Napoleon fell in love with his partner while taking a stroll through a suburban park late one summer evening. They were returning from a long drawn out courier assignment, and both were weary of roadside hamburgers and cheap motels. So when Napoleon had suggested getting off the highway and into one of the towns they were passing, for some decent food and maybe a nicer hotel, Illya had agreed. He had done most of the driving while Napoleon dozed, and had barely kept himself from making a sarcastic remark to that effect when Napoleon pleaded fatigue. He had refrained because Napoleon was perfectly capable of deciding they should drive through the night, if his present benevolent plans seemed unappreciated, and the thought of a good meal and a comfortable, quiet bed was very appealing.

They ate in a little Italian restaurant, and Napoleon had picked up the check, including the price of the bottle of wine they had shared over dinner and its twin, currently residing in a paper bag in Illya's hand. After eating they had strolled through the park. The path wandered delightfully around trees and streams and unexpected little topiaries. When it ended at a water lily pond humming with dragonflies, Illya had taken a seat on the bench provided, and stared at the water. Napoleon, accustomed to these plunges into silent contemplation, sat beside him and waited. It was a pleasant occupation, to be sure. It was still light out, and the setting sun sent its rays slanting across the pond. It danced on the ripples indicating unseen fish, and Napoleon turned his head, smiling, to draw Illya's attention to the heron in the shallows; neck outstretched, beak slightly open, poised and waiting. But when he turned, the sun's rays happened to be falling across Illya in a way that made his hair seem like a living thing, throwing off sparks of red and gold, deep copper and flashing silver. Illya's profile was limned in a web of sparkling light, and he was the most beautiful thing Napoleon had ever seen. In that moment he looked at Illya, and loved him. The sun's rays touched him, too, where he sat beside Illya and the web of light seemed to draw them closer. Draw them together.

Of course, Napoleon thought, dazed, like a man who had lived all his life in the shadows suddenly stepping out into - or being pushed abruptly into - the light. Of course, Illya. No wonder. No wonder that none of those dates had ever worked out, he meant. No wonder that none of those women - those bright, fascinating, sophisticated women - had kept his interest for more than a week or two, here and there. Of course, Illya. From the very beginning until this very day, right here in this park. Illya. He felt he should speak, felt he didn't dare open his mouth. He felt the world had changed around him, but here they sat, as they had been sitting for half an hour now. At any minute Illya would rise and walk away, back towards the hotel, and the moment ... the moment would be gone. But if he spoke, and Illya recoiled in horror, then everything would be gone. He was paralyzed with what he felt, the implications of it, and the uncertainty. He didn't know what to do. He didn't want to move, didn't want this moment to end.

And then it did. Because Illya turned to him, suddenly, lips parting as if about to speak, and caught Napoleon staring at him in ... what? What did Illya see? Desire? Well, that was part of it, but only part; and he had no wish to be treated to Illya's withering scorn, to Illya's stony cold refusals. He had seen it, and always shivered unexpectedly, even though it really had nothing to do with him. But now it did. Now ... what did Illya see? Love? Surely, love. And even if Illya didn't return the feeling, if Illya didn't ... surely he wouldn't just push Napoleon's love aside. Surely he'd at least show some compassion for this unsuspected weakness in his partner. Surely ... and then Illya smiled. He smiled, and his eyes were wide and filled with wonder - but no anger. No scorn, no disgust. Wonder, and joy, and ... and love. Love. Illya looked at him, and loved him, too, and that was such a splendid thing that Napoleon didn't know what to do with it. He didn't know, couldn't think, and so it was Illya who spoke.

"Yes, Napoleon," he said, and his voice was tranquil, like flowing water, like sun dappled clouds. "Whatever it is, yes. I love you. So ... yes."

"I love you too," Napoleon whispered. "Illya ... what just happened? How ... how can this be? I love you ... and you love me? We love each other?" And that was the answer to everything. To his worries about the winding down of their field careers, about the changes upcoming in their work lives. To his wondering if there was something wrong with him, some element essential to humanity, yet absent in him, because with all those women there had never been anyone he could even think of spending his life with. He had cursed his last name, as if it had cursed him. But now ... Illya. Of course, Illya. He smiled, and Illya smiled back at him, and then they walked together to their hotel room.

"Not yet," Napoleon said when the door was closed, and the chain fastened. Illya was looking at him with a softness on his face that Napoleon had never seen there before. "Not ... not yet. Not while we'd be sneaking around behind Waverly's back, to be -"

"Mr. Waverly has retired. What do you mean, sneaking around behind his back?"

"What was the last thing he did for you before he left?"

"He got me an American passport. But he didn't make any conditions, like `by the way, don't sleep with your partner.'

"I know. But still - we're not supposed to. Not while we're still field partners."

"Since when -" Illya began, then stopped, smiled ruefully. "Why am I arguing with you when I basically agree with you? It wouldn't be right, so we won't do it. But surely ..."

"I'll tell them," Napoleon promised. "As soon as we get back, I'll tell them. I'm only two months from forty anyway, and it's never been expected that you'd stay out there in the cold without me. You'd be a target."

Illya bristled. "I can take care of myself, in case you've forgotten. In fact it might be easier without the complications of your constant womanizing. Which better stop, Napoleon. If you think we're having an open ... whatever this is, think again. I am not an open person."

"And I am not a sharing friend," Napoleon agreed. "So ... not open. Closed. Closed up tight with only the two of us inside. Just like it's always been, really. With the addition ..." he waggled his eyebrows suggestively at Illya, who rolled his eyes.

"You're going to have to do better than that when the time comes." And suddenly Illya wasn't smiling anymore. "I might as well tell you I have enormous issues with what you want to do - what you want us to do. What I want us to be. I'll have to tell you about them, it wouldn't be honest otherwise, but I'd rather do it at in Manhattan, so I can go home if you throw me out."

"You don't really think I'd do that."

"No ... but I wouldn't blame you, either. So don't plan on telling the board before I talk to you. It could change your mind."

"I haven't been an angel either. I have some sordid stuff in my past that could just as well turn you off of me permanently." If I ever told you, he thought, but didn't say.

"I can't imagine it's anywhere near the same, but I see your point. When we return to New York we'll talk, and then you can talk to them. If you still want to.

"Oh, I'll want to. I'll be in the boardroom first thing Tuesday morning, talking to them."

And he had been in the boardroom, but sooner than expected. They had been checking out of the hotel when Napoleon's communicator had beeped. He'd feigned a sneeze to cover it, and retreated to the telephone booth while Illya finished up at the desk. It had been a curt computer generated summons back to New York - immediately, to report for assignment. Illya was to accompany him. Immediately.

