Part of the Furniture      Part of the Furniture by Di T  
 

Napoleon Solo's apartment, January, 1966: 

"We have come a long way, my friend." Illya suddenly announced. 

I looked up from the sofa where I was trying to read The Looking Glass
War, the latest John le Carre, although the plot was already taxing my
overtired brain and I was half asleep. "Yeah, about 3000 miles as I
recall." 

"Not from Italy." Illya gave a small laugh. "You know . . . us." 

"Ah." I closed my eyes again and stretched out on the sofa, letting the
book flop onto my chest, too sleepy for a philosophical conversation. One
of Illya's more endearing qualities was his capacity for companionable
silence. I wanted to wind down ready for sleep. It had been a long day. 

But he persisted. "I just want you to know that I . . . I've been happy
with the way things have turned out." 

What had brought this on? The fact that we'd completed yet another
successful mission against the odds? Today's wild and messy lovemaking the
second we were through the door? If he was referring to either then
yesthings had turned out pretty well. 

Or maybe he was speaking more generally. A sudden and unwelcome thought
occurred to me. "You're not thinking of leaving are you?" I opened my eyes
a slit to gauge his reaction. 

But he shook his head. "No, never. At least not in the foreseeable future
unless Mr Waverly . . . you know . . ." He shrugged. 

I decided to deliberately misunderstand him. "Good, because I don't have
the time or the energy to look for a new partner. I'm happy too. Very.
Speaking of which, I'd be even happier with another drink." I said this
last while yawning hugely. I should go to bed. I stretched out a languid
arm and picked up the empty whisky glass from the floor. "Any more in that
bottle?" 

"You should go to bed." Illya the mind-readeralthough he didn't have to
work very hard to read my mind then. He heaved himself out of the armchair
and took the glass, contemplating it thoughtfully. "You've even managed to
wean me off vodka." 

Not a drop of vodka since we came back from London, three months ago.
Londonthat disastrous, wonderful, life-changing mission. 

I watched him pick up his own glass as well and go over to the sideboard
where he splashed a little Glenfiddich into each. Leaving one glass on the
sideboard he returned to the sofa and offered me his arm. "Come on, take
this to bed." 

I was glad of that strong arm pulling me upright. Maybe I was a little
drunk as well as tired. Good. I'd sleep soundly. He put the whisky in my
hand, collected his own from the sideboard and sat down again in the chair
that seemed to have become his. OddI could hardly remember what that chair
looked like without him in it. "Aren't you coming?" I asked. 

"Later. I'm not sleepy yet." 

I didn't argue. He seemed in a strangely pensive mood. And I had a feeling
if he came to bed with me right now he'd want to keep talking and I was
too tired. Let him have a little longer to wind down. I reminded him of
the meeting Mr Waverly had rescheduled for nine thirty the following
morning. 

He smiled a crooked half smile. "I'll wake you in time, don't worry." 

Insolent Russian. 

But the smile, as always, lit up his face. It didn't matter that his eyes
were hooded, his long hair dishevelled, he lookedcontent. I couldn't
resist ruffling his hair a little more on my way past and he caught my
hand and kissed it. 

How comfortable to have Illya here in my apartment. After London, when
things changed between us, he'd been in the habit of treating this as a
second home. He even kept a few clothes here, although he also liked to
make free with mine. He's an easy guest. Hardly a guest. He always did
have a knack of fitting in places, becoming part of the furniture. 

So what caused that sudden affirmation? He's not given to making those
kind of remarks. It seemed to me as if there had to be a big 'but' coming.
But no, he'd sunk into silence. Contemplative. Tapping his finger on the
arm of that chair. The one that's become his. 

"Goodnight then," I said, dropping a kiss onto his hair. 

"Goodnight, Napoleon." 

 

As Napoleon staggered towards bed, I settled back down in the armchair and
took a sip of the whisky. The surprise trip on the Adriatic Express had
turned out to be unexpectedly enjoyable, even the company of the little
model girl on the train who pursued me relentlessly. Napoleon and I saw in
the New Year with her, together with Eva, the naive apprentice beautician
and several bottles of champagne. How he and I laughed when we virtuously
said goodnight to them and retired to the expensive sleeping compartment
Mr Waverly complained so vociferously about funding. 

Of course he then ordered us home by the cheapest route. "And next time,
find somewhere inexpensive to stay overnight, Mr Solo. You young agents
are altogether too profligate with your expense accounts. Double up, I
say!" 

If only he knew. 

I took another thoughtful sip of whisky and swept my eyes round the room,
so familiar, so dear. My own place is home, of course, but after a tiring
mission, going into a cold, empty apartment is conducive only to sleep.
Coming here to wind down was something I looked forward to more than
anything. My needs are simplefood, rest and Napoleon. Not necessarily in
that order. 

Sometimes I can't wait. I was hard by the time the taxi dropped us off at
Napoleon's building. We were so tired we'd hardly spoken during the taxi
ride, but I could see from the way Napoleon kept raking me with his eyes
that he felt the same. I made my intention clear in the elevator by
deliberately crowding against himeasy, since the elevator's tinyand by the
time we arrived at the top floor we were wrapped around one another.
Napoleon's hands shook so much as he tried to get the key in the lock that
we giggled like schoolboys and almost fell through the doorway once it
opened. Naturally, the intruder alarm went off. Napoleon dived for the
switch while I kept my arms locked firmly around his waist and unfastened
his belt and trousers. 

We made love right there in the vestibule. I shamelessly floored poor
Napoleon while he was hobbled by his pants, yanking off my own pants and
underwear in frenzied haste. Our lovemaking was more like a wrestling
match, each thrusting against the othermy climax swift and intense between
our bellies as I kissed him fiercely, reclaiming him after the long
mission. 

I took Napoleon in my mouth then, an act that not so many years ago I'd
thought was only the stuff of guilty fantasy . . . 


Paris 1960: 

It was winter in Paris and the city was in the grip of a big freeze. He
entered the jazz club, La Grenouille, and sat at his usual table in the
corner but near the band. The bass player, Guy Jordil, smiled at him in
recognition. Illya ordered his customary vodka and sat back to lose
himself in the music. The atmosphere was smoky with Gauloises and people
came and went, got up to dance or just sat and listened to the music.
Nobody took any notice of the slight, blond man in the corner. Except Guy.


Guy had caught his attention the very first time he had visited. After a
while they had exchanged nods of recognition, then chatted about music
after the band had finished, and even had the occasional jam session late
at night, Illya taking a turn on the piano. Guy was a wonderful bass
playersubtle, clever, never dominating the music, but always a solid
ground complementing the improvisations of the sax and piano. He was also
quite beautiful. 

The band took a break. After a few moments, Guy came over to Illya's table
and sat down. He took out a packet of cigarettes and offered him one. He
declined with a smile. This was a running joke between them. 

"When will you grow up and smoke, my friend? You can never play in the
band if you do not have a cigarette afterwards." 

"It is a condition?" 

"Why of course. You must smoke one after each session. It refreshes the
mind and clears the head." 

"So I have heard." 

Guy moved closer. He leaned over so his brown, luminous eyes looked
directly into his own. "It is good after other pleasures too." 

He twitched his lips. "I have heard that also." 

"But you have not tried it. I can tell." 

"I told you, I do not smoke." 

The brown eyes crinkled with amusement. "That is not what I mean. You know
it, my friend." 

He did not respond, but stared levelly at Guy through the curling smoke. 

Guy laughed and drew deeply on his Gauloise. "Of course, I saw you with
that little blonde student. You sat at this very table. But I think you
and she . . . no?" He covered Illya's hand with his own, stroking the
wrist-bone. 

Just at that moment, the rest of the band returned to their instruments.
Guy smiled apologetically and got up to leave. They clasped hands in a
perfectly seemly handshake, French style. 

"Will you come and play a little after the set?" 

"Perhaps." He knew he would not. 

"Salut, mon vieux." 

He watched Guy take his place in the band, hoping nobody else noticed the
deep blush that crept up from his boots. 

Later that night, in his cold little attic room, he lay in bed with his
thoughts churning. So Guy was homosexual. But he had seen him kissing
women at La Grenouille. And why did Guy infer that Illya preferred the
company of men? Was it possible to like both women and men? He'd always
believed he was a man of the world, but that was not quite true. 

It seemed he had much to learn. 

And why did the image of Guy smoking his cigarette languidly, naked and
sated on his bed, keep insinuating into his imagination? He tried to put
it out of his mind, instead imagining Solange, a fellow student he was
friendly withthe witty and amusing little blonde Guy had notedin his
mind's eye. But she only laughed at him and the next moment, there was Guy
once more, holding his hand, running his thumb over his wrist-bone, his
eyes sardonic, luminous. 

He had become unbearably aroused even while he denied it to himself.
Getting out of bed, he went over to the draughty window and stared at the
lights of Paris, hoping the freezing air would make his erection subside;
but instead another forbidden picture flashed into his mind: Guy, on his
knees there in front of him, his big brown eyes gazing adoringly into his
own, and sliding his pink tongue along the length of his cock. Then he
opened his wide, smiling, sensuous mouth and took him. 

With a groan, he grasped his erection and after only a few strokes
splattered the window-pane and the floor. Leaning his forehead against the
cold glass, heart pounding, his mind in turmoil, guilt and shame warred
with a growing realisation. 

He never returned to La Grenouille, but he never forgot Guy, nor did he
forget what he had discovered that night. Soon afterwards, he was posted
to New York to join Section 2. 


Napoleon's apartment, January, 1966: 

How naive I had been then. Too ashamed and confused by my feelings to act
upon them. My upbringing saw to that. Since Paris, I did approach a couple
of men, by way of an experiment. It was well away from New York and
U.N.C.L.EI also discovered that homosexual love was no more acceptable
here than back home. However, nothing really matched up to my fantasies
about Guy. Sometimes it's easier to follow the conventional path and when
I felt the urge, I stuck to girls thereafter. 

But you don't get a choice when it comes to love. And since when did I
choose the easy path? Gradually I realised my fantasies of Guy were being
replaced by fantasies about someone closer, but equally unavailable.
Friendship and admiration had turned into something deeper. 

"You should go now, Mr. Kuryakin." The nurse fussed round, straightening
bedclothes, checking monitors. The figure on the bed, festooned with wires
and tubes, remained still. 

"I will stay, thank you." His eyes did not leave the book he was
pretending to read. 

The nurse looked at her watch. "Mr. Kuryakin, you have been here four
hours. There is no change in Mr. Solo's condition. It is late and I want
to settle the patients down for the night." 

He did not move or change his expression. The truth was, he was too
exhausted to even contemplate the short trip to his apartment, and his
heart was joined to this man on the bed. 

They had been in a building when it collapsed. Napoleon had been badly
injured, but not knocked unconscious. He was bleeding and Illya had known
Napoleon was going gradually into shock. All the while he dug frantically
to free him; afraid that rescue would come too late. He had talked calmly
but insistently to his friendkeeping him awake, reminding him he had
something to live for. 

Not being a naturally garrulous person, he'd striven to find things to
talk about that would keep Napoleon interested. As his friend's replies
became less and less coherent, then gradually stopped altogether, he'd
spoken of his arrival in New York. 

He'd told Napoleon of the loneliness of those first weeks, when nobody
wanted to know the "Commie". He'd spoken of the excitement of their first
mission together, after other missions where he had been less than
politely treated. He spoke of his gratitude that Napoleon, out of all the
agents he had met, had accepted him for what he was, had become his
friend. 

He had used words he had never spoken before" You are my dearest friend,
Napoleon." 

But Napoleon had not heard him. Napoleon had been close to death. His life
still hung in the balance. 

Now those words were burning in his heart and nothing was going to make
him leave his dearest friend until he awoke. 

He settled himself more comfortably in the chair and looked up at the
nurse, removing his glasses so he could look her in the eye. 

"Just think of me as part of the furniture," 

Yes, I was good at being part of the furniture. 

I bided my time. Napoleon was such a consummate ladies' man that my
infatuation seemed destined to be one-sided, but there was something in
the way he was always touching me that kept a spark of hope alive and my
intuition proved to be correct one night late last Fall in London of all
places 

We were lovers at last. I'd meant what I said to Napoleon that evening. I
was contentmore than content in fact. I'd say I was happy. I'm easily
pleasedI've never had much love in my life and was content without it but
now I was actually happy. 

But was Napoleon happy? Was he happy with me? He'd said so, in a throwaway
remark, but I couldn't help wondering if he would soon tire of me as a
lover. After all, he never kept a girlfriend for long. Here today and gone
tomorrow. I didn't want to be gone tomorrow. 

It's never easy for either of us talking about the important matters.
Discussing work's no problem; smart remarks, joking and playacting, our
continuing rivalry on the shooting range and the wrestling mat, all that's
easy to talk about, but our innermost feelings seem to be off limits most
of the time. 

I wanted to ensure that I remained part of Napoleon's lifemore than just
professionally. I didn't want to be dropped like a hot cake the moment a
pretty girl walked into his path. I didn't want him falling for someone
else because he was tired of me. 

Of course I knew Napoleon's roving eye. I also knew that his dating would
continueif only to keep his reputation alive. I didn't mind too much. As I
said, he loved them and left them mostly. What was worrying me a little
was that the sex we had wasn't enough for that experienced, well-practised
lover that was my partner. 

Too much thinking. I was tired, yawning and ready for sleep. I should go
to bed. I finished the last of my drink, rose from the armchair, yawning
again, and went through to the bedroom. 

 

I heard Illya enter the bedroom of course, I'm trained to sleep lightly,
but I didn't open my eyes. I heard him undressing although he did it
almost silentlycat-like even at home. After a short interval, he climbed
in beside me. 

Warm breath in my ear. "Are you asleep, Napoleon?" 

"I was," I murmured. 

"Mmm. Sorry." Illya wrapped himself tightly around my back, his strong
arms pulling my hips into the hollow of his belly. How I loved the sweet
softness of that belly, the silkiness of the underside of those wiry arms,
the downiness of the hair on my partner's chest. 

The softness of Illya's skin had been a revelation. Somehow I'd not
expected it. Years of sleeping with a variety of women had taught me where
the softness lay, the erogenous areas, even the off limit areasfew of my
girlfriends ever liked their hair played with, for instance, complaining
that it spoiled their expensive hair-does. A pity because I'm drawn to
pretty hair. Illya's hair always fascinated me, the silky quality of it,
the myriad colours. Long before we became lovers I had an urge to run my
fingers through those slippery strands. But I'd never expected my
partner's skin to be so touchable. 

Despite our earlier lovemaking, I felt strong stirrings of arousal.
Thinking about his pretty hair, and the way he was wrapped around me
reminded me of that morning in London when everything changed. When for
the first time we realised how much we cared for each other. 

I grasped Illya's hand and guided it towards my hardening cock. 


London, September 1965: 

The hotel room was dingy and smelled faintly of stale cigarette smoke and
something even less pleasant. He was sore, courtesy of Thrush, but it was
more than the pain of his bruises keeping him awake. In the twin bed
beside him, Illya slept as if poleaxedseveral weeks of nightmares, added
to the stressful mission, finally catching up with him. 

Neither man gave much away about his past; it was easier that way, but
that night, he'd learned a little of what sometimes gave his partner
nightmares. His heart ached for his friend, but oddly, Illya seemed to be
at peace for the first time in weeks. Maybe it was therapeutic to examine
things from a different perspective, however painful at the time. But the
exercise had left him feeling both drained and in turmoil. 

It was simply a hugan impulsive hug between friends. A comforting hug,
meant to console. But for the few moments he stood there, holding Illya in
his arms, something changed between them. 

Illya had wound his arms around his neck and held on tight as if his life
depended on it, shivering, leaning heavily against his shoulder. A pain
shot through his bruised ribs as Illya leaned a little too heavily, but he
managed not to flinch, just stroked the back of Illya's head, ran his
fingers through the damp, sweaty hair. 

And kissed the side of his head, just above the ear. 

