Illya shivered, pulling the lapels of his overcoat closer around him as a thick snow started to fall. Typical weather for New York this time of year, but the cold dreariness of it did nothing to ease his dark mood.

He shivered again as he waited at the curb, watching the street, trying to ignore the blare of jazz music coming from inside the club behind him and the curious glances that passersby, both black and white, were giving him. And trying not to wince at every blast of icy snow. His face was really starting to hurt now; his jaw ached and his eye was already starting to swell up.

He found himself thinking about other miserable moments in his life. When he'd been a boy of seven and the Nazis had invaded Kiev. When, first inducted into the Russian Navy, he'd been laid low with an embarrassing bout of seasickness. When, as a field agent for U.N.C.L.E., he'd been captured and tortured by the sadistic Miss Diketon.

But none of those times seemed as miserable as now.

Someone inside the club was singing an old Billie Holiday song in a clear, sweet voice.

I'm in a lowdown groove
From carrying a torch for you
Oh, what a lowdown groove
Really don't know what to do...

My heart has no sense of humor
Dear, as far as you're concerned
It's more than a Winchell rumor
This time I really got burned...

Snowflakes stuck to his eyelashes, and he blinked them away angrily. Looking down the street again, he wished Napoleon would hurry up and at the same time, wished he would never come.

Napoleon. Guvno, what the hell was Illya going to say to him?

He hadn't told Napoleon the whole story on the communicator, of course - just Napoleon, I'm in Harlem, Jungle Alley on 133rd Street, I've been mugged, my wallet was stolen and I have no money for the subway or a cab, can you come and pick me up to take me home? But Illya knew his partner would want to know details when he arrived.

For Pete's sake, Illya, how does a trained U.N.C.L.E. agent get mugged by some street thug?

Well, Illya thought at his imaginary partner, it was not exactly like that, Napoleon. You see, this was not a street thug but a young man that I picked up and offered money to in exchange for sex. And when we arrived at his place and I started to undress - that's when he caught me off my guard.

Would Napoleon be shocked? Disgusted? Probably.

A hooker? You picked up a male hooker? You mean you're queer?

Yes, Napoleon, Illya thought, imagining himself bravely facing his partner's revulsion. I'm queer.

He wondered what Napoleon would say to that. He'd probably be angry.

All right, so you're queer, but what the hell possessed you to be so stupid as to pick up a hooker, Illya? Risking your career and your physical well-being, not to mention your bank balance, with a prostitute when there are so many gay bars around where you can get it for free?

And what would Illya say?

Well, Napoleon, you see, I don't like regular sex. I like a perverted kind. And there aren't many men who are willing to do that without being paid...

No, Illya didn't think he'd tell his partner that.

But what would he tell him?

His morose speculations abruptly ended when he saw Napoleon's sleek black GTO approach, headlights cutting a swath through the snowy darkness. The car skidded wetly to the curb and Napoleon jumped out.

"Are you all right?" the American demanded without preamble.

Under other circumstances, Illya might've been amused by his partner's dishabille. Solo's hair was mussed, his face was unshaven, and he was wearing a pajama top instead of a shirt - quite a change for someone who was usually impeccably groomed.

"I'm fine," Illya said, his voice coming out a bit brusque, although he hadn't intended it that way.

Napoleon relaxed a little at that, although he was still frowning. "Looks like you have the beginnings of a real shiner," he said, and reaching up, touched Illya's eye gently. Illya grimaced and turned his face away.

"I...he hit me a few times," he mumbled. "But it looks worse than it is."

Napoleon's eyes narrowed. Then he said flatly, "Okay, let's go get the bastard. He can't have gotten far."

Illya blinked; he hadn't been expecting this. He shook his head. "Please, Napoleon...let's just get out of here, all right?"

Napoleon stared at him. "Illya - this man took your wallet. Don't you want it back? I can understand your not wanting to report it to Waverly, but at the very least, we should call the police."

"No! No police." Illya's voice lowered to a whisper. "Please. Just take me home."

Napoleon looked at him in silence a few more seconds. Finally, however, he seemed to decide that pursuit of the matter, especially in the midst of what could be an incipient blizzard, would be fruitless. "All right, get in."

Quickly Illya climbed into the passenger side of the GTO.

Within seconds they were moving.

"So," Napoleon said, his voice nearly expressionless, "what aren't you telling me?"

Illya stared out the car window at the fast-falling snowflakes. He would have to tell Solo at least some of the truth, he realized, or his partner would probably once again insist on reporting the mugging.

"The man...the man who knocked me down and then robbed me...he was a hooker," he said. "A man that I picked up at a club and offered to pay for sex. When we went to his room and I started to...to get undressed, that's when he attacked me."

Napoleon, Illya noticed out of the corner of his eye, didn't look shocked or repulsed, as Illya's imaginary Solo had been. He didn't even look angry. He seemed more worried than anything.

"Okay, I can see why you don't want to report this to the police, but what's wrong with us going after him? It sounds like he needs to be taught a lesson. What was his name?"

"I don't know. He told me it was Gerald, but it could have been anything. Hookers seldom tell customers their real names, you know."

He half-expected Solo to say No, I don't know, I'm not as well-acquainted with hookers as you are, but he didn't. "So what's the joker's address? The room he took you to."

"I'm not going to tell you," Illya said. If Napoleon found the hustler, what might the man blurt out to him? What might the man tell him about what Illya had asked him for, in a cautious undertone, in the back of that club? "Besides, I suspect it was not his legal residence, just a room he rented especially for the occasion."

Solo didn't push it. "How about a description?"

"I didn't really see him that well-"

"Just a description. That's all."

Illya gave in. "Tall, slender, Caucasian but heavily tanned - probably a bottle tan. He had black hair and dark eyes..." His voice trailed off as he realized, with some horror, that that could have been a description of Napoleon.

Solo, however, didn't seem to notice, to Illya's relief. "What did he get?" he asked.

