In the months after the fieldwork ended, Napoleon and Illya found themselves meeting frequently in UNCLE's gym to spar. Both had tried other match-ups, but for one reason or another, those didn't work out.

"They're too afraid of me to give me a really good fight," Illya complained over drinks to Napoleon, who agreed.

"Or they're so competitive that it gets too serious too fast," he added. Everybody, it seemed, wanted to take Napoleon Solo down; and while he enjoyed a good stiff match as well as the next man, he didn't like having to really hurt a co-worker just to get out unscathed. "I mean, I'm not Thrush," he added, and Illya grinned.

"Poor you," he teased, signaling the bartender for a refill. "Like an old time American gunslinger, who can't retire because all the young bucks want to notch you onto their holsters."

"You're not as funny as you think you are," Napoleon grumbled, and Illya raised an eyebrow.

"I don't think I'm funny at all," he answered, deadpan, and then had to laugh when Napoleon gave him a disgruntled look. "Well, I'm free tomorrow evening. Meet you there at five- thirty?"

"You're on." They finished their drinks, said their goodnights, and went their separate ways.

So they met, with increasing frequency. They didn't spare one another - they went all out, but there was no spite, no mean spiritedness in it. Both ended up bruised and battered, sore and groaning and vowing vengeance, but contented with it, too. Napoleon had the edge in size and weight, and strength. But Illya was strong too, and fast, and had a lifetime of compensating for his size to back it up. And Napoleon was equally fast, and both had a vast repertoire of dirty tricks that neither hesitated to use. It usually ended in a draw, but occasionally one or the other prevailed, pinning his opponent and laughing triumphantly down into his laughing face.

But there was an awkwardness that neither spoke of, because each man believed it to be his issue alone. Their bodies, pressed together, sliding against one another; their scent, the feel of the other, so close ... it caused a perhaps predictable, but nonetheless embarrassing, physical response.

Napoleon's arousal mortified him. It wasn't that he had never been attracted to men - or acted on it. It wasn't even that he had never been attracted to Illya, although he had never acted on that, to be sure. But that he couldn't control it, that Illya might feel it, be horrified by it, withdraw from not only their work-outs but from their friendship, both humiliated and terrified him. He became adept at twisting away, slamming Illya with the side of his body, pinning him with knees and elbows only, because if Illya became aware that Napoleon's cock was rock hard, Illya would ... or Illya might ... Napoleon couldn't make his thoughts go there. He was grateful for the terror, because when it washed over him strongly it took the erection away, and he could finish their fight without discovery.

Then, afterwards, there were the showers. He took to showering alone, in one of the private cubicles provided, instead of in the open shower room he - they - had always used before. He wondered that Illya never commented on it - in fact Illya went into his own cubicle, drew his own curtain. Illya was a good friend, Napoleon decided. He might not understand Napoleon's action, but he not only wouldn't call him on it, he would share it.

Afterwards, where they used to have dinner and a couple of drinks, they now said goodbye in the garage. Napoleon had to leave, to find some way to release his body's urgency. Usually he called one of the women he knew, and went on a date.

"Another hot date?" Illya said once as Napoleon put his phone back in his pocket. "You're setting some kind of record even for you, Napoleon."

"Jealous?" Napoleon asked, deliberately putting a snide tone to his voice because he didn't want to talk about this with Illya, not at all. Illya was too sharp, saw too clearly. But the expression that flitted across Illya's face now made him sorry. It was a blend of hurt feelings, self blame, and that withdrawal that Napoleon knew from experience could last for months. Hurriedly, he touched Illya's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he blurted. "I didn't mean it like that. I ...sometimes going home alone," and jerking off, he thought, but didn't say, "is more than I can face. So I date. So sue me."

Illya was looking at him curiously now and Napoleon swallowed, pretended to be very absorbed in finding his keys. But Illya didn't speak, so he had to. "I said I'm sorry. Don't ... don't be offended with me. Please."

"I'm not," Illya said, and when Napoleon looked at him he saw that softness on his face that he knew was for him alone. "Napoleon - of course I'm not. It's not like I couldn't ..."

"Of course you could," he agreed hastily and it was the truth, because Illya could have nearly any woman he wanted.

"Or wouldn't ..."

