy setting the table and looked up with a smile when be saw Napoleon.

“Very domesticated,” Napoleon commented as he stripped off his coat. Out of habit, he tidied away before walking over to the table. lllya came back out of the kitchen carrying two large bowls of something steaming hot. “I got Jenny to call me when you were leaving, so I could have dinner ready when you got home,” he explained, placing the two bowls, one containing spaghetti and the other meatballs, on the table. Napoleon’s face suddenly creased with concern as he dashed to his kitchen to check out the damage. The place was clean, spotless. He walked back to the table, grinning at his friend. “You didn’t make it yourself.”

Kuryakin looked offended. “Certainly not. 1 did pay for it though. It’s a lot less work.”

“Not to mention easier on my utensils.” Napoleon dipped his finger into the sauce and sucked it clean. “Mm. I’m famished. Shall we?” he said, shaking out his napkin.

They ate dinner in happy companionship, exchanging the days experiences and talking about things in general. Finally satiated, Napoleon moved over to the sofa and stretched out while his friend turned on the radio.

“Tired?” Illya asked.

Solo sighed, closing his eyes. “Playing Continental Chief for the day sure takes a hell of a lot out of you.” He cracked open an eye at his friend. “My neck could sure could use one of your miraculous massages right about now.”

“That’s what you get for carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. Turn over,” Napoleon gladly obliged. Illya had a real talent for rubdowns, managing to hit the spot with unerring accuracy. Solo groaned as the gifted fingers found a tight muscle and worked at it.

In the background, Mantovani played softly, a nice change, Napoleon thought, from the Jazz Illya usually selected on the radio. Not that he objected to Illya’s choice in music, it just wasn’t something he could relax to. And he did so want to relax, after today. He could always rely on Illya to know just what he needed, and when he needed it. Content, he stretched, groaning as Illya consigned another knot to oblivion.

Illya sat studying his features, safe to do so while Napoleon rested his eyes. “How was the dinner?” Illya stroked smoothly, front the base of the neck, along his shoulder, to his arm, eliciting another groan.

“Mmm, wonderful,” Napoleon muttered.

“The massage or the dinner?”

“Both. I only managed to grab a sandwich at lunch.”

A silence descended on them, comfortable and companionable. Illya continued smoothing away all the tightness in his partner’s shoulders, till Napoleon relaxed and gave a mighty yawn.

“Comfortable? lllya asked.

“Mmm,” came the satisfied reply.

They lapsed back into a peaceful quiet. The violins on the radio reached a loud crescendo and Illya reached over to turn it down. He continued to knead his partner’s muscles like bread dough, content with this meager contact. Napoleon gave another sigh. He was in a tranquil mood, perhaps he would be receptive to Illya’s tentative advances. Illya decided to test the water.

“Napoleon.” he paused, unsure where to begin. “I wanted to thank you for letting me stay here. I’m very grateful.”

“S’fine,” Solo murmured. Napoleon didn’t look at him, and for that, Illya was grateful. It was something he wanted to say without those brown eyes staring at him.

“I know I’m not the easiest person to live with and you’ve been very tolerant. I can’t think of anyone else who would have put up with me. I have so few friends. Well, only you, really.” The temptation to run his fingers through the dark hair was strong but he kept his hands in check.

“Id like to do something for you in return. I managed to get hold of some tickets for a musical called Gypsy. I thought it might interest you - it’s about a stripper. Anyway,” he hurried on, “I should be honored if you would go with me. Perhaps we could go for a meal afterwards or have a drink somewhere.”

There was no acknowledgment, no rejection. Encouraged, Illya reached out and stroked the hair gently, trying to inject a soft, flirtatious tone into his next statement.

“I really would like to show you how much I appreciate your kindness.” He waited for some kind of reaction, some response. When none came, he canted his head to look into Napoleon’s face. “Napoleon. Napoleon?” He stood, leaning over his partner. Solo was fast asleep.

Illya smiled fondly at his partner. He turned the music off and picked up his book.

Oh, well. Perhaps another time. If his nerve didn’t break.

****

They spent the next three days in Boston, successfully chasing down the Thrush thief who’d gone on the run with a new prototype weapon. Illya spent the next day in the laboratory, dismantling it to see how it worked. Napoleon used his time chasing down a little female distraction. He’d decided he’d spent too long with his friend and needed a little feminine company. Sharron Destine fit the bill nicely. A sure thing, she eagerly accepted his offer without hesitation.

“I’ll even cook dinner,” she said.

“Tell you what, if you provide the starter. I’ll bring over the main course. What do you fancy?”

“Something hot and spicy,” he’d replied.

He already had plans for dessert.

He tracked his partner down in the gym and took him to one side. “Listen, I have a date for tonight, Sharron Destine. She’s going to cook me dinner,’ he bragged.

“And what are you going to do for her in return?”

Napoleon smirked. “l1 find some way to repay her. The point is, she’s coming over at eight. So, do you think you could find something to do for the evening?”

“Why can’t you have dinner at her place?”

“She still lives with her parents.”

Illya sighed in frustration. He was never going to get Napoleon’s undivided attention with all these desirable females around. “I’m sure I can devise something.’ he promised.

He watched Napoleon grin happily and waited until his partner left before picking up the phone and checking out Sharrons schedule. Her friend assured him she would be in the cafeteria in ten minutes. Illya gave her fifteen, ensuring that Sharron would already be seated by the time he’d made his way down there.

He joined the line at the counter and filled his plate, as he scanned the faces in the area.

There she was, over in the corner, alone. With a feral smile, he slid into the seat opposite her, keeping one careful eye on the door in case his partner showed up.

“I hope you don’t mind if I sit here, but if I have to look at someone while I eat my lunch, I should prefer that someone to be pretty.”

