"Come."

Illya turned, and looked at the man striding down UNCLE's corridor. He was a big man, well over six feet tall, and powerfully built. His black hair was liberally sprinkled with grey, and his black, snapping eyes were hard. The mouth was cruel, and despite his handsome appearance most women gave him a wide berth. Illya had no such luxury. His uncle beckoned and, wordless, Illya came out of his office and into the extended arm, which closed around him tightly. Too tightly for comfort, but he made no protest. There was no protest to be made. His workday was over, his illusion of sanctuary shattered as it was every day.

He had never thought this could happen to him again. He had left his uncle behind when he left Russia, and had been convinced that with all Ivan Petrovich knew, he would never be allowed to leave the Soviet Union. If he did, if he crossed the border illegally, his house and lands would be forfeit. Surely he wouldn't give up the ancestral home, of which he was so proud. No, the Iron Curtain was an impenetrable barrier between Illya and his past, and he was free. Free to continue his life; free to work, and live, and love ... love? No, surely not, but ... his thoughts trailed off into chaos, as they always did nowadays. He couldn't maintain any logical or even coherent chain of reasoning for very long, especially when, as now, his uncle was walking beside him, when his uncle's arm was around his shoulders, his uncle's body pressed against his side. When he was walking with his uncle towards the exit, towards his uncle's car, his hotel, his bed.

He was powerless, as he had always been. Sometimes he marveled at it - at himself. He was an adult now, not a child; a trained agent, with more ways to kill this man at his disposal than he could begin to count. But none of that helped. He could no more lift a hand to his uncle than he could fly away from him. He couldn't even think anymore - how could he act? And if he acted, and failed - as he surely would, as he knew he would - the penalty would be terrible. How it could be more terrible than the brutality unleashed upon him daily he couldn't say, but it would be. He didn't want to picture it. He couldn't ... and then, at the end of the hall, coming through the elevator door, he saw Napoleon.

Napoleon. Illya came to a stop, so surprising the man next to him that he actually continued on a few paces, arm slipping free of his shoulders, before realizing that Illya was no longer keeping step with him. He turned, face darkening. But Illya wasn't looking at his uncle. He was staring at Napoleon, who even now was coming towards them, smiling, one hand raised in greeting.

Napoleon had been gone for a long time. In the beginning, when Petrovich had first appeared in UNCLE headquarters, his past evidently forgotten, Illya had wished for Napoleon. If Napoleon were here, he would have never allowed this. If Napoleon were here, he would have stopped it. But then, as his thoughts darkened and swirled into dissolution, he had lost that wish, that memory, that ... that hope. There was no hope. He was lost. Lost forever, lost beyond saving. But now ...

"Illya!" Napoleon waved again. "I'm so glad to see you! I called to set up an early dinner meet-up, but ..." then his steps slowed as he registered ... what? What was he seeing? Illya couldn't imagine. Besides the obvious, besides the fact that Illya was with a stranger; a commanding stranger who was even now pulling him back in to his side with what was surely a surprising familiarity, what was Napoleon seeing that made his face harden, made his eyes as cold and dark as ... as those of the man facing him? "Illya?"

The arm tightened, fingers digging into his shoulder painfully, a silent command. Be still, he could almost hear his uncle's voice rasp. Be still, and silent, and let me get rid of him. As he had gotten rid of everyone else who had expressed concern, or even interest. But this was Napoleon! Napoleon would ... Napoleon would save him! `Help me' he mouthed, silent because he dared not be anything else, but if Napoleon knew, he would never permit, he would ... and now Napoleon was smiling! He was smiling at Illya's uncle, and coming forward with his hand extended. Did his uncle notice that the smile didn't reach Napoleon's eyes? Did he ... and then Napoleon was speaking.

"Well, hello there!" and his voice was different, his voice was false. He had that exaggerated American corn fed accent, his Harvey Muller voice, that usually amused Illya so much. It was the voice of a man who would not notice nuances of position and expression, who would approach them with an open smile and an expansive greeting, who would extend an arm for a handshake. A man easily fooled, easily put off by superficial courtesy. And sure enough, his uncle released Illya's shoulder, released him! Stepped forward, own hand out, to meet Napoleon's; to greet him and get rid of him smoothly.

"A pleasure to welcome you!" Napoleon was going on and then he reached over and past the extended hand, caught Illya's shoulder, turned and backed up and just like that - just like that! Illya was free. He was free of his uncle, and furthermore Napoleon was between his uncle and him. And when Napoleon spoke again the friendly unsuspicious American was gone, and it was UNCLE's CEA who spoke.

"Illya. You all right?"

"No," Illya said, because even with his uncle glaring at him over Napoleon's shoulder he could give Napoleon only the truth. "No. I'm ... I'm not. Don't ... don't let him. Please."

"Security," Napoleon said into the wall intercom. "This location. Now."

"Do you know what you are doing?" his uncle demanded. "I am here on government business, approved by your own Section Chief, Mr. Benjamin Turnbull. Step aside!" But despite his tone, and his words, his uncle didn't actually move forward, as Illya fully expected. Whatever was on Napoleon's face was keeping him at bay.

"I am assisting my partner," Napoleon answered, and there was no bluster in his voice. Napoleon Solo didn't need to bluster.

"Ptah!" Illya's uncle spat. "He has no partner, he ... he is only good for one thing!" Here he made a crude gesture and Illya flinched. He felt Napoleon stiffen, then the man was going on.. "Come here! Or" switching to Russian now. "I will tear you open with my bare hands. I will rip you apart from the inside and you will live through it. I will -" the pounding feet of the running security team interrupted him. He turned to see four men standing behind him, guns drawn and, when he whirled around he confronted Napoleon's own weapon.

"Stop right there," Napoleon said softly, and Illya shivered at the tone - even directed outward, away from him, it made him shiver. "You threaten my partner with," and here he switched to Russian himself "torture and death here? In the heart of UNCLE headquarters?" Back to English now for the guards. "Take him into secure custody. I will -" and then Ivan Petrovich roared in fury, face twisting, blackening, seeming to change into something barely human as the big body lunged forward, hands reaching like claws ... for Napoleon!

The threat to Napoleon slapped Illya out of his near stuporous fear, just like a hand across the face. He drew his gun, moved out from behind Napoleon to his side just in time to see Napoleon shoot his uncle in the chest.

The sleep dart did nothing to stop the man's forward momentum, so he slammed into both Illya and Napoleon, knocking them backwards into the wall, but then he slid bonelessly to the floor. The security team handcuffed him quickly, and carried him away.

And then it was just the two of them, there in the hall. Reaction washed over Illya like a flood, and his knees buckled. He had to clutch at Napoleon's arm to keep himself from falling and Napoleon turned, looked hard into his face.