"I know you would." Said even more hastily, because he didn't want to sound as if he was accusing Illya of being ... of being that way, when Illya would, of course he would. In fact, just last week it was Illya hurrying to meet a date, and Napoleon Solo going home alone to bring himself off in the silence and solitude of his penthouse apartment.

"Well then. It was a silly remark, that's all."

"I'm sorry."

"Yes, so you said. Goodnight, Napoleon. Have a good time. I'll see you tomorrow."

And next time it would be the same. It would be great, and it would be agonizing; it would be fun, and it would be torturous. It would be the best thing in his life, and the most harrowing ordeal he'd face. He smiled, because what else could he do? "Yes," he agreed. "Tomorrow. At work."

---

Illya went home, locked up, set his security alarms, and stripped. He put one low wattage lamp on, got a washcloth, lay down on his back on top of his bedcovers, and brought himself to climax by the shortest route possible. "Napoleon," he gasped as he finished, and wanted to wash his mouth out with soap. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. But he couldn't help it.

Wrestling with Napoleon, feeling that weight pinning him into the mat, feeling Napoleon's knees against his thighs, feeling Napoleon's hands, all over him ... oh. He shivered at the memory, and another little frisson of pleasure shook him. It was so arousing that he didn't know how he'd managed to keep it secret for this long. One of these times he would miscalculate and Napoleon would feel it, pressed against him. And then Napoleon would ... what? Leap back, with an exclamation, perhaps, of disgust, or anger? Pull away and look at Illya pityingly? Tell him - gently, because Napoleon was a kind man, and furthermore he really liked Illya, that was no secret - that it was hopeless. Tell him that it would be best if they didn't wrestle anymore, go out for dinner or drinks anymore, be friends anymore. Illya wasn't sure exactly how it would go, but the end result would be the same, and he couldn't bear it.

"Jealous?" Napoleon had sniped and Illya was, he was jealous, but not the way Napoleon meant. He wasn't jealous of Napoleon for having a date, a date with a woman who was no doubt beautiful and sophisticated, sexually experienced and wanton. Illya could have dates too, and he did - not as often as Napoleon, especially lately, but when the solitary exercise in his bedroom paled he called a woman, went out, paid court appropriately, and buried himself in her warmth. Sometimes that was better. Sometimes this was better. More often this, because it took less time, and when it was over his evening still lay ahead of him, instead of having been frittered away.

Sometimes - rarely, very rarely, he went to a bar he knew and picked up a man. Sometimes that was what he needed - a strong male body against his, strong male hands on him, a deep man's voice in his ears. He didn't seek out men who resembled Napoleon - that would just be pathetic. He chose them based on what appeared to be intelligence, good hygiene, good manners, and an indefinable quality he rather lamely called to himself niceness. He'd had enough of villainous men, hard angry men, treacherous lying men. He preferred a man who would offer him a damp washcloth afterwards, make him coffee in the morning; who wouldn't say ugly things or make an unpleasant scene. But it was risky - so very risky, so it happened only rarely.

He should really give up these matches with Napoleon but oh, he didn't want to. It was so sweet, even as it frightened him badly; it was so warm and good and trusting even as he shrank from potential exposure and rejection. It was the best thing in his life, and that was all there was to it.

Napoleon helped Lara into the private car he had ordered, and closed the door. She kissed her fingertips and sent the kiss to him. He pretended to catch it, pressed it to his lips. She laughed, and the car pulled away. Napoleon turned around and went back inside. He saw the respect in the eyes of the doorman and knew it was because Lara was a very beautiful woman indeed, and he had bedded her. His body was stilled, no longer sending its urgent demands, and he went upstairs in the elevator, went into his apartment, and mixed himself a drink.

He enjoyed the dates, there was no denying it. He knew what to expect, knew what to do, and enjoyed being with a skilled, experienced partner. It was seldom that he elected a more solitary pleasure instead, and more seldom still that he went to a bar he knew, and met a man. Sometimes, though, that was what he needed. He needed to be held in arms that were strong like his, against a body that was hard and muscled like his. He used to agonize over that need, and castigate himself for it, but over the years he had accepted it. He swung both ways, as the saying had it, and while the pendulum spent the majority of its time on the female side, and more time alone than with a male partner, sometimes it swung over there and it made no sense to deny it when it was so easily satisfied. He avoided blond men, men of slight build, men with blue eyes. Let's not be pathetic, after all. He chose men based on his evaluation of their ability to be discrete, and their willingness to be one night stands with no repeats. If they were handsome, pleasant, intelligent, that was a plus of course; but the first two requirements were not negotiable.

