Both men were laughing as they walked into the bar, but Napoleon shushed Illya when heads turned in their direction. "Two spies walk into a bar," he said, voice too low to carry, yet not whispery enough to seem covert. "Everybody looks at them. What's wrong with this joke?"

"You are. You're the one making me laugh. I think you only do it so you can feel superior."

"I wasn't trying to be funny. I was only saying that this last mission - our last mission - Illya. I'll place our orders, then, if you can't straighten up."

"You're the one who mentioned the mission. And you're laughing too. Don't worry, they've stopped looking. Just two civilians sharing a laugh after work. Nothing to see here. And you don't know for sure it was our last one."

"I am ninety-five percent sure that that was it. They're warming up your chair in science, research, and development even as we speak. Now that all that business with your passport is worked out. Although why you wouldn't become an American citizen I'll never understand."

"I told you. It's less offensive to defect to Great Britain. And at any time UNCLE could send me back for one assignment or another. So why stir the soup unnecessarily? But if you're right, then it is a terrible way for us to go out."

"I agree. First I got captured in the library. By the librarian! The octogenarian librarian!"

"I know. I kept expecting her to faint away and then you did."

"I didn't faint! I was knocked out!"

"Yes, by the lavender scented powder in her handkerchief. Luckily she didn't recognize me. You're welcome for the rescue."

"I would have said thank you if there'd been time before you then got yourself captured too. In the men's room, Illya. It's classic. What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that you were already setting me up to write the reports," Illya admitted sheepishly. "I recognized the signs. Why did it take you so long to come after me?"

"You often brood in the john over undisclosed wrongs. But I did come to save you."

"Yes, you did. Eventually. But you got captured en route ..."

"And then there we both were. In the dungeon."

"Waiting for the civilian to come rescue us."

"The fifteen year old civilian."

"The one we were supposed to be protecting." Both of them were laughing again.

"You order dinner," Napoleon said finally. "I'll find us a table. Because all is definitely well that ends well. Those reports - the ones I helped write - were masterpieces."

"And all true."

"So far as they went. They're calling this one of our most successful missions ever. So the legend will remain intact."

"Despite being, like most legends, founded on swampy ground. Open faced beef sandwich plates all right?"

"Yes. And a dark ale."

Illya ordered the food, and stood waiting for the two ales. When he carried them into the crowded dining room he hesitated at the door, looking for Napoleon. Where ... oh. Napoleon had not found them seats yet. He was standing talking to a group of men at a table by the window. The room was very full, Illya saw, and understood that Napoleon was slotting them into this group of friends of his. He sighed, but smiled too. He'd rather it be just the two of them, but if that wasn't going to happen yet it would be all right. This was just a quick bite to eat, before they went back to Napoleon's apartment.

Napoleon had been dropping all sorts of hints lately about what would happen when they were no longer field partners, when their being more than friends, as the rumors had it, would not be against regulations. The light hearted flirtation that had begun within their first months together had become ... well, less light. More intense. The seemingly casual touches were no longer casual, and more frequent. And now he was invited over to Napoleon's after this dinner.

"I have a splendid vintage wine waiting for us, to celebrate, and honor, the years passed," Napoleon had said, as they left their office. "And to toast the future." Then he had stopped, drawn Illya into an empty conference room they had been passing. "Our future. Illya? We will drink a toast to our future. Yes?"

Illya had almost made a joke about that `Yes?' which had punctuated so many of Napoleon's remarks while they were in the field together. When they were in the field together, in the past; that past which Napoleon wanted to both celebrate and honor. How very strange. But not a surprise, no. Given the facts of the ending of the fieldwork, and their reassignments to Administration for Napoleon, and Science for him, it wasn't surprising that Napoleon would act on all those hints and double entendres, would reach out for what had been forbidden, and was now within reach.

Illya had seen this coming for years. He had thought about it, worried at it, analyzed it. He had reminded himself that he had enormous issues with what Napoleon wanted to do; that what Napoleon doubtless wanted to do had never been good for him, ever. Not once, not ever. He had called Napoleon's women friends to mind; pictured Napoleon's easy way of picking one up, whether mid mission, mid staff meeting, or mid cup of coffee, and his equally easy dropping of them when the interlude was over. Illya had thought about it, and had finally decided that when the time came - if the time came, because of course nothing was certain - he would say yes. He wouldn't argue, he wouldn't ask for promises or commitment. He would just agree, and let Napoleon have his way. Because it seemed very probable that it would be good, with Napoleon. Napoleon would see to it. Napoleon always considered his lovers' feelings even above his own. It would be interesting to see what all the fuss was about. Even if it was never repeated, even if for one reason or another Napoleon didn't want to do more than satisfy his own curiosity, put a coda on all those years of attraction - such a strong attraction, crackling between the two of them no matter what else was going on. Given that attraction, and given Napoleon's skill and his ... well, his altruism, for want of a better word ... it would seem he was - they were - in for a remarkable experience. Why turn it down? He wouldn't. He would say yes.