"Just my wallet, with my credit cards and...some cash. Not much. And my driver's license. Not...not anything of any consequence, at least, not monetary consequence." Illya felt an inner pang as he spoke that last, thinking of an old black-and-white photograph he'd carried in his wallet - a photo of his mother and father from before the Great Patriotic War. Well, what was a picture, after all? What was any possession, really? When one died they were all left behind for strangers, strangers to whom they would have no meaning even as interesting mementoes from the past.

"He didn't steal your apartment or car keys? Or your gun?"

"I didn't take my gun with me. And no, I told you, all he took was my wallet."

"Well, good. At least credit cards and a driver's license can be replaced fairly easily. We'll call the DMV and the credit card companies on Monday." After a beat or two he added, "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Positive. He wanted only to incapacitate me enough to rob me, Napoleon, not to cause any real damage."

"Well, thank God it wasn't any worse," Solo said. "We're lucky he wasn't a rapist or a thrill killer."

We're lucky, Illya thought. Not Illya was lucky, but we. He felt an unexpected warmth fill him at the unspoken but obvious pronouncement behind the comment: You and I are partners. Whatever happens to one of us, happens to both of us.

"It's good you didn't have your gun either," Solo added. "He might've shot you with it."

"Not likely. He was just a common mugger."

"A little uncommon, I'd say, if he could catch a trained U.N.C.L.E. agent unawares."

"I was incredibly stupid."

"He caught you unprepared. That was a little shortsighted, perhaps, but not stupid. You weren't on duty."

"I turned my back on him. That was foolhardy and asinine." Illya caged a glance at his partner. "You don't seem surprised."

Napoleon shot him a look. "What? That you were taken unawares by a civilian?"

"I mean about my being gay."

"Oh. That." A faint smile. "Ah, I suppose I'd have to say I'm a little surprised, after Marion Raven and Alice Baldwin. But I'm not shocked, if that's what you mean." He shrugged. "It's certainly no big deal to me. I've tried it on the other side of the street a few times myself."

Illya was a little taken aback by the unexpected revelation, but, he realized, not a lot. Someone who loved sex as much as Napoleon did would doubtless have tried some variations in his time. "But not for a while, I would wager," he ventured.

"No, not since Korea. But I quit out of expediency, because I was going into the spy business - not out of choice." Napoleon was once again gazing at the snowy street. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"I...don't know." Illya swallowed. That was a lie, he did know: he hadn't wanted Napoleon to know about his sexuality because if he did, he might find out Illya's other secret too.

"Well, I can see how it's not something that would exactly come up in casual conversation," Napoleon said. "But still, a man should know these things about his partner - especially if he has a habit of picking up rent boys." No judgment in his voice; he was just making an observation.

"I'm sorry." The words sounded lame, inadequate.

Napoleon flashed one of his toothpaste-ad smiles. "No problem," he said. "As you might have guessed, I haven't told you everything about my sex life either."

"Thank the fates," Illya said dryly. Then, abruptly, he noticed they were driving through Central Park, and looked at his partner sharply. "Napoleon, this isn't the way to my apartment."

"I know. You're coming to mine."

"I'm not in need of coddling."

"I'm not coddling you. This is a safety precaution, just for tonight. This bastard has your driver's license, which means he knows where you live. It just might occur to him to come to your place and try something."

Illya's jaw was clenched so tightly he could hardly get the words out. "My apartment has alarms, Napoleon. And I can usually take care of myself."

"I know, but humor me, okay?" Napoleon said. Teasing him now. "Partners worry. We're like mothers."

"Dammit, Napoleon, take me home now!"

"No." A flat, stark refusal. And Illya, with no cab fare or tokens for the subway, was helpless.

He sat there stiffly, fists knotted with fury at his own impotence...but knowing further argument would be useless.

Solo unlocked the door to his apartment, then, with an airy gesture, ushered Illya inside. Illya, tight-lipped and silent, walked in.

"You want to sleep with me, or on the couch?" Napoleon asked. It was not an unusual question; most men, when sleeping in the same apartment with another man, would automatically take the couch, but Illya and Napoleon had shared so many beds in their varied travels around the globe that sleeping together was something neither of them thought twice about anymore.

Still, Illya hesitated. Yes, they had shared beds in the past, but tonight was different. Tonight - now that Solo had learned his partner liked men - it would seem...too intimate somehow. "I'll take the couch."

Napoleon smiled as he went to his kitchen. Ran some water in a kettle and put it on the stove to boil. "That's not very flattering," he said, again lightly teasing. "That you prefer a narrow couch to my charming company."

"I apologize for not feeding your already obese ego," Illya said sarcastically. "Although if your offer was a lame attempt on your part to show me that you feel safe in the same bed with me, I suppose I should thank you."

He regretted the words as soon as they came out. After all, Napoleon had left a warm bed and gone out into a snowstorm to rescue his partner, a partner who had been moronic enough to allow himself to get mugged by a common hooker - he deserved better than this. "Sorry," he mumbled.

Napoleon shrugged. "You've had a rough evening," he said. The water was boiling, and he poured from the kettle into a teapot. "Why don't you go clean yourself up while the tea steeps," he suggested.

Illya, grateful to have something to do to occupy himself, nodded and walked into Napoleon's beautiful black-and-white tiled bathroom.

His face certainly did look a bit in need of repair, he thought, gazing at his reflection in the mirror. The swelling under his eye was fast becoming a dark bruise, and his lip had been cut, if not very noticeably. Once again, he wondered why he had been such a fool as to approach that damnable whore in the first place. He should have smelled trouble. Some spy.

He splashed water on his face, dried it on one of Napoleon's pristine white towels. For a few seconds he wondered if he should throw the towel in the hamper after one use, or not. Having spent much of his early life in an orphanage before he had been rescued by Soviet authorities who had learned his IQ test scores, the social niceties were occasionally beyond him. The hell with it, he thought finally, and returned the towel to its place on the rack, carefully refolding it first. His thrifty nature could not tolerate the thought of throwing a towel into a hamper after only one use, decorum be damned.

He walked back into the living room, where Napoleon handed him a mug of tea before sitting on the divan with his own tea mug. Illya, after a moment's hesitation, sat down next to him; to avoid close contact with his partner would be a bit too rude, even for him.