---

This evening's bout was, for one reason and another, both longer and less restrained than usual. One reason - Napoleon had been away for three weeks and had missed this, had missed Illya; and the other - Illya had buried himself in the labs for those three weeks and had a lot of pent up energy to work off - had kept them at it for nearly two hours. It might have looked awkward to an observer - the absence of full body contact, the emphasis on hands, feet, knees, shoulders - but it wasn't; it flowed, as it always did. That Napoleon fervently wished for an opportunity to adjust his garments, and that Illya wondered that he could move at all, didn't show.

They finally called it a draw and went into the changing rooms for their usual separate showers. Both wished those showers could be ice cold, but that would send such an unmistakable message that neither indulged. The result of that was the hurried goodnights, the fast exits.

Illya sat in his car and considered his options. He didn't want to see a woman - he was still too keyed up and agitated for that. He also didn't want to go home and masturbate - he'd done that too often over the past three weeks while he waited for Napoleon to return. So it would be the bar tonight. It had been quite a while, so it should be safe enough. He ran a hand through his hair, straightened his turtleneck, and drove to a public parking lot. There he left his car, and walked six blocks to his destination.

Napoleon didn't even stop to consider. He'd been thinking about that bar all through his shower. It had been a long time since he'd been with a man, and tonight's extended bout with Illya had only fueled that desire. He wanted strength, and hard muscles, and whisker stubble. So he left his car at UNCLE, took a downtown bus, then walked three blocks over.

And struck out. Not literally, of course - he was eyed from the moment he walked in, and turned down three offers of companionship before his first drink arrived. But figuratively. He saw no one who interested him. He scanned the bar's patrons, and came up empty. He looked hopefully at each new arrival, and each time his hopes fell. He couldn't even say why. There were several there who met his criteria and more so, but he just couldn't muster up any interest. The whole process of meeting, talking, getting to the matter at hand, seemed incredibly tedious and exhausting. He sighed. He'd go home, then. Go home and jerk off, the way he'd done the whole time he was in London. Damn. He put some bills on the counter, turned his barstool around, and saw Illya walk in.

Had Illya followed him here? Did Illya suspect - know? He should turn around again, duck his head over his drink, but that wouldn't fool Illya, not for a minute. Besides ... besides, Illya was looking over the men there but not in a purposeful way, searching for one individual - for Napoleon Solo - in particular. No, Illya was evaluating, scanning, considering, and rejecting. Illya was ... Illya was there for the same reason he himself was! But how could that be? Illya wasn't ... Illya was ... and then those blue eyes found him.

Napoleon! What was Napoleon doing here, sitting at the bar with a drink and some crumpled money in front of him? Waiting for him? Had Napoleon learned his secret, and planned this confrontation? But that was ... that would be ... that would be cruel. Why would Napoleon do this? And what - what was Napoleon smiling about?

Him. Napoleon was smiling at him. Illya moved towards the bar, towards Napoleon - unwilling, yet unable to just turn around and walk - run! - away. He stood in front of Napoleon and they stared at one another.

Someone had to speak first. Napoleon cleared his throat and tried, but couldn't think of anything to say. A simple greeting? That shouldn't be beyond him. `Hello'. `Fancy meeting you here'. `Come here often?' Even as he thought about that one Illya spoke.

"Come here often?" he said, and there was a little bite to the words, and a wariness in his eyes. Napoleon cleared his throat again.

"Not especially." Then a strange, warm feeling began to grow in his chest. An upwelling, rising tide of ... of happiness? Because if Illya were here, looking, then ... "What's a nice spy like you doing in a place like this?"

"Um ..." Illya faltered, looked down, then up. The look on his face was questioning now, and the wariness had faded. "You first. What are you doing here?"