So he hadn't made a joke. He had lifted his eyes to Napoleon's, and smiled at him. "Yes, Napoleon," he had said, as he had been ready to say for most of the years that Napoleon was referring to. "I'd love to."

"Well, good." Napoleon had smiled. "I'd love to, too. Let's grab a bite to eat, and go back to my place."

And Illya had agreed to that too, because a bite to eat was always good. It certainly smelled good. He smiled again and came over, setting the drinks down on the table. Sure enough one man was now shifting position, bumping up against another, making room for Napoleon. He sat, then pushed again, shoving while laughing and gesturing for Illya to sit down. Illya waited until there was enough room - barely - and perched on the edge, right up against Napoleon. They were lucky to have these seats, he saw, so smiled politely around the table and pushed Napoleon's drink over to him.

"Hey," one of the men said suddenly. He was staring at Illya. "Hey. I know you! You're ... Solo. This is your partner? The Robin to your Batman?"

Illya, who had heard the reference before, rolled his eyes. He didn't recognize this man, however, and his smiling headshake said as much. He could feel Napoleon coming to attention beside him as the man leaned closer, stared directly into Illya's eyes.

"Hell yeah I know you! You were Petrovich's little pet, right? Sure you were! You were his very own personal honey trap back in the day. Then I heard he died, and you got in with the KGB. They turned you out again, right? Yeah, I remember you. You probably don't know me - I was never important enough for either your uncle or your government to set you on me, but I know you all right."

Illya was speechless. He was absolutely speechless,and a good thing too because what could he say? He pushed himself to his feet, hoping nobody could see how his legs were shaking. He clasped his hands behind his back, to hide their equally unsteady state. It had happened. After all these years, after all this time, he had been exposed. In a few crude sentences this man had told Napoleon everything. Everything Illya had tried so hard to keep from him. Everything Illya tried so hard never to think about at all. He couldn't look at Napoleon. He didn't dare. But then he heard a sharp noise and knew that Napoleon had slammed his fists down on the table. In rage. And the man who had spoken shrank back against his seat, face whitening at what he saw on Napoleon's, as Napoleon leaned towards him. Oh, no. No, no "no, Napoleon," he said tightly. "It's true. Don't ... don't hurt him. It's the truth. I'm sorry." He added that last despite its inherent absurdity - sorry, sorry, the way you'd say it if you had bumped into someone, taken someone's parking spot. Sorry. Sorry I've just shamed, betrayed, ruined our partnership right out here in the open. Sorry this friend of yours knew something about me that you didn't know; you who would have said you knew it all. Sorry that I was a whore, and that I didn't tell you. Sorry that I would have let you seduce me, and still not said a word about it. Sorry. He wanted to die.

He wanted to die so badly it seemed incredible that he couldn't. He turned away from the table, seeing that his words had stopped that forward momentum, and that the fear had left the other man's face. "Yeah," he said in a rush, "it's true. Of course it's true. I wouldn't ... hey, no offense... Kuryakin, right? Illya Kuryakin. I've heard your name but never connected ... hey, we all serve someone, right? Like the song says? Everybody's got to serve somebody?" He giggled. "And boy oh boy I heard about you. He could make a man come three times in one blow job," he informed his table, apparently no longer worried about Napoleon. "Three freaking times. Can you imagine? Hey, you still in business? Maybe independently, like? `Cause I'm free tonight and whatever the price is I'll come up with it. Not espionage," he added hastily. "I mean, not like the old days. Cash on the barrel, blondie, for one of those three shot blow jobs."

Why was he still here? Illya forced his legs to move, first one, then the other. Head high, don't let anybody see your shame although they know you're shamed, everybody within earshot knows it, Napoleon knows it, but you hold your head high anyway because ... one step, two steps, towards the door now, towards the street, towards the dark and quiet and solitude that were all he could bear. Since apparently he couldn't just die.

