As soon as the door closed behind Napoleon, Illya headed for his suitcase. The mask of indifference he had maintained so carefully all evening had made his face literally ache, and the thought of the numbness that would soon replace that pain was powerfully alluring. The other pain would also vanish, of course. Well, not vanish, but be pushed aside and temporarily forgotten, which was the best his eminently fatalistic nature could hope for.

Thank whatever gods may be for Mother Russia's most useful invention.

The bottle was full. He did not drink heavily, as a general rule, or at least not as his countrymen would define "drinking heavily." He had certainly never passed out on the street or awakened from a three-day bender with no idea where he was. He had only contempt for people who allowed themselves to lose control in that way. In Russia, his habits, his *drinking* habits, would be considered quite temperate. He never drank on the job. He usually did not drink to forget or to relieve any kind of pain, whether physical or emotional.

//However, there are exceptions to every rule.//

He drank with meals, to relax, to celebrate. Especially to celebrate being alive after barely escaping the alternative. There was nothing like the feeling of the blood rushing to his face, the jolt to the heart, the fiery trail blazing down his throat, to remind him that he still lived, no matter how many others had died.

Well, there was one other thing that had the same effect. But the only flavor he wanted it in lately was clearly not on offer.

He set the bottle on the small table in the corner and went into the bathroom for a cup. Personally, he considered such vessels unnecessary when not in a public setting, but the horrified expression on Napoleon's face the first time he had seen him swig from a bottle and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand had induced him to moderate his style a bit.

He noticed the other bottle he had brought with him resting, drained, in the bathroom wastebasket. He and Napoleon had finished it off last night after wrapping up their latest assignment. He had a vague memory of lying sprawled across one of the twin beds, laughing helplessly as Napoleon struggled to avoid pouring the last shot on the bed, on the floor, on himself, before he finally and with intense concentration managed to dispense it safely into his cup. Then he had dropped the cup before it reached his lips and the level of hilarity had risen another notch. Napoleon was highly entertaining when he was drunk. Or at least, when *they* were drunk.

He didn't know how he had managed to save the other bottle. Perhaps they had been too far gone to remember it. But it was here now; that was all that mattered. And tonight there would be no Napoleon to share it with. It wouldn't be wasted on mere frivolity. It would have a real need to fulfill.

Returning to the bedroom with his prize, he set the cup on the nightstand beside his Walther and poured what Americans called a "finger" into it. He considered a moment, then decided he was being ridiculous. Why waste effort pouring and repouring any more often than he had to? He tipped the bottle again and filled the cup to the rim.

Satisfied, he dropped down on the narrow bed, arranged the pillow between his back and the headboard, and took a long pull of the vodka. His eyes closed in contentment as he felt the liquid heat spread through him. Like being hugged from the inside, he had once heard it called. Or like being fucked, perhaps. He smiled a bit at his own whimsy.

Napoleon must be well on his way to his destination by now. Chicago traffic was formidable, but no doubt a cab had been waiting at the curb at the very moment his partner stepped out the hotel's front door. That was the way Napoleon's luck usually ran. Illya looked around the empty hotel room and listened to the faint roar of engines and car horns from the street far below.

//And this is the way *my* luck usually runs.//

He emptied the cup, surprised at how quickly the liquor had disappeared. He felt nothing from it yet but the glorious warmth and the faintest relaxation of his tense muscles. It would take quite a bit more, he knew, to accomplish his purpose. He reached for the bottle.

Thoughts of warmth and relaxation led him back, inevitably, to his partner. There was a man who positively radiated heat. His eyes, his voice, his smile - warm was the only word for them. //Except maddening, teasing, enticing, seductive, irresistible, etc., etc. Expand your English vocabulary with Napoleon Solo. Much more attractive than Roget's Thesaurus.// He wondered if sleeping in Napoleon's arms rendered one impervious to winter colds and flu.

//Perhaps I should ask Chandler if he had to take flu shots in Korea.//

The second cupful found its way down his throat even more easily than the first had. The burning was muted slightly now, as a soft glow enveloped his body. He reveled in it, slipping down just a bit from his upright position against the headboard. The stiffness in his muscles had gone, and he sighed gratefully. The sight of the empty cup intruded on the pleasant sensation, mocking him. He refilled it.

He never got hangovers. The worst aftereffect he ever experienced when drinking vodka was a dry mouth and a somewhat fuzzy memory. He enjoyed wine, beer, brandy, even whiskey occasionally, but only in strict moderation. His few more serious encounters with any of these delights had left him fervently cursing the dawn and his own returning consciousness.