"Well, we could kill two birds with one stone," Napoleon had begun as they parked the car at headquarters. Illya shook his head.

"No. Not until we talk."

"All right, sweetheart," Napoleon had answered gently. "We'll do it your way."

"Thank you. And please don't tell me you're going to start calling me by the same foolish and flippant names you called your women. Because I won't like it."

"Number one," Napoleon turned earnestly to face him, "I never called my women that. Baby, Honey, Sugar Buns ... but never sweetheart. That's a real endearment. It means - it means I love you. Not ..." he leered, and waggled his eyebrows again "that you don't have delectable sugar buns. And ..." shaking a finger to forestall the objection he could see forming - "number two, if you really don't like it, I won't say it. Nothing you don't like, ever. Again. Ever again. Well, between the two of us," he added, reddening. "I'm not a miracle worker. We might well be given an assignment in that boardroom today that you don't like, and I can't do anything about that. But between us - the two of us - your word is law. All right? And don't look like that," he added in a burst because Illya looked so sad he couldn't bear it. "I know you think this is all contingent on some big revelation you feel you need to make. I don't know how to fix that except to hear it and still love you. So let's stop talking about it. We're on our way to work. Let's focus."

Later on, Napoleon would look back at his words with a bitter wonder. How had he known? Because Illya didn't like their new assignment and he didn't like it either, not one bit. And, equally as predicted, there was fuck all he could do about it.

"Bait for blackmailers at a BDSM party?" Illya lifted his eyes from the paper and stared at Turnbull, UNCLE's interim Section Chief while Waverly gave retirement a trial run. He had left because he was ready, he said, and tired. But he wouldn't rule out a change of mind so his chair was kept open. Meanwhile Ben Turnbull sat there, and ran things with a competent, if heavy, hand. "I don't understand."

Napoleon, who himself was speechless, looked at Turnbull also. Maybe the explanation Illya was asking for would clarify things. Because surely they weren't asking ... surely they couldn't order ...

"It stands for Bondage/Domination/Sadism/Masochism," Turnbull said, and Illya snapped the papers across the table to him.

"I know what it means! What do you mean, telling us to go in undercover as a ... a couple? A couple of sexual freaks? You can't be serious."

"It is true that we have not needed your expertise as a homosexual lure previously. But since it is not entirely unfamiliar territory to you I don't understand your attitude. This is where these blackmailers are operating, these are the types of photographs and films they are using to do so. Do I need to remind you that every one of us operates under the same proviso? No, I thought not." He turned away from Illya, who had not answered him. "Agent Solo."

Napoleon was working on controlling his expression. Turnbull thought he had dealt a finishing blow with those words and he had, to Illya. Napoleon could see his face. Now Turnbull would be evaluating him, Napoleon Solo, and Napoleon Solo would not display shock or even surprise to this man. But he was both, as he tried to make sense of that series of statements. A lure. Your expertise as a homosexual lure. An unwilling one, judging from his behavior now, when men approached him. So when - Waverly had never operated that way. "There are enough enthusiastic volunteers for these missions," he had said drily to Napoleon, who was actually in his office to enthusiastically volunteer. That had been his first meeting with Angelique. So before UNCLE. Before UNCLE had been the KGB, and they certainly did operate that way. He should have thought of it before. He should have looked at Illya - beautiful, beautiful Illya, and thought of it.

Illya wanted to die. His carefully guarded secret, his shameful dirty past, which he had spent so many years covering up, and which he had spent the past several hours trying to frame in a way he could present to Napoleon, was, in one dismissive phrase, out. In front of his peers and superiors, who would be watching him to see how he reacted. In front of Napoleon, who they weren't even pretending not to watch. Illya couldn't look at him. He couldn't look at anyone. He stared at his hands, folded in front of him, and wished for death.

"Now look here," Napoleon began, and his voice was ugly now. It was the same voice he would turn on Illya later, Illya knew it. But for right now his best hope, besides sudden unexpected death - death ex machina, he thought, and almost laughed. Oh, fine. He was falling apart? Right here at a board meeting, which was in part about his responses, his professionalism? And still Turnbull wasn't finished.

"And you, Agent Solo, with your extensive recreational immersion in this particular sub culture, will be recognized and accepted. We have no other agent with your ... er, experience in these specialized ... er, activities."

Napoleon flushed. Illya saw it, dark red creeping up his neck and over his face. "That was a long time ago," he ground out through clenched teeth.

"But you know the ... er, procedures, so to speak. The ... attire and so forth. Since you were always a Dominant - is my phraseology correct? Yes? - then you should take that role again. That places you, Agent Kuryakin, as the ... er, Submissive. I am sure Agent Solo can educate you on what is expected." He coughed.

"It ill behooves the person giving the sex trade assignment to stammer and blush over it," Illya flashed, made furious by the look on Napoleon's face. They had both been ambushed here. Napoleon had no more wanted him to know about this ... he didn't even know what to call it. Napoleon hadn't wanted him to know that he had been a Dominant. Napoleon had put that behind him. And Turnbull had thrown it at him in front of the full Board, in front of his partner. He looked at Napoleon. Napoleon was looking at him, too, and his expression was concerned. Very concerned. And suddenly Illya thought of pictures he had seen, images from stag films he'd been dragged to in boozy bonhomie. He saw huge gags, pierced nipples. Cock rings. Butt plugs. The ugly terms poured into his brain, and he was dizzy with them. He would have to ... Napoleon would have to ...

"There is already a great deal of gossip about you two," Turnbull went on. He ignored Illya's outburst, but the hemming and hawing stopped as if turned off by a switch. "That you are more than friends, that you have in fact been having an affair throughout your years as field partners. Don't bother to deny it," he waved a hand at Napoleon, who had indeed seemed about to speak. "You have to deny it, I know, and I prefer to remain officially in the dark. But it is perfect for our purposes. We want these extortionists," he added more loudly. "Let us not lose sight of the fact that much information has been given out, that at least seven agents we are aware of have been compromised, that two of them have killed themselves."

Lucky them, Illya thought. And you just called Napoleon a liar, at a Board meeting. After everything he's ... you son of a bitch. Turnbull was continuing. "This party is a full on orgy. We want the photographs to be convincing, compromising, and accurate. Am I making myself clear?"

"Yes sir," Napoleon said. There was no anger in his voice now; it was level, and professional. More professional than Turnbull's, actually. "You are quite clear.

"But ..." Illya began. Full on orgy. Photographs accurate. And he himself, bound, gagged, helpless. "But ..."

"Don't worry, Illya," Napoleon said then, and while his voice was still level, the professionalism was gone, replaced by kindness. "I've got this. Trust me."