He couldn't help it. It was spontaneous, like the hug. Illya didn't seem
to notice. He kissed Illya's hair again and this time an electric charge
shot from his lips to his groin. A jolt of arousal surged through his
bruised body, obliterating all other feeling. 

Taken aback, he steered Illya towards the bed and unwound the suddenly
boneless arms from around his neck. Had Illya felt the frisson? "Better?"
he asked as Illya slumped down onto the bed. 

Illya said nothing, but nodded dumbly. He continued to shiver. 

"Get into bed. Are you cold?" 

"I'm all right now." Illya sighed and lay down, closing his eyes. "I want
to sleep." 

"And so you should. No more shouting and waking the neighbours." 

"No, Napoleon." A hint of insolence. That was a good sign. Illya pulled
the sheet and grey blanket around his shoulders and sighed again. 

And that was it. Illya slept immovably and he lay awake and wrestled with
his emotions. 

What, exactly, had changed during that hug? Had they suddenly become
closer than beforeperhaps because Illya allowed him to share his fears?
But he'd seen Illya frightened before, seen his blue eyes wide with fear,
had even hugged him before. To be honest, he liked to touch him and often
didwithin the bounds of acceptabilitya tweak of the lapel or tie, a tap on
the chest, a slap on the back. He was fond of his irascible partnerloved
him, in fact. 

Loved him. But desired him sexually? Wait a minute. 

He wasn't sexually attracted to menat least not these days. There had been
a time when he was in the army . . . but that was different, that
wasexpedience because few women were available. It was different now. 

He wasn't sexually attracted to Illya. He wasn't. He couldn't be. Could
he? 

Apparently he could. 

His world had just turned upside down with that one embrace. 

The more he tried to deny it to himself, the more his body told him
otherwise. The memory of holding that hard, wiry body and stroking that
soft, thick hair, of breathing in the familiar scent of his partner, of
kissing his hair... 

He must have eventually fallen asleep because suddenly he felt someone
stroking his forehead and hair. For a brief moment he thought he had a
girl in his bed but then he remembered where he was and who was there with
him. 

Illya was sitting on the bed beside him. "Good morning." 

He blinked. Yes, it was morning. Pale grey light leaked in through the
flimsy curtains. He heaved himself into a half sitting position and
groaned as his bruised ribs protested. 

Illya gave a sympathetic grimace. "Hmm. I was going to ask how you feel,
but I think I know the answer." He was gazing at him the way he often did,
but this morning those blue eyes seemed somehow wider, the gaze softer.
"Want some aspirin?" 

He nodded and watched as Illya crossed the room and rummaged in his case,
shaking two aspirin out of a small brown bottle, went into the bathroom
and reappeared with the tooth-mug half full of water. His pyjama top was
hanging open, showing the blondish fuzz on his chest. The trousers were
slightly too long and caught under the heels of his bare feet. His hair
was askew and his eyes huge and dark-smudged in his pale face. He looked
scruffy, tired and very desirable. 

"Here." Illya sat down on the side of the bed and handed him the aspirin,
placing the water carefully on the night-stand. Then he stretched out a
hand and stroked Napoleon's hair back from his forehead. 

Once again a bolt of desire surged through him. What was Illya doing?
Unlike himself, Illya was not usually physically demonstrative. How did he
know? The answer was easy. There was no mistaking what had passed between
them yesterday. Illya had simply not acknowledged it at the time. 

Suddenly he had to use all his willpower to keep from grabbing Illya and
kissing him. "Illya . . ." 

"It's all right, Napoleon. We have plenty of time. Let me see." Illya
opened the pyjama top and ran a hand expertly down his ribs. Illya's touch
sent electric shocks through his body. 

Illya had examined him like this beforethey both had during past missions
when either of them had taken a beatingbut now those warm hands made him
shiver with desire. As that desire began to manifest itself, he tried,
half-heartedly, to create a diversion. "How are you this morning? No
nightmares?" 

Illya's lips twitched into a little smile. "I'm fine. Thank you for
asking." 

He swallowed as he realised he'd not seen that smile for a long time. "I
mean are you really all right?" 

"Yes, really. I'm sorry you had to be dragged into my nightmares. I am.
But I'm fine now." Illya ran his clever fingers quickly and gently over
the bruised ribs again. 

More fireworks that were nothing to do with pain. 

Illya's tone was sympathetic. "These bruises are going to be glorious
technicolour by the time we get back to New York." 

"I don't think there's anything actually broken" It didn't matter. Illya's
earlier problems had been far greater than any physical damage to himself.


Bruises were the least of his problems. 

Now there was another all-consuming problem. He kept getting this urge to
kiss him again. Damn, this was embarrassing! 

"Ahabout last night . . ." He really wanted Illya to keep touching him.
Illya was sitting so close that he could feel the heat given off by his
skin. He was gazing at him so lovingly . . . 

Despite the fact that he wasn't given to casual caresses, Illya often
shared his personal space and he would notice him staring fondly, rather
as an adoring younger brother might. But this morning even Illya's usual
familiar body language seemed to have subtly changed. Was he reading the
signals correctly or was it just wishful thinking? He caught hold of his
friend's hand and held it to his chest, wondering if Illya could feel the
wild beating of his heart. 

"Last night I felt . . . no, this is going to sound silly." Maybe he was
wrong. He firmly removed the hand from his chest and placed it back in
Illya's lap, but somehow couldn't bring himself to let go. 

"Go on." Illya seemed unabashed by the hand-holding. 

But he let go Illya's hand. "No, it's nothing. Well, what I mean is . . ."
He looked away, and then glanced back at Illya. 

Illya lifted an eyebrow. 

A deep breath. "What I mean is, last night I felt very . . . close to
you." He frowned. "I'm not explaining this well. Forget it." 

But Illya's ears and cheeks flushed red. He looked down at his hands and
examined his fingernails. "No. Let's not forget it, Napoleon. I will never
forget." He fell silent for a moment or two, picking at a hang-nail. Was
he really all right? Maybe that's what all this was about. When Illya
looked up, after what seemed an age, it was directly at him and his blue
eyes were soft and bright withwhat? 

And then it happened again. He reached out and put his arms around Illya.
Illya leaned into the embrace as he had last night, but this time it was
Illya who pushed him back onto the pillow and suddenly they were lying on
the bed together, locked in each other's arms. 

An unnerving sense of unreality surrounded him as he found himself once
more stroking Illya's hair. But today Illya's face was buried in his neck
and he could feel the heat of his breath on his ear. Pulling him in
tighter, the pain of his ribs was anaesthetised by the sudden, growing
arousal that was surging through him. 

Then he felt Illya kiss the side of his neck.  


Napoleon's Apartment, January 1966: 

I woke early, as is my habit, despite the whisky and the late night. It
was still dark, but I could see from the bedside clock it was just after
six a.m. Time to lie and enjoy being in bed with Napoleon beside me. His
apartment is so luxurious, especially the ample space of that large bed. I
have a double bed of sorts at homebut not so lavish and not with such
decadent sheets. Napoleon's sheets are softest Egyptian cotton and the
comforter, a deep burgundy that matches the curtains, is puffy and light
like the abundant pillows. I'd no idea such luxury existed, even in
America, until I saw for myself. 

And we had used every inch of the bed, rolling around, making love in all
manner of imaginative ways. 

All manner except one. 

The previous night, when I finally staggered to bed, I had a strong notion
to take Napoleon from behindreally take him. As I wrapped himself around
my sleepy partner's back, I imagined, as I slipped between Napoleon's
thighs, my hand pumping his cock, that I'd actually penetrated that small
opening that rested so snugly against my lower belly. 

Napoleon gripped me hard with his strong thighs, providing such delicious
friction, that what with my imagination working overtime as well, I came
hard and quickly, lasting no longer than earlier in the evening. 

Penetration is not something to be undertaken lightly and when my partner
was half asleep was the wrong time to broach the subject, but I began to
wonder if the way to keep the status quo was to changeor at least move on.


It wasn't that I was dissatisfied. Far from itI'd had more sex in the last
three months than I'd had in the previous three years. Much more.
Napoleon's reputation was well deservedhis libido was impressive. And I
was pretty impressed with mine too, considering how rusty and out of
practice it was, although part of me wasn't surprised. After all, I had
the man I wanted, the man I loved. 

Yes, I loved Napoleon. I'd known that for a long time. I'd even admitted
to myself long ago that I desired him sexually. But it was a bolt from the
blue to discover that Napoleon felt the same desire towards me. He seemed
at times almost aggressively heterosexual. Often he'd glance up smugly
while kissing a girl, as if by doing so he was asserting his superior
sexuality. Sometimes, I used to imagine I was on the receiving end of the
kiss and then I would turn away, lest my momentary jealousy show. But more
often I thought of Guy, who liked both men and women, and waited. 

Napoleon loved me. I knew it. 

How strange that it had been at that vulnerable moment when we were both
low, Napoleon with minor but painful injuries and I battered by my psyche,
that our love chose to manifest itself. 

It was odd the way things had turned out. It struck me especially when I
was in Napoleon's bed, in Napoleon's arms, in Napoleon's thrall. These
days, Napoleon often took the lead in our lovemaking, unlike that first
occasion. 


London: September 1965: 

Napoleon groaned. "Ah, Illya." 

Illya felt another kiss planted on the top of his headsoft, but not a mere
brush of the lips, a real kiss. 

Napoleon wanted him. 

He hadn't been aware of how aroused he had become, but now he pressed
suggestively against his partner's thigh, turned his head and began a
series of small kisses up and down Napoleon's throat, feeling the
roughness of the unshaven whiskers against his already sensitive lips. 

At once he felt his partner pull back a little. "Illya . . ?" Was Napoleon
unsure? Had he read the signals wrongly? Surely nothe could feel a
hardness against him that matched his own. 

Illya lifted his head. "Napoleon?" 

His friend's face was close enough now to kiss on the lips. Desire was
raging through him, and he realised he was already unbearably hard. 

"Illyaare you really all right? Do you . . ." Napoleon trailed off. 

. Illya pushed himself up onto his side and reached out to stroke his hair
once more. He gazed into Napoleon's troubled brown eyes. 

"I'm really all right." But was Napoleon all right? 

"It's just that last night I . . . I felt . . ." 

"I know. You said." 

"Do you really want this?" Napoleon's voice was shaking. Illya had never
heard his voice sound as tentative. Napoleon always seemed so confident.
His partner seemed as nervous as a teenager on his first date. 

His first date. 

It suddenly struck Illya that this was the problem. Was this Napoleon's
first experience with a man? 

"Shhh." Illya covered Napoleon's mouth with his own. For once, his limited
experience was the greater. He felt a weight of responsibility. After all,
he had made the first move. He'd started this. He'd felt Napoleon's desire
last night and had decided to act upon it. And he had been right. Napoleon
wanted him. He could feel his friend's desire. 

Napoleon's mouth opened. Illya had imagined this moment so often when he
had watched Napoleon kissing girls. Kissing was his specialityhis area of
expertise and Illya felt consumed by the sensuousness of those lips on
his. Without thinking about it, he began exploring Napoleon's mouth with
his tongue. 

It was strangely familiar tasting Napoleon's mouth. Illya realised he knew
how he would taste. Close proximity in many different situations had
primed his senses. 

Napoleon began to kiss back. 

 
Napoleon's apartment, January 1966: 

I awoke to the touch of Illya's warm skin against my own. He nearly always
woke first when we slept together, unless it was a day offthen he would
slumber on as if his internal alarm clock had been reset. It was something
to do with my partner's incredible internal radar. This morning, after the
late night and the tiring mission, my body was reluctant to come to and
cried out for coffee. 

I knew we would make love again before we left for work. Making love in
the morning when you're still both a little sleepy is a particular
pleasure. And yet only a matter of months ago, I had been like a teenager
on his first datenervous and apprehensive, desperately wanting it, but
wondering what my partner would ask of me . . . 


London, September 1965: 

At last they broke away, gasping for air. 

What had they started? Napoleon's mind kept trying to bring him back to
reality, but his body was already at the point of no return. 

Illya was taking the lead, and that, in itself, was unfamiliar. It was
unfamiliar and yet Illya seemed strangely confidentconfident and
determined. This feeling of being putty in Illya's hands was unnerving as
much as it was exciting. He swallowed. What now? 

Illya kissed him once more, briefly on the lips, then knelt up on the
narrow bed and straddled him. He caught a glimpse of Illya's hard cock,
pushing out of his pyjama fly. His own cock already felt at bursting point
and he wondered if Illya would touch it, because if he did . . . God he
really wanted Illya to touch him, and yet still his mind was screaming
caution. "Illya . . ." 

But Illya laid a finger over his lips. "Shh, Napoleon. Don't talk.
Please." 

"But . . ." He still felt out of control. Now what? He desperately wanted
this. He shouldn't, but he did. He was out of his depth, overwhelmed with
excitement but at the same time apprehensive. What if . . . 

"It's all right, I know what to do." Illya always could read his mind. 

A shuddering sigh. What if Illya wanted . . .? It was so much safer with
girls, when he was in control. 

Illya looked at him shrewdly, the blue eyes narrowed. "Napoleon?" 

He wanted this. He was safe with Illyahis Illya who would never do
anything to hurt him. "I'm okay. It's just that . . ." *there's something
you need to know*. "It's just that it feels so good." And it did. 

Illya once more ran his hands over his body. This time the hands shook a
little as if Illya were keeping himself in check. He felt a brush over his
nipple. "Oh!" That was good. He could sense Illya's excitement, not just
in the shaking hands that toyed with the other nipple now, sending shivers
through his body, but in the flushed face and the way Illya kept
moistening his lips with his tongue, the heavy breathing matching his own.


It would be all right. It was all right. This was Illya . . . He relaxed. 

He was in Illya's hands and it felt right. 

Those hands roamed all over his hips, snagging the pyjama bottoms and
pulling at them. He lifted his hips and allowed the trousers to be drawn
down. His cock sprang free and Illya stared at it for a few moments before
very gently running a finger along the length of it. 

"Uh!" His cock jerked as if an electric current had passed through it.
This was the Rubicon. 

He trusted his partner. They both wanted this. This was it. It was all he
could do not to cry out and beg Illya to touch his cock again. Instead he
moaned with frustration. 

Illya bent over and ran his tongue along the same path his finger had
taken, stopping when he reached the swollen tip and looking up at him, his
blue eyes large and bright, the pupils dilated. He swallowed hard and
gritted his teethhe felt ready to come at any moment. 

Illya blinked once and then engulfed the tip with his mouth. 

"Illya!" His hands reached out of their own volition and entangled
themselves in Illya's hair and he was quite unable to stop himself lifting
his hips once again to encourage more of his cock inside the wet warmth.
He could feel Illya's tongue, in an echo of the previous kisses, rolling
round and round the tip, poking into the sensitive slit and causing him to
gasp and writhe. 

The hands that had been toying with his nipples and roaming up and down
his chestgently enough to cause him no pain from his injuriesnow cupped
and kneaded his buttocks as he lifted his hips higher and higher. Then
suddenly there was the most delicious suction and Illya drew him almost
all the way in. 

He thrashed on the bed, rolling his head from side to side as he felt the
inexorable build up of pressure. He somehow had enough wit to realise he
had hold of Illya's hair in such a way that it could only be painful. He
let go and grabbed a fistful of sheet. But by letting go of Illya's hair,
he also let go of his control and he came in an overwhelming rush of
sensation. He felt Illya's hand pump his spurting cock while the warmth of
his mouth never left him. He wanted it to last forever, to keep this
moment of climax going on and on, but at last his orgasm faded to a few
twitches and he flopped down onto the bed again, his cock pulling free of
his partner's mouth. 

A moment later there was a gasp above him and he felt a warm splatter on
his chest. He opened his eyes to see Illya leaning over him, his face
contorted, pumping his own cock with his left hand. He grabbed Illya's
head and pulled his partner down for a kiss, tasting his own semen in the
warm mouth, feeling another splash as Illya continued to come. 