Vodka was different. It was pure light, pure energy. It was clean and sharp, fiery hot and icy cold. It was as bracing as the stinging winter winds of his homeland. It left nothing behind it but gratitude. He often wondered why anyone drank anything else.

Napoleon liked vodka, but he also liked Scotch. That was why Illya had been surprised at dinner when his partner ignored his whiskey after only one sip. It was the first indication he had that something more was going on than was apparent on the surface. He began watching Napoleon's face closely, reading him. Napoleon could make his eyes opaque when he chose to, lowering an impenetrable curtain over the dark depths. It was a survival technique which had served them both well in the past, and Illya knew he was the only person on whom Napoleon never used the trick. Napoleon trusted him too much for that. He himself was not nearly as proficient at it. With Napoleon he was often reduced to simply avoiding eye contact when there was danger of revealing anything he preferred to keep to himself.

At dinner, Napoleon's eyes had disclosed everything. And if there were ever any occasion on which he might have chosen to conceal his feelings from Illya, that would have been the one. He supposed he should feel honored at such blatant evidence of his partner's trust.

He drained his third extra-large drink and reached for another.

The level of alcohol in the bottle appeared to have fallen alarmingly. He squinted at it, attempting to calculate whether or not the amount remaining was greater than the amount already consumed. This bottle was the same size as the bottle he and Napoleon had shared last night. They had each drunk half of it - or had Napoleon sneaked an extra drink or two when he wasn't looking? He frowned darkly at the thought, then shook himself. No, he had been looking the entire time. It was a habit he had developed out of necessity - always watch your partner. Don't miss anything Napoleon says or does. Sometimes his life depended on the almost imperceptible signals and inflections that passed between them. Sometimes Napoleon's did.

So - they had each drunk half of a bottle exactly like this one. The mission was over, he was with Napoleon, and they had one free day to sightsee before returning to New York. He was unhurt. More importantly, Napoleon was unhurt. He had been thoroughly, blissfully "plastered," as Napoleon called it, by the time they finished. How long had it taken them? How long had he been drinking now? He focused on the bedside clock. Nine forty-five. Napoleon had left at about nine, hadn't he? He was certainly not as drunk now as he had been the night before. In fact, he was in full command of his senses. In fact, he had seldom felt as alert in his life. Of course, the drinks he was taking tonight were bigger. Did that make a difference? How much of a difference?

He shook his head and tried again. If it took him forty-five minutes to drink half a bottle, and not be terribly drunk, and last night he had drunk the same amount but in smaller doses, and had been terribly drunk, and it had taken him and Napoleon...and alcohol metabolized in the body at the rate of...

The hell with it. He carefully refilled his cup, made an unsuccessful attempt to replace the bottle on the nightstand, and knocked his automatic off it instead. It fell to the floor, and he contemplated it for a moment, feeling a combination of horror and amusement, but neither very strongly. He braced himself cautiously, leaned over the edge of the bed, swayed a bit, and managed to replace both the gun and the bottle on the nightstand.

Napoleon, of course, had taken his own gun with him. //In case his "old army buddy" attacks him.// A wave of hysteria broke over him, and he laughed foolishly. //Well, he might. I might. Maybe when he comes back through that door I'll...//

Except Napoleon *wouldn't* be coming back through that door tonight. He wouldn't be back until morning. He never was, in these situations.

Illya managed to make his way through drink number four with his jaw clenched.

The women he could cope with. He was accustomed to Napoleon's healthy appetite for the female sex, and it seldom truly irritated him anymore. But somehow, the thought of his partner being with a man...

The previously unsuspected inclusiveness of Napoleon's tastes had only become apparent to him tonight. Incredibly, his usually finely tuned radar had failed him when it came to the person he thought he knew best in the world.

They had just sat down to dinner in the restaurant when a tall blond man who appeared to be about Napoleon's age approached their table and greeted Napoleon like a long-lost brother. Illya had seen the shock and delight in his partner's eyes as he asked the new arrival to join them, but had been satisfied with Napoleon's explanation that the man was his old army buddy, Matt Chandler. That is, he was satisfied at first. But as the meal wore on and Napoleon all but ignored his food, his drink and his partner in favor of catching up on old times, he began to wonder. Covert surveillance yielded the realization that Chandler was gazing at Napoleon the way men weren't supposed to gaze at each other, and that - almost beyond belief! - Napoleon was returning the compliment.