"But ..."

"Trust me," Napoleon repeated, and Illya looked at him. "Let's go. We don't have much time. The party is tonight."

"And you can pick up the required implements and apparel in Section VIII," Turnbull put in.

The gag and the dildo and the ... the harness and the ... his imagination was running wild. "But ..." he couldn't stop saying it. But he didn't want to be tied up in some intricate ugly way. But he didn't want to be displayed naked, didn't want to be forced into participating in some dreadful orgy. "But ..."

Then Napoleon was walking towards the door, so he followed. What else could he do? He'd follow Napoleon out the door, away from ... no, not away from. Towards. They were heading for Section VIII to get the elements of Illya's disguise. Then they would go put those articles on him, and go to the orgy, and ... and ... and Napoleon knew about him, on top of it. As soon as the elevator doors closed behind them he looked up at Napoleon. "I'm a whore," he said bluntly. "He's right. For years, with the KGB. So ... and I still don't want to do this!"

"I know. I'm a pervert. For years, without even the excuse of a job. For fun. I indulged my darkest control fantasies, and got off on it. Now, my partners were never unwilling, but the things I did to get a hard on ... you're braver than I am, Illya. You were going to tell me. I was never going to tell you. Have you changed your mind about us, knowing that?"

"No," Illya said, because of course he hadn't changed his mind about Napoleon - about Napoleon and him. About them. But surely that was a moot point now. "Haven't you changed yours?"

"No."

"Oh. " He had hoped, of course, but ... well, this was good news! This was ... but still, no. Tonight lay ahead, and tonight would change Napoleon's mind. The elevator opened, and Illya saw with surprise that they were at the lobby level, not Camouflage and Deception. He didn't want to ask.

"I hate this," Napoleon said in a conversational tone as they walked down the street. "That bastard. He'll wish he hadn't done this, Illya. In the long run, I promise, he'll regret this day."

"You didn't get the things," Illya said. He shivered. "The implements, and the apparel."

"I'll take care of all of that. You can go home, Illya. Pack a bag. And don't worry about tonight. I've got this. All right?"

"But ..." he flushed. "I mean, all right. I'll be all right, Napoleon. I won't let you down. I'll do my job. I'm a professional. Spy," he added hastily and wanted to bit his tongue off. He sounded so foolish! But Napoleon nodded.

"I know. It's still us, after all. Come to my place by five. I'll suit you up myself. Don't worry," he said again. "I know what you're thinking, but I have another idea. Because I won't ... I won't hurt you, Illya." It was a cry of pain. "They can't make me hurt you. I won't. I won't have to. You'll see. And nobody else is touching you," he added. "Even back in the day I was not an orgy guy. I had my partner, and I didn't share. Which turned out to be a very good thing. So I won't hurt you, and I won't share you. The rest of it ... well, I can't fix everything. And when this is over we'll lock ourselves in my apartment, and not come out for a week."

"But if you aren't hurting me, and you're not sharing me, where does the B & D & S & M come in?"

"Humiliation," Napoleon said flatly. "That's the bottom line, anyway. Power and humiliation. The pain and the gratuitous devices are only routes to that. Tonight won't be pleasant, but there'll be no pain, or actual damage. Unless you can't stand the sight of me afterwards," and his voice broke. "I suppose that's a distinct possibility."

"No," Illya said, because Napoleon was already torturing himself over this. He should be making it easier on his partner, not dragging him down. "I understand. You never told me about ... about the roads you've traveled, because you thought you'd lose me. I never told you either, for the same reason. Now you're worried that I'll leave you after tonight, and I'm worried that after you do humiliate me, and see me that way, you'll leave me. Will you?"

"No."

"And I promise I won't leave you. It's an assignment, it's an unpleasant one, and one tinged with official malice - what did you ever do to Turnbull, Napoleon? I mean, he could have done this in a kinder way."

"A kinder gentler UNCLE" Napoleon said, and laughed. It wasn't a pleasant sound. "Not to mention you. There's nothing official in his malice towards you." He tousled Illya's hair. "Let's go."

So Illya hailed a cab heading downtown, and Napoleon crossed the street to hail one going uptown, to shop for implements and apparel.

---

Illya arrived at Napoleon's apartment within the hour. He was too agitated to have been able to settle at home, so he packed an overnight bag and took another cab. The doorman welcomed him, and informed him that Mr. Solo was out. Napoleon had long ago left instructions that Illya Kuryakin was to be admitted at any time, day or night, whether he were there or not, so Illya smiled, and said thank you. He knew that he appeared perfectly composed, and was grateful. At the very least he could remain professional. At the very least.

When he came in the door the lights were dim, and good smells were coming from the oven. His stomach turned over. If Napoleon really thought he was going to be able to eat before this ... this event, Illya had news for him. Not happening, he thought, and hefted his bag towards the guest room, where he always slept. But the bed was unmade, the blinds still drawn. He stood there for a moment, frowning. What was he supposed to do? Well, he could use the bathroom, he supposed. He left his suitcase at the door and went in.

The blue towels he always used were on the warming bar, and a brand new terry cloth bathrobe, in the same shade, hung on the door. The shower was open, and a plush mat lay in front of it.

Oh. Well, he supposed he should be clean. He was going to be on display, every inch of him, every nook and cranny of him, so he should shower, shouldn't he.

He did. It was something practical to do, something normal, so he did it. When he came out, wrapped in the robe, he nearly tripped over his suitcase. Oh. Right. The guest room wasn't ready for him. Did Napoleon ... maybe Napoleon had changed his mind. The front door opened then, breaking his train of thought, and Napoleon came in. He carried two shopping bags -implements and apparel, Illya thought, and wanted to run. He wanted to run so badly that if Napoleon hadn't been still standing in the doorway, blocking it, he would have. He would have run, and run, and run, and never come back. He'd change his name, he'd hide, he'd join the underground. He'd think of some way to explain his accent. He'd ...

"You can put your suitcase in the master bedroom," Napoleon said, and he blinked. He was still clutching it in his hand, and his hair was dripping down his back, and ... and ... the master bedroom? Without a word, he turned into the large bedroom that took up one entire window wall of the penthouse.

The covers were invitingly folded back and there were more pillows on the bed than was usual. Illya knew that because when Napoleon traveled, Illya always checked on the apartment for him, spent the night sometimes, so it wouldn't stand empty for too long. But always before he had slept in the guest room. Now ... as his eyes moved around the room he saw a new book by one of his favorite authors on a night table, and a brand new pair of blue pajamas lying on the bed. One of Napoleon's two closets stood open, and there was nothing in it. Illya stood looking at it blankly.