It was a while before either of them could speak. As his pounding
heartbeat lessened, he realised, as the thrumming at his ribs dwindled,
that Illya's heart was also slowing down. 

"Uhwhere'd you learn to do that?" 

"Do what?" Illya's voice was languid. 

Insolent Russian. "You know." 

"Oh, that." Illya gave a little laugh and rolled away, almost falling off
the narrow bed. "Another of my hidden talents." 

"Remind me to look and see if you have any more hidden anywhere." He
looked round for something to clean himself with. 

Illya handed him his discarded pyjama trousers. "As a matter of fact I
have several you don't know about." 

As he dabbed at the mess on his chest, he realised he hadn't contributed
much at all. He'd just lain back and taken it. He made a wry face. "I'll
do better next time." 

Illya leaned over and kissed him. "We both will." 

So there would be a next time. 

"It's just that it was all rather unexpected." An understatement if he
ever heard one. 

Illya sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Unexpected?
Really, Napoleon." He raised his eyebrows. 

A flush of heat suffused him. This mission was turning out to be a
memorable one in many ways. "I didn't think you noticedlast night I mean."


Illya's eyes widened still farther for a moment. "Napoleonthe one thing
that I am not is unobservant. I admit I was somewhat surprised." 

"But not shocked?" 

Illya smiled. "On the contrary, I was growing old waiting." Then he stood.
"We should get ready. We don't want to miss our flight home." He still had
on his pyjamas, although they were even more askew. He divested himself of
them and headed for the bathroom. 

He didn't pursue it. It was enough that Illya's radar was obviously in
full working order, despite his recent trauma. As he heard the
antediluvian plumbing clank and rattle into life, Wasn't it strange how
they so often came up with the same thought at the same moment? 

Maybe this had been one of their better ones. 


Napoleon's apartment, January 1966: 

It seemed neither of us was very experienced with men. Napoleon and I
learned together, being inventive, learning what each of us enjoyed, what
turned us on, where the ticklish bits were and what were no-go areas. 

Napoleon soon discovered that he could reduce me to a quivering jelly by
merely blowing in my ear. He sometimes did it for badness when we were at
work and went away smiling smugly as I would blush to the roots of my hair
and turn away lest my instant arousal would show. 

I was a little surprised that the notion of back-door sex had not been
raised before now. It must have crossed Napoleon's mind, since he was so
well-versed in matters sexual. I wondered if he'd already had
experienceperhaps not with proper little American girls, but some of those
foreign lovelies that he's romanced over the years could have suggested
it. For myself, I had done it just the once, with a rent-boy in Khatmandu
for whom I cared not a fig. He seemed to expect it and I, in my innocence,
was happy to oblige. While I recovered my wits, he almost made off with my
wallet. Almost. I taught him the error of his thieving ways and he taught
me that fucking a man was not only possible, but most enjoyable. 

My fantasies were getting the better of me. Thinking about it now was
making me hard. I reached out and put my arm around Napoleon, who had
fallen asleep again and snored softly beside me. I felt for his penis and
found it soft, curled between his legs, as asleep as he was. 

The touch caused Napoleon to stir and snuffle. "Wha'time isit?" 

"Sshearly. You can go back to sleep." But I left my hand where it was and
was rewarded by a twitch and a gentle uncurling. My own organ swelled some
more. 

Napoleon gave a grunt and removed the hand firmly. "Need coffee." He
yawned. "And a shower. Go make yourself useful." 

"I thought I was." 

"Hmm." Napoleon started to get out of bed. "Coffee first . . ." 

"Stay thereI'll get it." I should humour him. I got up and went into the
bathroom for Napoleon's robe, my hard cock bobbing before me. I looked
down at it ruefully. When had I last been in this almost continual state
of sexual arousal? Not since I was sixteen and frustrated by the lack of
outlets for all that emotion. 

Napoleon's dark blue robe hung on the bathroom door and I snagged it and
put it on. Another luxuryNapoleon always wore it after a shower and it
carried his distinctive scent. 

As I put out the cups and waited for the percolator to run its course, I
decided to have a shower while the coffee was brewing in preparation for
what I hoped was to come, but the bathroom door was closed. Napoleon was
obviously awake enough to be driven up by calls of nature. My shower would
have to wait. 

Back in the kitchen, pangs of hunger assailed me. We had been too tired to
eat much last night and dined on canned beans and some rather old bacon,
so I poured a large bowl of cornflakes before remembering we'd not had
time to buy milk. A search through the larder produced a can of orange
juice, which proved an unusual but palatable substitute. By the time I'd
greedily dispatched the lot, including a refill, the percolator was ready
and I poured the coffee. Life was good. I picked up the two mugs and
carried them through to the bedroom. 

Napoleon was sitting on the bed, naked. The sight of his beautiful body
made my heart turn over. I had it bad. I held out the mug of coffee and
sat beside Napoleon. Already my cock started to harden once more. Napoleon
looked at it, pointedly. 

"I see you're ready for action." 

Insolent American. I sipped my coffee, which tasted strong, just the way
we both liked it. "The day is halfway over." I made eyes at him and
blinked suggestively. 

"Come here you gorgeous Russian." Napoleon put his mug down and kissed me
on the forehead and then on the nose. "I'm going for a shower. I'll be
back." 

I noted with satisfaction that Napoleon's cock was also now at half-mast.
"I thought coffee was mandatory before any action. If I'd known you
coulduhrise without it. . ." 

"The old tricks are the best," Napoleon smirked. He took a large slug of
the coffee before heading off once more for the bathroom. 

The shower in Napoleon's apartment was another feature I have always
admired and envied. For a start, instead of being over the bath, it's in a
self-contained cubiclea large cubicle that comfortably accommodates two
slim UNCLE agents. 

Perhaps now was the time to take a shower. 

I drained my coffee and after a moment or two, followed Napoleon into the
bathroom. 

 

The water ran down my face, completing the waking process that the coffee
had started. I wasn't too surprised when I heard Illya come into the
bathroom and shut the door. 

How like Illya. He couldn't quite shake the Communist in him. He believed
in sharingclothes, toothbrushes, bathwaterand showers. I pointed the spray
away from the door as my partner entered the shower. The sight of his
naked body, as always, caused a certain fluttering in my chest and a
visceral jolt down below. 

"Ahwaste not, want not, as my grandmother used to say." 

Illya shut the door and pulled the spray back so that it covered us both.
"I am glad you listened to her advice." 

"Stand still." I reached for the shampoo. If Illya wished to share, he
could at least give me the pleasure of washing his pretty hair. 

Illya allowed himself to be shampooed, twice. Nice and docile. Illya had
certainly mellowed since we started having sex. Maybe his previously
uncertain temper had been due in part to sexual frustration. Not that
Illya had lived entirely like a monk, but so little sex couldn't be good
for one . . . With my thoughts turning to sex as usual when we were alone
together these days, my half-hearted erection of earlier rose in all its
glory to a very eager hard-on. A quickie in the shower would be nice. 

Some more vigorous mutual soaping, a few wet kisses and he was as hard as
I was, ready for anything. Amazing how Illya could reduce me to a state of
gibbering need with so little effort. He didn't need expensive meals,
flowers, chocolates, trips to the theatre or the operaalthough admittedly
Illya would probably enjoy all of those with the possible exception of the
flowers. There's definitely a lot to be said for sex on an equal footing.
How many of my women friends would have brought me coffee in bed after
staying up half the night drinking whisky? Some of them hog the bathroom
in the morning too, so I'm forced to shave in a hurry. No, Illya wasI
searched my mind for a suitable adjectiveperfect. 

I grabbed Illya's small, neat buttocks and smeared them with soap,
massaging them hard while his big, capable hands did amazing things down
around my thighs and balls. I soon had him squirming against my hands and
I pulled us in close so that our soapy cocks rubbed and pressed together
between our foamy bellies. I lost myself in the exquisite sensation,
letting it flow over me like the water. 

The repeated stimulation of his cock against mine was driving me to state
of ecstasy and I reached between us to take hold of them, thus bringing
those sensitive tips together in the way we both loved best. As I did so,
I felt Illya's hand slip around my buttocks and then into my crack. 

The invasion happened so quickly that it took me unawares. My reaction was
violent and completely involuntary and I yelped and pulled away as if
burned. My sphincter clenched tightly in outrage and I lashed out, without
realising what I was doing. The next moment Illya was sprawled on the
floor of the shower, the water pouring down on him and shock written all
over his face. 

My heart thundered like a sledge hammer and I felt momentarily sick.
Somehow I got myself under controla moment of deep breathing got rid of
the worst of it, but I was still trembling with shock. At once I realised
Illya was still sitting on the floor of the shower, staring up at me with
an expression of disbelief. Letting out a shaky breath, I reached out a
hand to help him up. 

My erection had wilted. "I . . . I'm sorry. You caught me off guard." I
pulled Illya to his feet as I willed my heart to slow down. 

Illya rubbed his elbow, which had obviously made sharp contact with the
tiles. "That was the idea, Napoleon." He smiled tightly and shrugged, but
it was obvious that he was hurt and confused. I was appalled at the
strength of my own reaction. It had taken one touchthat was all. I owed
Illya an explanation but my mind refused. 

Illya's blue eyes looked at me shrewdly. His erection had also deflated.
He said nothing, just stared. 

I didn't blame him. Disappointment and embarrassment warred in my mind,
along with a residual queasiness inside that I really didn't want to
identify. I could only stare back dumbly. If I could only bring myself to
explain it, I would have. 

I tried to grin self-deprecatingly to defuse the situation. "I guess I'm
rather . . . a prude," I said, at length. 

"Really?" Illya's eyes narrowed and he looked him me and down. "I hadn't
noticed before." He turned the water back on and started to rinse himself,
purposefully. 

"Illya . . . you really don't understand. It's . . ." I wanted to reassure
him, tell him it wasn't his fault. Perhaps if I'd had some warning and
prepared myselfbut the thought made me shudder. 

"You don't have to explain." Illya patted me on the shoulder briefly, then
exited the shower and began to dry himself, his movements brisk. 

It was like cold water poured on our relationship. My rational mind told
me not to be silly, this was not a big deal. Illya was surprised and a
little hurt, but probably more so by being knocked down. He'd soon forget
all about it and we could pick up where we left off. But my gut told me
I'd just created a barrier. And my gut was usually right. Illya was going
to be a little bit wary from now on. 

The bond between us had cracked. 

I turned off the shower and after a moment or two, followed Illya. 

 
1936: 

He usually enjoyed trips in the car, but today, as he sat on his mom's lap
watching his daddy drive, the grown-ups seemed sad and grim and nobody
played 'spot the truck' or read the road signs to him. 

His mommy said he was sick and had to visit the doctor again at the
hospital, but he didn't feel sick. He wanted to stay home and play with
his new model carthe one grandpa had given him for his birthday. It was a
Cadillaca beautiful dark red. His daddy's car was black. A Plymouthan old
model. He preferred his red one. 

"May I bring my car?" he had asked as Mommy buttoned him into his coat,
ready for the drive. 

"Not today, honey." She buttoned the coat right up to the neck. He undid
the top buttonit was too tight. He was getting too big for such a small
coat. But his mom fastened the button again. "You have to keep warm,
Napoleon, I don't want you catching cold as well." 

Now he looked out the window again, watching the people walking as he
whizzed past in the Plymouth. How come he was sick? He didn't feel hot;
he'd eaten all his breakfast; he hadn't vomited. Why did he have to go to
the hospital to see the horrid, red-faced doctor again? 

A sudden fear made him shudder. "Mommy?" 

His mom didn't answer at first. He pulled her face round to look at him.
"Mommy?" he asked again, "Will the doctor use his needle? I don't want a
shot." 

"I don't know, honey. But Mommy will be there with you." 

She didn't smile, but still looked sad, as if she were about to cry. He
felt her stroke his hair and he snuggled into her fur jacket that smelled
of mothballs and scent as she tightened her grip on him. 

He didn't ask any more questions. 

 
U.N.C.L.E. H.Q. January 1966: 

Mr Waverly's meeting almost never happened. The weather was mild enough to
walk to work. I walked alone. Illya had gone back to his apartment to
collect some papers. 

As I strolled along, giving the appearance of nonchalance, I tried to
rationalise the morning's events. 

It wasn't a big deal for God's sake. I'd known that sooner or later Illya
would want to experiment with more than mutual masturbation and occasional
fellatio. Amazing we'd continued for so long without the question of
penetration being broached. I should have warned Illya about my problem in
that area, but after that first, apprehensive moment when I'd wondered
what he'd ask of me, I'd simply put it to the back of my mind and enjoyed
the easy relationship we had. 

Part of the charm of our affair was the intense but often rather fumbling,
desperate nature of our lovemaking. Such a change from my usual
encounters. I never had to say no before because I generally made most of
the moves, maintaining a suave sophistication, all while keeping my
excitement in check to make sure the lady had a good time. I was very good
at it. I was good at saying goodbye too. 

It was different with Illya. 

Illya and I made love on an equal basis. I knew what made Illya feel good
because it made me feel good too. The almost telepathic way we worked
together often extended into our lovemaking. It had been easy to become
complacent. 

I should have been open straightaway and told Illya the truth. Illya would
understand. Hadn't I helped him face his own problems only a few months
ago? I decided to sit down and explain it to Illya that night. 

I was just rehearsing in my head what I would say when I noticed a
strangely familiar face in a shop window. A bespectacled man was arranging
a twig hung with artificial pearsa pear tree? Why did that ring a bell? A
partridge in a pear tree. A Partridge. A scraping sound above set the
hairs on the back of my neck into overdrive and I leapt out of the way
just as a brick hurtled down towards meand cracked a huge hole in the
sidewalk. 

And so we were catapulted into another affairin the Yukon this time. 

Several days and several explosions later we found themselves side by side
in the hospital with almost matching minor injuries and a chance to rest
up for the first time in weeks. 

Murphy, the little Inuit girl who had helped us, gave a twirl to show off
her new outfit. She was leaving for McGill and had come to rub noses with
both of us, although I suspect she was more interested in my partner's
aristocratic nose. I very much hope soshe was much more his type. 

When she left in a cloud of cheap perfume, I got out of bed and limped
over to Illya, who was slightly more incapacitated with his leg in
plaster. "She seems to like you." 

Illya shrugged with his eyebrows in that endearing way he has. "I like
her. I hope she gets on well." 

"How long before that plaster comes off?" I wanted to test the waterto see
if he'd forgiven me. I would need to tread very carefully. Illya could
hold a grudge when he had a mind to. 

"Another two days, apparently." Illya closed his eyes and settled himself
on the pillow. "Not long enough. I could sleep for a week." 

He probably would too. Illya has an amazing capacity for sleep, unlike me.
I consider sleep a necessary nuisance rather than something to be actually
enjoyed. I stretched out my good hand and ruffled his hair in my
accustomed fashion. Behave as if nothing untoward had happened. "And
you'll have to stay off that leg for a while after that." 

"Fine." Illya sighed contentedly. "I shall look forward to it." 

"So shall I." Might now be a good time to see if Illya was still okay with
the Napoleon and Illya Affair? I wanted to be sure Illya had not taken the
little incident in the shower as a more general rejection. After a pause,
during which I itched to run my fingers through Illya's hair again, I
offered, "Want to convalesce at my place? It makes sense with the elevator
and all." 

Illya turned his head and opened his unbandaged eye a crack. "Mmm," he
replied, sleepily and, judging by the tiny smile that played around his
lips, affirmatively. 

 

In fact it turned out to be more than a week before the two of us were
once again in a taxi on our way from HQ to Napoleon's apartment. 

I was feeling more than rested. After a few days the inactivity had begun
to pall. I'd caught up on my sleep and then some, read the only book the
harassed nurse had been able to finda predictable story about a young
nurse who fell in love with and eventually married a deceptively grumpy
doctorand spun out the meals as long as was humanly possible. Most of the
time I was bored. 