"So...what happened?" Napoleon asked.

"What happened?" Illya countered, taking a sip of the hot tea. Stalling.

"Yeah. Tonight," Napoleon said, unrelenting. "What happened. I want some details."

Illya sipped more tea. "There aren't many details to tell, beyond what I mentioned earlier." That was true, he thought silently; he had told Napoleon everything that had happened, leaving out only the reason why he'd gone to a hooker in the first place. "I went to Harlem - I go there occasionally for a change from the Village clubs, also because too many people know me in the Village, and Harlem has quite a number of gay clubs and bars - and picked up a male prostitute. He took me to a room, I started to take off my clothes and, when my back was to him, he...knocked me down. Incapacitated me with a few kicks and punches - obviously he was a street fighter who was used to playing it fast and dirty - then took my wallet. Then, before I could stop him, he departed. I chased after him, but he had already vanished. I called you and that was it."

"So where's this room he took you to?" Napoleon asked the question casually, as if he hadn't already asked and Illya hadn't already refused to answer.

"I told you, I would rather not say." He could be cool himself.

"You don't want your wallet back?"

"No, I don't," Illya snapped. "And I don't want to talk about this any further either. Dammit, Napoleon...can't you see how embarrassing this is?"

"You were beaten and robbed. Not a rare occurrence in New York. I don't see where the embarrassment comes in."

"You don't," Illya said sarcastically. "Even though this was a hooker which I had hired to...service me."

"You think I've never paid for it?" A hint of a smile.

"But not from a man."

"Man, woman, what's the difference? You were beaten and you were robbed." His voice took on a quiet tone, once again. "And I don't want this bastard to get away with it."

"Well, there is nothing you can do about it. Because I do not know who he was nor do I expect I will find out any time in the near future. He could have even been from out of town, he wasn't familiar to me."

"Okay, how about just telling me the name of the club where you met him?" Napoleon asked, coaxing now.

"Napoleon...what part of 'I don't want to talk about it' don't you understand?" Illya demanded icily. He stood up, putting his tea down on the coffee table. "I thank you for your rescue, which was well-executed as always, but it is late, and I would really like to go to sleep now. And if you don't mind, you're sitting on my bed."

Napoleon sighed and, setting down his own tea, stood up from the couch. "All right," he said. "Sweet dreams." He reached up and, to Illya's surprise, touched his shoulder lightly. Gave it a squeeze. "Help yourself to anything you need. I'll see you in the morning."

He headed for his bedroom, and Illya watched him.

Feeling longing...yearning...wash over him so intensely it was painful.

Methodically, he started to pull off his clothes.

But he lay awake for a while, staring through Napoleon's open bedroom door. It was dark, but he could just make out a black shape in Napoleon's bed, a black shape that didn't move.

Napoleon...

He remembered, when in Terbuf several years before, saying to someone who had commented on Solo's love for Clara Valdar: You will allow my friend the luxury of an occasional weakness. Well, Illya, unfortunately, had his weakness too. And his weakness was Napoleon Solo.

Not that he dared call his feelings for his partner by their right name, even in the privacy of his thoughts. The L-word was poison for a spy - most certainly for a spy who was also a pervert. But without being overtly sentimental, Illya had to admit that Napoleon's friendship was the most precious thing in his life. He had had many losses in his life, but he knew his limitations. He could never bear to lose the friendship that had become as much a part of him as breathing.

At least, he thought, his partner hadn't seemed repulsed by the revelation that Illya was gay, nor by the fact that Illya had gone to a whore. And as long as Solo never learned the entire truth...their friendship should be safe.

Illya sighed and turned onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. Wondering, not for the first time, why he couldn't be...normal. Why he couldn't be content with a normal sex life, a normal life.

Finally, calling upon all his discipline as an U.N.C.L.E. agent, he commanded his mind to empty itself of all thoughts. To sleep.

Eventually he did.

Sun stabbed his eyelids, a lancing pain.

Illya jolted awake abruptly.

Sunlight was flooding through the windows.

Guvno!  He never slept this late. He always awoke when it was still dark.

Moving off the couch, accidentally barking a shin on the damnable coffee table in his still half-groggy state, he reached for his pants. He had to get out of here before Napoleon woke up; he didn't want to field any further questions about the mugging or his unconventional sex life. Yes, it was four miles to his apartment in the Village, but he could walk it. At least it was no longer snowing...

The bathroom door opened and Napoleon, casually dressed in khaki pants and a polo shirt, walked into the living room. "Good morning."

Silently Illya cursed, even as he looked up at his partner with, he hoped, an unreadably bland expression.

"The bathroom's all yours," the American said with one of his easy smiles. "I'll start breakfast. Eggs and toast okay?"

Illya nodded. "Yes, fine," he mumbled, and, fumbling to gather his clothes, walked into the bathroom.

The hot shower felt good on his bruised flesh. Hot water, lots of it, was one of the more pleasant aspects of living in a decadent capitalist society. He stayed in the shower until he started to feel guilty - even though he knew Napoleon didn't pay for hot water, it came with his rent, he still felt guilty using so much of it - and reluctantly turned the faucet to off. Dried himself on one of Napoleon's large fluffy white towels and then picked up the shorts he'd worn last night...

As if on cue, a knock sounded on the door. "Are you decent?" Napoleon asked.

"Am I ever?" Illya countered.

"Ah...allow me to rephrase. I brought you some clean clothes to wear - maybe they won't fit exactly, but at least they'll keep you from thrilling the neighbors. Can I come in or would you rather I just leave them here by the door?"

Thinking that Illya cared at all about modesty. Which he generally did not, but still, Illya found himself appreciating his partner's consideration for his feelings just then. "You can come in," he said.

Napoleon walked into the bathroom, his eyes dropping down for a second to take in his partner's nude body with a quick glance before moving back up to Illya's face. "Shirt, pants, shorts, socks," he said, handing him a folded bundle. "You'll probably have to roll the pants up quite a bit, but I trust you're used to that."