"Did Turnbull really authorize this man's presence?" he asked, and Illya nodded. Turnbull had not only authorized it, he had reveled in it, gloated over it. Gloated over him, over his bruises and helpless, fear driven submission. Turnbull had always hated him, Illya had known that, but he had never thought the man could touch him, even when he stepped into Waverly's chair on the old man's retirement. But he had been wrong, hadn't he. Wrong about his uncle never leaving Russia, wrong about his ability to defend himself, wrong about Turnbull. Wrong. He felt hopeless all over again, just thinking about it.

"All right," Napoleon said. "Come with me." Illya nodded again and Napoleon gripped his arm, moved him through the halls. Fast. To the stairs, and down them. Out one of the old back ways, rarely used now, out into the alley behind Del Floria's. Napoleon hailed a cab, then waved it on. They walked a block, and he hailed another cab. They got into that one, although Illya saw that Napoleon's hand remained on his weapon. He said not a word and Illya, head swimming with fatigue, hunger, and that baffling and frustrating confusion he could never shake, didn't speak either, just rested his head on Napoleon's shoulder. Napoleon's arm went around him - like his uncle's had but not like that, not like that at all. Napoleon's arm was comforting and supporting, not confining; Napoleon's hand rested against his upper arm, not gripping and squeezing and hurting ... hurting him so much.

"So much," Illya whispered, and Napoleon looked at him curiously. "He hurt me so much," Illya said then, in answer to that curiosity, and saw Napoleon's mouth set again in those grim lines.

"Not anymore he won't," he said, and Illya nodded. Not anymore. His uncle wouldn't - couldn't - hurt him anymore. Because Napoleon had come. Napoleon had come, and saved him. He had appealed to Napoleon, and Napoleon had answered that appeal, and he was safe. Safe. He gave a deep, shuddering sigh at that.

"Good," he said, and felt Napoleon nod. Then the cab stopped and he roused himself, because he wouldn't be a drag on Napoleon, he wouldn't, he would help him, he would ... he would climb out of this cab and walk beside him into ... oh. Into Napoleon's apartment building. What a good idea that was. Napoleon's building was safe, his uncle couldn't come there. Even as he thought that he heard Napoleon's voice rap out instructions to the doorman.

"Security Level 1A" he said, and the man sprang to attention. "Until you hear differently from me. From me - or from Alexander Waverly. Nobody else. Clear?"

"Yes sir."

Napoleon turned away without answering, and Illya walked beside him to the elevator. They entered, Napoleon inserted his card, and they went up. Smoothly, swiftly, and silently they rose to the penthouse; inaccessible except by that card. His uncle didn't have that card. Turnbull didn't even have that card. Only Napoleon. He must have blanked out for a moment then, because more doors were sliding open and another door faced him, was opened in its turn. Napoleon drew him inside, reset the alarms, closed and locked it behind them, and he was - they were - safe. This quiet, luxurious, expansive space was an armed fortress now. For him. Protecting him from his uncle, because Napoleon had come and rescued him. "Thank you," he said, and Napoleon squeezed him.

"I wish you had called me," he said, and he was looking directly into Illya's eyes now. "How long has this been going on?" He laid two fingers on Illya's wrist, looked at his watch for a moment, and frowned. "Illya?"

"I don't know. I ... I can't think. I can't ... just him coming back destroyed me. I didn't even think of calling you. I .... I'm broken."

"You're very heavily drugged," Napoleon said, and Illya frowned.

"No ... no, I don't think so. It's him. All he had to do was look at me, to say my name, and I was lost."

"Maybe that's what he led you to believe, but when I tell you you're under some sort of chemical influence, you can rest assured that I know what I'm talking about."

Illya nodded because yes, Napoleon knew what he was talking about. Napoleon must be right - drugged? He was drugged? His uncle had drugged him - had had to drug him? He wasn't ... maybe he wasn't completely hopeless after all. He stood and watched Napoleon, who was on the phone. He wondered who Napoleon was calling. He wondered ... then he saw Napoleon drop the phone, drop it and lunge towards him. Why? Why had Napoleon ... what was happening now? He was looking up at the ceiling, something soft was against his back and ... he couldn't stand not knowing what was happening, he couldn't stand it. "Make it stop!" he cried aloud, and his voice broke. "Napoleon, if you're still my friend at all, make it stop. I ... I don't know ... I can't tell ... oh please, make it stop!"

And it stopped. Just like that, it stopped. Because Napoleon had him in his arms, Napoleon was holding him against his own body, Napoleon was rocking him and talking directly into his ear. Softly, but firmly too, words that both comforted and reassured, because Napoleon so obviously meant them. "It's all right. Illya, it's all right. Of course we are still friends, and it's all right. You just got dizzy for a minute there, like on the elevator. That's all. It's to be expected, between the drugs, shock, and not eating ... when is the last time you ate?"

"I ... when are we now?" He heard that as it came out, how it made no sense grammatically or otherwise, and flushed. "I mean -"

"I know what you mean. It's Thursday, at almost six o'clock in the evening. But if you had to ask then it's been too long. When you feel better I'll fix you something, all right? Whatever you want. All right?"

"Yes. All right. Not yet! Not yet, Napoleon, I'm not ready yet."

"Not yet," Napoleon agreed, still rocking him, smoothing his hair, rubbing his back. "When you are ready. When you say. All right?"

"Yes." And it was all right, it was. He had gotten dizzy, because he had been heavily drugged and he hadn't eaten in ... however long it had been. He had gotten dizzy and Napoleon had caught him, dropped the phone and caught him, lowered him to the sofa. He was lying on the sofa, which was why he was looking at the ceiling now, and it was the sofa cushions he felt against his back. Nothing strange or extraordinary about it at all. He smiled at Napoleon, who smiled back at him. "Thank you."

"You would do it for me."

"Yes." He pushed himself up so he could look into Napoleon's eyes. "Yes, I would. I would do it - I would do anything for you."

"There you go. Want to hear about my conversation with Mr. Waverly?"

"Is that who you were talking to?" `Security Level 1A' Napoleon had told the doorman. `Until you hear differently from me - or from Alexander Waverly.' "You called him? Did - he didn't know, did he? Mr. Waverly ... this wasn't okay with him, was it?" Because if it was, but Napoleon was shaking his head.

"No. He didn't know, and he's furious. Things are happening even as we speak, Illya. It's being taken care of. I promise you. It never should have happened in the first place, and it won't happen again. All right?"

Napoleon kept asking him that. `All right?' Like ... like it mattered, how he felt, what he wanted. Like he mattered. He nodded. "All right," he murmured, and put his head on Napoleon's shoulder. Napoleon rocked him, and patted him, and after a moment curiosity pricked. "So ... what things are happening, exactly?"

"Petrovich's government had no idea he was here. He had an orange flagged visa to Cuba to settle an extradition issue. He pulled some strings while there and flew here. The paperwork he showed Turnbull was false, although it's hard to credit Turnbull was really fooled by it. Petrovich is in custody now, waiting to be retrieved by his government's representatives."