Illya could be as devastatingly charming as his partner, when he chose to be. He bestowed his sweetest smile on his unsuspecting victim. It had the desired effect - she blushed, pushing her food around the plate as she suddenly lost interest in her meal. She glanced at the pile on Illya’s plate. “My, but you do eat a lot. How do you keep so trim?”

“I burn it off with plenty of exercise.” He looked at her directly. “I’m very...” he licked his lips for effect., “Physical.”

Sharron’s fork dropped to her plate from lifeless fingers. “I know,” she breathed. “I’ve watched you. At the gym, I mean. I go there for karate lessons,” she explained hastily. She watched him as he continued to eat, shoveling a piece of meat into his mouth and slowly licking off the gravy that dripped down the handle of the fork. Sharron had never seen a man eat with such sensual abandon. “You do enjoy your food,” she sighed.

He looked up from lowered lashes. “Very much.” He leaned forward, whispering confidentially. “However, I do miss a good home-cooked meal.”

“I like to cook,” she said, rather too quickly. Her hand fiddled nervously with a lock of her hair. “In fact, I’m making a goulash tonight, for Napoleon and me.”

Illya faked his surprise. “Really? He’s a very lucky man.” Kuryakin looked away as he saw Napoleon make his entrance through the door. He decided it was time to leave. “Will you excuse me? I’ve just remembered an appointment.”

Solo stopped him as he passed. “Hey, I thought we were having lunch together?”

“I have to be in Records at twelve-thirty. Before they close for lunch.”

“Oh. Okay, see you later.” The Russian hastily left, leaving a bemused partner in his wake.

****

At ten minutes to eight, Napoleon’s doorbell rang. He checked through the spy-hole and saw Sharron’s blond head. Typica1 of a woman eager to impress, she was a few minutes early. He gestured at his partner, who hadn’t left yet.

“Get your coat on. Sharron’s here.”

Obediently, Illya picked up his jacket but stood with it in his hand while Solo let his date in.

“Hi, Illya,”’ she said brightly. He smiled back at her. Napoleon looked between the two and decided to hurry things along. He pulled the jacket out of Illya’s hand and started to thread his partner’s arms into the sleeves. “Illya was just leaving. He has other plans.”

“Oh, that’s a shame. I brought goulash. Its still hot, see?” she said, holding it up for the Russian to inspect.

“Mrnm, it smells delicious,” Illya said truthfully. It did smell delicious and looked… well, good enough to eat.

He made a show of reluctantly tugging his on coat the rest of the way.

“Oh, don’t go, lllya. There’s plenty here for three. I know you like home cooking.”

Illya paused, smiling gratefully in her direction.

Napoleon saw his friends hesitation and desperately stepped in. “Ah, I think Illya has a prior engagement.”

“Only with the library. It can wait,” he told his partner with a shrug as he began to slip the jacket back off.

Napoleon reached out and tugged it back over his shoulders as he took a threatening step towards Kuryakin. “I really think you ought to go.”

“The lady would like me stay,” Illya said tightly, taking a defiant step closer to his partner.

Napoleon stepped nearer still, until they were nose to nose. “The gentleman would like you to take a hike.”

Illya tore his eyes away from Napoleon as he straightened his cuffs. “Perhaps you’re right,” he told him, as he passed his friend on the way to the door. He raised his chin in a gesture of defiant dignity as he said. “I shall leave the three of you alone. I hope you and the goulash will be very happy together. I shall find sustenance elsewhere. I believe there’s a hotdog vendor at the corner of the street.”

As Napoleon was about to reply, Sharron came up behind him, slipping an arm around his waist. “Guys, guys. This isn’t worth fighting over,” she said, though she was secretly pleased. “We can come to some arrangement, surely?” She squeezed Napoleon closer. “I don’t mind if be stays,” she purred in his ear. “In fact, it might be fun, the three of us,” she said suggestively, as her hand slid down to caress Napoleon’s ass. “If you know what I mean.”

Illya did know she meant, and so did his friend, judging by the look of disbelief on his face. Illya decided it was time to bow out gracefully and concede this game to Napoleon. He wouldn’t mind sharing a bed with his partner, but not as the filling to their sandwich. “Actually, you’re right,” he said quickly. “I really do have some place to be. Bon appetite.” Illlya hastily retreated.

Illya slept on the sofa that night. He couldn’t bear to sleep in a bed that probably still smelled of sex. After coming home, he’d crept silently into the bedroom, checking to see if it was all clear. Napoleon had been alone and fast asleep amongst the rumpled sheets. He picked up the chenille cover from the bottom of the bed and crept silently out again, sinking wearily onto the sofa.

There was too much competition around, he realized. Napoleon was never going to notice him, not unless he grew two large breasts and wore a tee shirt emblazoned with the logo ‘Get It Here’ in flashing neon lights!

He took his frustration out on the scatter cushions, thumping them into a pile, before pulling the cover over himself.

****

“Ummph!” He came awake with a start as one of the cushions hit him square in the face. Napoleon, fully dressed and looking pleased with himself, stood looking down at the rumpled features of his partner. He took a sip from the cup in his hand. “Time to get up, partner. We have a meeting with Mr. Waverly in an hour.” He took another sip of his coffee, still studying the Russian as he rubbed at his sleepy blue eyes. “Why didn’t you come to bed last night?”

“I thought It might be too crowded with the three of us.”

“You know what I mean,” Napoleon said impatiently. “You couldn’t have got much sleep on the sofa.”

“Actually it was very comfortable.” Illya rubbed surreptitiously at the crick in his neck as Solo turned away. He waited until Napoleon left the room and stood, bending from side to side to work out the abused muscles in his back.

“We have to leave in five minutes if were to make the meeting on time,” Napoleon called from the bathroom. “Waverly will have our hides if we’re late for this one.” He came out buttoning his cuffs, in time to see lllya pulling on a jacket. Napoleon looked him up and down. “Are you going to work like that?”