Despite the attentive nurses, Napoleon had been bored too and we'd amused
each other by reading the story aloud, I translating it into French and
Napoleon Spanish, which he spoke with a slightly less execrable accent. To
add some spice, we also added asides of our own which had become more and
more prurient as the story progressed. 

The little game racked up the sexual tension in the hospital room, but to
my great relief, Napoleon had not, as far as I knew, even asked any of the
nurses for her telephone number. 

Although Napoleon did not shy away from the sexual signals I was lobbing
at him, at no point did we attempt to touch one another. I couldn't help
but wonder if I'd blown it that morning in the shower. Nothing had
prepared me for that reaction to the merest touch. Something was deeply
amiss. 

Why had Napoleon reacted so strongly? I'd been mulling over the
possibilities in my mind throughout the hospital stay. The last thing I
wanted was to lose him. The very reason I'd started thinking about fucking
was to ensure he didn't get bored with me. I knew my partner's fickle
nature and while I hoped what we had was deeper, more special, there was
always that fear in the back of my mind that he'd love me and leave me
like all the rest. 

Perhaps Napoleon's aversion was to do with the American obsession with
cleanlinessI had never washed as thoroughly or as often as I had since
coming to New York. Or maybe it really was just prudishness. Back home,
nobody bothered to cover themselves the way Americans did. I'd never owned
a robe beforea pointless garment, particularly given the temperature most
people kept their homesbut I soon realised that walking around naked in
front of others, even male workmates, was simply unacceptable here. 

After the incident in the shower, I'd been even more afraid Napoleon would
turn away from me and go back to the relative safety of one-night stands
with girls. But all seemed well. It seemed Napoleon had forgiven me for
the faux-pas. Now I had to somehow make it up to him. I had to make it
clear that I would do whatever pleased himwhatever pleased us both. More
than anything, I wanted to remain part of Napoleon's life 

I was looking forward to making amends. 

I limped into Napoleon's living room and lowered myself carefully onto the
sofa. My cane clattered to the hardwood floor. 

"Try not to break the furniture with that thing." Napoleon called from the
kitchen, where he was putting the few essential groceries we'd picked up
on the way home into the refrigerator. 

It was wonderful to be home. Removing my jacket, I kicked off my shoes,
which elicited a stab of protest from my injured leg. My shoes clunked
down onto the floor. I took off my shoulder holster and let it fall too.
Napoleon appeared in the doorway. 

"Must you make yourself at home so resoundingly?" 

I ignored the remark as I always did when I knew he didn't mean a word of
it, and leaned over to select a record from the bookcase beside the sofa. 

Napoleon's taste in music was almost as execrable as his French accent,
veering towards syrupy shows and light opera of the type I detested. I'd
tried to widen his repertoire by buying him a few 'presents' of music I
could enjoy while I was here, steering clear of anything too way out of
course. I selected a Beatles album I'd given him a while back. "May we
have music?" Napoleon had not continued to collect Beatles LPs, but last
year's would do. "It's been too quiet." 

"I thought you said you wanted peace and quiet." 

"That was then. I've had enough quiet now." I'd had enough inaction too. I
wanted Napoleon to stop playing around in the kitchen and come and play
with me instead. 

'Oh yeah, I'll tell you something . . .' sang John Lennon. I hummed along,
making eyes at Napoleon, who stood in the doorway, amusement playing on
his face. 

"I'm going to change," Napoleon announced, winking roguishly. 

My heart gave a thump. Good sign. Hauling myself to my feet, I followed,
limping heavily without the cane and trying not to slide in my stocking
feet. The leg was only really painful if I tried to walk on it now. I
stood at the threshold for a moment, still humming along to the song,
while Napoleon divested himself of his suit, then, as he sat down on the
bed to remove his shoulder holster and tie, I limped over and sat beside
him. 

I started to unfasten the buttons of Napoleon's shirt. 

"And when I touch you I feel happy inside . . ." I sang, with John. 

"It's such a feeling that my love I can't hide . . ." reposted Napoleon,
slightly off key, and caught my face between warm hands, silencing us both
with a kiss. 

In no time, I found myself undressed and underneath a naked and very
ardent Napoleon. 

More than two weeks was a long time for my partner to be celibate. We
kissed long and hard, devouring each other, licking and sucking at the
skin around our necks and faces. The harshness of Napoleon's five o'clock
shadow abraded my skin and heightened my senses. I could smell the faint
whiff of aftershave from his skin even now. I drank it in and began to
kiss him, our lips soft and puffy with need. 

It had been a long time for me too and I was more than ready. A hair
trigger away. Two weeks of yearning for my partner's touch overwhelmed me.


I thrust strongly into my partner's belly. As I felt Napoleon's hard cock
rubbing deliciously and insistently against mine, an image flashed into my
mindthat Napoleon was filling me. It brought my climax in a rush. 

As the thundering sensation receded, I felt disappointment that I'd come
so fast. It was too soon. I wanted more. I wanted us to spin this
long-awaited encounter into more than just a race towards climax. Napoleon
groaned as I wriggled out of his grasp. 

"Illya . . . don't stop . . .please!" Napoleon gasped as I suddenly let go
of his cock from between my thighs and the swollen organ wobbled free. 

He was almost there, desperate for release, as I had been. Perhaps now
would be a good time to try something else I'd been pondering during the
long hours spent in that hospital bed. 

My heart thumped and I swallowed in trepidation. I would be the bottom,
which I believe is the technical term for what I was about to offer. But
if Napoleon couldn't stand a finger exploring him, penetrating him with my
cock was out of the question for now. Maybe this way would work. I was
willing to try anything to keep Napoleon. 

I decided to go for broke. "Napoleon, wait. Don't move." I rolled across
the bed, my deflating cock still wet, my come dribbling down my chest and
stomach. Smearing some between my hands, I rubbed them gently over
Napoleon's ready erection. Napoleon groaned with pleasure and started to
thrust. I stopped him by grasping the base hard. "Please, Napoleon. I want
you in me." 

Napoleon's luminous brown eyes widened. "Oh!" Then, as the words actually
sank in, he frowned. "Illyaare you sure?" 

I nodded. I was sure. I watched my friend's face carefully to check that
the idea was not repellent. I'd wondered if Napoleon would find the whole
idea of penetration distasteful, whatever way round, but he seemed
compliant. More than compliant. "Please, Napoleon," I repeated, and then
added, "If you'd like to." 

Napoleon sat up, breathing hard and pushing my hands away from his penis,
wet from my semen and his own pre-come. "Of course I'd like to." He rubbed
a little of the semen around the head of his hard cock and my heart gave a
lurch at that erotic sight. "If you're really sure." 

I swallowed again and smeared some more of the semen that was caught in my
pubic hair backwards, making myself ready. Fortunately, the enforced
abstinence had ensured that my emission was profuse. I gasped with
pleasure at the sensation and Napoleon gasped too, watching me, his eyes
huge. Already I was imagining it was Napoleon touching me there. My cock,
which had never entirely deflated, began to fill once more. 

Napoleon watched, his face and chest flushed, his lips swollen to a
sensuousness that I wanted to kiss. "God, Illyawhat're you trying to do to
me?" 

Trying to hide my own apprehension. I grinned and waggled my eyebrows
lasciviously. But I could feel myself beginning to shake from excitement
and nerves as my cock continued to lengthen and swell. 

My leg wasn't up to kneeling, which was my first instinct. That was the
way I'd done it before and imagined using with Napoleon. I compromised by
pulling the pillow under my hips. "Like this?" I asked. It felt so wanton
that I couldn't resist a small thrust into the pillow. I heard Napoleon
make a little squeaking noise that I took to be affirmative. 

I was already as hard as I'd been earlier. A moment later I felt
Napoleon's warm breath behind my ear. "All right?" 

I breathed out the breath I'd been holding and swallowed. "Yes. Get on
with it, Napoleon." 

Then Napoleon's hands started to massage around my buttocks, slipping into
my crack and causing a surge of excitement and arousal as the warm fingers
caressed me. I heard Napoleon's intake of breath and then felt the blunt,
slick head of his penis nudging at my opening. 

It didn't hurt at all. I relaxed a little. "It's okay. Go in further," I
ordered. 

"I don't want to hurt you. Are you okay?" I could feel the pounding of
Napoleon's heart and hear the shake in his voice as he kissed the back of
my neck. Napoleon was holding himself in check, but only just. The thought
made my cock twitch. Yes, I was okay. I was very okay. 

I pushed back on Napoleon's cock to show how okay it was and suddenly
something gave and it slid in. "Oh!" I gasped. My own cock twitched again
and I pressed it convulsively into the pillow. 

"You like that?" Napoleon sounded doubtful. 

Chyort! Yes I liked it. "More!" I managed to squeak. I consciously relaxed
myself and felt Napoleon slide in deeper. 

"Argh!" It hurt and felt wonderful at the same time. 

Napoleon hesitated. "Okay?" 

I clutched the pillow beneath me. The pain lessened. "Keep goingit feels
good, it's okay." 

Napoleon reached round and wrapped a hot hand round my now very excited
cock. Adjusting my position to make room, I groaned. "Oh! Yes, Napoleon,
that's good." I wanted more. 

"It doesn't hurt?" Napoleon's voice shook. "It feels incredible from this
end." 

I was desperate to feel what it was like all the way in. "Go on," I
gasped. "You can move." 

"Illya, if I don't go for it now I'm going to come before I can do
anything. Are you ready?" 

More than anything. "Move, Napoleonplease." I moved my own hips and
clutched at Napoleon's hand. 

"Oh God, Illya, that feels so good . . ." Napoleon froze then moved a
little. He groaned. "UhI can't hold back much longer." 

And then I felt him slide all the way in and an electric shock hit me.
Something big. Something unprecedented. I couldn't stop myself crying out
and pressed backwards once more. "Now, Napoleon! Do it!" 

"I can't, I'm going to comeoh God!" Napoleon started to thrust, gently at
first but then wildly, yanking my hips against him and each thrust hit
that spot again and again, the hand round my penis echoing the movements.
I felt the inexorable pressure build up and with the next hard thrust I
exploded outwards, everything clenching inside. Napoleon growled with
pleasure and then lost rhythm completely. I felt a hot rush inside me as
the last spurt left my own body. 

"All my lovin' I will give to you . . ." sang Paul, faintly from the
living room. 

 

"Illya, that was wonderful. It was amazing. It was . . ." 

I was face down, breathing hard, sprawled on top of Illya, my cock still
inside him. The prone body beneath me didn't move or speak. 

Apprehension suddenly swept through me. Illya was hurt. How could I have
lost control like that? I prided myself in never losing control. 

"Illyaare you okay?" I pulled out quickly, but as gently as I could and
rolled off him "Illyaspeak to me." Oh God, please say he wasn't hurt. I
shook the bony shoulder. 

"Ungh." Illya rolled onto his side. 

"Are you okayI didn't hurt you?" 

Illya blinked, then frowned. "Apart from almost suffocating me with your
considerable weight, you mean?" Then he smiled. "No, Napoleon, you didn't
hurt me. Quite the reverse in fact." 

I exhaled the breath I'd been holding, that familiar feeling of momentary
apprehension when I thought my partner was lost or injured replaced by an
equally familiar relief. Illya was fine. We were both fine. I couldn't
believe it. I'd never come so fast inside a lover since I was sixteen and
fumbling with Suzie Schreider on her parents' sofa. I heaved myself up
onto my elbow. "That was truly amazing." 

Illya said nothing, but flopped onto his back, hair haloed out on one
pillow, arms above his head, hips still raised on the other, his lax cock
resting on one gold-fuzzed thigh, a picture of wantonness. I mentally
photographed that scene for future enjoyment. 

"Stay right there." I slid off the bed and went to the bathroom for a
towel. Illya really did look all right. He looked more than thatthe
expression that sprang to mind was 'well-fucked'. I used the towel to
clean myself up a little and went back into the bedroom. The bed looked
well-fucked too. Illya hadn't moved. 

Sitting on the bed next to Illya, I carefully cleaned him. Illya allowed
my ministrations with an expression of contentment but said nothing. His
eyes watched me with that bright blue stare I had come to know so
wellassessing, waiting for my move. 

A stab of doubt hit once more. "Are you sure you're okay? I completely
lost it at the end. It's kind of embarrassingI usually last longer." I
gave a little self-deprecating laugh, hoping I didn't sound as anxious as
I felt. 

"NapoleonI wanted it, I really wanted it. Of course you lost it at the
endI did too. It'll be easier next time." 

Illya sat up, wincing a little. 

Wincing. I swallowed. If I'd hurt Illya . . . 

He tried to cover up another wince as he rolled off the bed. Alarm bells
clanged inside my head. "What's the matter? You are hurting." 

Illya made his exasperated face. "In case it has escaped your notice, I
have an injured leg. As for the rest," he looked himself up and down with
an expression of distaste, "it's nothing a shower won't help. Really,
Napoleon, I'm fine." He limped off towards the bathroom. When he reached
the door, he turned and said, "And by the way, you're right, it was truly
amazing." 

With that he went into the bathroom, shutting the door but not locking it.


I sat on the bed, allowing the tension to seep away. This was like a
dream, the sort of dream where you find yourself on a roller-coaster and
can't get off. Don't want to get off. But in the end it makes you sick. 

I'd been worried that attacking Illya in the shower might have put off any
further approaches. Illya always knew when it was time to back off, but as
he had just demonstrated, he usually had a Plan B up his sleeve. 

I'd never have suggested Plan B myself, but in the heat of the moment I'd
been carried along with it. Illya seemed to enjoy itto really enjoy it.
And it had felt wonderful to be inside him, to be so intimately joined,
surrounded by him, to feel the heat of his being. But now that feeling was
overridden by worry. 

I looked at the wreck of the bed. It was rumpled and messy from our
emissions. Maybe next time we should take some precautions. Lay a towel or
something. Then I almost laughed. What was I thinking? Sex with Illya was
so different and exciting for the very reason that it was messy and crude
and spontaneous. Heaven forbid that we should start laying towels! 

But my stomach turned over again. It had been a close thing. I could have
so easily hurt Illya. Maybe we should have used some proper
lubricationVaseline or something. Penetrating a man was a whole different
ball-game from doing it with a woman, although it felt equally as good.
Better in some respectsIllya was as tight as a virgin and just as
vulnerable. More vulnerable. 

If there was a next time I must try to have more control. 

I pulled the sheets from the bed and bundled them up with the soiled
towel, throwing them to the corner of the room. I could deal with those
later. I heard the toilet flush and the shower start, so I went to join
Illya in the bathroom. "Room for two?" 

I didn't enter the shower straight away, however, but sat on the side of
the bath where I could see through the clear glass of the shower door as
Illya soaped himself. His expression seemed to be one of extreme
concentration as he lathered around his ass. He was going carefully,
gently, as if it were tender. 

Even though Illya had assured me he was fine, my obsessiveness set my
heart racing. 

I couldn't help mentally reversing our positions. The thought made me
shudder, clutching the side of the bath, my stomach clenching. My rational
mind told me that despite a certain amount of painand there had been some;
I could tell when Illya was hurting, however much he tried to cover it
updespite that, Illya had found the experience intensely exciting. 

But I also knew for a fact I could never reciprocate and that bothered me
more than I cared to admit. 

I'm an excellent lover. I pride myself on pleasing my partners: I can be
gentle and considerate, passionate, even a little kinkywhatever the lady
wants; no holds barred. I like to think I'm the consummate lover. And
except for that first time in London, I had been so with Illya. I was
good. I was the best. Until now. 

Of course I'd thought about fucking Illya as a possibility, but knowing my
problem, had pushed the question to the back of my mind because what Illya
and I already did together was imaginative, novel and satisfying.
Everything was on an equal footing and this was what made loving Illya so
different, so special. Whatever I did for Illya, Illya could do for me.
Until now. 

The balance was suddenly upset. 

The shower door opened and Illya's wet head peered through the steam. "Are
you coming in?" 