"It's not fair, is it," Napoleon said from right behind him and Illya jumped, dropped the suitcase. He swore at himself for the lapse, then Napoleon's hands settled on his shoulders, steadying him. "Our first night together, and we can't even really enjoy it. I should be helping you move in, instead of decking you out like a show pony for an orgy."

Illya had nothing to say to any of that. He couldn't really think about Napoleon and him, because it seemed so unlikely that it would happen. Tonight would change Napoleon's mind. He would look at Illya with scorn after this, with contempt. But then Napoleon turned him, looking into his eyes, and Illya could see anxiety in the brown ones meeting his.

"Or not?" Napoleon said. "Or you'll never be able to forgive me for what I'm going to do to you, and this is ended before it began?"

"No," Illya said. "I won't change my mind. I know you can't help it, and that you'll do your best to ... to buffer it for me. I know that. But if you don't want to after you see me ... after you ... afterwards, I'll understand."

"Oh, I'll want to," Napoleon said, drawing him closer. "I'll want to. You have no idea how I feel, Illya, if you could even entertain the possibility that there is any going back for me."

"There is no going back for me, either." He met Napoleon's eyes, and they smiled at one another. "But I'm not hungry."

"All right. It's lasagna. It'll heat up just fine. Now I'm going in to shower and dress. When I come out, I'll get you ready. If you can make yourself eat something though, that would be good, Illya. It'll be a long night."

"I'll try."

"Okay, sweetheart. I'll be right out."

Napoleon disappeared into the bathroom and Illya heard the shower start. Still wrapped in the robe, he went into the kitchen, peeled and ate a banana. His stomach didn't want it, but Napoleon was right. He left the banana peel on the counter so Napoleon would see that he had eaten, and looked at the bags. What was in them? He didn't want to know. Again he thought of flight, but that would be abandoning Napoleon in the middle of an assignment. Of course he would never do that. Of course not. So he stood, and stared at the bags, and worried.

The sound of the bathroom door opening spun him about, and he stared at Napoleon.

Napoleon wore a black tuxedo, black shirt, black tie. A large black pearl glimmered softly in his tie tack. He looked hard, cold, dangerous, but his eyes were warm when they met Illya's, and that was reassuring.

"I know exactly how this is going to go," Napoleon said, and his voice was smooth, and silky, like dark chocolate, like old whisky, like ... Illya looked an inquiry. "You don't need to. The Submissive obeys. That is all. No questions, no arguments - in fact don't speak at all unless I address you. It's safer."

Illya nodded.

"Drop the robe," Napoleon ordered, and opened the bags. Illya did so, and stood shivering. Napoleon had a jar in his hands and he opened it, put his fingers in it. Put them in Illya's hair, and mussed it up thoroughly. Then he knelt. Illya felt a band close around one ankle, then the other. There was no discomfort. Napoleon rose again, and a collar was placed about his neck - again, with that curious comfort. It wasn't metal, but very soft leather, with enough give to it that he had no difficulty breathing. But it was there. He could feel it. Napoleon was attaching things to it, and then cuffs went around his wrists. With his head bent he could see them, and they were leather too, gold leather. They bound his wrists in front of him but the chains connecting them, and them to the collar, were ... he stared at them. They were gold, finely wrought gold, with jewels decorating the links. Rubies, from the look of them, although they couldn't be real. Very dark rubies, almost like drops of ... like drops of blood. But the thing was so fragile! He looked down, and the chains connecting the ankle cuffs were the same. Then Napoleon touched his nipples, and he flinched.

Cold metal replaced warm fingers, and he looked down. It certainly appeared as if his nipples were pierced, and connected by more gold and sparkling gems, with only him and Napoleon to know it was magnetic.

Napoleon looked him up and down, and nodded. Putting both hands on Illya's waist he turned him, moved him so he was standing in front of the full length mirror. He didn't want to look up, kept staring at his feet, but "Look," Napoleon said and his voice was soft now, with a predatory edge. He looked.

His hair sparkled, catching the light and shooting it outwards. Whatever Napoleon had put in it, he supposed. He sparkled all over, the jewels sending deep red shafts of light across his skin, the chains casting a golden web all around him. It was certainly better than what he had been picturing, and furthermore Napoleon seemed to be almost done. No butt plugs or cock rings, then. It was a relief. But the whole thing was so delicate! He could free his hands with one quick move. His feet were linked closely enough that he would have to walk carefully, but if he wanted to run his first stride would break them. He didn't understand, didn't think he should ask.

"Your obedience is voluntary," Napoleon said. "You are held by the force of my will, and nothing more. It adds to the humiliation, am I right?"

It did. But then Napoleon's voice changed, he gave Illya his wry grin and rumpled his hair again. "But if it all goes south, you can both run and fight," he said, and Illya smiled at him. It was true. The requirements for their disguise were met. Met spectacularly - he looked at himself in the mirror again. It was a powerfully erotic image, and with his hands demurely in front of him, with his head bent, he was indeed the perfect Submissive. But if need be, if things turned threatening, he could break his chains in an instant, and have Napoleon's back as always.

"Words are the same," Napoleon went on. `I'm not gagging you, Illya. If anybody questions that I'll remark that you do things with your mouth that please me. But you have to do your part, and be as silent as if you were indeed gagged. Yes?"

Illya nodded.

"If I do ask you a direct question, address me as `my lord'. `Yes, my lord. I will, my lord.' That kind of thing. It'll say volumes to anybody paying attention. Right?"

He nodded again. "Right?" Napoleon repeated.

"Yes, my lord."

"There we go. Ready?"

"No, my lord."

Napoleon laughed. He threw his head back and laughed, then he gathered Illya into an embrace, held him, naked and chained as he was, against his heart. "Oh, sweetheart," he said, and kissed the top of Illya's head. "I am so sorry."

"I know. It's all right, Napoleon. You don't want to do this to me. I understand. I am not holding it against you. I know you're doing everything you can to spare me, and that's what I'll remember. You have my word."

"And you have my word," Napoleon whispered. "I won't let anybody else lay one finger on you. They'll look - but if I remember these things correctly everybody is completely immersed in their own activities. We'll get some initial interest because it's been years since I've attended any of these parties, and always and only with women. But I was never cruel, Illya. I acted cruel, but my partners were always willing - eager - participants."

"I believe you. Am I going out like this?"

"Wait." Napoleon went to the hall closet and came back with a cape. It was floor length, and made of the most beautiful sables Illya had ever seen. He stared.

"What ... where ..."