After this revelation, Illya had endured the rest of the meal impassively (on the outside) while wrestling furiously with a welter of highly troublesome emotions (on the inside). The knot of mingled disbelief, anger, jealousy, and - somewhere on the far fringes of his mind - a tiny ray of hope rattled crazily back and forth while his two companions laughed, joked, reminisced, and - he could swear - practically bubbled with good feeling.

When at long last the interminable meal was over, Illya had been ready to bolt from the table. And then, as the three of them stood together on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, Chandler had cast a speculative glance at him before asking Napoleon if he would like to come back to his house for a drink and some more catching up. Illya had stared back coolly and moved, not too obviously, a step closer to his partner.

Napoleon had replied that he would love to and he was sure Illya wouldn't mind, would you, tovarishch? All this talk about old times and people he'd never met must be boring him silly anyway, hmm?

Naturally, Napoleon had insisted on going back to the hotel first to change out of his perfect suit into another perfect suit. Nothing, apparently, was too good for good old Matt. The ten-minute cab ride back had been endless, as Napoleon rambled on about his dear old *friend* and the great times they used to have dodging mortar fire and diving into foxholes, while Illya rolled his eyes, ground his teeth and wondered just what kind of fool his partner took him for.

//Maybe the kind of fool who doesn't notice that the man he spends most of his waking hours with for two years is bisexual.//

His fingers were rapidly becoming too numb to hold the cup with any confidence, so he dropped it on the floor and applied himself to the task of raising the bottle to his lips without benefit of an intermediary. Who the hell cared what Napoleon thought anyway? Or would think if he were there. But he wasn't there.

His mind had begun to drift aimlessly about, back and forth, up and down, occasionally colliding with a thought. He concentrated on avoiding those encounters, simply letting the pleasant buzzing sensation drown out the distractions. His head eased back against the headboard, and his eyes fluttered closed.

A vague sound intruded on him from somewhere, and he opened his eyes to see Napoleon standing at the foot of the bed staring at him.

If he focused hard, he could make out Napoleon's expression. It appeared to be one of combined amusement and amazement.

Since his partner was being uncharacteristically quiet, Illya took the initiative. "Hi," he said, and carelessly waved a hand, the one with the bottle in it.

"So it seems," Napoleon agreed, grinning. "Having a good time?"

"Of course. Did you?" And then, without waiting for an answer, "What're you - what're you - doing back so soon? It's not morning. Is it morning?" He looked around dazedly. "I'll get dressed. Time to go home -" He levered himself off the bed and nearly collapsed.

Napoleon was at his side, steadying him before he could fall.

"It's not morning, we don't have to go home yet, and you are dressed. What the hell's gotten into you tonight?"

Illya almost gave in to an urge to laugh hysterically, then remembered how angry he was. What the hell had gotten into *him*?

He wrenched himself away from his partner's supporting arm and spat, "Why aren't you with, with -" he groped for the name and failed to find it " - your *friend*? Couldn't you get - couldn't you - didn't he -" The words seemed to slip out like oil through a filter, his usual precise English swept away on a flood of contractions.

"Illya, for God's sake, lower your voice. You're making my eardrums throb. Matt and I had a couple of drinks, talked a little more, and then I left. What's wrong with you? You didn't think I was going to spend the night there, did you?"

"Why the hell not?" he fairly bellowed. "Didn't he want you to?"

Napoleon gave him a particularly sharp look, then glanced away. "No, he didn't want me to. Why would -"

"Ah, *he* didn't want you to!" He felt absurdly as though he had just scored a great victory. "I see now. *He* didn't want it. But never let it be said that Napoleon Solo - never let it be said - never let -"

He swayed dangerously again, and Napoleon caught him, putting both arms around his waist in the process. Illya relaxed against him, his face pressed to his partner's strong shoulder. Napoleon felt so good, smelled so...

He smelled so...

Illya's stomach lurched suddenly. He pulled back, breaking Napoleon's hold. "What - what the hell are you wearing?"

Napoleon stared at him, then glanced down at his clothes. "The same thing I was wearing when I left. What -"

"Not the clothes!" His voice rose and cracked alarmingly. "Not the - you don't wear - too easy to detect - what's that smell?"

"Oh." Napoleon sounded relieved. "Matt was wearing some pretty powerful cologne when I got there. I guess some of it must have rubbed off on me when we were -"

Illya clapped a hand over his mouth and made desperately for the bathroom.

He reached it, but just barely. It seemed like an eternity before the spasms subsided and his stomach settled back into its accustomed position. Before he could raise his trembling head, Napoleon was stroking his back gently and passing him a cold, wet cloth. Illya simply groaned, so Napoleon turned him around carefully and washed his face with the cloth. He was smiling slightly, but Illya had no energy left to hate him for it.