“Why not?”

“Your clothes look like you’ve slept in them. In fact, you have slept in them.”

“You said we were going to be late.”

“It won’t take you long to change. I’ll wait.” Napoleon was leaving no room for argument. Illya decided to comply. Napoleon was, after all, his superior — even though he was acting more like his mother, at the moment.

Things were too quiet in the car. Exasperated, lllya asked, “What have I done wrong now?”

Napoleon slowed down at a red light and glanced over at his partner. “Tm still annoyed over that little escapade of yours last night with Sharron. What was that all about? I thought we had an agreement?”

“Afraid of a little healthy competition?” Illya threw at him.

“Competition! What’s the matter, don’t you have enough women mooning over you, that you have to steal mine?”

“I didn’t steal her, she threw herself at me!”

“And you just had to catch her, didn’t you!”

“You walked away with the prize,” Illya pointed out reasonably.

“But I didn’t feel like the winner. She made it obvious she wanted you.”

Illya’s temper subsided. “She wanted both of us. At the same time!” He sighed, rubbing a hand irritably through his bangs.

Napoleon suddenly laughed and lllya relaxed when he heard the welcome sound.

“Can you believe that woman?” Napoleon asked, shaking his head. “Imagine, the three of us in bed together.”

Illya could, with Sharron relegated to the footboard, out of the way. Out of curiosity, he asked, “Have you ever, you know, had a threesome?”

“Oh, sure. But the ratio was different.” At Illya’s puzzled look, he explained with a grin. “Me with two women. Never the other way around.”

“Isn’t that rather unfair on the women?”

“Never thought about it. They seemed happy enough at the time.”

“Still,” Illya said, a little despondently. “Even with just the two of you in bed last night, you must have had a good time.”

“No, not really. She drank too much wine with the meal and passed out. I took her home after she threw up in the bathroom.”

“That’s a shame.” Illya smiled to himself as he looked out of the window. It was pouring down with rain but, all in all, it was turning out to be a nice day.

****

After the meeting with Waverly, they stayed tn their shared office, trying to make headway through the backlog of reports yet to be read through and signed, a necessary part of the job both men found tedious.

Lunch was missed after alarm bells started ringing all over headquarters — another of Waverly’s spot tests. Four o’clock saw them helping out a fellow agent trapped downtown by two Thrush thugs. Illya received a cut on the chin in the resulting brawl. Consequently, it was a little after ten when the pair returned home.

Too tired to care, Illya dropped his jacket over the back of the chair. Napoleon automatically picked it up and put it in the closet next to his own.

Illya kicked off his shoes and slumped onto the sofa. He was about to raise his feet onto the coffee table when he caught Napoleon’s warning look and lowered them to the floor instead. Pressing the heel of his hand to his temple, he closed his eyes and prayed his headache would soon disappear.

His eyes blinked open when he heard the nearby clink of ice against glass. Napoleon was holding a drink out towards him, and he took it gratefully, rubbing the cold, frosted glass against his throbbing forehead.

“Bad?” Napoleon asked, as he sat down next to him.

“Bearable,” he replied. He tipped the glass back taking a gulp of the cold liquor.

“What about your chin?”

“It’s nothing.”

Napoleon rose and disappeared into the bathroom, re-emerging with the first aid kit. Illya rolled his eyes. “It’s just a scratch, Napoleon.”

The sofa bounced as his partner dropped into the space next to him. “Humor me. These things can get infected if you don’t take care of them.” He opened the tin and took out an antiseptic wipe, tilting his partner’s head back to clean the area around the cut. “This looks pretty deep. Maybe we should...”

“A Band-Aid will suffice,” Illya told him firmly.

Napoleon grinned. Illya never listened to reason. “A Band-Aid it is, then.” He stripped one from its packaging and placed it over the cut, patting his partner on the cheek when he’d finished. “There. All better. Now, take your medicine.” He nodded at the glass in Illya’s hand. Always willing to oblige, Illya gulped it down. As he closed his eyes and laid his head beck, Napoleon took the glass from his hand and refilled it. Illya reclaimed the recharged glass with a grin.

“What’s so funny?” Napoleon asked.

“Nothing. I like being pampered.”

Solo sat down beside him, picking up his own glass of scotch. “Well, don’t get too used to it. You’ll be back in your own apartment in a few days.”

Illya scowled at the thought and tossed the rest of his vodka down his throat.

The next day, the tomcat facet of Napoleon’s nature had him back on the prowl.

He searched around the cafeteria until he spied a likely subject; Veronica, one of his favorite dalliances. Napoleon had found her to be a very liberated woman. Just his type, she adhered to the hippie principles of making love as opposed to war. A maxim Solo was only too happy to subscribe to.

He made arrangements with her, constantly keeping one eye on the door in case his partner appeared, then left to seek out his friend.

Kuryakin was in the library, quietly reading in a corner. He looked up from his book when a picture of Abraham Lincoln came into view. Napoleon slapped the five-dollar bill into his hand. “What’s this for?” Illya asked.

“I want you to make yourself scarce tonight, go take in a late movie or something. I have a date and I might want a little privacy.”

“Oh? Who with?” Illya asked innocently.

“With…” Napoleon paused, shaking his head. Oh no, he was going to keep this one to himself “With someone I met recently.”

“Who?” Illya persisted.

“That, my friend, is on a need-to-know basis and…”

“I know! I don’t need to know~” He looked at the bill in his hand. “Is this all she’s worth?”

“No, that’s all you’re worth. It should keep you in popcorn for most of the night. Remember,” he said, fixing Illya with a stern look as he turned to leave. “Make sure it’s a late movie. Stay out as long as you like.”