"Good."

"Yes."

"But he'll be back, you know. Now that he knows where I am, he'll never give up."

"If I see him again, I won't be using sleep darts. And if you see him again, you call me. Wherever I am, whatever I'm doing. Or call Mr. Waverly if I'm unreachable."

"All right. Napoleon? I am a little hungry."

"I'm sure. It's well past dinner. What do you want to eat?"

"I don't know."

"Well, I could make -" the front door buzzer rang. Napoleon came to his feet, and pulled out his gun. He advanced softly to the door and Illya sat up on the sofa, groping for his weapon. How could somebody be at Napoleon's door without having been buzzed up from the lobby? Before he could even release the safety, however, Napoleon was opening the door.

Alexander Waverly stepped in, and Illya sagged with relief. Oh. Mr. Waverly. No wonder he hadn't needed to buzz up. And what was he carrying? A big flat box ... a pizza box! Mr. Waverly had brought pizza? It was so unexpected that he felt disoriented again, as if he must be dreaming, as if at any moment Napoleon and Waverly would go into a song and dance routine. But Napoleon was only carrying over a tray table and setting it up, and Waverly was putting the box down in front of him.

"There you go, Mr. Kuryakin," he said briskly. "Dinner."

"Um, yes. Um, thank you. Mr. Waverly ... what's happening? Is he still in custody? Have they come for him yet? Or - or did he escape? Is that what you're here to tell me?" He trembled at the thought, but met Waverly's eyes squarely. He was safe for right now, wasn't he, safe in Napoleon's apartment.

"Mr. Kuryakin." Waverly sat down and took both Illya's hands in his. Shocked into immobility, Illya let him. "Your uncle is dead."

"Dead?" Illya cried it aloud, and at the same moment Napoleon said,

"His uncle! What do you mean, his uncle!"

"Mr. Petrovich took a suicide pill rather than face his countrymen. Mr. Solo, Ivan Petrovich is - was - Mr. Kuryakin's biological uncle. His deceased mother's brother."

"The devil you say," Napoleon muttered and Illya said, again at the same time,

"Are you sure?"

"Indeed, Mr. Solo. And yes, Mr. Kuryakin. I am quite sure."

"Oh," Illya said, and

"Oh," Napoleon murmured. He sat there considering the ramifications of Waverly's statement for a moment, then asked, "And Ben Turnbull?"

"Being dealt with at this moment," Waverly returned. "Mr. Kuryakin. I am very sorry that you did not feel you could contact me, in Mr. Solo's absence. I would never have permitted this to continue."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"He's been very heavily drugged," Napoleon put in and Waverly looked into Illya's eyes, and nodded.

"So I see. Well, your ordeal is over, Mr. Kuryakin. Your uncle is dead, Mr. Turnbull is gone, and I see you are receiving excellent care. I will leave you to it. Gentlemen." He nodded at them both, and left.

Dead. His uncle was dead. Illya mulled that over while he ate, while he ate the excellent pepperoni pizza Waverly had provided - not a fancy gourmet thing with odd ingredients, but just a basic cheese pizza with pepperoni. How did Waverly know that was what he liked? Waverly had held his hands. What an odd thing for him to do. But comforting, to feel that warm, firm grasp. And the words ... "He's dead?"

"He was your uncle?" Napoleon said at the same time, and Illya put down his pizza. "Yes, he's dead," Napoleon went on hastily. "Of course he is. Waverly would never say it if it weren't so."

"No. Of course not." His uncle was dead. Dead and gone. Not just left behind, not just escaped, eluded, evaded. Dead. How wonderful. "How wonderful," he said, and began eating again.

"Your uncle?" Napoleon said again, and Illya, his mouth full, nodded. He was feeling better ... and worse. It was strange. His stomach was full and that was good, the odd dizziness and disorientation were better, but his head ached and his muscles twitched and jumped, as if they wanted to cramp. The drugs must be wearing off. He knew this feeling well enough, and that was reassuring. He had been drugged into helplessness, and that his uncle had felt the need to drug him was reassuring too. Because maybe ... maybe without the drugs, he would have resisted. Maybe he would have fought back. It was hard to picture it but he had drawn his weapon, hadn't he, when his uncle came at Napoleon. He would have shot his uncle down if Napoleon hadn't done it first. So maybe ... he became aware that Napoleon was still looking at him inquisitively, that Napoleon's question was still hanging in the air.

"Yes," he said, and quirked an eyebrow at Napoleon. "Mr. Waverly would never say it if it weren't so." He was pleased with himself. He had teased Napoleon a little bit, had given an answer that not only made sense but ... his brain was waking up, so maybe ... just maybe ... everything would be all right after all. Napoleon kept telling him it was all right, and ... and Napoleon would never say it if it weren't so. He smiled at Napoleon, but Napoleon wasn't smiling. He was frowning.

"You knew him before? He was in your life earlier?"

"He raised me," Illya said, and both smile and appetite disappeared. He pushed the tray table away. "He was my guardian. He raised me from the time I was three."

"The devil he did," Napoleon said, and Illya didn't wonder at the second reference to the devil because Ivan Petrovich did make one think of Lucifer, Ivan Petrovich was the devil himself. "Like ... like that?"

"Yes."

"Illya."

"I know. It's harrowing. I know. It was just as bad as you're thinking, and worse. Much worse."

"How did you ever survive that? How did you ... how did you do more than survive? You ... you flourished! You triumphed! Illya, you're the finest man I've ever known. You're strong, and compassionate, brave and honest and true. How is that possible, raised by a psychopath? Raised with ... under ... that type of abuse? I am in awe of you."

What a nice thing for Napoleon to say. Of all the responses he'd ever gotten to his background when it was revealed, this was by far the nicest. "I don't really know how to answer that. I survived because he didn't want to kill me. He had uses for me. He enjoyed owning me, he loved hurting and terrorizing me, and he liked fucking me." He threw that out there, just in case Napoleon hadn't gotten the message earlier from Petrovich himself. But Napoleon only nodded, lips thin. Napoleon was no innocent. Napoleon understood. And that understanding made it possible to continue. "And he loved profiting from the things he taught me to do. I was his own personal honey trap. I made him far more powerful than he would have ever been without me." He stopped, breathed in and out. "The rest - thank you. The rest is because I wouldn't be like him. Him, and his friends that he rented me out to. I was determined not to be like them. I read - I mean, he had to send me to school. People knew he had me, and there would have been questions if he hadn't ... if I hadn't ... so he couldn't keep me from learning that there were good men in the world, that it was my life that was the anomaly. Once I understood that there was another way to live, another whole world out there, I realized that all I had to do was bide my time, and wait. I'd grow up eventually - if he didn't kill me first, and sometimes that was in question. When he got angry - well, you know. You saw."