Later on, when Napoleon thought about that evening he was very grateful for his own instinctive response. It had all devolved so quickly; from he and Illya laughing together, to Illya walking away, shoulders braced, head up. Because some careless sentences had crashed into the idyllic waters of their partnership, sending up a tsunami that even now was sweeping Illya away, sweeping them apart. But Napoleon's body moved, even while his mind was still fumbling for thoughts, words, reasons. He was on his feet and going after Illya while that final offer was still hanging in the air. He put an arm around Illya's shoulders and fell into step, both of them now moving towards the door.

"Where do you think you're going, partner?" he asked lightly, but knowing his words were reaching the group behind them. "I'm your ride home, remember?"

Illya stopped. He stood still for a moment, as if struggling with Napoleon's words, trying to make them mean something. Then he looked up at him, face ravaged with grief and shame. "You don't still have to do that. I can take a cab."

"Nonsense. We were going to drink wine out on the patio, and appreciate being alive to tell the tale once more."

"But ..." he was interrupted.

"Go ahead, Solo. Take him home. You always were a lucky bastard. Three freaking times. Who knew that was even physically ... hey, no offense! Geez, I'm just ... sorry! I'm sorry!"

It was actually funny, Illya thought, still standing stock still, staring straight ahead, All Napoleon had done was turn around and look behind him; directly, presumably, at the garrulous man who was frantic now with the desire to get out of the conversation. And it was only the truth, after all - the truth and, in some circles, common knowledge. He should never have expected to keep it from Napoleon. Now Napoleon would know him not only for a whore, but a liar, too, and a false friend. But Napoleon's arm tightened once, hard, and then they were walking again Nobody else tried to talk to them, and in a moment they were outside, and Napoleon was opening his car door.

How kind, Illya thought, as he got in. How very kind. That moment when Napoleon's arm had settled around his shoulders had been ... had been ... he couldn't think of any words that would fit. He had wanted to die, and then he hadn't. He had been wretched and alone, and then he had been warm and cherished. He tried to scoff at the word, but he couldn't. Napoleon had embraced him in front of everyone, deliberately, making the statement that none of that meant anything to him, that Illya was his partner, even that plans made earlier were still valid. How kind. Especially since none of it could possibly be true.

Napoleon got in and started the engine. "You okay?"

"No." He wasn't. He would never be okay again. He was crushed. He was destroyed. Then Napoleon's arms were around him, both arms, turning him and squeezing him in an awkward hug, made uncomfortable by the gear shift between them. Napoleon let go, and pulled out into traffic.

"I'm sorry," Illya said because he had to say something, the silence lay on him like a blanket. "I'm sorry that ... I'm sorry."

"I know you are, Illya. It's all right. It's all right between us, I promise. I know you think ... but it's all right. I understand."

He did understand. When he and Illya had first met, his own reputation and his resistance to this partnership - to any partnership - had preceded him. Illya had clearly been warned about him, and those blue eyes had been troubled and wary when they first met his. The handshake had been correct, no more no less, and the thin body had been braced for whatever blow would come.

It had broken him open. That was just how it felt, a great wave of remorse and regret, plus a desire to reassure, to comfort. To welcome. He had never felt anything like it in his life, and he was moving to act on it before he thought - like tonight. Just like tonight. He had extended the handshake, had squeezed Illya's hand and brought his other one up to cover it, while saying, "I can't tell you how very glad I am to meet you, Illya. Mr. Waverly feels we will work well together. He is seldom, if ever, wrong. Welcome to New York."

There had been a long pause. Illya hadn't pulled away but he hadn't responded either; standing perfectly still, hand motionless in Napoleon's, eyes searching his face. Napoleon let him look, and after a moment a smile had touched Illya's mouth, his eyes had warmed, and his hand returned Napoleon's squeeze. He had clearly decided to give his partner the benefit of the doubt, and ignore the gossip. Napoleon resolved never to make him regret that, never to do anything to break that fragile trust.

And the very next day they had been sent out on assignment. They had shared a hotel room with a double bed, they had shared a train compartment designed for one. They had shared a very small cell without heat. When exactly could Illya have been expected to tell him about this portion of his past? When they were awkwardly back to back on that hotel bed, each hugging his own side for fear of annoying the other? When they were wrapped around one another on the cement floor, trying to keep from freezing to death?