"Feel better?" Napoleon asked, and there was no mockery in his voice.

He nodded, feebly.

Napoleon removed a small bottle from the little overnight bag by the sink. "Have some of this, and *don't swallow it*." He poured a lidful of the green liquid and put it firmly into Illya's hand. Illya sloshed it about in his mouth obediently before spitting into the sink.

"Come in here." Napoleon steered him back into the bedroom and into a sitting position on one of the beds. "Stay here while I clean up. Don't go back to the other bed; you spilled the rest of that kerosene on it when I came in." Illya's expression must have been particularly forlorn, as Napoleon grinned sympathetically. "Yes, I know it's disappointing, but you seem to have pretty much reached your limit for tonight anyway. Wait for me and try not to pass out."

He disappeared into the bathroom, and Illya collapsed onto his back. The bed was so soft. Dimly, he heard water running and sloshing. He really did feel better now. His stomach was much calmer, but the lovely floating sensation in his head remained as strong as before. He sighed and contemplated the little bumps and swirls in the ceiling plaster until his eyes closed. Plaster...plastered...

Napoleon's voice in his ear broke in on his reverie. "Told you not to pass out, didn't I? That was an order, you know." He felt himself being hoisted upright and heard a whimper of protest escape his lips.

"I know, tovarishch, I know, but you need a shower first and so do I. Then you can have a nice, long sleep."

"Sleep..."

He heard Napoleon laugh softly as he was helped across the room. He leaned heavily against the senior agent, partly because he couldn't trust his own legs and partly because it felt wonderful, even through the haze in his brain.

The bathroom looked spotless, and under other circumstances he would have been impressed by Napoleon's thoroughness. But Napoleon was pulling the shirttail out of his pants and starting on the buttons. Illya shifted a bit in surprise, and moved his hands ineffectually to - stop him?

"Hold still. If I let you do this in the shape you're in it would take all night." Napoleon's fingers were cool and impersonal, and he did not meet Illya's eyes.

The shirt was removed, and Napoleon folded it neatly before placing it on the counter by the sink.

"Kick your shoes off." He did, and Napoleon's hands went to his waistband, where they quickly dispensed with his belt and lowered his zipper. He felt almost boneless as the pants slid down over his hips to his knees.

"Step out of them."

He complied, and watched his partner fold the trousers, much more careful about the crease than he ever was himself.

From somewhere, a tiny voice urged caution. He licked his lips and said as steadily as he could manage, "I - I can -"

"I'll do it." Napoleon hooked his thumbs into the waistband of Illya's shorts and briskly pulled them down. Illya swallowed and stepped out of them.

"Sit down," Napoleon urged softly, and he felt himself being gently pushed back and down to the toilet lid. His partner knelt in front of him and tugged off first one sock, then the other, while Illya gazed down, mesmerized, at the sight of the dark head almost between his thighs. Then he pulled his eyes away and looked at the floor, the walls, the ceiling, anywhere but at Napoleon.

When Napoleon stood up, he let out his breath and started to rise and step into the shower. But the floor canted beneath him, and he gasped. Napoleon grabbed his arm and pushed him firmly back down to the toilet lid.

"Dammit, don't do that! Let me help you or you'll break your neck in here! Stay there. Please."

Napoleon grabbed Illya's discarded clothes and strode into the bedroom with them. Illya sat with his eyes closed, waiting. When he heard Napoleon return, he opened them and felt his stomach drop. Napoleon was now as naked as he was.

"Okay, hold on to me," Napoleon said. "I don't want you dying drunk in a shower. Think of the embarrassing report I'd have to write." He took Illya by both arms and carefully steered him over the edge of the bathtub. When they were safely inside, he drew the shower curtain and turned the water on.

Illya looked down. The bottom of the tub was sprinkled with those little sticky daisies which were apparently meant to be cute, but which never failed to irritate him. Of course, they fulfilled their purpose, which was to provide traction. Still, Napoleon had said to hold on to him, and Napoleon was his section head. He held on.

Napoleon was adjusting the temperature of the water. "All right?" he asked as the spray settled into a warmth just on the comfortable side of hot.

Illya sighed. "Da." He shook himself. "Yes."

Napoleon smiled at him and reached for the soap. He worked up a lather between his hands, then began soaping Illya's shoulders and chest. Illya closed his eyes. No doubt it was all a drink-induced hallucination, but he would choose it over pink elephants any day.