"Yes."

"But he didn't, and I did - grow up, I mean. When I was sixteen they offered me a scholarship to Cambridge, and I accepted. He was furious, but I threatened to tell them why he wouldn't let me go, to shout my story as loudly as I could. Oh, he was angry." Illya shivered at the memory. "He nearly killed me then but I had brought the school officials with me. They were horrified - they got him off of me, and his hands from around my neck, and he knew he was beaten. But he looked at me so ... I knew that if he ever got a hold of me again it would be terrible. And it was." He put both hands over his face, and trembled. Napoleon sat beside him, embraced him again, as he had before. Now that he was more fully himself, however, Illya was aware of the strangeness of it, the inappropriateness of Napoleon rocking him, stroking his hair, whispering his name that way. But it was comforting, no doubt about it, and that was all Napoleon was trying to do, wasn't it, to comfort him? And he needed comfort, no? So he let the words, the touch, the embrace, soothe him until he could continue. But he didn't pull away, didn't try to sit up and Napoleon kept up the pats and the ... the caresses, because there was no other word for them.

"UNCLE recruited me from Cambridge. And after school, and training, and then Survival School, and then New York, I thought I was safe from him. I thought ..." he laughed shortly, a bitter, ugly sound, and Napoleon's arms tightened. "I thought I was beyond his reach, and that if I ever saw him again I would kill him. But I wasn't, and I didn't. I was absolutely paralyzed with horror when I saw him. He had his arm around me and his hands on me and his voice in my ear before I could react. He pulled me into an empty conference room and - and - he made me drink something!" He sat up straight at that memory. "He said it was to make me pull myself together but it didn't, of course, it made me dizzy and sick and he laughed at me and said I was weak still, just like always, and I believed him. Just like always. But he lied. He drugged me right then, while I was still in shock just from seeing him again, just from his voice and his hands ... and he's been drugging me ever since. I can tell that, now. I haven't felt like this - sharp, and aware, and ... and here. Here and now. I haven't felt like this since that first drink. Thank you, Napoleon, for telling me that right off, for telling Mr. Waverly that."

"Well. It was obvious."

"Not to anybody else it wasn't. Not that whole time."

"Didn't anybody notice that something was terribly wrong? Where were George Piper and Jess Coleman through all this? I thought they were your friends. I must say -"

"They're not here. George and Mae are on a long vacation, a cruise around the world, for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. And Jess is temporarily posted to New Zealand, to set their security division in order."

"That's quite the coincidence. Not."

"You think Turnbull ..."

"Yes. Yes, I do. Because neither one of them would have allowed this to continue. You look like death warmed over, Illya. Coleman would have body guarded you every step of your day, and Piper would have -"

"Kicked my uncle right in the ass," Illya said, and laughed. And if the laughter sounded a little like sobs, if there was a hysterical tinge to it, Napoleon didn't seem to notice, although he did begin rocking again. Illya quieted, and lay against him.

"Yes, he would have. And Ben Turnbull too. Ah, Illya. What a mess. I am so sorry."

"I know you are. Thank you. But - it's over now, isn't it. Mr. Waverly said my ordeal was over, and he wouldn't say it if it weren't so."

"Correct. What do you want to do now? Are you through eating? You didn't have much, but that's probably just as well. Want to take a shower or a bath?"

"Not a bath. It's going to be a while before I get in a bathtub again, Napoleon. I can tell you that."

"I understand. He was KGB, according to Waverly. So ... "

"So," Illya agreed, thinking of the water rushing down his throat despite his best efforts to hold his breath, thinking of his uncle's weight pressing him down, his uncle's cock ..."talk to me, Napoleon. Talk to me right now."

"How about a nice shower, and when you come out we'll have a glass of wine in front of the TV? We'll play `Jeopardy'. We haven't done that since our last assignment."

"In that dreadful motel room," Illya said, and laughed, and this time it sounded better, sounded normal. "I remember. Yes, I'd like that. I'd like that very much. `Jeopardy' and wine on your sofa are about as far from him and his ... him, as you can get." Napoleon released him and he rose, carefully, but no dizziness came. He walked over to the bathroom, pausing at the linen closet to load his arms with thick towels. Napoleon walked with him, and indicated the robe hanging on the hook behind the bathroom door.

"Use that when you come out. We'll find pajamas for you later."

"All right. Napoleon? I know ... I know you might have to go out, if something important comes up. I understand that. But please - please tell me, all right? Don't let me come out and just find you gone and maybe a note on the table, all right?"

"I will tell you," Napoleon promised, and leaned in, kissed Illya on the forehead. "You have my word."

"Um, all right. Um - Napoleon? Why did you do that?"

"Did you mind?"

"No, but ..."

"This is a whole conversation of its own, and we can have it later. Or tomorrow. For now it's enough that you didn't mind. Think you'll feel like something else to eat after your shower? Scrambled eggs, maybe?"

"With bacon," Illya said promptly, then smiled when Napoleon laughed. "Don't laugh at me."

"I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing with joy at your resilience. Scrambled eggs with bacon it is."

"Thank you."

"My pleasure," Napoleon said, and his voice changed, deepened. He looked into Illya's eyes, not laughing now. "Illya? It is my pleasure."

"Oh." He flushed, shifted the towels from one arm to another. "Um, I'm sure it will be mine, too." Mine too, he thought as Napoleon turned away and he closed the door. Under the hot water, scrubbing himself thoroughly, he smiled again. Mine, too.

He fell asleep over `Jeopardy', leaning against Napoleon, dimly aware of the wine glass being plucked from his fingers, of a cover being draped over him. How wonderful it was, he thought, as thought dissolved into nothingness. How wonderful, to fall asleep and not be afraid to wake up, not be afraid at all, not ever again because his uncle was dead. Turnbull was gone, Waverly was back, and Napoleon ... Napoleon loved him. Because he had said so, hadn't he? Hmm. Illya frowned. He couldn't really put his finger on when, but ... and Napoleon would never say such a thing if it weren't so. He felt his lips curve upward a little bit at that, a very small smile, and then he slept.

He woke in bed with Napoleon. It was very early, so early that only a pearly sheen showed through the blinds. He had no memory of being brought there, but that didn't matter. Napoleon wouldn't have left him alone on the sofa, so when Napoleon went to bed he brought Illya with him. It made perfect sense.