"Ot'yebis," Illya said icily - Russian for fuck off.

Napoleon grinned. "Tut, I would've expected a phrase more imaginative from a man with a doctorate in dead languages. Come out when you're dressed. The eggs are almost ready." He left.

Illya followed a few minutes later, wearing Napoleon's long-sleeved white jersey and a pair of white drawstring pants which Napoleon wore for boating (and his partner had been right - Illya had been forced to roll the cuffs). The feel, and smell, of Napoleon's clothes against his skin gave him an intimate feeling that was unsettling but, he had to admit, pleasant too. It was almost like being enfolded in Napoleon's arms.

Well, enjoy it, he thought cynically to himself. This is most assuredly the closest you will ever get to Napoleon Solo - even if he really has, as he so eloquently put it, tried it on both sides of the street.

He sat down at the small kitchen table and, pouring himself a mug of coffee, took a sip. It was strong and satisfying. Napoleon always did make good coffee; one of the many ways in which he made a good partner.

"Paper says Nixon will probably get the Republican nomination," Napoleon said, pouring his own coffee and doctoring it with cream. "Can you believe it? Who in their right mind would vote for him? Not that it's not pretty likely Bobby Kennedy will win the election this fall, if he can get the Democratic nomination away from Johnson, that is."

"You think so?" Illya said, trying to sound intelligent. He could never get used to American politics. One politician seemed, to him, much like another, spouting the same rehearsed lies with a most annoying repetition, so what was the point of voting? But Americans seemed very passionate about it.

Solo shrugged. "After the way Jack Kennedy has been deified since his assassination? There's no way his brother won't win the election, competent or not." He sipped coffee, then took a bite of toast. "Not that I'm not going to vote for him - I'd vote for anyone who ran against Nixon. But it's sad that so many people are going to vote for him just because they think he can restore Camelot - which never existed in the first place."

Illya helped himself to Napoleon's eggs; they were quite good. Napoleon always added a little milk to them, as well as a few spices, which made them much tastier than the eggs the luncheonette near Illya's apartment served. "John Kennedy did do quite a bit for civil rights," he said.

"He promised to," Napoleon corrected. "It was actually Johnson who pushed through a lot of those reforms, like the Civil Rights Act of 1964." He watched Illya eat. "How's your jaw today?"

Illya shrugged.

"It looks swollen. Of course, your eye will have to take the grand prize. I don't think I've ever seen those colors before, even on you."

"Very funny."

"Maybe I should take you around to Medical, get you looked at," Napoleon said after a moment. "Even though it's Sunday, there should be at least one doctor there."

"I don't need to be 'looked at,'" Illya said, a little stiffly. "Really, Napoleon. I'm not made of glass, you know."

"No, I know you're not. All right, it's up to you." Napoleon took another sip of coffee. "But I still think we should go after the man who did this."

"And I told you, I do not wish to," Illya snapped. "Dammit, I never should've called you. I should have just walked home last night."

"No, you shouldn't. Because even if we ignore the fact that it's seven or eight miles from Harlem to Greenwich Village, if you hadn't called me when you needed me I would've reamed your ass."

"You wouldn't have known."

"Of course I wouldn't. Looking at your face, I would've naturally assumed you ran into a door."

"Napoleon - please, just drop it, all right? I just want to forget about it."

Napoleon nodded. "All right, consider the topic of mugger pursuit dropped," he said agreeably. "Have some toast."

Illya spread some jam on a slice of toast and took a bite, trying not to wince as the chewing aggravated his sore jaw. Napoleon watched him, still sipping coffee.

"Why do you do it?" he asked. "Go to hookers."

Illya kept his face blank - he hoped. Here it was, the question he'd been dreading. "I believe the answer is fairly obvious."

"I don't mean that. I mean - why do you pay for it? A man who looks like you could have anyone he wanted."

Illya dropped his eyes, silently wishing that he had awakened a little bit earlier that morning, to leave before Solo had woken up. Because he really did not want to lie. Rather amusing, that - that a spy, a trained and professional liar, could still have some scruples about lying to his partner...but he did.

"It's...easier to pay for it," he said.

"You mean no emotional entanglements?" Solo guessed.

"Yes...in part."

"In part?"

"I suppose it would be futile for me to tell you this is none of your business."

"I suppose it would be. When my partner gets beaten up and robbed, it becomes my business."

Illya stood up from the table. "Our being partners does not give you the right to pry into my personal life."

"Perhaps not," Napoleon agreed. "But your risking your career at U.N.C.L.E. does."

"I wasn't-"

"Don't tell me you weren't. You know damned well what would happen if you were arrested for solicitation. Mr. Waverly wouldn't care, he's certainly turned a blind eye to my peccadillos often enough, but your friends back in the Kremlin would order you back to Russia before you could blink. I doubt if you'd be sent to a labor camp - Khrushchev is more humane than Stalin was, and in any case your family's too important for that. But you would probably be banished to some Mickey Mouse desk job in Siberia or someplace."

Illya realized that was probably true. Mr. Waverly wanted to have a Russian agent working in U.N.C.L.E.'s New York office - the idea of Russians and Americans working together for world peace appealed to his sentimental-grandmother streak - and he was tolerant by nature, despite having been born in Boston. But the Soviet government would not be tolerant if one of their own was arrested in a foreign country for illicit off-duty activities. If caught he would most certainly be recalled, most likely never allowed to return to the U.S. He would never see Napoleon again...

Swiftly he put a lid on those thoughts. He had not been caught in Paris when he had attended the Sorbonne, nor had he been caught in London, the years he had worked in U.N.C.L.E. there and attended Cambridge. He would not be caught now either.

"I consider the risk of discovery a small one. And I see little alternative other than celibacy." He'd meant the latter to come out sounding sarcastic but, somehow, the words came out sounding sadly resigned instead.

Napoleon looked down at his coffee, then back up at Illya. "You could only go with men you know," he said, his tone mild, but with a hint of pleading in it. "Men you can trust. Not hookers, just respectable private citizens."

Illya didn't feel like explaining that a respectable private citizen would not be very interested in performing the particular sexual act he wanted. "I don't wish to do things that way," he said.