His knees weakened even more than they already were when Napoleon's hands moved down his belly to his groin. His grip tightened reflexively on his partner's waist. For a moment, he couldn't hear what Napoleon was saying. Then one of the lovely hands left his body and he felt his chin being turned slightly. He looked into Napoleon's eyes.

"Illya," Napoleon said clearly. "I'm not sure I know how to wash you here. As you know, we, ah, happen to be different models. You need to show me."

At first, his dazzled mind couldn't process Napoleon's meaning. With your tongue, he longed to say, and was appalled to realize he had almost said it aloud.

"Uh," he stammered, "just, uh -" He lifted one shaking hand from Napoleon's waist, and carefully guided his partner's gentle, soapy fingers beneath his foreskin. The feeling was so exquisite he groaned aloud. His cock, though a bit befuddled by drink, nevertheless remembered its cue and jerked to life.

He looked up again to see Napoleon watching his face intently. The brown eyes locked with his. The fingers still moved slowly over his cock. Nothing else existed in the world.

He murmured, "Bozhe moy. Napoleon, please. Please." He couldn't remember why he shouldn't say it.

Napoleon drew in a slow, ragged breath. Illya saw his chance and captured the parted lips with his own. His hands left his partner's waist and planted themselves, as if of their own volition, on either side of Napoleon's face. His head spun madly, but he knew Napoleon was kissing him back. And the fingers - oh, God, the fingers...

He broke the kiss and buried his face against Napoleon's neck, kissing up and down it desperately while his hands roamed over his partner's back. "Want you so much...want you in me...God, please..." He couldn't stop the slurred stream of words, even though nothing on earth could have persuaded him to say them before tonight. Except in dreams.

Dimly, he heard harsh breathing. And then Napoleon's hand left his cock and he was being pushed away, his wrists held immobile.

"Hush," Napoleon said flatly. "You don't know what you want. We need to finish this and put you to bed."

If Illya had been just as drunk but not quite so exhausted, he might have screamed. Or cursed, or thrown something, or demanded to know why Matt Chandler deserved something he couldn't have. Instead, for a moment he calmly considered the merits of holding his partner's head face-up under the running water until he agreed to make love to him, right here, right now.

He pushed the image out of his mind and said numbly, "Yes, of course."

They finished their mutual shower in silence. Napoleon helped him out and dried him off carefully before tending to himself. He wrapped the warm fuzzy towel around Illya so tenderly that the younger agent almost pleaded again. Then he brought Illya's pajamas to him and helped him slip them on. He insisted that Illya brush his teeth; then he brushed his own. Illya was almost staggering with weariness by the time Napoleon finally pulled back the covers on the bed. He crawled in and all his muscles immediately went slack.

Vaguely, he felt a warm body beside him, and two warm arms closing about him. His eyes opened a slit, and Napoleon said, "The other bed's full of booze, remember? And this is awfully narrow, so we'll have to cuddle."

Illya sighed and fell into a black pool of unconsciousness that appeared to be miles deep.

An indeterminate number of hours later, the darkness began gradually lightening. Shards of unremembered dreams fell away, and he surfaced slowly. He opened his eyes and beheld a familiar sight: a nightstand not his own, his weapon resting on it, a small white card affixed to the nightstand almost at eye level with him. He squinted and made out the words, "Check-out time 12:00 Noon." The bedside clock read six-twenty.

He yawned hugely - and flinched as the movement brought him in contact with
something solid. He turned slowly, warily, and saw Napoleon sound asleep beside him, one arm hanging off the edge of the bed. The pillow his partner's head was resting on was pushed up snugly against his own, which was hovering uncomfortably close to the other edge of the bed.

Illya rubbed his eyes. There were *two* beds, weren't there? He looked to his right and saw the other, not unmade but looking rumpled and unkempt just the same, and bereft of its pillow. Oh, yes. He had been sitting on that bed last night, drinking. And Napoleon had come in, and Matt Chandler's name had been mentioned, and...

He shook his head. He didn't want to think about Matt Chandler. But he couldn't remember clearly anything else that had happened.

He sighed and got up carefully, so as not to wake his partner. He had no idea what Napoleon was doing in bed with him, and the only possibility that suggested itself was too fantastic to be believed. Besides, they were both wearing pajamas.

But he didn't have time to worry about it now. His bladder was demanding his attention.

His legs were fairly steady, he noticed with satisfaction, and aside from a nagging thirst and the irritating memory lapse, he appeared to have suffered no more than usual from his tryst with his preferred poison. He smiled a bit, thankfully. Vodka really was perfection.