It all made perfect sense now. And it wasn't so different, really, from any assignment he'd been on. He'd been drugged, captured, tortured, rescued. Now the drugs were wearing off, and the injuries would heal. I would have killed you, he thought at his uncle. I would have, as soon as I got over that initial shock. What a shock it had been. He could still feel it, the loss of breath, his heart pausing in his chest, skipping a beat, two beats, starting again with a thud, making him cough. The icy wave as all the blood left his extremities. The cold sweat. He had been literally in shock. He wasn't to blame for that. And his uncle knew it, knew that this was his moment, his only moment. His uncle had feared the agent his nephew had become enough to have had drugs with him, to have poured them into him first thing. And never stopped. Never from that moment to last night had he been free of it. I would have killed you, he thought again. For what you did to that little boy for all those years, if not for what you were doing to me right then. And I did kill you. By asking Napoleon for help, I set events in motion until you saw no way out but a suicide pill.

Napoleon. He turned his head so he could see Napoleon, sleeping beside him. But Napoleon wasn't sleeping. Napoleon was lying on his side, watching him. Waiting for him to wake up and, when he did, waiting further while he thought his own thoughts. Napoleon's face was softer than Illya was accustomed to seeing it; soft, and open, his eyes tender, mouth gentle. And just like that, memory woke.

Napoleon had indeed said it, just before leaving that last time. I love you, he had said. Illya Kuryakin, I love you with all my heart. We're no longer field partners, I am no longer your immediate superior. I can speak now, where I couldn't before. And Illya had faltered, stumbled, not known how to react, how to feel. He had always wondered - all those years together, those not so casual touches, those long intense gazes. Their perfect rapport, the way their bodies moved in exquisite synchronicity. But he had always set his wondering aside, too, as patently absurd in the face of Napoleon's obvious and exclusive heterosexuality. So this was a surprise, and not a surprise; a shock, and not a shock. And while he had stared, and stuttered, Napoleon leaned in and kissed him on the mouth. Sweetheart, he had said. My own sweetheart. You look so stunned. Surely you ...

Surely I did, Illya had agreed. But then I didn't. Are you serious?

Serious as a heart attack, Napoleon had answered, and Illya had forked the sign against bad fortune at him. Napoleon had laughed. My little gypsy, he had teased, and Illya had laughed, and Napoleon had kissed him again, not so briefly this time. When they drew apart, Napoleon had talked about his upcoming trip, and his return. Illya had listened, and agreed, and then Napoleon had left. How could he have forgotten all that? How ...

No one cares, no one has ever cared. His uncle's voice slammed into his ears and he covered them, shrank away from it. Shrank against Napoleon, who embraced him and drew him closer. No one cares, no one but me and I will keep you close! He cried out against it, and Napoleon's arms tightened.

"Illya. Illya? Can you hear me? Nod if you can. You don't have to talk, just let me know you're with me."

He nodded, and kept nodding because it was an action rooted here and now, in this moment, in this place. Napoleon had asked him a question and he was nodding yes and breathing ... breathing in, and out, and his uncle was dead and gone. "Yes," he gasped. "Yes, I hear you, yes, I'm with you. Yes."

"Good. We have to expect this, Illya. You've been thoroughly fucked with, mentally and chemically, so ..." and that was as far as Napoleon got because Illya began to laugh. He laughed and laughed and Napoleon, clearly worried now, tried to push him back, peering into his face. "What did I say? Illya?"

"Fucked with," Illya managed, and laughed some more. "I certainly was. I was most thoroughly fucked with, fucked over, fucked." A glass was at his lips and he tried to turn away, but Napoleon gripped his face.

"Drink it," he said, and his voice was harsh. But not in a bad way, Illya knew the sound that meant Napoleon was struggling to control his emotions and he would help, he would help Napoleon, so he drank obediently. Water, but not drowning him; refreshing him, and making him feel better. Definitely better. "Is that better?" Napoleon asked and that made him want to laugh again but he controlled it, because he didn't want to worry Napoleon any further. He was all right, surely all right and, as Napoleon had said, he should expect little episodes like this because he had been fucked with. He took the glass from Napoleon, took one more polite little sip, and set it down.

"Thank you," he said. "I'm all right now."

"Well, good. Good. I'm sorry about that ... that unfortunate turn of phrase."

Unfortunate. "Are you trying to make me laugh again, with that?"

"No, no, of course not. I'm trying ... to get out of this pit I seem to have dug myself into. I don't mean to be ... um, tactless."

Tactless. Illya gave up, and rolled over in bed. "I have to use the bathroom," he said, polite again, and Napoleon nodded but he still looked worried. Illya smiled at him, to relieve that worry, and left the bathroom door open for the same reason. Finished, he washed his hands and came back out. Napoleon, sitting up now, drew back the covers and patted the place beside him. Illya came in, sat, and was drawn closer. He dropped his head onto Napoleon's hard shoulder and rested there, content to do nothing more than feel Napoleon and smell him, listen to his breathing and the beat of his heart.

"So," Napoleon began. "Do you remember the conversation we had before I left?"

"I do now."

"You said yes, then. Didn't you? I was never really sure. You let me kiss you, but you didn't actually ..."

"Yes. Then and now, yes."

"Well, good." Napoleon exhaled. "I don't want to sound selfish, like my agenda and that's it, and it seems, well, tactless, for want of a better word, to pick it up again now, after ... after everything. But I also don't want you to think that any of this has changed anything. Ah, that it made me feel differently. Because ... um, I don't. I love you. But since you've never told me any of it, when you know every iota of my past, I thought that you might worry that I would. Feel differently. Which I don't."

Illya turned his head and looked at Napoleon hard. Napoleon was actually fumbling for words. Napoleon was repeating himself, and saying things like `ah' and `um'. No flowery phrases could have spoken his feelings more clearly. Napoleon Solo never fumbled, never was at a loss for words. Napoleon Solo was always smooth, and eloquent. For that to have deserted him, he must care a great deal about how what he was saying came across. He must not be sure of his reception, of Illya's response. Oh, Napoleon could be sure of him, just as he was sure of Napoleon. He smiled, and he saw that smile reflect on Napoleon's face. Saw him relax.

"I did worry about that. Yes. So I never told you. I would have told you before we ... before anything irrevocable was done, or said, because anything else would have been dishonest. But I would have worried."

"And now?"

"Now I'm not. I believe you. You say it doesn't change anything and ..." he teased again, a very little bit "you wouldn't say it if it weren't so."

"No, I wouldn't. So ... we're good? Yes from you, and yes from me, and ... and we're good, Illya?"

"Yes," Illya said, and smiled again. "We're good." He lifted his face for Napoleon's kiss, and when it came it was - oh. Oh, it was bliss. Napoleon's lips on his, Napoleon's arms around him, Napoleon turning so their bodies were pressed together ...oh, it was good.

"Illya," Napoleon murmured, and he sighed with pleasure.

"Yes?"

"I'm aware ... I mean, I know that you may not be ... in fact I'm sure you're not - in fact you probably shouldn't even - "

Napoleon was stumbling again! How Napoleon must love him. Illya stretched in that embrace, and cut the fumbling short. "Fucked? I shouldn't be fucked with?" He had been trying to lighten Napoleon's mood, but he hadn't, he had hurt him, he felt it in the involuntary recoil. He pressed closer, remorseful. "I didn't mean that in a bad way, Napoleon. I'm sorry. And you're right, I'm sure. I'm sure I shouldn't. Now that the drugs are wearing off I really hurt."