Time for some serious explanation. "Yes, yes. I was enjoying the view." I
entered the shower, kissed my partner's beautiful mouth and stood under
the spray. Illya immediately started to wash me. 

A twinge of unease as the memory of the last shower we'd shared
resurfaced. 

"Don't worry, Napoleon, I'll be careful of your delicate bits." Illya
grinned, as usual reading my thoughts. 

I bit the bullet. "AhI've been meaning to explain about that." 

Illya inclined his head but said nothing. He continued to soap me. 

"Are you listening to me?" 

"Lift your arms please." Illya carried on washing me. "I'm listening." 

"I want to explain." I took hold of Illya's shoulders. "Just stop doing
that a moment and hear me out." 

Illya stopped, looked me in the eyes and gave that faint smile that always
made my heart turn over. "Reallythere's nothing to explain. We all have
our little problems." He shrugged. 

Always the master of understatement. "Actually, this could prove quite a
big problem for us. I guess it's a phobia of sorts." 

Illya gave a brief laugh. "As I said, we all have our little problems." He
reached over and kissed me on the lips and then on each cheek. "Remember
what I said the other night after Italy?" 

I thought back. Where was Illya going with this? "You mean when you said
we'd come a long way?" 

"Yes." Illya smiled. "And we hadmostly by slow train. But what I meant was
I was happy with how things have turned out. I am happy." Taking my hand
in both of his he placed it over his heart, caressing it as he spoke. "I
like it. And I like what we did just now." But then his expression changed
to serious once more. "I don't expect you to reciprocate, if that's what
worries you. There's no need. I believe it's quite common to have a
preferred role." 

Preferred? How could Illya prefer that? He was a man too. Surely he would
want the experience of being surrounded by his partner in all that heat
and tightness . . . Despite all my qualms, I felt a stab of arousal
remembering how I'd fucked Illya. I wanted Illya to feel that good too. We
always reciprocated. That was how our affair wasa meeting of equals. 

And now we were no longer equal. 

Pulling my partner into a slippery hug, I squeezed him hard. Illya didn't
flinch but leaned into the hug while the water cascaded down on top of us,
and squeezed back fiercely. He felt so good in my arms. 

Solid. 

Vulnerable. 

"If I wasn't so hungry I'd take you again, you Russian bear." But I knew I
wouldn't. Pushing him to arm's length, I admired the lean, muscled torso,
the sturdy limbs, the half-tumescent genitals. I could see love shining in
his face, clear as day. We might fight, wrestle or whatever, but we'd
never hurt each other. Ever. 

I wanted to keep it that way. 

I forced my face into a grin. "Or should I say bare Russian." 

 

Supper was an exercise in indulgence. Too much bland hospital fare had
made both of us long for something with a bit of taste and texture. I
pushed the last of the huge steak around my plate, willing my stomach to
expand a tiny bit more to fit it in. Napoleon had abandoned the last of
his and was sitting back quaffing the Rioja. 

I noticed Napoleon watching me again. "What?" 

He seemed to have been monitoring me throughout the meal. Surely he wasn't
still watching for signs of discomfort? Now he looked almost guilty. 

"Nothing. More wine?" Napoleon put down his fork and picked up the half
empty bottle. 

I held out my glass. More wine might help indeed. "You were staring at me.
You keep staring at me." It was truly getting on my nerves and making me
uncomfortable. The tension in the room seemed palpable. 

It no longer felt like home. 

Napoleon poured some of the wine into both glasses. "I like watching you
eat. You derive such obvious pleasure from it. When I first knew you, I
didn't have you down as a gourmet, you know. You seemed so ascetic." 

A bluff, but I went he along with it. "My Communist roots were showing?
Did you assume I retired to my garret each evening and dined on cabbage
and beets?" I decided to clear the table. Maybe some action would help the
atmosphere. "Have you finished with that?" 

Napoleon pushed his plate towards me and I piled it on top of my own. As I
rose to take them over to the sink, a stab of pain lanced through my
injured leg. 

My involuntary wince was not lost on Napoleon. "What's the matter?" 

Enough. This had to stop. I sighed, putting down the plates down on the
table and leaning forward towards Napoleon, looking him straight in the
eyes. "Napoleonnothing is the matter. My leg still hurts a little when I
put weight on it, that's all. Just forget it. Apart from my leg, nothing
is wrong with me. Really. What's wrong with you?" 

"You know." Napoleon looked away. 

I didn't know. I'd thought offering myself to be fucked was a way forward
in our affair. It seems I was wrong. I didn't bargain for this bizarre
reaction from Napoleon. Since when were we so openly solicitous to each
other unless there really was a serious injury? There was no reason for
all this concern and I didn't appreciate being wrapped in cotton wool. 

Frustration caused me to lash out and I snapped, "If you're going to start
treating me like one of your girls I'm going home." 

"If I treated you like one of my girls, I'd be the one going home," he
reposted, anger flaring in his face. 

There was some truth in that. Napoleon maintained he never entertained
women in his own apartment. I cherished the idea that only I shared that
huge, decadent bed. 

"Can't you see that I'm simply concerned about you?" Napoleon turned away
and rose from the table, banging the chair back unnecessarily hard.
"Coffee?" 

No, I couldn't see. All this agonising by Napoleon was unprecedented and
pointless. I tried, unsuccessfully, to rein in my temper. "No thanks. I'd
prefer to finish the wine." I couldn't help myself adding, "That is, if
I'm to remain here." 

Dumping the plates into the sink with a clatter, I ran water over them. I
didn't really want to leave. I loved to be hereit was home, but not like
this. Not on these terms. 

I began to wash the plates, rinsing each one under the cold tap, still
trying to control my anger. I heard Napoleon splash the last of the wine
into the glasses and toss the empty bottle into the trash. Only when I had
completed the task did I trust myself to turn to Napoleon once more.
"Well?" 

Napoleon was sitting down at the table again. "Do what you like," he said,
and drained his wine in one gulp. "But hear this: I have never had any
intention of treating you like a woman." 

There was a passionate tone in his voice that made me feel both
uncomfortable and rather moved. 

 

I was first awake the following morning. I glanced at the clock6.45. Illya
lay beside me, his breathing quiet and even. I turned and Illya stirred,
grunting and settling down again. We were due into work today. My Waverly,
while admitting that neither of us was fit for fieldwork for the time
being, nevertheless made it clear that our presence was expected at HQ. He
did not hold with his agents languishing at home if they were fit enough
to hold a fountain pen or peer down a microscope. 

The atmosphere was still a little cool. The previous evening, after that
little spat, I'd made a conscious effort not to monitor Illya's every
move. His mood had softened a little as the evening wore on but it was
clear he was still unhappy. 

It didn't help that I was responsible for Illya's crankiness. But I just
couldn't control my mind, which insisted on replaying, over and over, the
evening's sexual encounter. Part of me couldn't wait to repeat it, but
deep in my gut, I knew it was wrong. 

Illya had said he did not want to be treated like a woman. 

Hadn't fucking him been doing just that? 

Fucking Illya had been exciting as hell. I'd been carried away with the
heat of the moment. It had been so long and Illya was irresistible. Being
inside him had felt so good. So damned good. 

Here was the rub though. How could he possibly have enjoyed it? Illya, who
refused to be treated like a woman. Why did he offer himself like that? 

He'd most surely wanted it. Other male couples practised sex that way and
other men found it acceptable. Maybe Illya had done it before with another
man, although judging by the nervousness he'd not entirely managed to
hide, it seemed unlikely he'd been on the receiving end. 

My mind would not leave it alone, and foremost was that first cry of pain
from him. 

But at the end something had suddenly driven him wildwild enough to
discount the obvious pain he felt at the penetration. I felt myself flush
hot as I thought of that painthe pain I'd inflicted on my partnermy lover.
I swallowed convulsively as my heart began to beat faster. It must have
hurt himit must have . . . 


1936: 

The doctor bent down to peer at him and his florid, puffy face distorted
into a frown. "Now young manI hear you've been giving your mother some
trouble." 

"No. No trouble, sir." He would never upset his mom. He hated to see her
cry. She had been crying again today before Daddy drove them to the
hospital. "And I'm not sick so I don't need any shot." 

"She tells me you've been complaining of a stomach ache and waking up at
night." 

"Yes, sir. But I didn't complain. I haven't been bad." He looked up at his
mother for affirmation. She didn't smile. Her eyes were looking sad again.
He didn't want her to be sad. He smiled at her to cheer her up, and then
turned to frown at the doctor, who puffed out his cheeks and blew tobacco
breath at him. 

"I think we should have a look at you, young man. Would you like to take
your coat off for me?" 

"No, thank you." He clutched his coat defensively round him. 

"Oh come now, I can't look at your tummy if you keep your coat on, can I?"
The doctor turned to his mommy. "Would you . . . Mrs Soloare you all
right?" 

He looked up at his mom and saw that she was crying again. The doctor
spoke into his telephone. After a moment the door opened and Daddy came
in. He put his arm around Mommy and gave her his big hanky. Mommy dabbed
at her eyes and blew her nose. "I'm sorry, Frankit's just this place." 

"Why don't you take your wife outside for some air, Mr Solo? We'll be all
right, won't we, young man?" 

He swallowed the big lump in his throat. Whenever Mommy cried it made him
want to cry too. He frowned again at the doctor, but nodded, bravely. He
didn't like the doctor much. He smelled funny and he kept calling him
'young man' instead of his proper name. But he had a thing round his neck
for listening to your heart and he had allowed him a listen when he came
to see Celie. Perhaps if he took his coat off for him, the doctor would
let him listen again. He started slowly to unbutton the coat. 

Mommy and Daddy left the room. He watched the door close. Then the doctor
spoke on his telephone again. The door opened once more and a lady in a
white apron came in. She said nothing, but stood beside the doctor. She
had a red face too, and strangely yellow hair showing from beneath a white
hat that perched on the top of her head and looked as if it might fall
off. He wondered if he was going to be taken away like Celie. 

"I don't want to go anywhere." He started to fasten his coat again, a
sudden panic seizing him. Celie had been taken away by Men in Jities. He
didn't know what jities were, but suspected they were white, because the
men who took Celie away wore white coats. 

"Don't be silly, Napoleon. Come with me." The nurse tried to take his
hand. 

"No!" he snatched his hand away. "I don't want to go anywhere and I don't
want a shot." 

"You're not having a shot, silly boy. Just come behind the screen and
we'll take your coat and shirt off so the doctor can examine you." 

"No. I'm going home now," he said, firmly, heading towards the door. Just
as he reached it, he was seized tightly around the waist, lifted, kicking
and yelling, behind the screen, and plonked onto a very high, black table.


"Now you just sit there and stop that noise. Your mommy can't hear you.
She's gone outside with your daddy since you made her cry. You're a
naughty little boy to upset your mommy so." 

He stopped yelling and glared at her. Why did she think he was the one who
made Mommy cry? It wasn't him. She'd been crying so much, ever since Celie
went to live with Jesus after the Men in Jities came. He sniffed and wiped
his nose on his sleeve just as the doctor walked round the screen. He was
carrying his listening thing and a tray with a lot of shiny items on it. 

 
U.N.C.L.E Headquarters: Three weeks later: 

"I'll make it up to you, Illyareally I will." 

Illya sneezed and glared balefully at me over his glasses. "You're too
late, Napoleon. I already caught a cold." 

I moved closer to my partner's desk and pushed the glasses back up onto
his aggrieved faceif there was one thing worse than Illya's ugly reading
glasses, it was Illya's reading glasses halfway down his (extremely out of
joint) nose. "I assure you it was all in the line of duty." 

He made a noise halfway between a snort and a sniff, then took out his
handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. "It's fortunate for you how often
your duty lies in the arms of some pretty girl, isn't it?" he sneered,
after a dramatic pause. 

Ouch! Well at least Illya was speaking to me now. Yesterday he'd frozen me
out completely. It was time to appeal to the inner man. "How about if I
take you out to dinner? Freddi's?" 

Was that a momentary flash of interest, or another sneeze coming on? 

I pushed further. "Actually I have a table already booked." It was
truesort of. 

"Will this be before or after your date with whatshernameJojo?" 

Uh-oh. Jojo. As I'd suspected. 

"As a matter of fact I no longer have a date." I made a mental note to
phone Jojo and make my excuses the minute I was out of Illya's earshot. I
didn't particularly want to go out with her anyway, but I'd made the date
to fend her off from the week's vacation I'd so rashly mentioned. Old
habits die hard. 

But why was Illya acting so put out? We never made any promises to each
other to give up dating. Illya knew quite well it was sometimes necessary
for the job, but it was more than that. I can't help it that my sexuality
almost defines me. If you've got it, you've got it and I've got it. Or at
least I used to have it. Maybe I needed a little affirmation that the
there's life in the old dog yet. 

What's more, Illya's perfectly capable of dispatching a couple of Thrush
on his own, rainstorm or not. Wasn't it a measure of my complete
confidence in Illya that I'd allowed him to do so unhindered? There was no
point in both of us getting soaked at the cemetery. 

Illya capped his pen and shuffled the papers into a pile, the frown on his
face etched between his brows. "Thereif you can spare the time." He pushed
the pile towards me with a sneer. "And you may as well cancel the table at
Freddi's unless you want to go yourself. I don't feel like going out." As
if to emphasise his point, he sneezed enormously once more. 

Once it was safe after the inevitable nose-blowing that ensued, I leaned
forward and straightened his tie, more askew than usual. I removed the
ugly black glasses. He really did have a knack of looking woebegone when
he had a mind to and I only just managed to stifle a laugh as he regarded
me with a tragic stare from watery blue eyes. 

Apologies were called for. "Okay. I'm sorry. I meant what I saidI'll make
it up to you." 

"How?" Illya's shoulders slumped, the fight suddenly gone out of him. 

How to appease him? Best to fall back on the tried and tested. "Well, if
you don't feel like going out, how about you come over to my place tonight
and we eat in. Feed a cold, you know." 

Illya shrugged. "All right, if you insist on salving your conscience." 

"Chicken soup from George's deli?" A ghost of a smile at that suggestion.
Good. Comfort food for the sick. "I'll stop by George's on the way home. I
should be finished with these in half an hour." With that I picked up the
pile of papers. "Want to go on ahead?" 

 

I used the key Napoleon had given me weeks ago to let myself into the
apartment. I felt tired and shivery. It was hard work staying mad with
Napoleon all day and I hadn't the energy to keep it going any longer.
Besides, this was really where I wanted to be. It was impossible to stay
mad with him for long, especially when there were offers of comfort and
soup. 

I wondered if sex was on offer too. 

Nothing had been quite the same since our last sexual encounter. Napoleon
seemed somehow different, more distant. Was it possible now to
re-establish what we had before? I very much wanted to. 

At the cemetery, he'd smugly abandoned me to fight while he canoodled in
the car with that irritating blonde womanshe of the foolish name. It was
as if he wanted prove somethingto show me that I wasn't the only pebble on
the beach. 

I have to admit that time he slugged me in the shower shook me. It was
fortunate we'd had a cooling off period, but then it had still gone wrong.
The nonsense after we actually fucked irritated the hell out of me. What
was wrong with him? He'd never treated me as if I were made of glass
before. 

Suddenly I was no longer so sure of my place as part of the furniture in
Napoleon's life. Maybe this offer of dinner was his way of softening the
blow that I'd outstayed my welcome. 

I dropped my briefcase on the floor of the vestibule and went into the
bedroom, making the usual checks on the way. A shiver ran through me as I
took off my suit jacket and draped it over a chair. I don't usually feel
the cold, but today I'd been chilled on and off as if my thermostat was
off kilter. 

I decided to take a bath to warm myself up and was still in there when I
heard Napoleon enter the apartment and call out in a fake Southern accent,
"Honey, I'm home!" 

It was a joke but it rankled. Another reason to have words with Napoleon
about treating me like one of his women. I seemed to have lost my sense of
humour. With an effort, I stood up, sloshing water onto the tiled floor. 