"Why not? I'm sure there are a lot of good-looking men out there who would want to date you, even if you weren't paying them."

Illya struggled to keep his temper. "Take it from me, Napoleon, that is not necessarily true. However, since it worries you, I will try to cut down on hookers. How is that?"

"Well - that'd be one solution," Napoleon said. He set down his coffee and stood up. "Another is you could just call me."

Illya blinked, not comprehending. "Call you?"

"Yes. Call me. You know, where you pick up a phone and dial? A nice, risk-free solution - no chance of being arrested, no danger of being mugged."

Illya stared at him. Am I dreaming? "You're not serious."

Napoleon's eyes held Illya's steadily. "I'm completely serious. I'm bisexual, you're gay, so what's the big deal? And the truth is, I find you very attractive. I have for a long time."

Illya felt his heart pound. He wasn't dreaming; this was really happening. Napoleon was actually suggesting that...

That they be together. Lovers.

For one blissful second Illya allowed himself to imagine it. Imagined being Napoleon Solo's lover.

But he knew it was hopeless, even as a daydream.

"That isn't possible."

"Why not? I don't appeal to you?"

"You know that isn't it."

"Then what is it?"

Illya looked away. But he owed Napoleon the truth; he couldn't let him think that he didn't find him desirable. "I like to...to do things that you would find distasteful," he managed finally.

"Like what?"

"I would rather not get into that. Suffice to say...I'm a sexual deviant."

Illya still kept his eyes away, unable to meet his partner's gaze; but, when the American didn't respond, he looked up.

Napoleon was looking back at him, his eyes dark, troubled but puzzled too.

"A sexual deviant," he said.

"Yes."

"You mean you like certain activities that most people would consider unusual?" Solo asked. "Perhaps even sick and depraved? That kind of deviant?"

"Basically...yes. Although 'like' is rather a mild term. Let us say that I need certain activities in order to achieve...satisfaction, activities that normal men, even gay men, find repugnant. Which is why I've had to, as you put it, pay for it."

Unexpectedly, Napoleon smiled. "Sounds interesting. What is it?"

"Napoleon, really, must you probe and prod for every sordid detail? Isn't it clear to you yet that this is not open for discussion?" the Russian snapped, walking into the living room. "Now are you going to take me back to my apartment, or must I walk?"

"You're not leaving here until we get this settled," Solo said. "Let's hear what this awful secret is, and I'll tell you if I'm repulsed or not. If I'm not, there's no reason why we can't do it - whatever it is."

"You would hate it. Trust me. You would find it disgusting and repugnant."

"Why are you making decisions for me?" Solo asked. "Do you think I'm some shy virgin, Illya? Hell, I've done some things in my time that would turn your blond hair white. Once, when I was in the army, I spent a week of R&R in a very exclusive brothel in Seoul, indulging in every sex act known to man...and woman. I can't imagine that what you happen to like in bed is any worse than that." Then, when Illya didn't reply: "Do you like to be peed on? Is it something like that?"

Illya was shocked. He didn't know why he was, but he was. "No, no," he stammered out. "Nothing like that."

"Do you like to be beaten or whipped?"

"No."

"Do you like to be tied up?" Solo guessed.

"Napoleon, why can you not just let this alone?"

Napoleon looked at him in silence for a second or two. Then he said, "All right, Illya, I'll tell you what. You tell me what this kink of yours is, and I'll either say it doesn't bother me, or it does. If it doesn't, we'll go from there. If it does, I'll drive you back home and we'll never talk about it again. How's that?"

"And if I don't answer at all?" Illya countered.

"Then you'll stay here until you do. I just changed the code on my front door alarm system, so there's no way you can get out of this apartment without me. Unless, of course, you want to jump out the window. We're fifteen stories up."

Illya closed his eyes, silently cursing his partner's stubbornness. But he didn't see that he had much choice; Solo would keep at him until he told the truth. Once again, he berated himself for being such a fool as to call Napoleon last night. He should have - well, all right, it had been too far to walk, especially after dark, but he should have done something. Anything but call Napoleon and have to deal with this.

He opened his eyes and found himself gazing into gentle hazel eyes. Well, perhaps Napoleon wouldn't be disgusted after all, he thought. He had said he had indulged in some unconventional sexual acts himself...

And he heard himself speak the words that he had admitted, aloud, to only two others - besides hookers - since he'd first discovered this particular secret about himself.

"I like to be spanked," he said.

Napoleon blinked. Then he blinked again. "That's it?"

"Yes," Illya snapped. "That's it. Now go ahead, laugh. I suppose it's amusing."

Napoleon didn't laugh. "You like to be spanked," he repeated.

"Yes."

"What the hell is so terrible about that?" Solo demanded. "For heaven's sake, Illya, I thought this was something major. You had me worried you were into autoerotic hanging or gerbil sex or something."

Illya, who had no idea what either of those were, merely scowled. "You don't understand."

"Oh, I understand," Napoleon said. "You like to be spanked." He grinned - not amused, Illya thought, just happy. "So - let's try it. It sounds like fun."

Illya couldn't believe this. Napoleon was, at times, completely incomprehensible.

"Dammit, Napoleon, can't you see why that's impossible?"

Solo shook his head. "No, I can't say that I-"

"We're partners, Napoleon," Illya close to shouted. "We trust each other to watch each other's back. How could you trust, how could you respect a man you had seen behaving like a weakling, that you had seen in such a...a degrading position? How could you go out into the field with a man you had...had held in your lap, squirming and...and making noises? And who eventually came all over you just from - from having his butt whipped?"

Napoleon didn't look revolted by Illya's graphic word-picture. "You've held my head when I've puked my guts out," he pointed out. "I took care of you when your back was cut to ribbons by that hellcat Mother Fear. Hell, we've taken care of each other millions of times, whenever one of us was sick or wounded. So what? If those times didn't make either of us think the other a weakling, didn't degrade us in each other's eyes, why would this?"

"Those other times were in the field. Not in our personal lives."