"Do you?" Napoleon pulled back to look at him anxiously. "Should you see a doctor? Should I call -"

"No! No, no, no. Don't do that. It's not necessary. He didn't want me to need to see a doctor, and he knew his business. I'll be fine. But we'll have to wait, I suppose." He was disappointed.

"No we don't," Napoleon whispered, and he drew Illya back into the embrace. "There are so many ways for me to love you without that ... Illya. I can't wait to show you. I've dreamed of it, and in all my dreams you ... you open to me like ... like a -"

"If you say flower I'm hitting you," Illya threatened, and Napoleon laughed, a full, rich joyous sound.

"All right, little flower, I won't - ow!"

"That's what you get."

"And this," Napoleon whispered, running both hands down Illya's back, over to his sides, up his stomach, down to his thighs, "is what you get. And it serves you right, too. Sweetheart."

"Vozlyublennaya."

"Right back atcha."

So they made love, there in Napoleon's big, comfortable bed. Or, more precisely, Napoleon made love to him. Because when he had tried to reciprocate Napoleon had pushed his hands away. "No," he'd said. "Please, Illya? This is what I've dreamed of all this time, watching you respond to me, seeing what I can do to you with my touch, and my kisses, and I don't want to be distracted from that, from your pleasure. So don't. Just lie there and let me - let me love you."

"You are so bossy," Illya complained, a little nettled that Napoleon had this so completely planned out that his own contribution was unnecessary - worse than unnecessary. Unwanted. "If you think you're going to be CEA in bed, we might need to talk. We might need to ... oh. Oh, that is so unfair." He arched and twisted, thoughts losing coherence as pleasure rose, as pleasure swamped thought, drowned thought.

"Ah huh," Napoleon said, and even with his eyes closed Illya could tell that he was smiling. "You were saying?"

"Insufferable," Illya mumbled, and gasped sharply. "Conceited - oh, Napoleon. Yes. Yes, do that again. Again ... now why are you stopping?"

"I thought you had something else to say. No?"

"I'll have your balls for ..." lozenges, he thought, and laughed aloud. The joy in the sound surprised him a little but he shouldn't be surprised, should he. Napoleon might be bossy, he might be insufferable and conceited, but he was a wonderful lover and that was no surprise at all. So he let it go, let Napoleon love him, love him so thoroughly that when the finish came, when Napoleon turned to put his mouth there, to surround him with that warm, wet, sucking he screamed aloud, screamed and gripped Napoleon's hair in his fists, screamed and came and it had never been like this, never, never, never ... he groaned, a long guttural sound that might almost have been pain and maybe it was, a little, because his defenses were ripped away, and that was painful, like a newborn breathing air for the first time, feeling cold around him, feeling gravity pull at him and why why why couldn't he stop thinking? Shut up, he told his mind impatiently. Shut up, shut up, shut ... "Oh." Because Napoleon hadn't stopped what he was doing, Napoleon was continuing to suck him, softly and gently, Napoleon was still stroking him, flat palmed and caressing, not teasing, just easing him back down, back into his arms as he moved finally to embrace him. Illya embraced him too, body stilled, mind finally quiet, and was this sleep coming on? Yes it was, and it served Napoleon right. Because surely ... he reached out to investigate and yes, Napoleon was hard, painfully hard, it had to be, and that did serve him right, So Illya gave it a little pat, turned more fully into the embrace, which tightened, as if Napoleon didn't mind one bit that Illya had abandoned the proceedings, and darkness covered him as gently and softly as the blanket being pulled up around his shoulders.

He woke sooner than he had wanted to because his stomach was cramping, his gut twisting, and he pulled free and ran for the bathroom. Damn you, he thought at his uncle as he sat, sweating and suffering. Damn you for still being in my life with your drugs, your damn drugs. But it was good, too, that his uncle had thought he needed them, had known he would need them. Right now it was dreadful but it would pass, as it always did. Not my first time, he thought, and smothered laughter behind his hands, which were clamped over his mouth to silence any groans of pain or grunts of effort. Not my first time to be drugged and have it wear off, just like it wasn't my first time to have your cock up my ass. Not the first time for any of it but the last time for that, that's for certain. You're dead and gone, and I helped kill you. Because even with the drugs, even with the torture and the water and the conditioning you tried so hard to use again, as soon as I saw Napoleon it was over. All over for you.

The pain was easing finally and he removed his hands, panting. In the other room Napoleon still, presumably, slept. Good. Each of them had seen the other, of course; sick, vomiting, pinned to the toilet as he had just been, but that didn't mean he liked it. He flushed the toilet and stepped into the shower, to wash the sweat and the stink off of him.

Well, and Napoleon's shower was absolutely the last word in luxury. It was very large, and boasted multiple shower heads at multiple heights and angles. There were soap and shampoo dispensers offering a selection of scents - or no scent at all if he preferred. There were seats, padded and heated, and a heated towel rack within arm's reach. He had been too agitated last night to appreciate it, just thankful it was only a shower, not a tub, and that he was alone.

He supposed it was his shower now, too. Right? Wasn't that behind all the words of love, the promises of fidelity and forever? Wasn't he moving in here? Yes he was. That would certainly be pleasant. He liked his own apartment well enough, but it could not be described as the armed fortress he had felt closing around him last night. There were things he wouldn't want to leave but he wouldn't have to, he could bring them all with him. Napoleon hadn't actually asked him, but ... he finished and stepped out, feeling much better. Maybe that was the end of the withdrawal, or at least the worst of it. He was even hungry again. They had slept the morning away. Well, they were entitled, weren't they? Napoleon had traveled far, and then on returning been launched right into rescue mode. And he himself hadn't slept soundly in who knew how long. Since his uncle came, he supposed, however long ago that had been.

Being hungry made him think of Waverly, and his entirely unexpected visit with the equally unexpected pizza. Waverly must really like him, to come himself, to think of bringing food, to take his hands. Must like him, he himself, Illya Kuryakin, not just the experienced and skillful agent, the brilliant and successful scientist. `Nobody cares at all' his uncle had beaten into him over and over, but his uncle had been wrong. No. Not wrong. Lying. Because George had been given unexpected and very long leave, and Jess a distant assignment. Napoleon had been gone, and Waverly was retired. The people who did care were absent, and as soon as one of them had returned his uncle's game had been ended. His life had been ended.

So his uncle had lied, and people did care about him, and furthermore none of them were people to care lightly, to give their friendships easily. Each and every one of them was a good man, an honorable, brave, and good man. So ... so there, he thought, and came back out into the bedroom; naked, hair tousled from the towel, warm and glowing from scrubbing and hot water.