"Are you all right in there?" There was a sharp knock on the bathroom
door. "Illya?" 

I reached for the towel. It was pleasantly warm from the radiator. "Just
coming." 

Napoleon's head appeared round the door. The dark eyebrows waggled and
brown eyes raked up and down my body and my heart melted. "No hurry. Take
as long as you like." The head withdrew. 

I dried off and donned Napoleon's robe. The shivery feeling had been
replaced by an almost overwhelming sleepiness. The smell of chicken soup
wafted from the kitchen. I wasn't sure which urge was greater, but my
stomach growled, even as I looked longingly at the bed, the bedclothes
invitingly turned down. 

Napoleon appeared in the bedroom doorway carrying a tray. "Special treat
for the sick and suffering. Get into bed." 

No mention was made of sex, one way or the other. Napoleon stayed, sitting
on the bed and chatting about the day's events while I ate and I began to
feel easier. I didn't need to contribute much to the conversation, which
was fortunate, because once I'd finished eating, all I wanted to do was
sleep. My eyes were closing even before I took the last mouthful. 

Napoleon removed the tray and pulled the bedclothes up around me.
"Comfortable?" 

Yes, I was comfortable. Very. Suddenly things were looking up again. I
felt warm and full. I was in my favourite place, Napoleon's bed. Napoleon
wanted me there. Even the discomfort of my sore throat and congested nose
seemed less. "Mmm." 

I felt Napoleon smooth my hair and feel my forehead with his cool hand.
"I'll see you later." 

Did he intend going out with Jojo after all? I opened my eyes, but he wore
his dressing gown and slippers over his shirt and pants, his tie and
shoulder-holster were on the chair with mine. I relaxed. 

I felt rather than heard Napoleon slip into bed. Opening my eyes and
glancing at the clock, I saw it was almost midnight. 

"I'm sorry, I was trying not to wake you." He kissed me on the forehead.
"Feeling any better?" 

I did, and told him so, then turned and draped an arm over him, enjoying
the feel of his bare skin next to me. "If you want . . ." 

But Napoleon kissed me again, lightly on the cheek. "Let's see how you
feel in the morning. Sex isn't the only reason I like having you in my
bed. Go back to sleep." 

I curled myself around him, revelling in the warmth that emanated from his
body. Sex wasn't the only reason I liked being here either. I just liked
being with Napoleon, in his bed, in his home, part of the furniture. I
wanted to keep it that way, and bring back the equilibrium we'd enjoyed
before. 

 

I woke to the sound of snuffly snoring. Illya was lying on his back,
breathing through his mouth. For some reason the sound of his snoring was
amusing. He didn't usually snore. It must be his cold. 

Of course I'd been wakened by the sound of snoring beforesome of the women
I've been to bed with snored. They would have been horrified if I'd told
them so, and I never did. 

No such qualms with Illya. 

"Turn over, you're snoring." I gently pushed my sleeping partner over onto
his side and spooned myself behind him. The snoring stopped immediately. 

"Huh?" 

"It's okay, go back to sleep. You were snoring fit to raise the roof." 

"Sorry." 

I pulled Illya's bony backside snugly into the hollow of my belly. It felt
good. Actually it felt delicious. My cock, never missing an opportunity,
started to fill. I tried to ignore itIllya was not here for sex tonight,
but the sensation of skin on skin was irresistible. 

"Mmm." Illya pressed his bottom more firmly against my belly. Mmm indeed.
He guided my hand around him into his groin and I felt the stirrings of an
erection there. Illya must be feeling better. 

I pulled Illya's hips in, thrusting gently against him. Memories of the
last time I'd done this surfaceda pang of anxiety. What if Illya wanted to
be fucked again? I felt myself clench up, as if I was the one who was
about to be invaded. My erection faltered a little. 


1936: 

"Now, are you going to stay there and be a good boy?" The lady in the
white apron began to unfasten his coat, none too gently. 

He wriggled out of her grasp. "I can do it myself." He finished
unbuttoning it and the lady pulled it off him. She turned to the doctor
who had put the tray down and was polishing his glasses on a large
handkerchief. 

The high, padded table he was sitting on was harder than a bed, but it had
a pillow so it must be for lying down. He sat with his legs dangling over
the edge, ready to make his escape if they tried to give him a shot or
take him away. The red-faced lady unfastened his shoes and pulled off his
socks; then she unfastened two buttons and pulled his shirt and undershirt
off together, over his head. The cuffs of his shirt stopped his arms from
pulling through. He glared at her. Didn't she know anything? 

 "You're supposed to undo all the buttons first." 

She yanked harder, sharply, and his hands pulled free, one of the buttons
flying off onto the floor. "Now lie down, Napoleon." 

"No." He folded his arms over his bare stomach, holding himself stiffly. 

The doctor stepped forward. "Thank you nurse. Remain here please. Now then
young man, I want you to lie down on this bed so that I can have a look at
that tummy of yours that has been causing trouble." 

"No trouble," he said, gruffly into his chest. Glancing up, he could see
the listening thing gleaming on the doctor's chest. "What's that called?"
he asked. 

"It's a stethoscope. If you're a good boy I'll let you listen through it."


Reluctantly, he lay down on his back. As he did so, the lady stepped
forward and whipped off his trousers and undershorts. "Hey!" He struggled
upright up again. 

"Thank you nurse. Come and hold him down please." 

He looked from one to the other. Why did he need to be held down? Why did
they take away all his clothes? He hoped his mom would finish crying and
come back soon. There was something in his chest like a bird trying to get
out and he didn't like it. But then he caught sight of the doctor's
stethy-scope. Giving the nurse lady a hard stare, he lay down of his own
accord. 

"Now lie nice and still so I can feel your tummy," said the doctor 

"And then I can listen?" 

"Only if you're a good boy and do what the doctor tells you," said the
nurse lady. She held his shoulders down. He looked up at her. She had a
red bump on her chin with two hairs growing out of it. She didn't smell
too good either. 

He allowed himself to be poked and prodded. Every time the doctor asked if
something hurt he answered no. The stethy thing was cold and it tickled.
At last the doctor took it out of his ears and hung it round his neck. Now
maybe he would let him listen and then he could go home. He sat up,
eagerly, but the doctor walked away behind the screen and began speaking
into his telephone once more. 

He tried to get off the high bed, but the lady caught him and lifted him
back, holding onto him tightly. "Stay there. The doctor hasn't finished
with you yet." 

He wondered why his mommy hadn't come back into the room. She must have
done crying by now. Daddy usually made her better. "Where are my mommy and
daddy?" 

" I expect they've gone home." The nurse lady turned away from him and
began arranging the shiny instruments on the tray. 

A nasty, sick feeling came into his chest and the bird fluttering started
again. Why had his parents left him? Were the Men in Jities going to come
for him too? He glanced nervously around. 

The lady picked up his clothes from the chair and went behind the screen
with them. A moment later she came back carrying a dark orange bundle that
she laid down beside him. He could smell that it was something made of
rubber. "All right, you can get down for a moment but stand still." She
lifted him off the bed. 

"What's that for?" he asked, suspiciously, as she spread the orange rubber
over the bed. 

"It's to keep the bed clean. Now, up you go again." She lifted him back on
the bed. The rubber felt cold and unpleasant on his bare bottom. 

Just then he heard the door open. A moment later the doctor came round the
screen. His heart raced in sudden fear. The doctor had taken off his
jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He was wearing a big orange rubber apron
and was carrying a white pail. Behind him was another lady in a white
apron. She was fatter than the red-faced lady but she wore the same thing
perched on her head. She carried what looked like a long orange pipe, all
coiled up. 

"What's that?" he asked, fear making his voice tremble. 

Nobody answered him. The red-faced lady took him by the shoulders and
forced him down onto the cold rubber. "I've got him. He's a wriggler, this
one." 

He screamed in fear as the other lady grabbed his legs and pinned him down
on his side. 

"Bend your knees, sonny." She wrenched him so that his knees were bent. 

"No!" He tried to straighten his legs but they were held tight. He yelled
at the top of his voice. "Let me go!" 

"Napoleon, stop that noise. Do you want to upset your mommy again? I'll
tell her you've been a silly boy." Red-face gave him a little shake. 

The smell of rubber was almost choking him. "I don't like it! Let me go!"
He could feel the rubber getting all wet and slippery. 

He heard the doctor's voice. "Lie still, Napoleon, or I shall have you
strapped down." The voice sounded harsh and unkind. 

"Let me go! I don't want to! I want to go home!" The more he yelled and
tried to kick, the tighter the grip on him became. He started to cry in
earnest. He really wanted to see his mommy. Where was she? Where was
Daddy? He needed them. 

Big hands were all over him, holding down his shoulders, his legs. Now he
was sure that the doctor was one of the Men. He thrashed and kicked
harder. "I want to go home! I don't want to go to live with Jesus!" 

He managed to get a leg free and kicked one of them. 

"Ouch! You little . . ." He felt a stinging slap on his bottom and howled.


"That's it. Strap him down." 

There was nothing he could do. The more he struggled and kicked, the
harder they held him. He shut his eyes and screamed, but still he was
firmly strapped to the bed, his face squashed into the slippery,
malodorous rubber. Now the straps as well as the nurse ladies held him so
tightly he couldn't move at all. Only his head thrashed from side to side.


His terror mounted as he felt the cheeks of his bottom stretched apart.
"Ow! Ow! Nostop! Please stop . . ." 


Napoleon's apartment: 1966: 

Illya covered my hand with his own, moving it up and down, impatiently.
"Napoleondon't start something if you don't intend to finish it." 

I jerked back to the present. "Turn around," I whispered into his ear. 

He turned and kissed me on the lips. "You're going to catch this cold," he
warned when we broke the kiss. 

"Good. Then you can look after me and give me chicken soup and tuck me up
in bed and then make love to me." And maybe he'd forget all about the idea
of fucking and things could go back to the way they had been. 

I snaked my hand down between our bellies, fondling both hard cocks
together. 

 

Afterwards, I lay dozing, waiting for the alarm clock to tell me it was
time to get up. I was suffused with pleasure. There had been no hint of
invasion; neither of us had to ask what the other wanted; our connection
had been absolute. It was instinctive. That was what I loved about Illya.
That was why it felt so right to have him in my bed. Sex with my partner
was infinitely more satisfying when we could share everything, like this
morning. 

Illya rolled over and reached for a tissue from the rapidly dwindling box
of Kleenex. Sitting up, he blew his nose vigorously. "I don't suppose this
cold warrants breakfast in bed?" he inquired, dabbing carefully at his
red-tipped nose. 

"Not a chance. I don't want more crumbs all over the sheets." 

"You said you'd make it up to me." 

"And so I did. Chicken soupthat's enough to atone for a little rain." 

Illya opened his eyes wide and entreating. "Besides, you said yourself one
should feed a cold." 

How could I resist? "I suppose there is time. Not that I believe you're
sick any more. This is definitely the last treat." 

 
Three weeks later: 

The room was stifling. Air conditioning was one of the many luxuries the
island did not boast. I lay sleepless on the sagging double bed. Once
again, Mr Waverly's parsimony had worked to our advantage, although
Napoleon's overheated body beside me seemed enough to render it a
disadvantage right now. 

"Are you still awake, Napoleon?" 

"Mmm. Too hot." 

Time for a gloat. "This time tomorrow you'll be married." I chuckled. I
was interested to see how he was going to wriggle out of this one. 

He groaned. "And won't you be glad to dance at my wedding?" 

"Napoleon, you know I don't dance," I protested, enjoying it immensely. 

"You have to sing then." 

"Mmm." I hummed a few bars from 'Lohengrin'. It should at least be
entertaining. How glad I was I had not been the chosen one. Napoleon was
much more accomplished in matters matrimonial. 

"That's enough, smart Russian." Napoleon sighed. "I guess you're too hot
to, you know . . ." 

I rolled over and kissed him, tasting salty sweat. "You're almost a
married man, remember? You should be saving yourself for tomorrow night.
Although I wouldn't mind some 'you know.'" 

We fondled each other languidly, mindful of the thin walls and the
creaking bed. Maybe now was a good time to test the waters. I whispered
into Napoleon's ear, "Do you want to fuck me?" 

The hand on my cock faltered. Immediately I had my answer and wished I'd
kept quiet. "It doesn't matter," I whispered, quickly, "This is nice." 

But Napoleon rolled off me and lay on his back once again. "I wish . . .
Illya, I can't . . . I just can't." 

Why? I wasn't asking to fuck him. I'd taken on board that there were
issues concerning his ass being touched, but the other way about? I'd
really enjoyed the sensation and would have liked to try again. "What is
it? What's wrong?" 

"I can't do it to you again. I'm afraid . . ." 

"Afraid? You seemed happy enough last time." What was the problem? It was
obvious that Napoleon had found it as exciting as I had, and once I'd
convinced him I was all right . . . Light dawned. "Ahyou mean you're still
afraid of hurting me?" 

Napoleon turned his head away. 

"But I told youit was wonderful. I accept . . ." 

He turned onto his side and hit the pillow with his fist. "Yes, I'm
afraid. I love you. I don't want to hurt you." I could feel tremors
running through his body, shaking. "Dammit, Illya, don't you see it was a
mistake? We can't do that again." 

He sounded so anguished. Almost roughly, I pulled him over again and
caught his chin between my hands, looking him straight in the eyes. Even
so, my voice cracked. "You didn't hurt me, Napoleon. Did someone hurt
you?" I smoothed the dark hair back from his forehead, my movements
feeling clumsy. 

Napoleon closed his eyes and I felt him shudder even more. "I'm sorry." 

Obviously there was a lot more to this problem than mere prudishness.
Something was very wrong. "What happened?" Worry made my voice gruff. 

Napoleon seemed to collect himself. "It's okayI wasn't raped or anything
if that's what you're thinking." 

I swallowed and realised that was what I'd been thinking. I stroked
Napoleon's soft, damp hair again. "It must have been something . . .
unpleasant." 

He sighed. "It was. Something stupid and unnecessary, but not uncommon.
I've come to believe my problems are more because of the association and
the way in which it was carried out. However, unfortunately, understanding
the problem doesn't make it go away." 

"Do you want to tell me about it?" I wasn't sure I wanted to know, but
perhaps it would help. After all, Napoleon had been subjected to details
of my own dismal past not so very long ago. It had brought us together. I
wanted to help him if I could, but didn't know how. I bent over and kissed
his forehead, tasting sweat again. "It doesn't matter. I love you too,
Napoleon." 

"And me almost a married man." Napoleon gave a short laugh. "Come here." I
found myself enfolded in a hard, sweaty hug. It felt good. It felt like
home. 

As I lay with my head on Napoleon's chest, listening to the beat of his
heart, Napoleon told me about the death of his older sister. 

"She died of meningitis. It was very suddenone day she was all right, the
next she was gone." 

Now it was my turn to shiver, despite the heat. It stirred memories of my
own that I preferred to keep under wraps. 

Napoleon went on: "I was really too young to understand or appreciate what
had happened to her. All I remember is that she wasn't there any more and
my mother was always crying and my father was away a lot. I suspect he had
his own ways of coping." 

It didn't take too much imagination to guess what Solo Senior used as a
coping mechanism if his son was anything like him. But I could identify
with my partner's situation as a young child. "Did you blame yourself?" I
asked, remembering my own problems. 

"No, it wasn't that. I guess at four-years-old I just wanted things to go
back to normal, but my mother became very over-protective of me. Every
time I sneezed, she put me to bed for a week." 

That made me smile. "And fed you chicken soup?" 

"Nothing so pleasant. Castor oil was her remedy of choice. She was
obsessed with everything that went in and came out of me. She watched
every mouthful of food I ate and I had to report every visit to the
bathroom." 

I was beginning to get the picture. No wonder Napoleon was a little
prudish. But did that really explain the strength of his reaction to being
touched? "That must have been tiresome," I commented. 