"I don't know, my throwing up all over you after being injected by the latest Thrush truth serum sounds pretty damned personal to me," Solo said. "Illya, look. This isn't just lust. Yes, as I said before, I find you attractive, but you're also the best partner I've ever had, the most competent, the smartest, the most trustworthy. If you die or get seriously injured at the hands of some rough trade like you met last night, or if you're arrested for solicitation and get sent back to Russia, I'd have to go out in the field with someone who wouldn't have half your competence. And I don't like that idea much. However, on the other hand, if I can do something to lessen the chances of that happening, something that isn't the least bit life-threatening or painful, something that won't even cost me anything except a few hours' time, why not do it? At least give it a shot? See how we like it."

Why was Napoleon still arguing? Couldn't he see that what he was suggesting would change their partnership forever? Illya let out a breath slowly, trying to calm himself. "I told you, it's impossible. No matter what you say, were we to - to do that, it would most assuredly affect our working relationship adversely. I would rather just take my chances with hookers."

Napoleon's eyes were cool. "You mean you'd rather be with a stranger, even a stranger who might hurt you?"

"Preference has nothing to do with it. I just don't think it would be a good idea."

"I see." Plainly, Napoleon didn't. Also plainly, he was hurt by Illya's refusal. "Well, I guess that's clear enough. Are you ready to go home?"

Illya was a little surprised by the abrupt capitulation. And he felt a little guilty, too, even though he was sure Solo would see he was right in time. "I - I'm sorry if I-" he started to stammer awkwardly.

"No apologies necessary." Napoleon walked to the door, keyed in the code that switched off the alarm, pulled on his jacket and grabbed his car keys. "Are you ready?"

Illya nodded dumbly and, grabbing his overcoat, followed his partner out the door.

Illya kept busy the rest of Sunday, half-expecting the phone to ring any moment and it to be Napoleon, using some of his second-generation-Italian charm to try to persuade him, once again, to accept his help in satisfying Illya's wayward desires. But the phone was silent except for one wrong number.

And that wrong number - before Illya picked up the mouthpiece and heard the voice of a strange woman - had made his heart race, he had to admit. Of course he had no intention of reconsidering his decision, but still...it would be nice if Napoleon tried a little to convince him.

Which, he irritably realized, didn't make any sense.

Giving up trying to concentrate on an old Hope/Crosby "Road" picture on Channel 5, he went to the basement to do his laundry (if Thrush could see me now, he couldn't help but think with some amusement, as he sorted whites and colors); he usually did laundry on Sundays unless they were on assignment, and he had the excuse of having to wash the clothes he'd borrowed from Napoleon that morning too.

Then, as he absently held Napoleon's shorts in one hand, subconsciously savoring the second-hand intimacy, he found himself thinking, I could call him.

He could call Napoleon, say I've changed my mind, Napoleon. Come over here and spank me. Well, perhaps he wouldn't use exactly those words. But that would be the gist.

And he had no doubt that Solo would respond. Would come over immediately, freshly showered, freshly shaved, smiling that special for-lovers-only smile of his...

And then what?

Illya could see it all in living color...

And the next day...what would happen, Illya wondered? Would Napoleon be able to look him in the face then? Perhaps, he thought. Perhaps, after a day or two, Solo would forget the image of his partner whimpering and crying in his lap, rubbing against his leg like a dog in heat and then coming to a messy, noisy climax against him...would look at Illya as his strong, competent partner again. At least, until the next time...

And how long would it take - how many sordid encounters - before he was irreparably diminished in Solo's eyes? Before Napoleon could no longer look at him and see his partner anymore, but only a sobbing, needy wreck begging to have his butt spanked like a child's?

But that hadn't happened, Illya thought, shoving a quarter in the washer and pushing it in to start. He hadn't called Napoleon and said he'd changed his mind. Their friendship was safe...

And that was all that mattered.

The next day, Monday, Illya went to Solo's office to give him back his borrowed clothes, packed neatly in a paper bag. "I washed them," he said, a little self-consciously; returning Solo's clothes reminded him, all too clearly, of the embarrassment of that past weekend.

But Napoleon, as always, put Illya immediately at ease with his boyish smile. "Thanks," he said, taking the bag. After he stored it under his desk he said, "You're looking even more colorful today than yesterday."

Illya gave him a glare, even as he realized that his black eye probably did look, indeed, quite colorful.

"I have some unhappy news," Napoleon said - not, however, looking very unhappy, Illya noticed.

"What news?"

"Mr. Waverly canceled our South American mission. So we won't be spending a week or two in Chile after all."

Illya frowned; he had been looking forward to the opportunity to brush up on his Spanish. "I don't suppose he gave you a reason."

Solo shrugged. "You know Mr. Waverly - everything's on a need-to-know basis, and we don't need to know. I had hopes that maybe it meant he had another, more exciting assignment in mind for us, but when I asked him, he just grunted and said that nothing was in the works but that you and I should just, quote, enjoy our vacation, end of quote."

Illya snorted. "A vacation? I call it going - what is the American term? Stir-crazy?"

"Ah, yes, and I agree, but it seems we have no choice. Unless you want to alleviate the boredom by driving down to some local dive and starting a bar fight with the natives."

"I might be reduced to that soon. Is it just me, or has our period of inactivity been unusually prolonged this time? It's been, what, twelve days?"

"Thirteen if you count today. Well, something has to come up soon. In the meantime, how about a workout in the gym?"

Illya felt his heart give a leap. A workout in the gym - and he couldn't help but wonder if Solo would use the intimacy and privacy of the workout room to make a teasing pass. Without wanting to, Illya found himself remembering what Napoleon had said twice yesterday: I find you very attractive.

Solo just kept watching him, his face expressionless. And Illya, looking into those inscrutable hazel eyes, wondered if the American was reading his thoughts. It was entirely possible.

"Very well," he said finally. "Perhaps in an hour? I don't like to work out after lunch."

Napoleon nodded. "An hour. Good. I'll see you then."