Later, then, as their friendship grew and developed? He wished it had been then. He wished that on one of those evenings, when they had worked late and he had offered to put Illya up for the night; the two of them sitting over wine or brandy, in front of Napoleon's fireplace or on his balcony, Illya had turned to him and said something. But Illya hadn't, and Napoleon understood that, too.

"Yes. I'm sure you do," Illya was saying. "It's not complicated. I'm a whore. Worse, a liar. I'm no better than Clara, or Colonel Morgan. You trusted me, and I lied to you. You trusted me, and I betrayed you. You were going to ... we were going to ... and I still wouldn't have told you. How can it possibly be all right between us?"

"Because - wait. Here we are." Napoleon pulled into his parking garage, and got out. Illya followed him into the building, onto the elevator. Neither said a word; not there, not in the hall, not in Napoleon's penthouse apartment.

Illya stood in the entryway and looked around. A bottle of wine stood out on the coffee table, with two glasses beside it; silent testimony to his welcome - his former welcome. Because why should he be welcome now? He shouldn't. He should presume nothing. He should do nothing because he was nothing, wasn't he. It crushed him again, and again he wished fervently for death. Instant, painless, blessed death, taking him forever beyond the reach of the words, the looks, the offers. He would just stand here and die, then. He wouldn't move, wouldn't sleep, or eat, or drink. Sooner or later one of those lacks would kill him.

Napoleon's arms, around him again, with no awkward gear shift between them this time. Napoleon's voice, soft and coaxing in his ear, right in his ear because Napoleon was so close. "Come on," Napoleon said. "Come on, Illya, one step. Just one. That's it. That's good, Illya, it's very good. Now keep on, with me, that's it. Step down, another step down. Remember? My living room is down two steps. Now we're at the sofa. Sit down, Illya. Bend your knees, don't make me pick you up like a swooning Victorian heroine. Yes, there you go. Wait a minute."

Then Napoleon was gone. Illya was sitting on the sofa and alive after all, still breathing. Well, that hadn't been a very good plan anyway. Sooner or later he'd have passed out, and that would be a situation for Napoleon to deal with. Another situation. He sighed. Napoleon wasn't going to let him die. But why then had Napoleon left him? Where ... a welcome soft weight came around his shoulders and instinctively he reached for it, pulled it closer around him. The sofa dipped down and Napoleon, beside him now, put his arm, that warm, comforting, strengthening arm, around him again. He turned into it, turned towards it and put his face in Napoleon's shoulder, breathing the good scent of him, feeling the good strength of him.

"I understand," Napoleon said again, voice soothing. At any other time the blatant comfort would have made Illya bristle, but he needed comfort, he did, and soothing, too. It helped. It made it tolerable to continue living, to continue breathing in and out, and to listen to Napoleon. Because Napoleon ... Napoleon cared for him. There could be no further doubt. Napoleon's response to what he had heard had been to wrap Illya up in warmth and comfort, and some sort of affection that surely went beyond that of one field agent for another; even of one partner for another. Still. Even though, despite, still. Napoleon really wanted him to feel better about it. Napoleon ... Napoleon wanted to fix it for him. What would he do? What could he do? He was still talking - maybe his words were intended to solve as well as soothe. Illya shifted position a little, and listened.

"Don't know anything about this uncle of yours," Napoleon was saying, and that this angered him Illya could tell, from his voice. "I should. But I don't. But I should have ... I see what you look like. I've always seen it. And I know how they operate over there. Your own feelings and preferences wouldn't have entered into it." Then Napoleon pushed him back, peering into his face. "Illya? I don't mean to imply - it's all right either way. If you chose ... if it seemed the best road at the time ... I'm not judging you. Please don't feel I am. Please don't feel you have to justify yourself. It doesn't seem like you, but who am I to say, who am I to assign roles or blame? When I clearly know nothing."

"I never wanted to," Illya interrupted because Napoleon sounded so distressed, Napoleon was really worried that he had offended Illya, or would offend him. "But it's nice to know you ..." that last word came out like a sob, so he laughed instead, and then he couldn't stop laughing. "Oh, Napoleon. In front of everybody at that table. It'll be all over our workplace by tomorrow. And you - you stood for me so ... I don't know what to say. Thank you."

"I don't care about any of that. I only care that you know that I am on your side. Always. No new data ... and that's all this is, Illya, it's data I didn't know before, and that I do know now. It has nothing to do with who you are, who ... who we are, when we're together. I'm sorry you didn't feel you could tell me yourself, but I understand that, too."