"It was a gift for my great grandmother, from her lover in the Bolshoi. Rumor has it the furs were originally plunder from the Imperial Palace. This cape has been in storage for years, but I want it made very plain how high your value is in my eyes. Big gestures are part of the language. They'll get it." Napoleon wrapped it around him and the lining was ... was ... he craned his neck looking for a label.

"Cashmere," Napoleon said. "You like?"

"Well - what's not to like?" He rubbed his cheek on the fur near his neck. "It's beautiful."

"It should be warm enough, too, even with you naked underneath. Let's go."

So they did. Then went out the door, down the hall, into the elevator. In the elevator Napoleon pulled the hood up over Illya's head, concealing even his face in its depths, and when the doors opened they went in silence, single file, through the lobby, and into the limousine waiting at the curb.

As it pulled up to the hotel, Napoleon reached into his pocket and withdrew a leash. Made from the same gold and gems as the rest of it, it was still a leash and Napoleon leaned in, attached it to the collar. Illya flushed hotly, so hotly that he would have given a great deal for something to cool his cheeks, something cold to drink, but there was nothing. Napoleon left the car first and he followed, close enough to keep from feeling the unpleasant tug at his throat. He followed Napoleon, head bent, able to see only his feet and the ground around them. It was enough. He wouldn't fall, he was in the right proximity to Napoleon, it was enough. Up some steps, through a door, across a carpet, through another door.

A tumult of voices struck his ears, and he flinched from it. Laughter, the clink of glasses, the boozy shouts of men enjoying themselves. It was all horribly familiar and he closed the doors of memory firmly. He could not - absolutely would not - fall apart in the middle of a mission no matter what it was. He would not give Napoleon any reason to think he could not depend on his partner just like always. Napoleon had made his bonds easy to break - he must have thought there might be a need. Well, Napoleon didn't have to worry. Illya almost shook back the hood, so he could look about him, then remembered. No. He did nothing, took no initiative. In the absence of a clear and present danger, the cover should be maintained. Better - far better - to complete this assignment, to behave scandalously enough to make a potential blackmailer think he had something on the great team of Solo and Kuryakin, something for which they would betray their trusts.

Napoleon stopped walking and turned. He pushed back the hood and smiled into Illya's eyes. "Ready? Another big gesture is coming up."

"I don't want to," Illya said mutinously. He felt mutinous. This was a dreadful thing to be asking him to do, and a terrible thing to ask Napoleon to do to him. Napoleon made a sound that might have been a laugh, or a sigh - or both.

"Me neither, partner," he said, and patted Illya's back. "Me neither." Then he unfastened the cloak and removed it.

Just like that, he was naked in front of this crowd. Stark naked except for the collar, and the cuffs, and the chains. The web of golden chains, that tickled him when he moved, and the jewels - they had to be real, they couldn't reflect the light the way they were if they weren't real. He moved in light, refracting light in jagged splinters and soft wavy arcs with every step.

And the sound stopped. He moved in silence as he moved in light, and it chilled him to the bone. They were all looking, they must be. They had stopped talking and laughing, stopped drinking and all turned as one to stare at him - and at Napoleon. Napoleon, who had been absent from these festivities for years, and now showed up with a man on the other end of his leash instead of the women he had been with before. But Napoleon kept walking and he perforce followed, and when they reached their seats, pillows on a low couch with a table set beside it, the conversations had started up again . So far, so good. He kept his eyes down and heard Napoleon's voice - not addressing him, but speaking with others who had come by. Illya listened, but it was mostly the sort of exchanges one could hear anyplace when people got together infrequently. Career updates, marriage discussions, politics. The economy. He heard the occasional request for his services, and Napoleon's flat refusal which bordered on the offensive. Nobody seemed offended, though - they laughed and teased Napoleon, and he laughed and teased back. Meanwhile Illya scanned the room, looking for interest. Not the sort of interest the men talking with Napoleon were displaying - everybody was interested in the naked bejeweled Submissive, and the long absent, previously heterosexual Dominant. No, a different kind of interest. Professional interest. Recognition. Danger. If the blackmailers saw through the game, if they thought that this was too convenient, they might try to turn the tables and capture one or both of them, to learn what UNCLE knew. So Illya scanned the room, noting exits, noting potential booby traps or weapons. Then a drink was in his hand and he looked at Napoleon, startled.

"You may drink," Napoleon said, in the sort of condescending tone one would use to a child. Illya bristled, hid it, and drank to hide his lapse. It was cold, and delicious, and he didn't think it was alcoholic. He drained the glass - how thirsty he'd been! - and looked for someplace to set it down. He didn't see any place within reach so held on to it, and in a minute a server had whisked it away.

It seemed a long time that they sat, as if it were any other dinner party, but then the lights dimmed. "Gentlemen," Napoleon said and his voice was hard again - a dismissal, and a warning. They clapped him on the back, looked Illya over again, and went off. Illya swallowed, stared at his hands. It was on him, then, whatever it was. Napoleon took him by the shoulders, half lifted and turned him, and laid him face down across the arm of the sofa. It was uncomfortable, and even as he shifted, trying to find a way to brace himself, Napoleon brought a hassock over, pulled him further forward over the arm and fastened the jeweled chains to the legs of the hassock.

He could rest his head on the cushion now, and that was better, but the mental image - face down and ass in the air - made him cringe. He turned his face into the cushion and forced himself to breathe deeply, to allow Napoleon to manipulate him, to fasten his ankles to the sofa legs. How had Napoleon known what would work, what would fit ... but Napoleon always knew. He would have checked into their seating arrangements the way he checked into everything else. But people would be looking, people were seeing him like this, and the hot blood flooded his face. He pushed it harder into the cushion. Now what? He couldn't imagine. Was Napoleon just going to go ahead and fuck him now? What else could follow this preparation, this position? But Napoleon had promised not to hurt him - had he thought this act through? Napoleon probably meant he wouldn't hurt him deliberately, extraneously, as it were. Napoleon meant ... he would ... the touch, feather light, trailing up his back, after the eternity of anticipation, made him jump so violently he heard the chains rustle where his hands were bound. He waited, trembling, for it to be repeated, and when it wasn't he had to bite his lip to keep from whimpering. Anything, anything but this endless waiting, this exposed, helpless, naked - submissive waiting.

There. Another touch, down his back now, down his spine, around, up ... he lost himself for what felt like a very long time, drifting in the bliss of those touches. Was there ... had there been something in that drink after all? No, surely not, but ... oh, how good this felt. How good - and then a new feeling awoke, sharper, making him jump again. What ... arousal.