“How very kind,” lllya muttered. He watched Napoleon’s rear end disappear through the door then, with a sigh, tucked the bill in his pocket.

****

Napoleon was late for his rendezvous and still felt uncomfortably chilled, having showered for his date in near freezing temperatures — Illya had used up all the hot water, again! He’d parted company with his partner after a few well-chosen curses and instructions to tidy his books and the rest of his c1utter away before he went out. Then Napoleon had dashed through the evening traffic, hoping that Veronica wouldn’t leave before he got there.

Relieved, he found her waiting patiently outside of the movie theatre. Napoleon kissed her on the cheek and led her in to the dark interior.

They didn’t see much of the film. Halfway through they started necking and Napoleon’s ardor flared as, in the safety of the surrounding darkness, his date’s hand slid boldly from his knee and up the inside or his thigh to rub shamelessly at the bulge between his legs.

It was too much. Reluctantly, he tore himself from her mouth and pleaded hoarsely, “Let’s go back to my place.”

They almost didn’t make it. Their rampant passion resulted in another heavy petting session in the car, which was only aborted by a passing police officer. After profuse apologies to the officer with all the charm he could muster, they at last made it back to his building.

Outside of his apartment, Napoleon fiddled with the security locks until he had the door ajar. A sudden thought occurred to him. They were home a little early: it was possible, the way he was behaving lately, that Illya might not have left yet.

He turned to his date, pressing a kiss to her lips. “Wait here. I just want to switch off the alarms.”

He moved slowly into the room, checking. The fire had been banked and was glowing hot, providing a little light in the unlit apartment, but it was the only sign of life.

Quickly, he checked the kitchen. No lllya. He smiled happily to himself and went back to Veronica, pulling her into the darkened apartment with one hand, while the other hastily locked the doors.

He had barely turned back when she was in his arms, desperate to continue where they’d left off. She pressed him against the wall as she tried to devour him, their tongues fencing for dominance. With his arms wrapped tightly around her, he pulled her further into the room, still kissing that eager mouth. Her roving hands trailed down his back and onto his buttocks, pinching his cheeks and pulling him urgently to her as she ground against his erection.

Napoleon, frustrated with caressing her breasts through the heavy cotton blouse, began to pull the buttons open, one at a time. He tugged down the front of her bra and latched onto a swollen nipple like a starving newborn. She groaned, head flung back in ecstasy, and dropped her hand to nib his swollen erection through his pants. Desire kept her mouth from coherent speech, but she managed to gasp one word. “Bedroom.” and Napoleon happily compiled, keen to get down to the nitty-gritty. They parted unwillingly, safe in the knowledge that in a few moments, they would be having passionate, uninhibited sex.

He guided her, unerringly, in the dark to his bedroom and paused just inside the door to take her back into his arms. As they kissed, he slid a hand up and under the hem of her skirt, past her stocking tops, searching between her legs. Her panties were wet as she squirmed against his probing fingers, a sure sign that she was more than ready for him.

“Make love to me,” she begged, confirming his opinion. More than happy to oblige, Napoleon had started to pull her towards the bed when, unexpectedly, the room suddenly lit up.

Unladylike, Veronica shrieked like a banshee. Napoleon spun towards the source of the illumination. Illya! His partner was in bed, one hand on the bedside lamp while he shielded his sleepy eyes against the glare.

“Oh, hello,” the Russian muttered, still half asleep. His head canted as he looked past Napoleon to his date. Acutely embarrassed and obviously in shock, Veronica hastily pulled together the unbuttoned blouse as she backed out of the room. His date momentarily forgotten, Napoleon stalked angrily to his partner’s side. “I thought we agreed you were going out to a late movie,” he hissed.

Kuryakin was still trying to rub the sleep from his eyes. He yawned theatrically. “It was a Swedish movie. I’ve seen it before,” he shrugged. “It’s no problem. I’ll just sleep on the sofa, watch TV for a while.” He started to rise, but Napoleon pushed him roughly back to the mattress. “Don’t bother! You think I could have sex with Veronica when I know you’re sitting just on the other side of the door watching the Late Show?”

“I’m sorry. I’ll get dressed and... sit in the car.”

“Forget it. How could I make love to a woman in a bed still warm from you and smelling of your.. your... your soap?” he asked hotly.

Illya frowned. “I thought you liked the smell?”

“On a woman, yes!” Solo’s hand combed angrily through his hair. “How could you do this to me? This is the third date you’ve ruined!” Napoleon backed out of the room, still glaring at his partner.

Veronica already had her coat on when he came out of the bedroom. “I’m really sorry about this.” What else could he say? She shrugged but Napoleon could tell his partner’s bad timing had left her disappointed. He was feeling more than a little frustrated, himself.

“Forget it,” she said. “Some other time, perhaps? When your partner’s gone back to Russia, maybe,” she added caustically.

At the door, he kissed her once again, more as an apology than as a demonstration of his passion — which had rapidly vanished along with his erection. Kuryakin was turning his love life into a nightmare. He was beginning to have serious thoughts about killing the little bastard. He knew the most painful methods. He could make it look like an accident...

When Napoleon came back into the bedroom, Illya realized he’d gone too far this time. Like an angry bull, Napoleon’s head was lowered and his eyes were filled with murderouus intent. He glowered in Illya’s direction. Not for the first time in his life, lllya was grateful for sleeping with a gun under his pillow.

Napoleon didn’t speak, though his shoulders shook with the effort to control his temper. He was too incensed to speak. After a few silent moments, he wandered back into the living room. Illya rose and followed behind him.

“I really am sorry.”

Solo swung round at his partner’s voice. Illya cringed back a step when Napoleon stalked angrily over to him.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it, Kuryakin! This is the third date you’ve ruined in the last couple of weeks!”