"In the beginning, I didn't think we'd be together for long enough that you needed to know. Mr. Waverly thought I should tell you. He said you'd understand, but I couldn't even imagine how that could be so. I did know that you didn't want a partner, that you'd done everything within regulations and approached insubordination on at least two occasions to prevent it. I thought it would only be a matter of time before you found some excuse to get rid of me, and then maybe they'd let me work on my own, too. So why should I have told you? But then - I really liked working with you, and it seemed that you liked me well enough too."

"I did. Illya - I regretted all of that so many times. I'm sorry."

"That's all right. It was all right after our first meeting, and by the end of that first year I knew you liked working with me, that you liked me. We were good together. We are good together, if you still want to, um, be with me. I mean be friends with me. I mean ..." he subsided, because Napoleon was smiling at him, and Napoleon was drawing him even closer.

"Of course I do, Illya. Friends - and more. Much, much more." He kissed Illya's nose. "For life, Illya. No more waiting, no more loneliness for either of us. I had a whole proposal in mind, with Bordeaux and caviar, but now ... I just need to say it. I mean ask it. Ask you. Please?"

"Oh, Napoleon. That is so ... luchashiy droog."

"Right back atcha."

They sat together for a little while longer, and then Illya turned, looked up at Napoleon. "Yes," he said, because Napoleon had asked - and he could trust Napoleon. So he said yes, to all of it, and Napoleon leaned in and kissed him.

The kiss didn't turn overtly passionate; there was no opening of mouths, no tongue. Napoleon deliberately kept it easy, nuzzling and kissing Illya's upper lip and his lower, the sweet little indentation just beneath his lower lip, the corner of his mouth. The tip of his nose. His mouth again, still close lipped but warm, and ardent. He cradled Illya against him, rocking him a little, stroking his hair as if comforting him for all the rough, uncaring hands over all those years. When Illya moaned, finally, when he reached up, put his arms around Napoleon's neck and held on, breath coming more quickly, Napoleon rejoiced. He leaned over, pressing Illya back onto the sofa, following him down, their bodies only separated by two thin layers of clothing. Napoleon began working his way under that clothing, unbuttoning, unfastening, unzipping, sliding garments down and off, casting them to the floor.

His hands were shaking, to his surprise, and when his shirt buttons proved intractable he tore at them, sending them flying across the room, pulling off the shirt and rising, starting on his pants. He stumbled, caught himself, and held out his hand. "Come with me," he whispered, and Illya rose, too. Napoleon smiled at him. "I love you," he said. "Have I said that yet, in all this revelation and drama? I love you."

"Yes," Illya whispered. "Over all the years, you've said it. In a thousand different ways, you've said it. And I love you too, Napoleon."

He was beyond speech. So he took Illya's hand, and led him into the bedroom.

The stage was set - bedcovers already folded down, champagne on the bedside table. Illya smiled, looking at it. Napoleon really wanted to do this, he had not been put off by the ugly revelations of earlier, so he himself might as well ... lie back and enjoy it, he thought, and laughed out loud. Napoleon laughed too, and indicated the bed with a sweeping gesture. Illya climbed in, moved over and lay down, flat on his back, smiling at Napoleon. Napoleon smiled back at him, and sat on the edge of the bed.

"Trust me?" he asked. "I don't want you to do anything. I don't want you to feel you have to ... I mean, I don't want you to think I want ... you don't need any skills with me," he finished in a rush. "Now that I am aware ... it seems important to prove to you that it isn't about that. I ... I just want to love you. I want to show you ... and to learn for myself ... how it can be, when there is love. When there is trust. Yes?"

"Yes, Napoleon. You can have it all your own way. I place myself in your hands." Your skillful, loving hands, he thought, and was irritated to find himself blinking back tears. It had been too much, all night, one extreme of emotion after another, and it wasn't over yet. He sighed, closed his eyes, and gave himself up to Napoleon.

It was a shattering experience. He kept trying to think, to put words to it, because Illya Kuryakin was a man who thought in words, using them to describe, track, remember and reference feelings, events, personalities. But there were no words for this. His brain kept trying, throwing adjectives and adverbs wildly about - rising, swelling, cresting ... but at some point the words were gone completely and only sensation remained. He rode it, or it rode him, and he was drowning in pleasure, flying and soaring, drowning and dying of pleasure, with pleasure, in pleasure.