"But it got worse," Napoleon continued. "She called the doctor constantly.
I'm quite sure most of it was in her mind. I was really quite a healthy
kid. I hated the doctor and I guess he must have hated me eventually." 

I could sympathise with that; Napoleon still hated doctors. "So I take it
the doctor found nothing wrong with you?" I suggested. 

He laughed shortly. "On the contrary, he must have known he was onto a
winner. Money for old rope. I had my tonsils removedI remember the ice
cream. I don't remember too much else, just interminable days in bed, but
there was one occasion with the doctor . . ." He trailed off and shuddered
again. "It was very soon after Celie died. Apparently I hadn't reported
sufficient visits to the bathroom." He paused. 

I could tell he was struggling with the memory even now. "You don't have
to tell me." 

"Noit's stupid. It was just an enemanothing unusual even, but I was
terrified. I thought . . . I thought I was never going to see my parents
again. I thought I was going to be taken away like Celie." 

Taken away? "You thought you were going to die?" 

"I was too young to understand the concept of dying, but I knew she had
gone away. I was scared I'd go too. I must have made it very difficult." 

No wonder Napoleon had bad associations. "And I take it the doctor was not
sympathetic." 

Napoleon sighed. "I was so traumatised, I really did become sick. I
refused to eat. It must have been quite serious because I ended up in the
hospital again. My mother tells me I could have died too, although to be
honest, I think that may be exaggeratedpart of her paranoia about me." 

So that explained a lot. Childhood experiences accounted for the strangest
things. Something struck me, though. "I'm glad of one thing," I announced,
after a pause. 

"Silly, isn't it? Glad that I didn't starve myself to death?" 

I ran my hand up and down Napoleon's well-muscled chest. "I'm glad of
that, naturally, but I'm also glad it is not something physical." 

He became agitated. "Illya, believe me, if there was a way to get over it,
I would. I've tried . . . I even went to a shrink once following a
ratherahdifficult routine medical exam." 

"And no doubt tricked him into thinking he had cured you. I know you,
Napoleon." I raised myself onto my elbow and smiled at his sheepish
expression. "Now that I understand the problem, we can get over it." 

Napoleon started. He shook his head vigorously. "Oh no . . . no, I can't.
I really can't . . ." He rolled over, right to the edge of the sagging
bed. His eyes were screwed up as if trying to shut me out along with all
the memories. 

I was suddenly full of remorse. 

Why had I even entertained the idea of fucking? Things had been wonderful
before that. I should have left things as they were. Nice and comfortable,
how I liked it. 

But then I remembered why I had thought of taking the step in the first
place. I'd been scared of losing Napoleon. I liked being part of his life,
part of the furniture, and didn't want to be discarded like last year's
model. I was happy and content. I should have had faith. 

How to retrieve that equilibrium? Reaching over, I yanked Napoleon back on
top of me, caught hold of his ears and pulled his head down, kissing him
hard, while thrusting upwards. The bed creaked alarmingly. 

Napoleon resisted at first but I stroked his hair while I kissed him.
"It's all right. It doesn't matter," I soothed when we broke the kiss.
"Let's forget it. I liked everything we did before." 

"Mmm." I began to feel the tension seep away from his tight muscles. 

"Sit up." I wriggled out from under him and sat with my back to the
creaking headboard. 

He obediently sat up facing me. "I liked it too." The worry was leaving
his face. 

I pulled Napoleon closer so that our cocks met. "I particularly liked
doing this. 

We spent a few moments rubbing the tips of our hard cocks together,
grinning and gasping by turn. It felt delicious. It felt delicious
particularly because it was Napoleon. 

I wrapped my hand around both cocks and Napoleon wrapped his hand around
mine. 

"Ahyes." Napoleon moved his hand up and down. "And this also" The bed
creaked threateningly. "Perhaps we should move to the floor. We don't want
to shock the islanders," he suggested. 

"Especially on the eve of your wedding." Maybe things could be all right
after all. 

 

Work kept us apart for a while, following my narrow escape from matrimony,
and then I had a week's vacation due. I decided to spend some of it of it
working on my boat, the Pursang, getting her ready for the sailing season
which was only weeks away. 

As I drove to Port Washington where she's berthed, inevitably my mind
turned to sex. I can't help itthat's just the way I am. I'd been celibate
for too long. It would be nice if Illya were with me. I had to admit I
missed him when we worked apart. 

My partner had really got himself under my skin. 

And now Illya had a taste of whatever it was that was so wonderful about
anal sexand the thought still made me shudderwouldn't he want it again? On
the Greek island, he'd wanted it, hadn't he? And I couldn't give it to
him. I didn't measure up. Oh yes he backed down when I explained matters
to him. He understood all right. 

But my worry still remained. If I couldn't give it to him, maybe he would
go looking elsewhere. 

Illya had his needs too, that had become obvious. Sometimes I'm apt to
forget it. I was so used to him obeying mealbeit sometimes grumpilythat I
didn't always put him first when I really should. Was he dissatisfied with
what we had? Were the signs there all along and I missed them? 

But he'd told me how happy he was when we got back from Italy. Then
straight away he wanted to change things. Why? What happened to his
'radar'usually so sharp at picking up my thoughts? Perhaps, after all, our
affair wasn't what I'd thought it was. I loved him more than I'd loved
anyone. Didn't he know that? 

Although we'd never made any promises that our affair would be exclusive,
the thought of Illya with another man was, to say the least, unsettling
for me. Lately, the thought of Illya with anyone except me was unsettling
and yet now this thing stood between us, bound to rear its ugly head again
sooner or later. I began to feel as if my whole world was unsettled. Damn.


As much as anything, my self-esteem was feeling more than a little
bruised. I was unused to any kind of failure, particularly sexual failure,
and I'd failed as a lover. 

I needed an ego boost and I needed to take my mind off my problems.
Working on the boat would help. Maybe as well as hard physical work I
should look for some of my other favourite therapy. 

 

Unlike Napoleon, I had no vacation booked but on my day off decided to
drive across to the marina and join him for the day. I preferred Pursang
in harbour, not sharing my partner's love of sailing. 

I was hopeful that the night on the island had been cathartic for Napoleon
and had cleared the air. I'd decided not to put any pressure on him, but I
was also very keen to continue our affairto try to claw back what we'd
shared before. 

The silly thing was, the very reason I'd suggested we move our sex on a
step was that I was afraid of losing him. Now I seemed in danger of losing
him because of it. 

Perhaps Napoleon's unburdening had helped, but there was no doubt he was
still troubled. I knew his pride had taken a blow and I was not naive
enough to be convinced that all would go back to normal straight away. 

My partner needed time to think and with any luck this vacation was giving
him just that. 

This period of instability had convinced me that I needed Napoleon more
than I needed a particular type of sex. I needed him more than I needed
anything or anyone. Him. Napoleon. 

For me least, the sexual fun and games was only part of it. It was
exciting, the same way as matching each other on the shooting range,
wrestling, even playing a challenging game of chess together. The sex was
intimate, but I'd been intimate with others and it wasn't the same. 

No, my bond with Napoleon was more than the sex, more than friendship. It
was emotional. It was love. It was that sense of being at home, wearing a
comfortable pair of shoes, being part of the furniture. 

I planned to have some down time together with him, to let him know how
much I needed him and perhaps begin to re-establish that comfort. 

The day was sunny, if coldcheerful weatherand I whistled along with the
radio station as I drove towards Port Washington and Napoleon. 

 

"Honey, I just love this cute little boat of yours, it's so cosy." Tammy
yawned and snuggled up to me in the narrow berth. 

It had been a good night. Tammy was accommodating as usual, warm and soft
in my bed. She was also blonde, witty and I enjoyed her company. Up to a
point. 

That point had now been reached. It really was time to get up and do some
work but Tammy showed no sign of moving. It was already almost ten in the
morning and I had some repainting to doif the varnish was to dry on the
foredeck I must get the first coat on before midday. 

"She has a cute little galley too," I pointed out, "where one can make
coffee," I added, hopefully, reflecting how much easier it was to get
Illya out of bed. I didn't have to beat about the bush with Illya. 

"Have I worn you out, Napoleon? You need coffee to keep you awake?" Tammy
pulled me down and kissed me extravagantly. 

She smelled of Shalimar and sex and I was briefly tempted once more, but I
pulled out of the kiss and sat up, resolutely unwinding her arms from
around my neck. Her father kept a large cruisera gin palace that rarely
went further than a few hundred yards offshorebut Tammy enjoyed sailing
and she often joined me. She never demanded more than the occasional
chance to be my crew and the odd steamy night in my berth. I admit I'd
invited her this time to see if having a girl in my bed once more would
ground me, and in a way it had. But now I'd had enough and wanted her out.
I would have to be tactful. 

I was just rehearsing in my head what I would say to shift Tammy without
giving offence when there was a sharp tap on the wooden hatch. "Hello,
Napoleonare you in there?" 

It was Illya's voice. 

"Expecting company?" Tammy sat up, her blue eyes wide. 

Illya. This was going to be a little awkward but I couldn't stop a smile
breaking out on my face. "It's my partner," I whispered, then called out,
"Just a minute." 

I felt ridiculously pleased to hear those lightly-accented tones. There
was, however, the question of Tammy. But there was no time to do anything
about her and it was hardly an unprecedented situation. 

The hatch was not locked and I heard the scrape as it was opened. Sunshine
streamed in and Illya's legs appeared at the top of the wooden ladder. 

"What kind of time is this to be lollygagging aroundOh! I did not realise
you had company." Stopping halfway down the ladder, he scowled at Tammy,
who pulled the blankets up around herself. I was amused to see her look
him up and down appraisingly. 

"Oooh! Prettycome on down, handsome." 

Obviously dear Tammy was not in the least abashed. Illya ignored the
invitation and continued to glare disapprovingly. Clambering out of the
berth, I pulled on my shorts hastily and greeted him. "Illya! What brings
you to this neck of the woods?" My tone sounded just a little too hearty. 

He completed his descent into the cabin and tucked his flannel shirt back
into his jeans. They were the tight corduroy ones he'd been wearing
recently and which left little to the imagination. I saw Tammy's eyes
widen still more. 

His eyes swept round the cabin and then met mine, coldly. "I came to give
you a hand, but it seems you have company." 

I winked at him and glanced at the hatch, trying to indicate that Tammy
was about to leave, but he stared levelly at me with that burning blue
gaze that turns my legs to jelly, then went over to the galley and started
filling a small pot with water. He turned on the gas and lit it, his stiff
spine telling its own story. 

Of course I was delighted to see him, even though he was now in one of his
moods. The sight of those tight jeans was giving me goosebumps. I buttoned
my shirt, then performed the introductions. "This is my partner, Illya
Kuryakin. You remember me telling you about him, don't you? He's come
toah, help me varnish the deck. IllyaTammy Holden, my sometime crew and .
. ." 

Illya turned round, grudgingly. "Pleased to meet you." He did not look in
the least pleased. 

Tammy smiled. "So you're the Russian guy Napoleon talks about." Her eyes
drifted downwards and she turned back to me. " But Napoleon, you've
neglected to mention a thing or two." Her blue eyes looked anything but
innocent and she patted the berth beside her, invitingly. 

Illya 's face became a picture. It was obvious he had no idea whether to
be flattered or indignant. He appeared to settle for mutinous. 

No, I could not quite see my irascible partner taking kindly to the idea
of a threesome. But his arrival was serendipitous nonetheless. It gave me
the excuse I needed. 

"Tammy, I'm sorry, I lost track of time. Illya's come all the way from New
York to help me varnish the foredeck," I said, trying to look regretful,
but then added, firmly, "We must get to work soon. It has to be dry enough
for a second coat later today." 

Illya folded his arms and raised an eyebrow. He really did look most
endearingly vexed to discover I had company. I could not help but be
gratified. And Illya knew I found those jeans irresistible. Hadn't I told
him so on several occasions in the Yukon recently? I was beginning to feel
better and better. 

Tammy continued to smile sweetly. After a moment she hissed, "Napoleon!" 

"Oh!" I started, dragging my gaze away from my partner's tightly packed
jeans. I'd momentarily forgotten poor Tammy. "I think we should repair to
theah, cockpit." I gestured towards the steps. 

Illya snorted. "Yes, let's do that, Napoleon." He gave Tammy one more hard
stare before skipping nimbly up through the hatch, turning to look back
for a moment so that his tightly encased crotch was at eye level. "The
cockpit it is." 

Suppressing a laugh and playfully batting his delectable behind, I
followed him aloft, closing the hatch behind me to give Tammy some privacy
to get dressed. "Why didn't you let me know you were coming?" I demanded,
when we were out of earshot. 

"So that you could clear the decks of young ladies? Really, Napoleon, I
guess I shouldn't be surprised." 

No, he shouldn't, but I was somewhat embarrassed. "Hardly." But I could
see that Illya was surprisedand still somewhat annoyedat Tammy's presence.
"I was lonely, she was there. You know how it is." I shrugged. 

Illya rolled his eyes. "Yes, I know how it is with you." 

"She's a nice girl, Illya, so try to be pleasant." Despite all that had
happened, I would not have expected Illya to be so jealous. Even now. He
knew my libido and my habits; in fact he'd always seemed rather indulgent
about my roving eye. However, first Jojo and now Tammy had come in for
more than their fair share of Slavic disapproval. 

"If you say so." The expression on Illya's face did not changehe was still
not amused, despite the joke we'd shared. He sat down, still frowning,
moving a tin of yacht varnish. "Well, do you want me to help with the
varnishing or not?" 

Stupid question. "Grab a brush, tovarisch." 

 

My emotions were mixed as I drove back to New York that evening. In some
ways the visit had been a success. After Tammy left, we'd worked hard on
the boat, which was both enjoyable and relaxing. But it seemed no sex was
on offer and I thought better of suggesting it. Presumably Napoleon was
sated from his night with Tammy. But he'd been pleased to see me for sure.
He could hardly get rid of the girl fast enough. I almost felt sorry for
her. Almost, but not quite. 

The niggle at the back of my mind, that Napoleon would turn away from me
in favour of his more conventional tastes, became more of a reality after
seeing Tammy. 

I knew he'd never give up women, and for that matter, neither would I. Our
love was an extension of our working partnership where no promises could
be made. We both knew it had to be that way. 

But I'd loved what we'd built up between usexpressing our love for each
other through sex, yes, but all the other ways as well. I loved being
close to him, part of his life that he just took for granted. He could
turn round and I'd be therejust as happened when we worked together. That
was my ideal and that was what I could now see slipping away, slipping
from my grasp. 

Could we really go back to the way we were before? Could we recapture what
we had? Napoleon still loved me, didn't he? We could work this out,
couldn't we? I tried to convince myself we could. 

Suddenly, I wasn't so sure. 

Perhaps after all it would not be possible. Napoleon saw his 'problem' as
a failure on his part. Failure was anathema to my partner. I knew for a
fact that he would rather stick pins in his eyes than remain in a
situation where he had no hope of succeeding. 

That night on the island I'd tried to make clear to Napoleon that anal sex
did not need to be an issue; that I was willing to forget all about it;
that I was happy with what we'd had before. After all, fucking was simply
one way of expressing our love and if he didn't like itno problem. 

But would he take that on board? Napoleon, who considered himself the
master of seduction and all matters sexual had failed. That was how he saw
it. My innate Russian pessimism made me dubious as to whether his pride
would deal with it. 

The encounter with Tammy had brought home to me that by pinning all my
hopes on getting things back to the way they were was putting all my eggs
in one basketmaybe unwisely. My heart was heavy, but as usual, my mind was
pragmatic. 

Perhaps it would be a good idea to prove to myself and to Napoleon that I
too could keep my options open when it came to bed partners. 

 
Two weeks later, U.N.C.L.E. H.Q: 

"I thought you told me you didn't dance." 

"I don't. That is why Tavia is giving me lessons." 