“I have apologized. Napoleon, I promise it won’t happen again. Next time...”

“There won’t be a next time! You staying here... it’s just not going to work. You’re ruining my love life!’

Illya was suddenly angry. Was that all Napoleon ever thought about? Sex? “Fine! I’ll find somewhere else tomorrow and leave”

“Fine!”

“Fine!”

They stood glaring at each other until Kuryakin finally broke eye contact and spun away.

****

Things were tense the next morning. Once again, Illya spent the night on the sofa after Napoleon slammed the bedroom door in his face, letting him know in no uncertain terms, that he was most unwelcome.

At least it gave Illya time to reflect on his misdeeds. In an effort to get Napoleon alone, Illya had only succeeded in isolating himself. His misguided attempts to draw his partner into a relationship had simply blown up in his face.

Pride stopped him from walking out there and then, and so in the morning, determined to appear unconcerned, he went about his usua1 morning ritual. In the kitchen, they skirted around each other, avoiding physical contact as though each were made of hot coals.

After breakfast, Illya washed his dishes and put them away, his last act of domestication in this place, then headed for the bathroom before Napoleon could claim it. He washed and shaved and gathered up the clothes he’d left in the wash basket. An envelope was in the breast pocket of one of the shirts and he fished it out. It contained the two theatre Tickets for the musical, Gypsy. lllya stared at the tickets in his hand. They were for tonight’s performance. It had taken him a bit of haggling to get them. He had planned to take Napoleon as a ‘thank you’ gift, followed by a nice meal at a good restaurant afterwards. Napoleon would be feeling relaxed when they got home. And after a few drinks to loosen him up, with the lights lowered and soft music playing in the background….

Illya sighed. Who was he trying to kid? The whole idea had been an absurd, juvenile fantasy from the start. You only get in life what you deserve. Another of his grandfather’s unhelpful sayings. But how right be was. He didn’t deserve Napoleon, not after the misery he’d put his partner through these last few days.

Things were not going well between him and Napoleon. It hadn’t been at all like he’d imagined it would be. As working partners they were seamless, an unmatched pair completely in harmony with each other. But as cohabiters, their differences were glaringly apparent. His plans for seduction had rapidly evaporated before his eyes, along with Napoleon’s patience.

Illya flushed the toilet and tore the tickets up, tossing them into the rushing water and watching the pieces go down the pan along with the rest of his plans.

Time to call it a day. This was how he was destined to be, alone and unloved. Now it was time to pack it all away. As Illya walked to the bedroom, his partner was standing by the window, looking out at the early morning traffic.

Kuryakin went into the bedroom and pulled his hold-all from the cupboard. As always, he sensed Napoleon watching him as he unzipped the hold-all and began to search through the drawer for his clothes.

Napoleon stood in the doorway as lllya began throwing his few possessions onto the bed next to bag. Napoleon’s temper seemed to have dissipated along with the early morning fog as he quietly inquired, “Where will you go?” He stepped forward, picking up one of Illya’s shirts and folding it neatly before handing it to his partner. Illya bundled it up and shoved it into the bag.

“I called April, she has a spare room. She said I could stay there.”

‘You’re going to move in with Aprill?”

“Is that a problem? I have to live somewhere and as you pointed out, a hotel would be risky.”

“But... people will talk.”

“Infinitely better the things they will say about me and April, than the things they already say about me and you.”

“What things?” Napoleon asked, genuinely perplexed.

Illya paused in his hasty packing. “Did you know they were running a sweepstake on the length of time we could stand to be in each other’s company? In case you’re interested, Tomas Christianson from Section Three won!” He rolled the last of his socks into a ball and tossed them on top of the untidy bundle before pressing it down to fit them all in. He zipped the hold all up, cursing it as it jammed for a moment. It came free with a yank. “There,” Illya said. “I’ll see you at work later.” Illya came parallel with Solo and stopped. “Oh. I forgot to give you this.” He dropped his bag and fished out the five-dollar bill that Solo had given him last night. “It is the same one. You can check the serial numbers.” He picked up the bag and walked to the front door, Napoleon following close behind. “lllya stopped him with a raised hand. “Don’t bother. I know my way out.”

The door slammed behind him

They didn’t see much of each other at all that day, due mostly to Waverly’s interference rather than by design. Kuryakin and another agent were assigned to courier some documents to Washington, and he wasn’t due back until the next day.

Solo was given the task of tracking down Marty Radello, a small time opportunist thief, who’d inadvertently intercepted a Thrush briefcase containing, not only a pouch of diamonds intended as remittance for a shipment of plutonium, but a delivery address which would lead them to the Thrush laboratory. While Mr. Wave1y was happy that the shipment would not be handed over without payment, and the loss of the gems would be quite a blow to the Thrush purse, he was more concerned over the loss of the information that would lead to the location of that lab.

Napoleon sent out teams of men to hunt Radello down, taking Mark along in his partner’s absence, to check out any possible leads.

By six o’clock, they’d decided to call it a day. Napoleon’s feet hurt and Mark complained that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Napoleon dropped him off at his apartment and made his way home.

After dealing with the locks, Napoleon closed the door behind him, glad as always to be home.

Only now, it didn’t feel the same.

Now, it felt odd, coming back to an empty apartment. The place was no different than it had been before the devastating whirlwind that was his partner had arrived, but now it seemed, somehow, emptier. Silent. Devoid of life and spirit. Despite all his irritating habits and annoying eccentricities, despite the fact that Napoleon’s love life had been nonexistent because of him, it still felt good to have Illya around. They shared an easy companionship that he’d never had with anyone else before in his life.

And though he knew he would see his friend at work the next day, he still missed him at home.

He told himself it was because it was the first time he’d been alone in his apartment since the Russian had moved in. Perhaps he just needed someone to fill his place for the night.