At the gym, however, Solo made no untoward moves at all: just exchanged some throws with him on the mat, demonstrating a few new hand-to-hand combat techniques he'd learned from an old army buddy the week before, then going with him for a swim in the pool. And afterwards, while they showered together in the gym locker room, Solo was blasé as always, not bothering to cover up as he walked into the shower or when he left it, but not flaunting his body either. Or at least, Illya thought wryly, not deliberately.

He cast a few covert glances at his partner as they dried off and dressed, unable to stop wondering if Napoleon had really been serious about finding him...attractive. I have for a long time...

Then something else hit him - something that he had not consciously realized, in the tumult of Saturday night's events and their aftermath, before. Napoleon had been alone when Illya had called him on the communicator. He had not been with a lady. And that was, although not exactly unheard of, quite unusual for Solo. The American almost always had a woman to warm his bed on Saturday nights, women who usually stayed long enough for a Sunday brunch - although seldom longer.

"What happened to Marguerite?" he heard himself blurt out.

Napoleon, who had been knotting his tie in the mirror, gave him a look. "What?"

"You had a date with Marguerite for Saturday, didn't you? And yet you were alone when I called you."

"Oh." Napoleon looked back into the mirror, apparently concentrating on his tie. "The lady had other plans."

Illya felt an unexpected pang. So, Solo's lack of female companionship last Saturday had not been because he had been secretly longing for Illya instead. He couldn't believe he'd been such an idiot as to think that even for a fraction of a second. Somehow, however, he managed to tease, "You were stood up? I don't believe it."

"Yes, it is rather incredible, isn't it?" Napoleon countered blithely. "To think that someone, somewhere on the planet could be immune to my charms." His eyes held Illya's in the mirror and, even though he was smiling slightly, there was a look in his eyes that made Illya flush a little.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, not sure whether he was apologizing for Solo's ruined evening or for his own rejection yesterday. Napoleon's smile, however, didn't waver.

"No need for apology," he said. "Not even Babe Ruth batted a thousand. Besides, I have my partner - who else do I need?" He turned around and gave Illya's hair a playful pat. Illya gave him a look of icy disdain, as he always did when Napoleon touched him, but - also as always - he felt a thrill at the contact.

He watched wistfully as Napoleon walked out.

Once again, silently wishing he could be...normal. An ordinary man with the simple, basic needs that other men had.

Quickly he finished getting dressed too.

"Your face is looking better," Napoleon said, that Thursday over lunch. Since Solo had won the toss they were eating at a restaurant the American had chosen: What's Your Beef, a small steakhouse uptown.

Illya, who had been probing his steak in hopes that it wasn't quite as rare as it looked - he hated blood-red meat - muttered, "We Kuryakins are fast healers."

"Ah...yes, you always say that, but I still have my doubts. It seems that I see you black and blue more often than not." Napoleon cut a portion of his own steak. Chewed. Swallowed.

Illya went on scowling at his meat. He'd asked for medium-rare - not raw. Damn American chefs - they're such incompetents.

Ordinarily a little thing like a badly done steak would not have bothered him, but this was not ordinarily. They still had not been sent on any field assignments, were mostly doing make-work at present - Illya in the lab developing a new eavesdropping device, Napoleon revamping U.N.C.L.E.'s computer system - and the lack of active duty was becoming increasingly wearing on the Russian's nerves. Even worse, without the adrenaline rush of field work his need for sexual release was fast approaching the boiling point.

Solo sipped his coffee. "I suppose," he added, almost as if reading his partner's mind, "now that your face is pretty again, you're going on another foray this Saturday night."

Illya looked up. "Probably," he snapped. "And this is your business because...?"

Napoleon shrugged. "No special reason. I've just been thinking."

"Well, I suppose the age of miracles is not past, after all."

Napoleon ignored his partner's sarcasm. "I mean I was thinking about your problem," he said.

"What problem is that?" Thank the fates this restaurant is secluded and we're in a private booth.

Napoleon raised his eyebrows. "Do you not want to talk about it?" he asked, and although his tone was light, his eyes told Illya plainly that he would end the conversation if that was what Illya wanted.

Illya sighed, the concern in Solo's eyes fast extinguishing his irritation. "No," he said reluctantly, "you can talk about it. It's just so...humiliating, Napoleon."

"What's humiliating about it?" Napoleon wanted to know. "Hey, we all have sexual quirks. I went through a period when I could only get excited if a woman was wearing black fishnet stockings. It was right after Clara and I broke up - coincidence or not, I don't know."

Illya stared at him. He knew it was rude, but he couldn't seem to help himself. "Black fishnet stockings?"

Napoleon nodded, a faint smile curving his lips. "Uh-huh. Hard to believe, huh? But let's face it, Illya - working as a secret agent just doesn't give you much of a chance for anything close to a normal sex life. But who cares? I always thought normality was overrated."

Illya stabbed at his steak again, finally gave up and helped himself to his salad - which was, in pleasant contrast, more than edible. Nice, fresh salads...another perk of a decadent capitalist society. He wondered how many more perks it would take before he was converted to capitalism completely.

"So, what were you thinking? If you are going to suggest I see the U.N.C.L.E. shrink-"

"No, no, not at all," Napoleon said quickly. He cut more steak. "I was just thinking...maybe, in the hands of the right person, you could be happy having sex the regular way. Without the - ah - extras. And then you wouldn't have to worry about, as you put it, being degraded in anyone's eyes."

"No. That is not possible."

"Why not?"

Illya let out a breath. But he saw no reason not to be honest. "Because, since you are forcing me to be crude, Napoleon, I cannot achieve release by doing it, as you put it, the regular way. I have tried." He chewed on a tomato wedge. Fresh vegetables in winter - incredible. "Now please pass the bread."

Napoleon did so. "You mean - you can't have an orgasm any other way than...the way you told me," he said.

"That's about it," Illya said. He buttered his bread.

After a pause: "I'll bet I could."

"You bet you could what?"

"Bring you to orgasm," Napoleon said. "You know, the regular way. I don't mean to brag, but I've had lessons from some of the best practitioners of fellatio in the world."