Arousal. In that moment he understood what Napoleon had meant by humiliation. Napoleon was going to ... thought he was going to ... oh, no. No. He didn't have to. He was here, wasn't he? Naked, bejeweled like a courtesan, face down and ass up, submitting. That was the deal. So why ... oh. How good it felt! He wished for real restraints now, because then he could struggle against them, could distract himself by fighting. But as it was all he could do was lie there and ... and submit.

Napoleon had both hands on him now, stroking and caressing him, tickling him a little. Illya's cock had hardened but he didn't move, he wouldn't move. He wasn't supposed to move anyway, was he. But Napoleon was trying to make him move, was trying to arouse him past the point of remembering the rules, to show to this entire room full of perverts that he could arouse his partner - his famously cold, reserved partner, for anyone who happened to know - to the point that he would disgrace himself here, in public, would be so aroused by this ... this humiliation, this public humiliation, that he would ... ohhhh. Napoleon had his finger in him now, so gently, no pain, no tearing, just this subtle exquisite ... he did move, he couldn't help it and Napoleon flicked his nipple with his free hand, hard enough to sting. He flinched from it but the fingers remained, twisting slightly now, pinching and he gasped, wanting it, wanting it on both sides, wanting it harder.

He got neither. Napoleon backed off, not touching him anywhere at all, and the loss was so great he could have wept from it. Then Napoleon was back, blanketing him from the rear, covering him, and his cock was there too, slick with some sort of oil, pushing into him, right up inside him. For a moment there was pain, and resistance. He stiffened, his muscles contracted, trying to expel this intruder. Napoleon went with it, briefly, then pushed again, harder, much harder and something sparked , something deep inside him and something seemingly right behind his eyes, something sparking from his fingertips, linking them to the legs of the divan he was clutching. It was like a spark, and like a rasp, like a glide and like a ... like a kiss. A kiss of flesh. He turned his face into his shoulder to silence the noise he seemed about to make and the feeling happened again, and again, and again ... he cried out and Napoleon's hand came over his mouth, silencing him. That only added to the heat, and the struggle, and the ... he was screaming now, and then he was lost in bliss. He was aware of nothing but the flesh inside him, the flesh on top of him, the flesh covering his mouth, filling his senses. He had a moment to wonder that he could feel so much and remain conscious, that anything anywhere could ever feel this good, this good, so good, so good, so good. Oh, so good. So very, very ... the sound - his sound - stopped. He ran out of air, he'd screamed it all out and the frantic striving ecstasy was gone too. He lay, still moving but not of his own self. Napoleon was moving him, moving in him, and then Napoleon groaned, a painful sound, and clutched at him, holding him so close it seemed impossible they would ever separate again.

It was Napoleon who moved, separated after all, because it was Napoleon who heard the applause. Illya was still drifting when Napoleon lifted up off him, leaving him bare and chilly as sweat evaporated off his skin. He was alone, and cold, and ... and what was that noise? Clapping? But what ... oh. Knowledge hit him, crushed him and he let it, collapsed again, face down and ass up, he thought dully, and couldn't will his body to move. Couldn't move period. Wasn't allowed to move, was he. Had to stay here and wait for instructions. Well ... well, good. He would just lie here and die waiting. Surely he could die now. He'd wanted to die before, or thought he had, but now ... rather than stand up, rather than walk naked and ... oh, no, no ... wearing the evidence of the pleasure Napoleon had brought him ... oh, no. He had never been so ashamed. Shame was a palpable weight, smothering him, pressing the breath from his lungs. Shame was a pit in which he sank, never reaching bottom, never ever getting out. How could he do anything again? Lift his head, talk to Napoleon ... accept the new life together Napoleon had extended - how could he do any of that? Let me die, he thought, in the closest thing to a prayer he had extended that he could remember. Just ... please. Haven't I done enough? Let me die. Other people drop dead in their tracks. Why not me? I'll just lie here and die.

Warmth, protecting his skin from the cold, protecting him from the stares around him. Warmth and softness and ... and luxury. He was wrapped in luxury and comfort and being lifted to his feet. Napoleon pulled the hood forward again so he didn't have to see them, didn't have to see anything at all. Napoleon had an arm around his shoulders and was leading him out, so carefully, so tenderly, as if ... as if Illya was something infinitely fragile, infinitely precious, and infinitely beloved. The blackmailers would love it, Illya thought; professional after all, even in the depths. This man, this Napoleon Solo, would do anything, pay any price - betray any trust - to shield the man in his embrace from the consequences of his own lust. It was in that embrace, in the careful matching of their steps so Illya didn't fall behind; in the strong arm upholding him when he stumbled over an unnoticed threshold.

They must have gone outside, but Illya didn't notice it. He was enclosed in warmth and silence, the hood muffling any sound that might have penetrated the rushing of his own blood in his ears, the pounding of his own heart. He heard the car door slam and realized he was - they were - sitting and, now, moving forward.

"It's over," Napoleon said, right into his ear. "Illya? It's over. We don't even have to worry about follow through. They don't trust me to handle it professionally, I suppose." He snorted. "I was insulted when they told me all contacts would go to them, but now I'm glad. They're welcome to it. Meanwhile, for you and for me, it's over."

Over. How did Napoleon mean that? Did he mean it was over, as in the mission is finished? Or over for them, for the two of them. He couldn't bear to ask, thought he already knew the answer.

Napoleon said nothing more until they had pulled up in front of his building. He helped Illya out, keeping the cloak firmly in place. Without a word they walked through the lobby, up in the elevator, and finally shut the door behind them. Napoleon set his security systems, reported in. "We have already heard," Turnbull told him gleefully. "Spectacularly done, gentlemen."

Napoleon didn't thank him. He only said, "As per our previous discussion Illya and I are taking the rest of the week off. We'll be in on Monday." He didn't wait for confirmation, just disconnected. Then he turned.

Very carefully he removed the cloak, and hung it up. It had been inside out, Illya saw. It had been the fur against his skin, and that was why ... Napoleon unfastened the leash, the chains, the collar. Illya watched him dully, making no move to help or hinder. He made no move at all, although he supposed he could now, if he chose. He didn't choose. He was done. In fact, when Napoleon knelt to remove the ankle cuffs, taking away the arm Illya had been unknowingly leaning on, Illya literally staggered, bracing himself against Napoleon's back

"Sorry," Napoleon muttered, as if he had bumped Illya somehow, as if on top of everything else he had almost knocked Illya over.

"It's all right," Illya answered, and Napoleon said nothing. He only removed the black tuxedo, the black shirt, and hung them up beside the sables. He removed his undergarments and brought Illya with him into the shower, washed him. Had to wash him because Illya made no attempt to help himself. He just stood there, staring at the floor, letting the water pour over him. Napoleon shampooed his hair, washed his body, knelt again to do his legs and feet - all so very familiar from those years in the field together, all those injuries and illnesses Napoleon had seen him through, as he had seen Napoleon.