Diane Spencer, blond and intelligent. They hadn’t dated for a while. He found her number in his little black book and picked up the phone. Within minutes he’d fixed himself another date for the evening, secure in the knowledge that Illya wasn’t going to be around to ruin this one. Besides, he had to see some action soon. He’d been having some strange thoughts about his partner, lately. They’d never spent so long in such close proximity to each other before.

Too much Russian, not enough sex, he told himself,

He picked Diane up and took her to dinner. Afterwards, he invited her home for a nightcap. After he took her coat, he said, “Please, sit down. Would you like a drink?”

“Vodka, please. Straight up.”

“Coming right up.” He picked up the bottle of Stollichnaya, pausing to study the label. This was Illya’a bottle, left out from the night before. He’d be mortified to find it being served at room temperature. He smiled to himself and poured her a generous amount.

“Mind if I put on some music?” she asked, as he poured himself a scotch.

“Sure.” He walked across the room, placing the drink on the coffee table as she turned on the radio. He paused as the music came on. Still tuned to Illya’s favorite channel, the softly muted jazz came through the speakers. Diane swayed to the music as she made her way across the room to him. Napoleon took her in his arms and they danced together, gently rocking to the soulful saxophone music.

“I love jazz,” she breathed in his ear.

‘So did Illya...” He stopped himself as he realized he was thinking about his partner in the past tense. Illya was gone, and he shouldn’t be thinking about him at all while he had a beautiful woman in his arms.

He tried to distract his thoughts by pulling her tighter to him, nuzzling into her hair as they swayed together in the middle of the floor. Her hair was blond, but nothing like his partner’s glorious mane. This flat, artificial blond came out of a bottle. Illya’s hair, one couldn’t help but notice, was a warm shade of honey, shot through with rich streaks of gold, and in the summer time, the sun bleached the top almost white. And it was soft and silky too, not harsh and stiff with lacquer. like Diane’s.

Diane. He forced his attention back to his date, tenderly kissing her. She tasted of Illya’s vodka. He left her mouth alone, hoping to leave the reminder of his partner with it, and tried to distract himself with another piece of her anatomy, kissing his way along her cheek and on towards her neck. He loved this part of a woman, always a sensitive spot and always fragrant with perfume. He breathed in, inhaling her scent. It was sweet and soapy, familiar and somehow comforting. His mouth stopped mid-kiss as he recognized why. She used Illya’s soap. It was the same fragrance that he’d come to associate with his partner these days. Napoleon’s slow dance came to a stop.

Diane noticed Napoleon’s apparent withdrawal and pulled back to look in his face. “Napoleon?” she asked, puzzled.

“It’s Illya,” he muttered with a resigned sigh. “He’s still here.”

She looked at him, puzzled. “I thought you said he’d moved in with April’?”

Napoleon looked chagrined. “Well, his spirit lingers on.” Despite the fact that he was no longer here, Illya was still ruining his date. Napoleon rubbed at his temple, trying to dispel the slight ache he felt there. It was nothing compared to the one in his chest, an ache he’d felt deep within himself since his friend’s departure.

That damned, infuriating Russian was too deeply embedded under his skin. He suddenly realized his frustration wasn’t going to be eased merely by the company of a woman. She was no substitute for his partner. He chuckled at the notion, causing Diane to frown. “What’s so funny?” she asked.

“Nothing.” he said, sobering suddenly. “Not a damned thing.”

Diane put a hand on his arm, and he realized he’d been standing staring at the carpet. He winced,embarrassed for forgetting her. “I think I have a migraine coming on, Diane. Do you mind if I take you home?”

“Of course not. Would you like me to get you some aspirin? I have some in my bag.”

“That’s okay. I’ll be all right after a lie down.”

His night cut short, Napoleon returned home, showered and slid into bed.

The sheets were cold against his skin. He stretched out, aware of the vast space his partner had previously occupied.

His partner,

Since lllya had left, he couldn’t seem to get him out of his mind. He’d lived alone quite happily until his friend had moved in. But he realized now how satisfying it was having lllya here. Like switching on a light in a badly lit room, he made everything seem brighter, warmer, more welcoming. He missed Illya and his intellect and conversation. His dry sense of humor. As in their working relationship, they fit snugly together. At first, he’d thought it was because they were already friends. Now, he even missed his untidy clutter, his dismal attempts at cooking - and most definitely his backrubs.

But most of all, he missed him in bed.

He turned over, rolling to the side where his partner had been the night before, and inhaled deeply. It was still there, clinging to the sheets, that sweet soapy fragrance that he had recently come to associate with his partner. Pulling down the pillow, he hugged it tightly and breathed in again as he nuzzled into the pillow with a sigh; Illya’s shampoo.

The Russian seemed to permeate everything in this apartment, making it his as much as Napoleon’s. He smiled sadly. It was strangely comforting, imagining that his friend was here now. Imagining that he was holding onto him, just like that first night when he’d awoken with his arms around that warm, familiar body. It was a nice fantasy and it helped to relax him while he drifted off to sleep, where a much better fantasy awaited him.

During the night he awoke from a particularly vivid dream and the revelation hit him like a glass of cold water in the face. He wanted Illya, not just as a roomie or a bedmate but as something more. Something permanent.

Did Illya feel the same way too? Had the sabotaging of Napoleon’s dates been calculated?

Of course they were. He smiled to himself. The devious little Russian. Napoleon groaned at his own stupidity. How could he have been so dense? One of the most handsome and intelligent people he had ever met had all but hung a sign around his neck saying Take me, I’m yours, and all Napoleon had to do was say ‘yes.’ He wondered sadly if it was too late. Had he seriously blundered when he threw his friend out of the apartment?

He hugged the pillow closer, nestling into the softness. Tomorrow, he decided, he would make amends. He would apologize to Illya and ask him to come home.