"Looking to work off the sexual frustration of wrestling around with my best friend." And it was out. After all this time - years. It had been over two years since their field retirement. Two years of inventive grips, uncomfortable holds, separate showers, fleeing the scene. And now he had spilled it. What if he was wrong? What if Illya was just seeking him out for some work related situation? What if ... but Illya was smiling. Smiling, and the same joy Napoleon felt was on his face.

"I may possibly have a solution for that."

"I'm sure you do. My place?"

"Wait," Illya said, and the joy was gone. "This ... you ... us. What we have is the most important thing in the world to me, Napoleon. I can't be lighthearted with it. I can't risk it." But it was already at risk, if either of them was wrong, if one of them ... both knew it. They stared at each other bleakly and then Napoleon, ever the gambler, raised the stakes.

"It's the most important thing in the world to me, too. If we do this it's for keeps, Illya. No more women, or men. No more solitary nights of ... of solitary release. Are you really up for that?"

"That's a big promise," Illya protested, and Napoleon's heart sank. But Illya went on, and there was a decided sparkle in his eyes now. "You go out of town fairly often. I may need some solitary release if I can't date."

He laughed. He threw his head back and burst out laughing, drawing all eyes to them. Illya was laughing too. "All right. If I'm out of town, I'll take advantage of that proviso myself. Because when we're apart ... Illya." He sobered, and Illya stopped laughing. "When we're apart you're all I can think of. And when we're not apart, too. I'm ... I'm obsessed with you. Is that something you want to take on?"

"I can take anything you can hand out," Illya said, and they looked at one another some more. Then Napoleon rose, and followed Illya through the door, onto the sidewalk, into the night.

Since Napoleon's car was at UNCLE they walked to Illya's. They walked side by side in silence, stealing looks at one another when each thought the other didn't see. When their eyes met both colored, and looked away.

Napoleon was delighted. Illya had been smiling to himself, and when he had seen Napoleon looking at him the smile had widened despite his quickly averted gaze. And it was certainly charming, the way the color had mounted in his face. "You know," Napoleon said, trying to sound stern, "it's dangerous for you to be going to those bars. As your superior, I'm not sure that I shouldn't write you up."

"But you were there too!" Illya stopped in his tracks and stared at him, then laughed. "Oh. You're trying to be funny."

"Only trying?"

"Barely. Did you ... did you really mean everything you said back there? Because if you've changed your mind, Napoleon, I won't hold you to it."

"You won't?"

"No. How could I, anyway? Sue you for breach of promise?"

"But you don't want me to change my mind." Then, suddenly afraid, "Or do you? Is it you having second thoughts? Because if you are ... I suppose I can't hold you to it either. But - Illya?"

"Yes? Here's my car."

There was a pause in the conversation while Illya unlocked the doors and they got in, put on their seat belts. Illya started the engine and pulled out, onto the dark street, heading uptown.

"It would kill me," Napoleon said harshly. "I can't joke about it anymore, or even pretend to. It would kill me. I've never been this happy, and if you pull it out from under me I can't even think about how far I'd fall."

"I won't," Illya said, and took advantage of a red light to turn in his seat and look earnestly at Napoleon. "I won't, Napoleon. I've never been this happy either. It's everything I've ever dreamed of, and far more than I could ever have imagined. I'm yours for as long as you want me." A horn blasted him from behind, and he stepped on the gas.

"As long as that? Forever?"

"If that's really what you want, yes. Forever. You know you can trust me, Napoleon. I don't give my word lightly. And neither do you. So if you really mean it, and I really mean it, well, that's it then. Isn't it."

"Yes. Good."

"Good," Illya echoed and the smile was back. Napoleon was smiling too, and they rode the rest of the way in silence, each man smiling to himself, and sometimes at the other.

Inside, the nervousness washed over Napoleon full strength. The powerful sexual excitement which had sent him to the bar was gone now, and he wasn't sure what to do next. He could always engage Illya in a wrestling match right here in his living room, but he didn't really want this time, their first time, to be all rough and tumble on the floor. He wanted ... he wanted to woo Illya, to seduce him slowly, sweetly, to make it last. He wanted to see Illya melt, see him shiver and ... he swallowed. "Um, want a glass of wine first? I mean ... well, do you want a glass of wine?"

