They made love with extreme care that night; each concerned with the other's injuries, each hampered by his own. Illya's were the most spectacular. He had seen the grenade, but not in time, so the explosion had wrecked his car and he had broken his arm, suffered a concussion, and had extensive soft tissue bruising. He complained that he hurt everywhere. Napoleon's wrists had second degree burns all the way around, and the least movement hurt. He didn't complain at all.

It was so good to see Illya alive and relatively whole. He had worried, in that part of his mind he had had to submerge during the mission; that personal part, that Napoleon Solo human part. The overwhelming probability was that Illya had been killed when the grenade went off under his car, and Napoleon knew that, despite his self control, something had showed at that moment. He had felt it, on his face as well as in his heart. But Love hadn't noticed. Love didn't really notice anybody besides himself. It had made it easy to subvert his staff - he had had no idea, for example, that Hradny was so discontented, so ready to be turned.

"He saw you waving goodbye to him?" Illya was sitting up against pillows, his broken arm in a little nest which Napoleon had fashioned. "Wasn't that risky?"

"No. I knew he'd barely have time to recognize us before the explosion. He knew what it meant, though." He smirked at his own cleverness. It had been a superb move. The mission had succeeded, and to top it all off Illya was with him, safe and sound, and both were off for the next few days. He touched Illya's uninjured arm. "I was so glad to see you at the airport." He hadn't spoken of that moment in the car. He knew he didn't have to. Illya smiled down at him where he lay, flat on his back, wrists carefully propped on pillows of their own. Now that they had managed to find comfortable positions to recline in Napoleon wanted more than comfort. He shifted, tried to prop himself up on his elbows to kiss Illya, and promptly gave up the idea. Illya moved, then, sliding down carefully, holding his arm tight against his body, grunting when his head bumped the mattress. But they were side by side now on the bed, and when Illya looked at him their eyes met and held.

"I was glad to get the notice that you were coming home. No one knew what had happened to you until you contacted New York for a flight. I let you get marched right past me. I was supposed to be watching your back, and I didn't even see you leave. Stupid."

"Those hooded robes made great concealers. It's not as if you had any idea how many were supposed to be getting into that car. That's why we have the locating devices. Forget it. We have a more immediate problem."

"What?"

For answer Napoleon rolled over onto his side, gingerly, leaned over and kissed Illya's cheek. Illya smiled, turned his head so their lips could touch.

They tried a few different positions - Napoleon on top, leaning on his elbows, but the weight was too much for Illya's sore ribs. Then they put Illya on top, but the way it hunched his shoulders forward made his arm hurt, and when Napoleon tried to caress him lifting his hands hurt too. Finally Napoleon turned around completely, rested his head on a pillow, and was able to draw Illya's straining organ into his mouth. Illya thrashed about, at once crying aloud in pleasure and grunting as he struggled to get into a position to return the favor. By the time he finally found managed it, and surrounded Napoleon's cock with his mouth both were on the pinnacle. Napoleon reached around and grabbed Illya's buttocks, pulling him closer and Illya draped a leg over Napoleon's shoulder, dragging him in. They came together, crying out, pushing as close as they could get, all injuries forgotten for that one blindingly sweet, perfectly glorious moment.

Napoleon couldn't move. He had ended up twisted half onto his side, a now useless pillow bunched under his hip and one arm trapped under Illya. Any attempt to get up required more leverage from his hands than he could give. He groaned. "Illya ..."

"What? Can you help me, Napoleon? I'm stuck." Illya's uninjured arm was flailing around, trying to find purchase.

"I was going to ask you to help me."

"Well this is just great," Illya grumped, trying to roll enough to bring his leg over. When he did that Napoleon shifted, and managed to flop onto his back, tugging at his arm to get it out from under Illya. Illya raised his hips a little and Napoleon pulled free. Disentangled at last they just lay there, gasping. After a few moments Napoleon spoke.

"How are you doing up there?"

"My head hurts. And my arm hurts. And you hurt my ribs with your heavy self. Other than that..."

"Yes? Other than that?"

"I'm perfect. Well, except that I wish you'd turn around in the bed."

Napoleon groaned. "You must be kidding. I'm not moving."

"But I want to kiss you goodnight."

"It can wait till morning."

Illya sulked. How Napoleon knew he was sulking without actually seeing his face he couldn't have said, but the sulk hung heavy in the air, and he did like Illya's kisses, so he muttered something impolite and twisted, turned, wrestled with covers and finally ended up with his head on the pillow beside Illya's. And Illya's lower lip was indeed out, and he wouldn't look at Napoleon.

"Hey," he said, pleased with himself. "Here I am, all set for my good night kiss."

"No. You said it could wait for morning. You ... oh. Mph. Mmm." Illya stretched under the kisses and Napoleon, leaning again on his elbows, cupped Illya's face between his hands and smiled at him.

"I am so glad you are okay."

"I'm glad you're okay too." Napoleon kissed him again.

"They're calling this `The Love Affair' he whispered. "If our lives were a mission, that's what I'd call it, too. Only I'd add the word true. The True Love Affair. That's us."

"Yes it is. You're right. Can you cook French toast with those hands?"

"No. But I can order out. Breakfast with all the trimmings. Sound good?"

"Yes. Goodnight, Napoleon. I love you."

"I love you too, Illya. Goodnight."