When it was over, when he became aware of the bed under him, the covers, tangled over and beside him, his own gasping breaths and pounding heart, he had a moment of absolute, total loss. What now? What could possibly happen now? What had he shown, in those moments of abandon? What was Napoleon feeling? Had he enjoyed that, or was he repelled now by whatever had been laid bare in his partner, in that unguarded, unprotected, unshielded time? And where was Napoleon? Another pang of loss, an intimation of a greater loss, struck him but before he could react to it he heard footsteps - Napoleon's footsteps. The bed dipped down and he could feel Napoleon right beside him. Another sensation, so strongly pleasurable that he couldn't identify it, words still eluding him, but then he saw Napoleon stand up with a washcloth in his hands, walk back over to the bathroom to - presumably - dispose of it. Oh. Napoleon had ... had cleaned him. How sweet - how deeply, nearly intolerably sweet - of him. Then Napoleon was back, and any further questions about what happened next were answered when Napoleon drew him close, pulling the blankets back over them, shaking them out to clear away the tangles so they settled gently over Illya's bare back and shoulders like a caress. Like Napoleon's caress. He sighed, replete, and Napoleon squeezed him a little.

"Okay?" Napoleon whispered.

"Yes." It was all he said, but it was obviously enough, because he was squeezed again, and then Napoleon kissed the top of his head. Doubly blessed, it was easy to let all the wondering and worrying go, and sink into sleep.

Illya woke first. He lay still for a moment, glad for this time to think, to go over what had happened, to attempt to plan for the future. He was still held closely, and when he rolled his head to the side so he could see Napoleon, he saw that his partner was still asleep. Deeply asleep - no eye movement, no twitches, no irregular breathing. Just sleep. Illya watched him for a while, lost in wonder that this was happening to him at all. Would happen, according to Napoleon's plan, every day from here on in. Hmm.

Slowly he became aware that he was frowning, could feel his mouth curving down. Now why should that be? Wasn't this everything he had ever desired? Wasn't this his own personal happy ever after? He and Napoleon were as good as married now, because Napoleon was not a man to make pledges he did not intend to keep, and Napoleon had said partners for life. Napoleon did not give his word lightly, so he gave it seldom. He and Napoleon would be together now. So what was there to frown about?

Because he didn't believe a word of it. It seemed clear to him now, in the stark light of the morning after, that Napoleon didn't understand. Napoleon had been already set on this course, as evidenced by the champagne, and the dimly lit bedroom, and he was not easily deterred. The information given to him last night had almost seemed to roll off his back, as if it didn't matter. "Data," he had said dismissively, as if it were the local traffic report. But it did matter to Illya, mattered terribly, and he couldn't imagine anybody else really feeling differently. Napoleon hadn't thought it through, that was all. He had heard the words ... the ugly words ... but hadn't thought about what it all meant. What it meant that Illya could - without fail, every time ... like a good research design, he thought. I'm both valid and reliable. He had to turn his head and press his face into the pillow so the snort of laughter, bitter laughter that tasted like vomit in his throat, wouldn't wake Napoleon. Because once Napoleon woke up, he would think about it.

Desire satisfied, he would look at his long time partner and think about exactly how you trained someone to give blow jobs that ... reliably, he thought again, and again had to muffle the sound he couldn't help making ... guaranteed three consecutive orgasms, and the devil with a refractory period. What would be involved in that training, the sheer ... he swiped at his face angrily, angry that it was wet. Napoleon would think about that, would regret inviting a professionally trained KGB lure into his life. And even if he didn't think about it this morning, like he didn't think about it last night, at some point he would. At some point he would, and the further down the road that was, the worse it would be. Napoleon should have just been honest with himself last night, but he had been caught in his own self vision of rescuer, comforter, hero. Prince Charming, Illya thought, and there was no bitterness now, because Napoleon truly was all those things to him. But Napoleon deserved so much better. How could Illya live, moment to moment, waiting for that one moment, that inevitable moment?

He wouldn't. He would force the issue now. Napoleon had said that Illya didn't need any skills with him, but surely Napoleon wouldn't turn it down, either. If Illya started now, now when Napoleon was deeply asleep, the first orgasm would blast him awake. He wouldn't be inclined to stop then, not with the pleasure already building, stronger than before. No one had ever stopped, no matter how high the stakes, no matter the awareness of probable eavesdropping devices, no matter the potential repercussions. They cared about that later, obviously; hurt him for it if the opportunity presented itself, but Napoleon wouldn't do that. He wouldn't be physically violent, but the rosy glasses would be ripped from his eyes and he would see things as they were, see Illya himself for what he was. It would be over. And wouldn't that be better, to have it settled? Yes. Yes, it would. So Illya drew back the covers very carefully, propped himself up on one elbow, leaned over, and took Napoleon into his mouth.