"Yes, please," Illya said and, relieved at a specific task, Napoleon uncorked a bottle and poured them each a glass. When he handed Illya his Illya took it in hands that were not quite steady. The liquid in the glass rippled, and Napoleon was almost unbearably moved.

"It's just me," he said softly, because his own nervousness was one thing, but to see Illya nervous - of him - was quite another.

"I know." Illya smiled up at him, and Napoleon's heart turned over. "I don't know what comes next," Illya said then, bluntly. "I don't know if you're going to take the lead, or if I am - if you want to kick my feet out from under me and pin me or if I'm going to get the famous treatment. I don't like not knowing. It makes it seem likely that something will go wrong, and if it did - then what?"

"Do you want me to kick your feet out from under you? I mean - at least we'd be on familiar ground. We could wrestle around for a little bit, and that would doubtless lead to a pleasant episode of frottage ..." and he was hard now at the picture he'd just painted. Illya looked down at it and frowned. The erection wilted.

"Or do you want the so called treatment? I can go either way." The unintended double entrendre made him flush, and he set his wine down before he dropped it. Illya smiled a little.

"Obviously," he said, and Napoleon grinned. "I can't help noticing that both suggestions have you taking the lead."

"Well - that's really what I'm comfortable with."

"So am I."

"Hmm." Napoleon considered. "If you really want to," he said finally. "You can lead. I - it'll be a new experience for me, but it's just you. Right?"

"Right," Illya agreed, and he set his drink down too. "But we can do that another time. The wrestling, too. Go ahead and give me the treatment, Napoleon. I've watched it second hand more times than I can count, and I can't argue with the results. At least one of us will be on familiar ground."

"Not entirely," Napoleon said. Illya quirked an eyebrow at him.

"No? Was that your first visit to that bar, then? Because I didn't get the impression -"

"No. It wasn't. But in all the times I've given someone the full treatment, I've never meant it. With you - Illya." He reached out, touched Illya's hair. His fingers tingled. "I'd mean it."

"Would you?" Illya took a step closer, and now they were standing very close indeed; close enough that when Napoleon's organ rose again, responding to the feel of Illya's hair, the scent of him, it nudged against - against Illya's own erection. "Would you mean it? Every lorning gaze and tender touch?"

"Every one," Napoleon said, and when Illya tilted his head back and closed his eyes he accepted the invitation, leaned in, and kissed him.

The nervousness left. All the questions about technique and leadership seemed very foolish. Illya's lips parted under his, and Napoleon put his arms around Illya to bring him closer. Illya wrapped both arms around his waist and they kissed, there in Napoleon's living room, their tongues meeting and twining together, their bodies pressing together, their hands gripping. When they finally separated, Illya's eyes were wide and startled. He touched his mouth with shaking hands.

"So that's what it feels like," he whispered. "When - when someone - you - loves me. That's what love feels like?"

"I suppose so," Napoleon said, and he knew his own eyes were equally startled. He didn't touch his mouth, but he touched Illya's hair again, stroked it. Illya smiled and rubbed his head against Napoleon's hand, and Napoleon chuckled. "Well poosycat," he teased, "let's adjourn to the next room. Bring your wine. You'll want it after I sweat you a leetle."

"Don't call me poosycat," Illya said, but he was still smiling. He picked up his glass, leaned against Napoleon, who obligingly put an arm around his shoulders, and together they walked into the bedroom.

"You sure you don't want me to sweat you a little bit?"

"Maybe a little," Illya whispered. They stepped apart, and stripped. Napoleon draped his clothes over the chair, tossed his underwear into the laundry basket and kicked his shoes under the bed. Illya sent all of his into the laundry basket and pushed his shoes so they were beside Napoleon's. Then they just stood and looked at one another.

How many times, Illya thought, had he seen Napoleon naked? But now ... he touched Napoleon's shoulder, slid his hand down Napoleon's bare arm to his hand, which took his and squeezed it. He squeezed back. He wanted Napoleon to kiss him again, because while Napoleon had been kissing him there had been no thoughts, no worries about how it would go, no plans. There had just been bliss. He closed his eyes again, put his face up, and heard Napoleon chuckle. Then Napoleon's mouth touched his and thought did flee, lost in that bliss. He was aware of Napoleon moving forward, moving him backward until the bed was against his legs - smooth, he thought, and laughed . Napoleon laughed too but took advantage of Illya's open mouth to send his tongue exploring - deeper than before, more aggressively than before but not too much, just right, really.