It was time the pair of them stopped pussyfooting around the subject. Between them, they would work something out.

****

“Morning,” Napoleon said cheerfully as he pulled out his chair and sat down.

Illya looked across at him, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “You must have had a successful night. You look like the cat that got into the cream.”

Napoleon just smiled even wider. “Actually, I cut the evening short. She was home in bed by ten. Alone, I might add. Her virtue remains intact.”

“That must be very frustrating for you. Still, there will be other opportunities, I’m sure.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” Napoleon said sincerely. He leaned back in his chair and studied his partner as the blond resumed writing his notes. Unconsciously, Illya’s hand rose and the slender fingers combed back the overlong fringe of hair from his eyes. They were elegant fingers, Napoleon thought. Fingers that could carefully diffuse a bomb or pick out a classical piece on the guitar, but for some reason reduced the man to a klutz when it came to the kitchen.

Illya must have felt the scrutiny. He looked up, meeting his partner’s bemused gaze. “Now what?”

“I just wondered how it was going at April’s?”

Illya considered the question. “We’re a perfect match. She leaves her stockings hanging to dry in the bathroom and her cooking skills make me look like a Cordon Bleu chef. We have so much in common.”

“Whereas, we don’t?”

Illya didn’t answer the question. He glanced at his partner and stood, moving over to search through the filing cabinet drawer. Napoleon followed him, leaning against the unit as he watched his partner rifle through the top drawer. “They do say that opposites attract,” Napoleon said quietly.

Illya’s brow puckered, but he didn’t respond.

“IIlya, this is ridiculous. We should be able to get along.”

“Just as long as were not living together,’ lllya pointed out.

Napoleon shook his head. “That too. If we can share an office, we should be able to share the same apartment. We just went about it the wrong way.” He saw Illya’s doubt as the eyes turned away from him. “We just have to make some small concessions. We solve far more difficult cases every day, we should be able to solve something as simple as this. If we work on it together, we can find a compatible solution, something that suits us both. Compromise, Illya, that’s all it takes.”

The Russian sighed. “Well the whole point is moot. They’ve just about finished the repairs to my apartment so. I can move back in tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Napoleon felt his opportunity slipping away. “Well… that’s... that’s good.” It didn’t feel good. Had it only been two weeks since his partner had moved in with him?

Illya finally found the file he was looking for and turned away. Napoleon reached, caching his sleeve, pulling him to a halt. It was time to lay his cards on the table. “Illya…” Kuryakin looked at him expectantly and Napoleon almost lost his nerve staring into those blue eyes. He took a deep breath and continued. “The truth is… I miss you.” Illya’s fingers fiddled nervously with the file in his hand as Napoleon continued. “Bringing women back to the apartment... it was insensitive, inconsiderate. I was a fool. I didn’t consider your feelings, and worse of all... I didn’t consider you.”

Illya shook his head, confused. “I don’t understand. What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, I’m sorry. For giving you a hard time. For kicking you out.” Napoleon stepped closer. “For letting you go.” They were almost touching as he held his partner’s gaze. “You know, you never appreciate what you have until it’s gone,” he said, almost in a whisper.

“Illya’s breath caught in his throat. Did Napoleon mean what he thought — hoped, he meant? Now was the time to find out. He swallowed hard. “Napoleon, I ...”

The door hissed open and the mood between the two evaporated instantly, separating them. Heather poked her head around the door. “Napoleon, they caught up with Radello at the Greyhound station; they just brought him in. Mr. Waverly would like you to do the interview.”

“Can’t it wait?” he snapped. Talk about bad timing.

She shook her head. “He’s waiting downstairs for you. Now.”

Napoleon looked back at his partner. “We’ll talk later, okay?” He waited for his partner’s nod of assurance before leaving for the Interrogation room.

****

Radello was fairly tough for a civilian, but no match for an experienced agent like Napoleon Solo. By six o’clock, Napoleon had wrung the information from him and dispatched two agents to the given address to retrieve the briefcase. Another successful operation under their belt.

He hummed happily to himself as he hurried back to his office, his heart filled with hope. Illya had been about to confess something, and he thought he might know what that something might be. Eager to continue their conversation, he almost trotted down the corridor leading to the agents’ offices.

Their shared office was darkened, deserted. He checked around Illya’s other haunts, but his partner was nowhere in sight. Disappointed, he made a quick call to reception, and was informed that the Russian had logged out an hour ago.

Napoleon sighed. Their conversation had been cut short, and at a crucial moment, he was sure. But tomorrow, first thing, he would get his partner alone — in a locked room if need be — and sort out their feelings for each other, once and for all. For now, he would head home and give serious consideration as to exactly what he was going to say.

But first, he had to do a little shopping on his way home. A little gift was in order, a little sweetener. Something to say he was sorry.

****

He unlocked the door to his apartment and knew immediately that someone was there. The green light showed the alarms were active, which meant it was someone with a key. Someone he trusted. He smiled to himself, secretly pleased. That recently acquired feeling of well-being spread through him once again.

The sound of rushing water told him the shower was in use. Ignoring it for the moment, Napoleon dropped the package he was carrying down beside the sofa and, with a happy sigh, removed his jacket and holster, carefully putting them away. On his way to the bedroom, he picked up a jacket that had been left carelessly draped over the back of the sofa, and hung that up too before heading into his bedroom. He quickly gathered up the disorderly array of clothes left discarded on the bed, folded them neatly and put them in a tidy pile on the chair.

Finally, he slipped off his shoes, loosened his tie and pushed open the bathroom door.

IlIya’s happy humming could be heard over the hiss of the shower and his pale, masculine shape showed up temptingly through the mottled glass of the shower door.