He switched on the bathroom light, closed the door behind him - and stopped dead as confused memories abruptly crowded in on him. His eyes went from the sparkling clean, freshly scrubbed floor to the toilet lid to the shower curtain, which gaped open just a bit, allowing him a glimpse of sticky daisies on the bottom of the tub.

For a moment, he couldn't move. Then, robotically, he walked to the toilet and relieved himself. When he finished, he lowered the lid and sank down on it. The sudden panic that had seized him was paralyzing.

Napoleon knew now. His face burned as he remembered his jealous tirade of the night before; the pathetic way he had clung to Napoleon in the shower; the shameful begging; and worst of all, his partner's rejection. Napoleon knew how he felt, Napoleon was apparently not averse to having sex with men, and Napoleon still didn't want him.

What if Napoleon decided they couldn't work together after this? What if he requested a new partner? How could he endure working for U.N.C.L.E. but not with Napoleon? A wave of sickness washed over him, and he clutched the edge of the sink for support.

Oh, God. What if Waverly decided he couldn't have a homosexual working for U.N.C.L.E. at all? People routinely lost their jobs as punishment for these unnatural desires. There were no laws to protect them, even if they were U.S. citizens. As for him, he could be deported. He could be sent home and tried and even executed. The Soviet government wasted no sympathy on sexual deviants. He had been so careful, so discreet, up until last night. And now he had ruined everything.

His breath was coming fast and shallow, and his hands were suddenly so cold he could barely feel his fingers. His stomach clenched and unclenched with nauseating rapidity. He felt a sudden desperate desire to stay locked in this bathroom forever.

Grimly, he forced the panic away. At this point, no one knew except Napoleon. However humiliating the events of last night, however disgusting Napoleon might have found his undignified behavior to be, surely, surely he would not tell Waverly about it. If there had been one certainty in Illya's life for the past two years, it was the mutual trust between himself and his partner. They watched each other's backs. They kept each other's secrets. If Napoleon thought it best to break up their partnership, he would invent some other plausible excuse. And Waverly would no doubt grant his CEA's request. They would both be assigned new partners. Illya buried his face in his hands. No matter how maddening it was to work so closely with Napoleon without being able to touch him, it would be infinitely worse to be separated from him.

At last, he raised his head. He couldn't stay in here forever, no matter how much he wanted to. He rose and looked into the mirror over the sink. His eyes looked haunted and hunted. His cheeks were very pale. The fine golden stubble he saw would have to stay where it was for now. At the moment, he couldn't trust himself with a razor.

He splashed his face liberally, downed a cup of cold water, and left the bathroom.

Napoleon still slept. Illya looked at the clock. Not even six-thirty. Their flight was scheduled to leave at ten. Normally, they would have risen at about seven, called room service for breakfast, and then played cards or chess until it was time to get ready to leave for the airport. They would have dragged the table over to the window where they could enjoy the sunlight coming through the curtains, it not being a good idea to sit in front of an uncovered window. If they were playing chess, Illya would probably win. Even if he didn't, he could enjoy surreptitiously watching the serious, intent expression on Napoleon's face as he leaned over the board contemplating his moves. If the game was poker, Napoleon would likely win. Winning at poker required generous amounts of luck, and Napoleon never seemed in short supply of that. Or maybe they would read, Illya losing himself in a scientific journal or a novel, Napoleon leafing slowly through the morning newspaper, occasionally stopping to read some interesting item aloud. Both of them would be enjoying the peace and quiet and comradeship.

But this was no normal morning, and Illya had no idea how he was going to fill the time until Napoleon woke. Even worse, what would happen then?

Silently, he approached the bed and looked down at his partner. His face was completely relaxed and peaceful. Illya was often struck by how innocent Napoleon looked in sleep. It seemed impossible that the hands curled harmlessly around the pillow were the same ones he had once seen snap the neck of a THRUSH assassin whose tastes ran to sadistic sex and blue-eyed blondes of either gender.

He knew he shouldn't do it, but maybe it was the last time he would ever have the chance. He reached out and very lightly stroked the soft, dark hair just above his partner's ear. Napoleon was always quick to awaken and quick to strike at whatever had awakened him, but Illya had learned that touching his hair was less likely to rouse him and less likely to provoke a defensive response than touching his skin or calling his name suddenly. Once, early in their partnership, he had foolishly done both at the same time and had been rewarded with a devastating right cross to the jaw. He smiled as he remembered the stricken look he had glimpsed on Napoleon's face just before he lost consciousness.