There was another moment of separation while they got onto the bed, while Napoleon kicked the heavy bedspread down to the bottom, and then Napoleon was touching him. Napoleon touched him everywhere, light skimming touches, so skillfully placed that within minutes Illya was shaking with desire, reaching for Napoleon in his turn, trying to arouse him past this almost playful foreplay. But Napoleon brushed his hands away and kept on, lips now as well as hands but also light, avoiding ... Illya groaned and his hips rose, pleading. Napoleon brushed his pubic hair, and Illya cried out under it, his body arching again. Napoleon laid a trail of kisses down his stomach and Illya gasped because in another second Napoleon's mouth would be on his cock, and was Napoleon really going to ... but Napoleon veered off, kissed his hip, his inner thigh, the back of his knee.

Oh, hell no. Illya turned, cat quick and swallowed Napoleon whole, taking the length of him deep in his throat, sucking, using his tongue, cupping Napoleon's balls in the palm of his hand and rolling them very lightly.

Napoleon yelped, and it was such an uncharacteristic sound that Illya snorted with smothered laughter. Then Napoleon had him, too, in his mouth and Napoleon was sucking him and that was too much - it had been not enough, and was now too much. Illya screamed as he came, and as he did so Napoleon shouted something incomprehensible and he came too. They clutched at one another, bodies curled around one another, trying to breathe and come and swallow all at the same time until it released them, and they collapsed in a tangled heap on the bed.

There was a long silence. It was Illya, finally, who broke it.

"You were right," he said, and Napoleon grunted something interrogative. "I do want the wine."

"Be my guest."

"I can't reach it. You get it."

"Illya - I have no idea where I am on this bed in relation to the bedside table. Wait - is this it? No, that's not wine, that's you."

"And this is you."

"Are you serious? Again?"

"Well, it was so fast ..."

"Is that my fault? I tried to stretch it out. You're the one who ..."

"Yes I am, aren't I. That's what you get for teasing me."

"If that's what I get for teasing you I'll have to do it more often."

"Maybe next time. It was nice ... yes, that was nice, too. Oh, Napoleon. And that. Do that again."

"You move like a poosycat in bed," Napoleon whispered, caressing him intimately now, smiling as Illya arched and purred. "And you scream like one too. And this ... purr for me some more, Illya. I'll get some fresh tuna and milk if you do."

"Keep that up and you'll get more than that. You talk too much in bed, Napoleon. Didn't any of your multitude of lovers tell you that?"

"No. In fact I've never had any complaints before this."

"I'm not really complaining. Just observing. I don't mind the conversation, but you tend to stop what you're doing when you're trying to be witty."

"Ah. How's this?"

"Yes. What about this? Do you like this?"

"I like it fine. I like you fine. I like this - oh! Fine.

"I like you too, Napoleon. Just fine."

Both stopped talking then and there was more bliss; more touching, and more kissing, and then there was another period of stillness and silence. When he had recovered, Napoleon sat up and found the bedside table, and he and Illya leaned against the cushioned headboard, They sipped wine, and looked sideways at one another, and when Napoleon said, Illya. Move in with me. Please? Illya said yes. Yes, Napoleon, I'd love to, and they barely got the wine glasses back on the table before they fell into one another's arms again. Nobody took the lead this time; they just clutched and clung, rolling over and over in Napoleon's enormous bed, and their cries of completion were lost in the other's mouth.

There was more wrestling after that day; in the big bed, and on Napoleon's floor, and at the gym in UNCLE headquarters. When they sparred in that gym there was no more awkwardness, no more fear. They took one another on full force, full contact, grappling and twisting and throwing each other down. The other agents using the gym commented in low asides how glad they were that they weren't the ones being kicked or dropped or body slammed to the mat, and those few who gave it a try didn't try it again. Afterwards, Illya and Napoleon still showered separately with curtains drawn because, after all, it wasn't a private gym; but then they went home together and finished it up right. No more solitary releases, no more anonymous women, no more bars. Just them, the two of them, partners for the rest of their lives.

The End