Napoleon was still asleep. Illya stood and looked at him, and felt his mouth curve upward in a smile. Napoleon's hair too was tousled, and Napoleon was so deeply asleep that he was snoring a little. Illya walked over to the bed, silently, because sleep was precious and he wouldn't dream of disturbing Napoleon. Although it was odd that he was sleeping so very soundly after being left on the brink. Unless ... Illya lifted the covers stealthily, and sure enough Napoleon was still clutching a wadded up washcloth. Illya didn't have to look at it closely to figure out what it had been used for. Well. Huh. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. Napoleon had brought him to completion - oh, brought him to ecstasy, and then taken care of his own needs before falling asleep. Because Napoleon had wanted to be in control of every step. Well, Illya might have a thing or two to show him about that. He just might.

Besides, even though Napoleon knew about him, knowing and experiencing might be two different things. And if experiencing that hard earned expertise was going to change things, best to know it now. If having Illya's past thrust in his face, so to speak, was going to make him think twice, was going to put him off, then best to know it before Illya started packing up his apartment. Right? Right. Besides, he owed Napoleon one for earlier.

So Illya got into bed beside Napoleon, and made love to him. He knew just what to do, to keep Napoleon asleep, to weave this act into his dreams, not to move him along too abruptly, not to jar him awake. That had been part of his uncle's success. Illya could get damaging, incriminating, scandalous photographs before the targets were fully awake. But there were no hidden cameras this morning. There was no agenda besides pleasure ... well, and making sure of Napoleon. And paying him back a little. He supposed there were agendas after all, but none that spoke harm. He had a right, to be sure, and turn about was fair play, so ...oh, he grew tired of thinking. It was impossible to turn his mind off and he wanted it off; wanted to dwell on nothing but Napoleon's pleasure. On Napoleon's cock, stirring now. On Napoleon's breathing, coming a little faster, a little harder. Napoleon's hands, coming up to grip his shoulders, his hair. Napoleon's voice, crying out. Crying his name. His name, over and over and over again until the final shriek - and yes, it was a shriek, a full out shriek of pleasure, and triumph, and joy. He was glad Napoleon had that soundproofing, and he was glad too that Napoleon had clearly enjoyed himself. Now there was only the reaction to wait for, the look on Napoleon's face as passion faded, the look in his eyes as they met Illya's, saying ... what?

So Illya waited, sitting cross legged on the bed as Napoleon gasped and swiped at his forehead and - Illya had to smile - surreptitiously shoved the washcloth off the side of the bed. He waited.

Napoleon's eyes opened, and met his. Illya forced his own to hold steady, despite his real desire to lower them, to look away, not to see. But Napoleon was smiling, and there was nothing in his eyes but sleepy pleasure, and the same joy that had been in his shout. "Illya. Oh, my. Illya. That was amazing. Where did you ... oh. Oh." And then there was compassion, so deep and so clearly heartfelt that Illya did have to lower his eyes. "Come here, sweetheart. Come here."

"I am here," Illya protested, but Napoleon was already tugging at his arms, pulling him down, pulling him hard against him.

"Like this, I mean. Here, like this. Illya - did you mind? I don't want you to think - you don't have to ... I don't know what I mean. But I don't want you to think of them - or me as being like them, or - please say something. I'm getting myself in trouble again, I can tell."

"Did you like it?"

"Like it? It was amazing. It was ... I don't even have words for what it was. It was ... stupendous."

"I know that. Of course it was. But did you like it?" Do you still like me, he meant, and couldn't say. Do you still want me, do you still love me, am I still your sweetheart? Or are you thinking those words now, those words that were my definition for so long that I still can't shake them off. Lure. Honey trap. Whore. He looked at Napoleon again, knowing that all those questions were in his eyes, on his face; that he was ripped open again, and it was in Napoleon's hands now, to heal him, or to destroy him.

"I liked it. I like you. I love you. I'm only sorry that you think - but I understand. I do. I didn't say any of the things I should have said last night, before ... before. I should have said - marry me, Illya. In all the ways that count, and never mind the ways we can't. Marry me. Be my husband, my partner for life, and I will be yours. Forever. Till death do us part. Forsaking all others. In sickness and in health. All of that."

He couldn't speak. How had Napoleon answered every single question - and more - without him asking more than one of them? And Napoleon was ripped open, too, and now it was he waiting. "Yes," he said, and saw Napoleon's face light up. "Yes, Napoleon. To all of it, yes. Yes. I love you." Then they were wrapped up in one another, rolling around on the bed, thrusting against one another. Nobody was in control this time, and Illya had stopped thinking at last. There was only pleasure and joy, safety and love. Love rose around them, filled them, lifted them up and surrounded them with its strength and its beauty. Then it ebbed, but didn't leave. It still filled them, as they sat, stretched, and rose to begin the day - and the rest of their lives.

Two Weeks Later

Illya pushed his bangs off his forehead and looked around. Everything was finished. All his boxes of books were unpacked, and neatly arranged in the matching bookshelves Napoleon had had installed flanking the fireplace. His record albums were organized, and stacked in the new entertainment center that also housed a new stereo system, and Napoleon's television set. The furniture he had brought - the antique apothecary chest with its numerous little drawers, some locking, some with trick openings, some so secret nobody could find them without his help, had replaced the chrome and glass coffee table Napoleon had said he didn't care about. The battered bookshelves Illya had been fond of because he had bought them with his first paycheck from UNCLE New York had been refinished, and were now stocked with classics from both of their libraries. Even his hot plate, which was all he had ever used for cooking, had moved with him because Napoleon, it turned out, was fond of it; remembering all those late night dinners he had cobbled together in Illya's tiny kitchen. Illya's clothes were in one of the closets in their bedroom, while Napoleon's were in the other. In their home office, which was originally designed to be a guest room, Illya's computer backed up against Napoleon's now, just as in their office at work. He and his possessions had slotted so neatly into Napoleon's apartment that it seemed they had lived together for years. Today, with the installation and filling of the new bookcases, it was complete.

It's home, Illya thought, as he stretched his back. Our home. It seemed it should still be a novelty, but it wasn't. It seemed he should still expect to wake in his old apartment, but he didn't. It seemed it should still feel odd, to sleep with Napoleon, to share showers and breakfasts and late night cocktails on the balcony, but it didn't. It didn't at all.

He wondered where Napoleon was. It was late. He was late. Illya had expected him for dinner, and it was now ten-thirty. Should he be worried? No. He wouldn't worry. If he began worrying about Napoleon every time his work hours ran over, or if Napoleon began worrying about him every time the same thing happened, their lives together would be intolerable. If trouble was coming, it would find them. No news is good news, he thought as he went into the bathroom. That will be my motto. No news ... he stood, and looked at the bathtub.