This time the response was less dramatic, but in its way, just as startling. Napoleon's hand snapped up and caught Illya's wrist before he could draw back. The Russian tensed reflexively and attempted to wrench away, a short, sharp jerking motion. But Napoleon tightened his grasp and looked unblinkingly into his eyes. Illya knew he could free himself, but only by breaking his partner's arm.

"Let me go," he said, almost in a whisper.

After a moment, Napoleon complied. His hand fell away, but his eyes did not leave Illya's. They had an expression Illya had seen before when Napoleon was interrogating someone; a searching, probing look as though the senior agent were trying to read the thoughts in his mind.

Illya gazed back, unable to speak. Then he sat down slowly on the edge of the bed and brought his hand back to Napoleon's hair, smoothing it back from his forehead.

He stilled his movements. Napoleon didn't want him. He had to remember that. But Napoleon wasn't pulling away or protesting or telling him he didn't know what he wanted.

Not taking his hand from its place in Napoleon's silky hair, Illya leaned down and kissed his partner's lips. He remembered kissing those lips last night, but that had been a drunken, impatient kiss, and he had already been wildly aroused when it happened. This kiss was soft and slow and deep. Napoleon's mouth opened to his, and their tongues met, drew back cautiously, then tentatively ventured forth again to glide lightly over each other. Napoleon's hands reached up to cup his face, and he felt the fingertips rubbing gently at his temples. He moved his own hands to cover Napoleon's, then slid them down his partner's arms and slowly back up again, feeling the heated skin under the cotton pajama sleeves.

He couldn't breathe. He pulled back and drew in a lungful of air.

Napoleon was still watching him. He reached up and touched Illya's throat, running his fingers from the jaw line to the hollow, which he stroked with a feathery touch. Illya tilted his head back and shut his eyes.

"Illya," Napoleon whispered, "in the sober light of dawn, do you still - "

"Yes," he answered softly, and his voice was so thick he barely recognized it as his own.

His hands found their way to the buttons of Napoleon's pajama top. He undid them methodically and spread the shirt apart, then lowered himself onto his partner and placed gentle kisses over Napoleon's chest. Napoleon sighed and responded by sliding his arms around Illya underneath his own shirt, tracing his spine and the lean muscles of his back. Illya kissed the older agent's mouth again, then ran a finger slowly over the lips. Napoleon opened his mouth and clamped down on the finger with mock ferocity, his eyes glinting playfully. Illya almost laughed for sheer joy. He managed to contain the sound, and simply grinned.

He rolled off Napoleon onto his side, being careful not to fall off the narrow single bed. Napoleon came with him, and for a while they lay face to face, not speaking, communicating much more satisfactorily by touch alone.

It was so slow and so delicious. Illya shivered as his pajama bottoms were removed and Napoleon's hands made their way to his inner thighs, where they proceeded to evoke small quakes as they moved up and down in a leisurely rhythm that melted his insides. This must be why Napoleon was so popular with the ladies, he thought indistinctly. Such patience.

He collected himself enough to return the favor. Napoleon obligingly lifted his hips to allow him to slide his pants off, after which Illya lazily drew patterns across his partner's ass with his fingers, dipping casually into the cleft as he went. He heard Napoleon's sharp intake of breath and smiled, then moaned as Napoleon's tongue gently coaxed a response from one of his nipples before traveling on to the other. At the same time, Napoleon's palm stroked slowly across his backside while the fingers of his other hand slipped up his thigh to play delicately with his balls.

Illya groaned and shuddered as the sensory overload made itself felt. He had not been made love to in months, and never by Napoleon, of course. He wanted to plead for release, but his voice didn't seem to work anymore. Nothing but incoherent whimpers escaped his throat as Napoleon tickled the underside of his cock teasingly, then closed his hand around it and rubbed with agonizing slowness.

In desperation, he pulled Napoleon closer against him and mimicked his partner's movements, taking the older man's swollen shaft in hand and stroking steadily. Napoleon gasped and rolled on to his stomach, stretching out full length on Illya's body until Illya felt their cocks press snugly against each other.

"This way?" Napoleon asked, his voice a harsh whisper. They were the first words either of them had spoken.

Illya nodded quickly, his eyes squeezed shut, and shoved his hips upward in invitation.

Napoleon shoved back, Illya met him, and then they were rocking together, finding a pace that pleased them both, each matching the other stroke for stroke, until the tension snapped and they came, almost in unison, their cries rising together to a peak. Napoleon bit down on his partner's shoulder as the convulsions tore through him, but the pain only sharpened Illya's ecstasy. He sobbed Napoleon's name and recklessly scraped his fingernails down his partner's back.