Napoleon washed his penis, just as Illya had done when Napoleon had been so dehydrated from dysentery that he had had to lie motionless in the tub while Illya cleaned him. As Napoleon had done for him, time without number. So he let Napoleon wash him everywhere - every nook and cranny of him, because ... because he was dirty, and needed cleaning.

After they had toweled off and gotten into pajamas, Napoleon had suggested putting the lasagna back in the oven. He ignored Illya's protest and only said that he was hungry. "Oh," Illya said. "Of course you can. If you're hungry. Of course." He should be hungry too, he supposed, and maybe he was. Maybe, underneath the smothering weight of his shame, he was hungry. Who cared? Not him. He was still waiting to die.

But then, while the lasagna heated up, he and Napoleon watched Jeopardy. It was surreal, sitting there drinking the wine Napoleon poured, as if it were any evening, but the ordinariness of it soothed him. When the oven timer dinged he even let Napoleon coax him into taking some, eating some. Napoleon cared, that he might be hungry. It warmed him. It always had. It was easy, to sit here and watch Jeopardy with Napoleon, as so often before. It was a relief to listen to Napoleon go on about the authorship of a certain Beatles song, because he was always so sure of his answers. "Lennon/McCartney", he said now, with a wave of his hand. "Go with the odds. It's almost always Lennon/McCartney with those guys." And even though Illya thought this particular one was by Harrison, he said nothing. When he turned out to have been right, he said nothing about that either. He had nothing to say, nothing to offer. But it was nice, leaning against Napoleon, listening to his voice, accepting another bite of his lasagna.

When the show ended, Napoleon offered to make up the guest room bed for him if he preferred, but Illya shook his head, and climbed into Napoleon's. When Napoleon got in beside him Illya turned into his arms with a great, shuddering sigh because this was best of all, lying here in Napoleon's arms, protected by Napoleon's strength and wealth and power, shielded by Napoleon's devotion to him. Cherished, not shamed, and loved - still loved - despite everything. It was lovely, and he didn't even notice when he fell asleep.

When he woke, needing to use the bathroom, the apartment was silent. Dark, and silent. Beside him, Napoleon slept - the even breathing, the occasional hint of a snore, told him so. Illya eased himself out and padded barefoot across the thick carpet, closed the bathroom door behind him.

Standing in there, looking at the shower, made him remember how Napoleon had washed him, cleaned him. The hot water had felt so good, pouring down on him. The soap had been perfect - a hint of evergreen, a hint of peppermint - cleansing and calming. Everything had been perfect. Napoleon ... Napoleon had been perfect. Napoleon had carried this assignment. He himself had crumpled on hearing it, and been useless to Napoleon throughout. Worse than useless, because Napoleon had had to carry him, too. Napoleon had made the arrangements. Napoleon had obtained and applied the necessary disguises. Napoleon had carried it through, keeping all of his promises. There had been no pain. There had been nobody else. There had been ... there had been humiliation. And, with the assignment finished, Napoleon had made their ... not escape, exactly, but getaway ... with no assistance from him.

New shame, professional shame, washed over him. When would he ever learn that shame had endless dimensions, and bottomless depths? But even so, Napoleon loved him. How could he doubt it, in the light of Napoleon's ... well, Napoleon's love, which had, throughout the proceedings, surrounded and protected him like a web of its own. A web stronger than all the debauchery around them, stronger than the evil planned against them by the as yet unknown blackmailers there.

Lifting his head, he looked at himself in the mirror. No glitter, not artifice. Just him; heavy eyed, dark shadows under them, mouth drooping. He set it. Way back when, before any of this had started, Napoleon had proposed to him. And Napoleon hadn't changed his mind, that was abundantly clear. And Illya had accepted Napoleon's proposal. And he hadn't changed his mind either. So ... so it was time to move forward, into the new life waiting for both of them. And Illya knew exactly what his first step would be. He would show Napoleon ... he would treat Napoleon to ... Napoleon wasn't the only one experienced in seduction. He was still smiling as he walked over to the bed, softly, because he didn't want to wake Napoleon yet. First he would ... but the smile faded as he gazed down at his partner.

Napoleon's face, illuminated by the light from the bathroom, was tear streaked. Illya stared at him. Napoleon had taken care of him, had taken such good, tender, loving care of him. And then he had wept. He had wept all alone there beside Illya's oblivious form, for who knew how long. Even the pillow he had pushed aside at some point was ... Illya picked it up. Wet. He dropped it as if had bitten him, and Napoleon stirred. .

Illya's face hardened. He felt it, and felt his lips press together. He stood for a moment, considering assorted acts of untraceable mayhem, and shook his head. Instead, he went back into the living room, picked up the telephone , and made a call.

Afterwards he returned to bed, sliding in carefully, moving close to Napoleon who turned, reached for him, pulled him in hard. Napoleon wrapped a leg over and around Illya's legs, and put both arms around him. Illya lay within that circle and felt safe, and loved, and at peace. "I love you, Napoleon," he whispered, not sure if Napoleon could hear him. But Napoleon tightened his arms and sighed, a hitching sigh that almost sounded like a sob.

"I love you too, Illya," he said, quite clearly, then went lax again. Illya kissed the flesh closest to him, and fell asleep himself.

---

The phone woke them both. Illya turned over and watched as Napoleon picked it up. "Solo," he said shortly, then listened. Sighed. "On my way." He hung up and looked at Illya, face bleak.

"I have to go in," he said in a wondering voice. "Son of a bitch. Last night wasn't enough? I'm not entitled - we're not entitled - to just stay home after that?" He put his face in his hands, scrubbed at it. "Who am I kidding? It's never enough. It never has been enough, and it never will be enough. Sometimes I ... hell. I'll be back as soon as I can, Illya. I'm sorry I have to leave.

"It's all right," Illya said, and smiled at Napoleon. "It's just work. I'll be here. But if you want to be left alone, we should go away. You're too accessible here."

"Accessible. That's one word for it. Start making plans, then. Wherever you want to go, we'll go." He went into the bathroom and closed the door. In a few minutes Illya heard the shower start.

Napoleon was gone all day long. Illya, who wasn't surprised, went ahead and planned their vacation. He arranged for a sailing boat to be ready for them in Sag Harbor. He reserved a cottage on the bay. He packed for them both. And then, after a great deal of thought, he made his other preparations, preparations for that night. He wanted to take the sorrow out of Napoleon's eyes when they rested on him, wanted to ... somehow ... make this all right for them both. This was the rest of their lives they were talking about, after all. The night before, even with its links to their separate, disavowed pasts, couldn't stay hanging over them. So Illya showered, washed his hair, and dried off. Then he got ready.