It was a shame, really, that he still avoided it. Napoleon's - their - bathtub was enormous, with whirlpool jets, push button soap dispensers just like in the shower, padded headrests at each end, convenient shelves on which to place a drink, or a book. Surely he was over his uncle's torture sessions in the hotel bathtub, in the bathtub in the terrible old house. Those were nothing like this one, anyway. It wouldn't even feel the same. And if Napoleon came home, late and tired, to find Illya relaxing in the tub, then Napoleon would know how at home Illya felt here, how safe. That would please Napoleon, would make him happy. And probably Napoleon would join him. Then they would ... he turned on the taps.

He was floating - literally floating, it was so deep - with his head on the cushion, a bottle of beer beside him, and Bach playing on the speakers, when he heard the front door. And his heart jolted in his chest, he nearly jumped out of his skin, he dropped the book in the water. He wanted to scramble out, to hide from his uncle who would surely grab him and shove him under, hold him under ...

"Illya?" Napoleon's voice, and the world dropped back into place with an almost audible thud. It was Napoleon, of course. It had to be Napoleon. Nobody else could get in here - well, maybe Waverly could, but not his uncle, of course not. His uncle was dead. When Napoleon poked his head in the door Illya was holding his ruined book, fanning the pages in a futile attempt to salvage it. Napoleon started to laugh, then stopped, looked at him with startled eyes.

"Illya. You're ... well, that's fine, sweetheart. I'm so glad ... hold on. I'll be right in." He disappeared again, and Illya lay and panted, feeling his heart slow to a normal rate. He ducked under to wash the cold sweat off of him. What had he been thinking? Had he been asleep? Maybe he had been drowsing a little bit, maybe ... and Napoleon was back, naked. He climbed in, the water sloshing over the sides, and settled down beside Illya, giving an audible sigh of contentment.

"Now this is the way to do it," he said contentedly. "Home from a long day's work, my partner in the bathtub waiting for me, although I'm sorry about the book."

"It's a library book," Illya said. "I'll pay for it. Napoleon - I was afraid when I heard the door. I thought it was him. I dropped the book, I wanted to get out and hide ... I'm sorry." He had said all that very fast because he didn't want Napoleon giving him more credit than he deserved. Napoleon probably thought it was brave of him to be in the tub by himself, and it hadn't been, had it, because he'd nearly had a coronary at the sound of the door opening.

"Did you." Napoleon hugged him, hard, against his own hard, wet body. "I'm sorry."

"Yes."

"You don't have to apologize for it, though, sweetheart. You're entitled. You were ..."

"Fucked with."

"Yes."

And because it had become a little joke between them, one of so many, he laughed softly. "But this is nice, Napoleon. I was enjoying it. You're very late. What time is it now?"

"Almost one. Yes, I am late. But I think you'll be pleased when I tell you why."

"Did they finally give you the Section Chief position?"

"What!" Napoleon sat upright so fast he lost his grip on Illya, who slid under the water. He came up coughing, and Napoleon grabbed his shoulders.

"Are you all right? I didn't ... I didn't make you think of ..."

"No, of course not. I'm fine. Got you with that one, didn't I."

"How did you know? Seriously, Illya. This was supposed to be top secret. Nobody but Mr. Waverly, the Board, and I are supposed to know until tomorrow morning. I mean, they knew I'd tell you tonight, but - who told you?"

"Nobody told me. I know more about those computers than the people who designed them, and a lot more than the ones who program them now. Nobody's going to take me by surprise in UNCLE's halls again. I didn't know when, and there were two other candidates so I wasn't sure, but ..."

"I'll be damned. I should really report you. I should ..." he began to laugh at himself. "Obviously I'm not going to report you. Who were the other two candidates? I must say, this is going to be handy."

"Johnson and Travers."

"Do they know they were under consideration?"

"No. Did you?"

"I hoped. I mean, the position was open, and Waverly had made no secret that he wanted me to have it. I felt like it was in the bag, but nothing's one hundred percent."

"So you're Number One, Section One now. And I'll be your secret police. You'll know everything."

"There's something a little unethical about all of this, but ..."

"No, there is not. Because our motives are pure. We want the best for UNCLE, we want the best for the civilized world, we would never actually do anything unethical. So it's all good."

"All good," Napoleon agreed, and lay back down again. He pulled Illya against him, and moved. Illya moved too, and by the time they were finished more water had sloshed over the side, drenching the bathmat. Then they got out, dried one another off, and climbed into bed. "I have to be there early," Napoleon said. "Long days and late nights ahead while I get things organized."

"I'm going to expect much faster turnaround on my funding requests."

"You'll get it. I'll pass the word that your requests are already rubberstamped yes. And you'll never fail to deliver results, so my brilliance will be much commented upon."

"Your brilliance?"

"Well, yours too, of course."

"And George should get a promotion."

"Done."

"I'm going to like this. I think. I won't like the long days and late nights."

"I'll make up for it with long weekends when I can. Things have really settled down since the old days."

"I know. Jess would make a very good head of security, Napoleon. He has hospital security running like clockwork. He could do the same for the whole organization."

"I'll look into it."

"Good."

"I love you, sweetheart."

"I love you too, Napoleon. And tomorrow morning I'll be your wake up call."

"You will, will you."

"Yes."

"And tomorrow evening I'll make love to you as soon as I walk in the door. I won't even take off my business suit. "

"Tomorrow evening I want you to take me. It's been long enough, and I've been dreaming about it."

"Really." Napoleon propped himself up on one elbow. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. I bought lubricant today."

"Now how am I going to concentrate on work? My first day in my new position? That was kind of a dirty trick, Illya Kuryakin."

"There's a lot more where that came from."

"Oh, that's it. I'm taking tomorrow off. In fact, let's take a week off. I haven't actually started yet, and we never had any kind of honeymoon. Let's take a week off, and stay right here. That way I can tell them I'm available in case of an emergency. There'll never be a better time than now, when I'm not in the middle of anything. They can carry on without a Section Chief for another week."

"If you're trying to convince me, you can stop right now. I'm in. I'll let George start reorganizing the department, since he's going to be in charge of all the paperwork and supervisory details now ..."

"He is?"

"Yes. That's his promotion. You already okayed it."

"And what are you going to be doing?"

"Research, hard science, papers, speaking, seminars ... all the things I'm always having to put off because of the admin details. Which George will love doing."

"Ah huh. You've certainly got it all worked out."

"Well, you have more important things to think about."

"True. Illya - I want you to know that I have never been this happy in my life, and it has nothing to do with the job."

"Me too, Napoleon. Me too. Now go to sleep, so I can wake you up in time to get in and get everything in place for your leave of absence. I'll ride in with you. You can pick me up when you're ready to go."

"It's a plan. Goodnight, sweetheart. I love you."

"Goodnight, Napoleon. I love you too."

The End