They lay unmoving for a while, breathing unsteadily, listening to the gradual slowing of each other's heartbeats. Illya was so dazed he barely noticed when Napoleon sighed and moved off him, then pulled him close, away from the edge of the bed. He felt utterly content as he sank into sleep. He was aware of nothing more until Napoleon kissed him awake less than an hour before their plane was scheduled to depart.

As usual, Illya had the window seat. He watched as the ground fell away beneath them and the slightly dizzy, disconnected sensation he always got upon takeoff began to ease. Then it returned, for a different reason, when Napoleon, in the seat beside him, blatantly pressed his left thigh against Illya's right. Illya looked around cautiously, saw that the few passengers seated close by appeared to be ignoring the two of them completely, and pressed back, hard.

Napoleon sighed and squeezed Illya's knee, drawing his hand back before his partner could protest.

Illya felt his face grow hot, and cast about for something to say.

"You never did tell me about you and Matt Chandler." He kept his voice low, though the crying baby across the aisle made it unlikely they would be overheard. Just the same, he brought his lips close to Napoleon's ear.

Napoleon shifted in his seat. "I told you we were buddies in Korea." He also spoke quietly.

Illya gazed at him levelly.

Napoleon dropped his eyes. "Well, it gets cold at night in Korea."

Illya almost laughed. "In Russia, too." He sighed. "You could have told me. Did you think I would be scandalized? Surely after two years you must have noticed my, shall we say, lack of enthusiasm for women?"

"Well - it's just something I've always preferred to keep private, that's all. You must know you're just begging for trouble if you advertise it. The blackmail potential is considerable. And Waverly - I don't know how he'd take it, and I don't want to find out. I have enough problems just with my expense account -"

He broke off as the Russian turned his face away and stared out the window. "Illya?"

Illya swallowed hard before he spoke. "Of course, I won't tell anyone, certainly not Waverly. If he proved unsympathetic it could mean my career, my freedom, possibly even my life. And I would not endanger you for the world. If you feel you cannot work with me after -"

"What are you talking about?" Napoleon sounded appalled. "I didn't mean -"

"Napoleon, what happened between us does not have to happen again." He paused to steady his voice. "I know how risky -"

"It damn well better happen again." Napoleon's voice had risen slightly and he cast a quick glance around the cabin before lowering it to a fierce whisper. "If it didn't, *that's* when I'd have to stop working with you. Do you think I'd be able to stand being around you all the time and not touching you and remembering how good -" He stopped and breathed hard for a moment. "We'll just have to be very careful, that's all."

Illya looked out the window again, this time to conceal the uncharacteristically broad smile that threatened to split his face in two. He noticed suddenly that the sky around them was perfectly cloudless today.

Napoleon squeezed his knee again and they were silent for a while.

One more question still nagged at the back of Illya's mind. He tried to forget it and concentrate on the warmth of Napoleon's body next to his, but it refused to be ignored. At last he sighed resignedly and asked, "Why didn't you spend the night with him last night?" He looked his partner - his lover - in the eye. "Really."

"With Matt?" Napoleon looked amused. "It would have been a little awkward with his wife and two little girls there."

Illya stared at him. "You mean, you and he didn't - but you said -"

"Said what?"

Illya shut his eyes tightly for a moment and tried to remember. "I thought you said - that his cologne rubbed off on you when you -"

Napoleon laughed, so loudly that several people turned to look in their direction. He transformed the laugh into a strangled cough and covered his mouth with his handkerchief.

"I just hugged him as I was leaving. It was a long hug, but that's all it was. He's been married for years now. He introduced me to his family and then we talked for a while, and that was it."

"Oh," Illya responded weakly.

"You really thought I -"

"Yes." He looked around frantically and hissed, "Stop laughing, Napoleon, for God's sake."

Napoleon managed, with obvious effort, to bring himself under control.

After a moment, Illya asked, "Was he your first?"

"First what?"

"Napoleon!"

"Yes, yes, he was. He taught me everything I know. Do we have to talk about this all the way to New York?"

"No, of course not." Illya paused. "Do you remember his address?"

"Huh?"

"His address."

"Why -"

"Because I want to send him a thank-you note."

Napoleon's grin spread slowly over his face. "Don't do that yet, tovarishch. Not before you've experienced the *full range* of my knowledge. Then you'll really have something to thank him for."

Illya looked out the window again and breathed hard.

THE END
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