He used everything he knew, everything he had been so thoroughly taught, and was astonished at the difference love made. Love filled it, suffused it, lifted it to new heights. And yet there was only one orgasm after all, because when it was over Napoleon was reaching for him, pulling him up, and into an embrace. For a moment he wanted to relax into it - to trust it, but it was too late for that. At any moment Napoleon would turn his head, look at him coldly, and say ... what? So Illya pulled free and sat up. He put his back against the headboard of the bed, pulled the covers onto his lap to cover himself, and waited.

Napoleon lay for a long time, letting the scattered pieces of his consciousness coalesce again into something resembling the man he used to be. He would never be that man again, he supposed, and that was a good thing because the old Napoleon Solo had been ... well, solo. This new one was not, so nothing would ever be the same again. He lay there, drowsy and smiling, then sighed.

"Oh my," he said. "That was ... that was ... thank you. What a wonderful way to wake up! But what are you doing way across the bed? Come here." He reached for Illya, tugged at him, but Illya didn't yield. Undaunted, Napoleon let his hands start to wander, finding ways under the covers on Illya's lap, fondling him, stopping when he realized Illya wasn't aroused.

"Hey." He reached higher, poked Illya's side. "What's going on? Illya?" When he got no answer he became alarmed. "Did I do something wrong? Did I hurt you?" He had clutched Illya's hair at some point, and if Illya had tried to pull back for any reason ... like to breathe? ... maybe Napoleon hadn't allowed it. "Illya? I'm sorry I... I didn't mean to be so rough. Are you okay?"

"Shut up!" Illya burst at him, with a violence that seemed to surprise him as much as it did Napoleon. It stopped him for a moment, then he continued, as if he couldn't keep silent, as if the words were tearing their way out of him. "Weren't you paying attention? Did you sleep through the whole thing? How do you think I ... what kind of ..." he was sputtering now and suddenly Napoleon got it.

He got it. He sat up in bed and put both hands on Illya's shoulders, gave him a shake. Just a little one, but it stopped the flood of words as if Napoleon had slapped him. He even put his hand to his face, as if reeling from a blow. "I certainly was paying attention," he said, not harshly, not angrily, because he didn't want to wound Illya who was, he saw clearly, terribly vulnerable to him right now. Bur firmly, because he meant every word, and it was important that Illya know that. "But not to your level of professionalism. Were you mentally commenting on my own professionalism last night? Because some of those techniques you were enjoying so much have gotten us out of prison cells, have gotten me secret Thrush files, have rewarded some little Thrushette for her role in foiling her bosses. Is that what you were thinking about me?"

"No," Illya whispered. "I didn't even ... I wasn't ... no. Of course not."

"Well then. My attention this morning was entirely focused on pleasure ... and love. Love, Illya. Not some lure getting me into position for extortion or bribery. Love. You were giving me pleasure because you love me. My lover, was making love to me, because he loves me. Was I wrong?"

"No," Illya whispered again. "No, of course not. I love you. I loved bringing you pleasure. I just thought ... I mean I was afraid that ... I mean I thought ..." Napoleon kissed him. He kissed him softly, lips primly closed but warm and firm, comforting and pleading and promising. It silenced Illya, as Napoleon had intended, and when it was over he put his head down on Napoleon's shoulder in surrender.

"All right, Napoleon. I couldn't believe ... but all right. I thought maybe you just didn't understand how it was. How grimy, and sordid, and nasty it all was. I thought once you did, you would realize that you were making a terrible mistake. And better that happen now, before ... before I moved, before I trusted it all. I thought when I did that, what I did this morning, you would understand."

"I understand, Illya." He drew back, took Illya's chin between his fingers, lifted it so their eyes met. "I do. I promise you. I'm not naïve. I know exactly what their training programs are like, and the kinds of clients they would have sent you to. And you know, too. You know about Angelique, and the rest of them. We are both professionals. But I know that my love for you is untouched by any of that. There are no secret agendas. And I believe your love for me is equally free from anything clandestine. I know you. And you know me. And we love each other." Then he got out of bed, pulled Illya with him into the shower and, dropping to his knees on the hard tile, water sluicing over his head and down his back, he gave the best blow job he knew how, and it was entirely satisfactory, judging from the sounds Illya made, from the way he crumpled and had to sit on the padded, heated bench provided. Napoleon turned off the water, handed Illya a towel, rubbed himself down and wrapped them each in a large terry cloth robe. He sat Illya at the table, and made pancakes for them both.