"A lifetime of lessons?" Sitting at my desk opposite Illya, I was aware of
a petulant squeak in my voice and collected myself, tweaking my cuffs and
twitching my jacket more comfortably onto my shoulders. 

Illya lifted a pile of papers into his 'out' tray and capped his pen. He
looked rather smug. In fact he'd been insufferably smug ever since
redeeming himself so successfully by finally stopping Mozart and his
killer bees. Moreover, he'd somehow charmed that rather pretty Hungarian
girl, Tavia, and seemed uncharacteristically sweet on her. 

So what was planned after the dancing lessons? 

I tried not to analyse my feelings too much, but the truth was, I was
miffed. It wasn't that I wanted Tavia for myselfI'd no doubt that if I
really wanted a date with her I could do itin fact I already had two
tickets for her dancing school. No, she was Illya's girl and what was
more, she wasn't really my typetoo serious and probably a vegetarian. But
all the same . . . 

Illya interrupted my thoughts. "I thought I would take Tavia out after
class. Do you know any vegetarian restaurants?" He stood up and headed
towards the door, picking up his briefcase. 

Damned mind-reader! "Hmm. Perhaps you should ask her." I couldn't help
smiling. "I'd love to be a fly on the wall at this lesson. Do you have any
dancing shoes?" 

Illya had always maintained he didn't dance, but he'd once let slip that
he'd had some ballet training and he was both nimble and musical. It
seemed unlikely that he'd have problems learning the skills of social
dancing. 

"You think I have two left feet, don't you?" Illya looked aggrieved. 

How could I resist a little teasing? "Next time we have to go under cover,
I shall bear in mind your newly acquired skills. Let me see:" I started
counting on my fingers, "convict, bass player, art collector, hairdresser
and now dancer. How about you audition for the part of Sugar Plum Fairy?" 

Illya dropped the briefcase and strode across to lean over the desk,
grabbing my lapels in mock belligerence. 

"Okay, okay. Maybe a Jet in West Side Story." I held up both hands. 

Illya raised an eyebrow, speculatively. "Hmm. Maybe I will borrow your
dancing shoesthose shiny ones." 

"They're a left and a rightUmph!" I flinched as Illya pretended to
head-butt me, but suddenly his mouth was so close to mine that our lips
almost met. My insides begin to melt. Almost a kiss. Illya's face softened
to a momentary tenderness. 

But the moment passed and Illya stood up. "Time to go. " 

"If you want to borrow the shoes stop by my place." Why was I aiding and
abetting him anyway? "Give Tavia my regards." 

"I shall give Tavia your regrets." 

I watched him go. My partner was lobbing my own behaviour back at me. I
had some hard thinking to do. 

 

Illya did not stop by on his way to Tavia Sandor's dancing school, but
just before I was about to retire for the night, I heard him give his
coded signal knock and let himself into the apartment. 

"Good. You're still up. Do you have any of that Glenfiddich left?" Illya
looked tired and slightly dishevelled, his bow tie loose around his neck.
He went over to his customary chair and pulled off his shoes with a groan.
"I should have borrowed your dancing shoes. I swear these are about worn
through." He turned one upside-down and inspected the sole, then dropped
it on the floor with a clatter and pulled the coffee table close, putting
his feet up on it and wiggling his toes, an expression of bliss on his
face. "Ahthat's better." 

One of his black socks had a hole in it. 

I couldn't keep the amusement out of my voice. "You seem to have worn out
your socks at any rate." I handed him a large belt of whisky from the
decanter." 

He knocked it back, Russian style and held out his glass again. I did not
refill it. Good single malt whisky was for savouring. If he just wanted to
get drunk he could drink the cheap stuff. I told him so. His expression
turned sorrowful. "Napoleon, if you had just been through what I have . .
." 

"I have no need of dancing lessons. I would have politely declined and
taken her to dinner instead." 

He looked pained. "It seemed churlish to decline. But Napoleonshe had
invited all her friends to the class." 

That sounded like a dream scenario, although I could see why Illya would
find it trying. And since when had he worried about seeming churlish? I
raised my eyebrows in question. 

" They were all womenI had to partner them all, one after the other." He
lifted one of his feetthe one with the hole in the sockand massaged it. 

"Sounds wonderfuldancing the night away with a roomful of beautiful women.
Reminds me of that fairy talethe Twelve Dancing Princesses. They wore out
their shoes too." No wonder he was complaining. Socialising on that scale
was not Illya's forte. 

"Hmph." He turned his massaging attention to his stomach and burped
extravagantly. "Sorryit's the beans. And they were not beautiful.
Certainly no princesses." 

"I take it you found a vegetarian restaurant?" I relented and poured him
some more whisky. I poured one for myself and sat down on the sofa. 

"Thank you. YesI don't recommend it. The food washow can I put itrobust,
although after all that dancing I was ready to eat anything." He made a
face and sipped the whisky. "That's better." Leaning back in the chair, he
closed his eyes and burped again. 

At least he felt at home. "Make yourself at home, why don't you?" My tone
was sarcastic, but it felt right to have him back here. I realised I'd
missed his company at home, irascible though it could sometimes be. Missed
it a lot. 

But there was nothing irascible about Illya tonight. We sat in comfortable
silence until I realised that he'd fallen asleep and his glass was in
imminent danger of tumbling onto the floor. I went across and gently
removed it from his limp hand. He stirred and opened his eyes, staring
blankly for a moment as if trying to remember where he was. 

It was time to take him to bed. Back where he belonged. "Come on." I
started to heave him out of the chair. "Bed time." 

He allowed himself to be heaved. "May I stay?" 

Did he have to ask? "Do you think I'd send you out in with holes in your
socks?" 

 

I lay still, letting Napoleon sleep on the next morning. We were both
naked, the bedclothes were on the floor and my head was on Napoleon's
chest, once more listening to the comfortable beat of his heart. Last
night we had made love again for the first time in several weeks.
Actually, Napoleon had made love to meI'd been almost passive. It seemed
to be what he wanted, and I was happy to give him exactly what he wanted
right now. Tired as I was, it was wonderful to lie back and allow my
partner to do what he did best. 

And I have to admit Napoleon was a master. He played me like a
finely-tuned musical instrument, bringing me to the brink again and again
until I'd begged for release. Only when I was almost weeping with need did
he pull me into his lap and allow me to come, timing his own orgasm to
almost coincide, so that our juices mingled and we collapsed back onto the
pillows in an exhausted heap, falling into sleep and remaining tangled
together until morning. 

In other words, it was back to business as usual. 

What had happened? What had suddenly changed? 

Napoleon stirred and I rolled off, kissing him on the forehead. "Morning."


His arms reached out and pulled me back. "Coldcome here and keep me warm."


"Wait a minute." I retrieved the tangled bedclothes from the floor and
pulled them roughly over the pair of us, then I snuggled back into the
crook of his arm and sighed with pleasure, "That's better." 

"You made a mess of my bed." 

"Mmm. I think that was you, actually." 

We lay in silence a few minutes and he stroked my hair, the way he often
did. "Did you sleep with Tavia?" he asked, suddenly. 

The question took me by surprise. I'd quite forgotten Tavia and last
night. Was he jealous? He had no need to be, and indeed no right to be,
since he must have slept with at least two girls since we'd last had sex
together. I noticed that his heart had speeded up as he asked the
question. I lifted my head so that I was looking up at him. 

"No, but I would have." If it sounded challenging, he meant it to be. 

"Good." 

Good? I'd not been expecting that reaction either. I raised my eyebrows,
watching his face. Something had changed. Napoleon seemed to have his
confidence back. Was that was a good sign? I scrambled to a sitting
position beside him and leaned back against the headboard, drawing my
knees up. "Are you trying to tell me something?" 

"Sort of." Napoleon heaved himself up and sat beside me. He didn't meet my
eyes but stared into the middle distance. "I love you, you know that,
don't you?" 

My heart thudded. "Yes." What was coming next? It seemed Napoleon had
reached a decision and I was a little afraid of the answer. 

"And you love me, don't you?" 

I swallowed a lump in my throat. "Yes." His face was too serious. "Get to
the point, Napoleon. I've told you before, I'm not one of your women who
has to be treated gently." 

He appeared to ignore the protest. "And we're a great teamin everything we
do together?" Emphasis on the word, 'everything'. 

I nodded assent. The best. Please don't let this be Napoleon's way of
telling me he'd rather keep his sex-life conventional. I thought of Jojo
and Tammy and their predecessors. Could Napoleon really prefer to keep his
sex life on such a casual basis, separate from his emotional one? 

He turned towards me. I tried to meet his gaze, but trepidation led me to
drop my eyes and stare down at the rumpled bedclothes. 

"We know each other so well. Even our secretswell some of them," he
continued. 

It was trueNapoleon knew about the worst moments of my life. Being able to
share those moments was something I'd once never have contemplated. But
sharing them had been one of the best things I'd ever done because it led
directly to my giving my heart to this man. It was a very long time since
I'd given my heart to anyone and I thought it unlikely I'd do so again. 

He'd also shared something traumatic that had happened to him. Did anyone
else know? I suspected notor at least not the whole story. Napoleon was a
master at clever evasion and there was still a lot that even I didn't know
about him. 

Such as whether sex with me measured up to sex with women. 

I wasn't sure I wanted to know the answer to that. Instead I answered
Napoleon's question. "Some of them," I agreed, guardedly, picking at a
bobble of fluff on the blanket. 

Napoleon continued. "When we make love, it's like when we work
togetherwe're in synch like a well-oiled machine. We can be rough or
gentle, fast or slow, serious or hilarious, it doesn't matter. What does
matter to me, and I think to you as wellcorrect me if I'm wrong of
courseis that we're partners, equal partners." 

I looked up and saw that Napoleon was smiling, but his eyes were anxious
as if they mirrored what I felt inside. I tried to smile too but it
wouldn't come. "NapoleonI don't know where all this is leading, but I want
to say that I feel,"I groped for a suitable word but could only come up
with a mundane one"happier here with you than I have anywhere." I released
the bobble of fluff and started work on a new one. "Yes, I would have had
sex with Tavia; yes, I know you had sex with Tammy and Jojo and all the
others, but I don't mindit's not the same." 

"No, it's not the same, and that's my point," Napoleon agreed, taking hold
of my hand, removing it from the blanket, pushing the blanket away,
"You're specialeven when you pick holes in my bedclothes." 

A thud of my heart. Was Napoleon saying he wanted us to be together after
all? Or was this the gentle let down? "Sorry," was all I could manage. 

"And when we make love, it's not the same either. What we do together is
special to us and is different." 

I could identify with this. It mirrored my own feelings exactly. 

He went on, "I want it to remain different. The yin and yang thing is for
men and womenyou know what I mean. Men need to spar, to wrestle, to . . ."


"Sword play?" I grinned, beginning to like where the conversation was
leading. 

He still had hold of my hand. Now he placed it in his lap and I felt with
pleasure the hardening erection there. "Yeahsword-playthat sort of thing."


Arousal coursed through me. My own penis began to stir and I looked down
at it in fascination. Napoleon could have that effect on me with a single
touch. I closed my eyes, savouring the moment. 

I felt Napoleon take hold of my eager cock, stroking it gently. "For me,
this is the way I enjoy making love with you, being on equal terms, man to
man, so to speak." 

I opened my eyes. Napoleon was smiling at me. He continued. "I'm not going
to say it's better or worse than sex with a woman because it's entirely
different. I don't know if you've ever loved a woman, but I have and I
know it's different." 

It was certainly different. An understatement. "What do you mean?" I was
not sure whether I should be flattered or not. I fondled Napoleon's balls
with my left hand, gently fingering the now hard cock with the other. 

Napoleon went on, "With a woman I feel protective, in control, dominant if
you like . . ." 

I'd give him dominant! I gripped the cock in my hand hard until he yelped.
I knew how he was around women. It was not the way I wanted him to be
around me. Not at all. "I've told you never to treat me like one of your
women," I agreed. I loosened my grip a little and ran a thumb over the
head of his penis. 

He hissed appreciatively, then became serious. "Neither of us should play
the woman. It's a whole different ballgame with us." He shuffled himself
closer so that our hips were touching. 

I couldn't contain a chuckle at the unwitting pun. The sense of relief was
overwhelming and I liked Napoleon's reasoning. "It certainly is." I felt
the cock in my hand twitch as he got the joke. 

"I prefer it like this." It was true. I wanted to be with him whatever. 

"Do you?" His face went serious again. "Do you really?" 

I knew he was referring to the time we had fucked. I could answer
honestly, "Yes I do." 

And I did. I preferred to have Napoleon, if not entirely to myself in my
own special way. I didn't want something as trivial as distaste for a
certain form of sex to come between us. What we had was deeper than that. 

He kissed me briefly. "I've decided to go and see Fletcher." Fletcher was
the most senior of the U.N.C.L.E. shrinks. "It's not professional to
ignore something that Thrush could take advantage of." 

At least some good had come out of this. I smiled. "As long as you don't
tell him the real reason." 

But his face remained serious. "That is the real reason. What we do
together is ours, Illya. Let's keep it that way between us." 

"Yes let's." The relief continued to wash over me. Napoleon had come to
terms with his problem in his own way, rationalised it and found a
solution. If, as a spin-off, he could be cured of his phobia, well and
good. 

"I see you've thought through the ins and outs of it," I added, my heart
light. 

Napoleon grabbed my hips and pulled the two of us together. "Mmm. And
despite the ups and downs we've had . . ." He thrust his hips playfully. 

"We'll stick with the ballgames?" I thrust back hard. 

"And we'll leave the yin and yang thing to the ladies?" 

We rolled over on the bed, locked together. We kissed, and as our tongues
sparred and our cocks thrust head to head, we both knew that for now it
was going to be all right. 

 

Much later, showered, shaved and wearing the maroon jacket that I kept in
Napoleon's wardrobe along with my dress trousers and one of his many white
shirts and black ties, I carried my bowl of Cornflakes into the living
room so that I could eat them sitting in my favourite chair. As I sat
there, munching away, I recalled last night and Napoleon telling me to
make myself at home. 

At home. Part of the furniture. Napoleon's furniture. 

I had what I wanted. Actually, I was more than just part of the furniture
now. Napoleon loved mehe had told me so several times. I intended to be a
fixturesomething permanent in my partner's life. Well, as permanent as
anything could be in the life of an U.N.C.L.E agent. I smiled to myself
and scraped the last few Cornflakes from the bowl. 

 

I found Illya sitting in his accustomed chair. I had brought two cups of
black coffee with me and gave one to him, and then sat down on the sofa,
switching on the radio to a news station. "Better find out what's going on
in the big wide world." 

We listened in silence for a few moments, drinking our coffee. It was a
war correspondent from Saigon reporting on 'Operation Birmingham'. 

"The war continues," he remarked. 

"And I daresay Thrush has something up its sleeve to continue as well.
Drink up." I stood. "The big wide world awaits." 

"Just a moment." He remained seated in the chair. "Notice anything out of
the ordinary?" His blue eyes were wide and innocent. 

I looked at him closely. Nothing seemed to have changed. "Nope. You still
need a haircut, you have a self-satisfied expression and you're wearing my
shirt. Business as usual, tovarisch." 

"Good." 

What was my enigmatic partner getting at? "Why'd you ask?" 

He shrugged. "Oh, no reason. I wanted to be sure of my place." 

His place was at my side. Right here. "Your placein that chair?" I
couldn't help laughing. "So I never get to sit in my own chair these
days." 

"Just think of me as part of the furniture." The wide blue eyes blinked. 

Adorable Russian. I pulled him up out of the chair and hugged him. "Part
of the furniture, huh? I think you're a little more than that, partner
mine. Why else would I put up with you eating all my cereal, drinking my
good Scotch like it was cheap vodka and causing my bed to look like an
earthquake just hit?" 

"I told you, that was you." 

"We did it together." I kissed him on the lips, "like everything else," I
added when we broke the kiss. "And now, let's go and do the other thing we
do bestsave the big wide world from Thrush."  


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