Napoleon smiled as he slid the door open. His partner spun round, rubbing his eyes to clear away the soapsuds. A little embarrassed, Illya squinted at Napoleon and explained, “They haven’t fixed the shower in my apartment yet.”

‘Oooh,” Solo said softly, as if that explained the whole meaning of life itself. His head tilted to one side as he looked pointedly down at the soft, shrunken cock hanging between his partner’s thighs. “Water a little cold?”

Chagrined, Illya’s hands moved down to cover the object of Napoleon’s scrutiny. “You complained the last time that I used all the hot water.”

Napoleon shook his head and tutted as he stripped off the tie and began to unbutton his shirt. As he dealt with the cuffs, he explained. “Compromise, IlIya. Remember? I said we should find a mutual solution to our problems.” The shirt was discarded on the floor as he began to slide down the zipper on his pants.

Illya gulped. “What are you doing?” he asked as Napoleon’s trousers dropped around his ankles.

“Solving the problem. We can share the showers. That way,” he said, as he discarded the last item of clothing and stepped in next to his friend. “We can both... have it hot.” He glanced down and saw that lllya was rapidly becoming erect. “My, my. Looks like we’ll soon have somewhere to hang the towel.”

Illya glared at him. “I know where we can put the soap.”

Turning up the heat — literally and figuratively - Napoleon gathered Illya into his arms. “Mm, I’m always open to new ideas,” he grinned. He pulled the Illya closer to him and kissed him deeply.

Illya melted against him and Napoleon lost himself in the pure bliss of kissing his male partner. Nothing in his extensive experience had prepared him for these sensations: the sheer sensuality of taking Illya’s mouth with his own, the feel of the muscular body that fitted snugly against his. All his previous amorous liaisons paled into insignificance compared to this. This was the ultimate experience, this was Nirvana.

So it was a shock when his partner suddenly pushed him violently away. “Illya?” he said, puzzled. Illya tried to push past him. “What’s wrong?” Napoleon said, grabbing an arm and pulling him back.

“The roast,” his partner explained in near panic. “I thought I’d make dinner. I forgot, I put it in the oven three hours ago.”

Napoleon laughed with relief. “Is that all? Let it burn.” He pulled Illya back into his arms for another kiss.

“But Napolemmmph...” Napoleon persevered till his partner relaxed against him. When he felt Illya loosen up, he moved his kisses from the pouting mouth, journeying down the long neck and on to the muscular chest. “Sweetheart,” Napoleon whispered, rasping at a rigid nipple. “There’s only one thing I’m interested in eating right now.”

IIIya gasped as his lover fell to his knees before him.

****

Later, they sat on the sofa together, Napoleon in his terry robe and lllya wrapped in a large bath sheet. Both had their feet propped indolently up on the coffee table amidst an array of dishes and glasses, the remnants of a hastily cobbled together meal.

Napoleon, his arms wrapped tightly around his lover, sighed in contentment as he kissed a nearby ear. Illya squirmed against the tickling sensation and snuggling closer – just where Napoleon wanted him.

With the side of his face against his partner’s chest, lllya felt as much as he heard Napoleon’s deep chuckle. In response, Illya smiled, looking up into Napoleon’s grinning face. “What, Napoleon?” he asked.

Solo affectionately kissed the tip of that aristocratic nose. “I have to confess, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I asked you to move in with me a couple of weeks ago.”

“Disappointed?” Illya asked.

Napoleon frowned. “Do you really have to ask?”

“No. I just wanted to hear it.” Illya kissed him. When they separated, he sat up a little, looking Napoleon earnestly in the face. “Talking about confessions. I have one to make, too. I intentionally sabotaged your dates. I told Martine she had to work that night. And that Swedish movie? I didn’t go. I didn’t intend to go. And that evening with Sharron? I manipulated her into inviting me to dinner. I was jealous. I wanted you to myself.”

Napoleon pretended to be shocked. “You did all that for me? Just to get me alone?” He pulled the blond back to rest comfortably against him. “Did you arrange to have your apartment torched, too?”

“Not at al1. That was merely fortunate happenstance. But if I had thought about it, I assure you I would have arranged for your apartment to be fired, not mine. It will take me months to replace my record collection.”

“Speaking of which…” That was his cue, Napoleon realised. He reached down the side of the sofa and brought out a brightly wrapped package. The square shape and slimness made it easy to guess what was inside the wrapping. Nevertheless, Illya dramatically sniffed it and carefully shook it before he tore it open.

“Mose Allison,” Napoleon explained, looking over his lover’s shoulder at the album. “I thought you could start with the A’s and work your way through the alphabet.”

Illya rewarded him with a kiss. “I have a present for you, too.” He pulled a twelve-inch long package from behind his back. A little awed at this uncharacteristic display of thoughtfulness, Napoleon took the package and returned his partners kiss. “What is it?” he asked, trying to guess what the oblong box contained. “Does it need batteries?”

“No, you use it manually,” Illya answered, with a wicked smile. He watched the twinkle disappear from Napoleon’s eyes as he opened the package and with a flourish, withdrew from the box a brand new plastic spatula.

“Illya. You’re so romantic.”

“It’s the Russian in me. Were a very practical race.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, I have something practical in mind that we could be doing right now.” He pulled his lover to his feet and started to pull him towards the bedroom.

Illya dragged him to a halt. “Shouldn’t we clear away the dishes first?”

Napoleon regarded the mess on the coffee table. “They can wait till morning. I can’t wait another five minutes.” He pulled his lover to him and kissed him passionately. “See what you’ve done to me, Illya Nicovetch? You’re teaching me bad habits.”

lllya dropped his towel covering to the floor and slid his hands into the folds of Napoleon’s robe. “But they’re good bad habits, aren’t they?”

Napoleon had to agree. And just to prove it, he pulled him into the bedroom and closed the door.

The End