Illya let it all happen, feeling powerless to intervene in events. Napoleon had actually, literally, sucked his cock, then wrapped him up in warmth and comfort - again, still - making sure he was settled at the kitchen table, bringing him orange juice and coffee while he waited. The pancakes smelled wonderful, and he had seen Napoleon stirring in blueberries, which warmed him all over because he knew that Napoleon knew that he loved them. Furthermore Napoleon knew that he knew, which was why he was doing it. To show his love. To prove his love, because Illya had said he didn't trust it.

He felt badly about that, even as he ate blueberry pancakes and sausages, smiling back at Napoleon, who was smiling at him over the breakfast table. Their breakfast table. It was obvious that Napoleon did understand, and just ... just didn't care? No, because he clearly cared that it had been bad for Illya, that Illya hadn't wanted to do it, that Illya felt shamed and degraded by it. He cared about that a lot, because ... because he cared about Illya a lot. Because Napoleon loved him. Napoleon understood him, Napoleon knew him, and Napoleon loved him. Why was that so hard to trust? He knew Napoleon, didn't he? He understood about Napoleon's darkness, about the ruthlessness and ambition that lay beneath the smooth, handsome surface. He knew Napoleon, and he loved him. They knew one another. Oh, they knew one another well after all those years together, with the whole world against them and only the other for a shield and fortress. And they loved each other. We love each other, Napoleon and I. And that is something I can count on. The happy ending, after all.

After breakfast, they went into the living room, and Napoleon kissed him again. They had coffee on the sofa, and when Napoleon took the cup from him, set it on the coffee table, Illya leaned against him, dizzy with pleasure, with happiness, with relief. It was all right. It was all all right, all was well, all manner of things were well. Napoleon was bringing him down onto the sofa now, pulling at the robe. He pulled at Napoleon's robe too and then Napoleon was touching him, his most private secret place, and something oily and smooth was on his finger. Now when had Napoleon gotten lube? Napoleon was smooth, he thought, and snorted with laughter, a rich joyous chuckle that made Napoleon laugh too, even without knowing the cause.

"What?" he said, making little circles there with his oil coated finger, then slipping it inside. What could possibly be funny?"

Illya almost answered him. He almost said something about Napoleon's smooth, practiced moves, but suddenly realized how that would sound, as if he were commenting on Napoleon's professionalism, so he didn't. He said, "I'm happy, that's all," because that was also true, was certainly true, was indubitably true.

"Are you?" Napoleon's finger left him and even in that piercing loss he saw something in Napoleon's eyes, something uncertain, something wistful and yearning, that made Illya reach for him, catch him around the neck, drag him down.

"Yes," he said fiercely. "Yes, Napoleon, yes, I am happy. I am very happy, you have made me very happy. And I will make you happy too. I will devote my entire life to your well being."

"Will you?" Napoleon was smiling now, and that look was gone as if it had never been. "So you trust it, Illya? You trust this? You trust me?"

"Yes. Yes, yes, and yes. Now please - please, Napoleon, finish what you've started. I'm coming out of my skin here."

"Are you now," Napoleon said, and his voice was deeper. "Well, let's see what can be done about that." He proceeded to do something about it, so thoroughly, and so well, that when it was over both of them had tumbled off the sofa to the floor, and both were panting, smiling, exalted, and satisfied.

They had lunch out on the terrace. The sun was high in the sky, and pigeons came and went on the railing. They talked about their plans, made arrangements for Illya's possessions to be moved, for each to talk to UNCLE's board. They discussed a honeymoon, and agreed to wait until everything was settled at work. "We'll have new positions, now the fieldwork's over," Napoleon said. "Plus the nine days wonder we're going to be once the paperwork goes in and we're listed as life partners. Let's let all that calm down, and then I'll take you wherever you might want to go. Yes?"

"Yes," Illya agreed, and lifted his coffee cup in a toast. Napoleon touched his to it. They kissed, briefly, before settling back to bask in the warmth of their love, in the blazing sun of the new day that would be the remainder of their lives.

The End