Napoleon came in looking befuddled. A folder was in his hand, and his briefcase looked full. He stood in the entrance to the living room and called, "Illya? You home? You won't believe ... oh my." The briefcase hit the floor and the folder fluttered down to lie beside it. Napoleon stood, and stared at him.

Illya stood at the entrance to the bedroom, the light from behind silhouetting him in the doorway. He had found and put on all the chains and accessories from the party. Doing it himself made it easy to see that it was just jewelry after all. He attached the wrist cuffs, the ankle cuffs, the magnetic nipple rings. Carefully he linked the chains, creating again that web of gold and dark fire against his skin. Then he had waited.

He hoped he hadn't made a mistake. He hoped Napoleon didn't recoil from him, horrified. He wanted to show Napoleon that it was all right between them; that they, Illya and Napoleon, Solo and Kuryakin, were okay. But now that the moment had come, and Napoleon was looking at him, clearly dumbfounded, he trembled. Had he ruined it all? Had he ... then Napoleon walked towards him, slowly, and fell to his knees in front of him. He put his arms around Illya's waist, and embraced him.

"Illya," he whispered. "You ... you did this for me? To ... show me ... to give me ... I get a do over? I can make this right? Because oh, my love." He kissed Illya's belly, pressed his face in and nuzzled. Illya caught his breath and felt himself hardening Napoleon felt it too, and rubbed his cheek against it. Then he rose and Illya removed his clothes, item by item, knowing that he hadn't made a mistake because Napoleon was gazing at him in ... in desire, and love, and near adoration. Napoleon drew him close, running his fingers lightly over the links, tweaking his nipples slightly, making him jump.

Then Illya stepped back. He turned, walked down the two steps into the sunken living room, knowing that the table lamps caught the light from his gems and threw it back, that Napoleon was following him into the living room, helpless to do anything else, caught in that web of light. Careful of the chains, of the delicate links binding him, Illya stretched out face down on the sofa, over the arm, face down and ass up. Offering.

Napoleon moved up behind him, cupped his buttocks and squeezed them, accepting. He reached under, closed his hand around Illya's cock and pulled, from the base to the tip, a long tugging that made Illya buck under him, trying to pull him down, to pull him in. But Napoleon didn't hurry. Instead, he did all the things he hadn't been able to do before, under scrutiny. He kissed Illya, and whispered incoherent endearments, promises, and pleas into his ears, against his flesh. He turned Illya over, sliding them both down, flat on the sofa now. Then he hesitated. "Right on the table," Illya gasped out, moving restlessly under Napoleon's hands, against the material of the sofa. In a moment he felt the ointment trickling down his skin, tickling him unbearably. He opened his legs, closed them high around Napoleon's back, and then Napoleon was there. He was there; slow, stretching him almost beyond bearing. Never quite beyond, though, never quite pain, just this ... scrape. There it was again, that feeling. Here it was ... scrape. And now, alone together, wrapped around one another ... he pushed back, trying to get even closer. Napoleon was all the way in now, each stroke scraping so lightly, so delicately, so ... so ... and the world exploded around him.

Through the tumult he could hear Napoleon crying aloud hoarsely, pleadingly, crying his name. His name. And every time that Napoleon called him he answered. "Yes, Napoleon. Yes. I'm here ... I'm right ... oh!" A second wave of bliss hit him as Napoleon gave a final cry of his name, as Napoleon stiffened, as Napoleon slumped over him. And there was no applause, no shame. Never again, shame.

While the bathtub filled, Napoleon removed the links and chains, carefully packing them away. "They'd suit you," Illya said lazily from where he was still sprawled, boneless, on the sofa.

"You apply them and I'll wear them." Napoleon helped Illya up and they bathed together, in Napoleon's great bathtub. They washed one another and ended up making love again, as they had known they would, wrapped up in soapsuds and warm water and one another. Then Napoleon told him about the meeting. About his new position as Number 1, Section 1. "Mr. Waverly was there," he said, still surprised. "I didn't expect him, but he was - and he was furious. Illya, he had no idea this was going to happen and he was absolutely livid with Turnbull. He retired him, and moved me up on the spot. He sent me down to Personnel to complete the paperwork to move you in here as my domestic partner, and said to tell you personally how sorry he was. I just don't understand how he knew, since Turnbull and the Board didn't tell him."

"I called him last night."

"You ... you what? You called him?"

"Yes. It wasn't right what Mr. Turnbull did to us, not to mention him calling you a liar in front of everybody. Yes I did call Mr. Waverly, and I threw Turnbull so far under the bus ... I knew you'd get that promotion today, Napoleon. "

"Well ... I'm not sure I want the job, Illya. It's a lonely, bitter place to be when all is said and done. It nearly killed Waverly."

"Nonsense. Mr. Waverly lived to enjoy his retirement and still have his fingers in UNCLE's pie. And it won't be a lonely, bitter place. Remember when you wore the Waverly ring that time? Where was I?"

"Right there. With me."

"Yes. And I will be again. I'll be your assistant, your muscle, your secret police. You can count on me."

"Yes," Napoleon said, remembering that long ago affair. "Whenever I looked around, there you were. At my side, having my back. And I'll have yours, Illya. No more dark, sordid assignments. You have my word."

"We'll be partners forever," Illya said comfortably, and put a dollop of shampoo on Napoleon's nose. Kissed it off. "But first we're going to Sag Harbor and you can captain your sailing boat and I'll be your first mate. For a week, Napoleon. We're entitled."

"Yes, we are." He kissed Illya's cheek, damp and fresh smelling. "We certainly are."

And it all worked out just like that. They took their honeymoon, and sailed around Long Island; flying before the wind, tacking against it, sleeping on deck. Making love on deck, and below in the cabin, and in the water off the boat. On their last night Napoleon went down on his knees once again and produced a small box. Inside it were two matching rings - gold rings dusted with rubies. "I had them made from the chains," Napoleon whispered. "Binding us together - forever."

"Forever," Illya agreed and he dropped to his knees, too, and held out his left hand. Napoleon slid the ring on, and kissed him. Illya put the other one on Napoleon's hand, and they kissed again, as the boat rocked gently under them, as the breeze tousled their hair, and the moonlight turned their bodies to silver. They kissed, then stretched out on deck, hands clasped, and watched the sky. A spark flared, traced a path against the darkness and disappeared. Napoleon's hand tightened on Illya's, and Illya squeezed him back. Sleep took them both down together, rocked them in its velvet depths, and wrapped them up in love.

The End