Illya felt a stab of unexpectedly sharp desire at the word fellatio. But no - it was impossible and he knew it. He could never climax that way; some of the best hookers in Europe had attempted it and failed.

"Napoleon, I know you mean well, and I appreciate your concern. But I have already experienced almost every variation of the sexual act you can think of. Having my - my bottom slapped by a bare hand is the only way I can achieve release. I know it must seem repugnant to you-"

"It's not repugnant," Napoleon protested.

"Well, certainly distasteful."

"It's not even distasteful, but I guess it's futile for me to keep trying to tell you that." Napoleon cut more steak. "Hell, maybe seeing a shrink would help you."

"I have seen a shrink. Although not at U.N.C.L.E. Years ago, in London."

"And what did he say?"

Illya took a sip of tea, then lowered the glass - one thing he liked about this restaurant was they would serve tea in a glass if you asked them to, the way they served tea in Russia.

"He said that my - quirk - came from when I was a child. In the orphanage where I grew up, if students misbehaved in the classroom - talking out of turn, passing notes, laughing too loud, whatever - they were hauled to the front of the class, their pants were yanked down, and they were spanked with a ruler or, occasionally, a bare hand. After a time I found myself intentionally misbehaving in order to provoke the whipping. He, the psychiatrist, postulated it was because the only time any adults, any parental figures, paid attention to me was when I was whipped, so in my mind I equated the spanking with caring. And this carried over into adulthood." Illya shrugged impatiently. "I think it's more likely that I just craved to be touched. I was never hugged or kissed after I lost my family in the war - those who ran the orphanage thought it spoiled children to show them too much affection. So the spankings were the only time anyone touched me."

Napoleon's eyes showed his sympathy. How odd that Napoleon Solo, a man who could kill a man in seconds without hesitation or regret, could be at the same time so compassionate.

"Spanking fetishes aren't uncommon among some men," he said after a moment. "Especially in Great Britain where corporal punishment - birching - is done in a lot of schools, public and private. But not all those men wind up needing prostitutes when they grow up."

"They are men with loving, patient wives. I do not have that luxury."

"You have me," Napoleon pointed out.

"But, as I stated before, you are my partner. We depend on each other for our lives. It would be the utmost foolishness to do anything that might interfere with our mutual trust and respect."

"Maybe we could find a way to work around that," Napoleon suggested.

"Such as what? Request new partners?" Illya asked sarcastically, even as his heart skipped a beat at the thought that perhaps Napoleon might consider that, for even a second.

But, to his relief, Napoleon shook his head. "No, I told you before, I don't like the idea of having a new partner. You're the only partner I want."

Illya looked down, for a few seconds unable to speak; for Napoleon, that declaration was a flagrant burst of emotion. Finally he mumbled, "Having a new partner is not...a pleasant prospect for me either."

Napoleon sipped more coffee. "Someone hurt you, didn't he?" he said.

"What?"

"Someone - a lover - was repulsed by you. That's why you're hesitant to do anything with me."

"You are imagining things."

"Am I?" Napoleon smiled, the smile not touching his eyes. "I don't think so. I think there was someone you deeply cared about when you were younger, and you asked him to do this for you, and he did, but he was revolted by it - or said he was. Or maybe he said he accepted it and then later you had a fight and he threw it up to you, told you he thought you were disgusting. How am I doing?"

"You are, to use one of your favorite American expressions, batting zero." Then, deliberately, Illya changed the subject. "How's it going with R&I's new computer program?"

Napoleon's eyes revealed that he saw Illya's diversion for what it was, a diversion, but nonetheless he responded - probably because he realized it would be futile to further pursue the matter. "Quite well," he said promptly. "I'm working on a new database which will make information retrieval even faster..."

Napoleon continued to tell him everything he never wanted to know about computers, and Illya continued to delve into his decadent American salad, relieved that the subject of his perverse sexual needs had been dropped - hopefully for good.

Saturday night, Illya stood in his bathroom toweling dry his gold hair, which was a little damp from the shower.

Folly, he told himself. Stupid, stupid folly.

But this was the only way he knew to rid himself of the longings inside him - temporarily, at least. It had been six weeks since his last sexual encounter, and that, coupled with no assignment for more than two weeks, was driving him - as the American teenagers would say - bananas.

He put down the towel and methodically patted his hair into place, scowling at his image in the mirror. Not too bad, he thought. He knew he looked striking all in black, with his pale skin and his gold shock of hair. And his bruises from the previous weekend's incident, as Solo had remarked earlier that week, had faded. He looked presentable enough to attract a prostitute, at least.

He debated taking his Walther. It would assure that he wouldn't have to go through a repeat of the weekend before, but still, it would be a risk. The risk was not in actually carrying - the Sullivan Law against carrying concealed weapons didn't apply to U.N.C.L.E. agents, of course - but in the possibility that he might be forced to use the weapon and file a police report. Or what if a hooker took his gun at an unguarded moment?

Finally he decided to err on the side of pacifism. If he had to report to Mr. Waverly that his gun had been stolen, or used on a civilian, the Old Man's diatribe would be far more dire than anything a mugger could do to him.

He picked a bar he knew in the Village, one frequented by hookers whose services he had enjoyed in the past. Illya didn't like to go to the same hooker too often - it opened up too many opportunities for blackmail - but tonight, he would play it safe by finding someone he knew.

"Beer from the tap, please," he said to the bartender, who drew off a mug and handed it over. Paying his fifty cents, Illya took a few gulps, then glanced around the bar hopefully. There were a few hookers lounging around - he could tell by their expensive, outlandishly tight clothing - but none were familiar. None he could trust...

He sipped more beer, feeling a leaden weight in his chest. Perhaps he would go home alone tonight after all.

"Hello, there."

Illya's head shot up. And he felt his breath catch in his throat.

A man stood there. And not just a man but a very handsome man, dark hair and eyes and gleaming tanned skin, dressed in body-hugging jeans, a white t-shirt so tight you could see his nipples through it, a gold necklace around his neck and - Illya was stunned but fascinated to note - a gold stud in one ear. One of the most shockingly sexy men Illya had ever seen.

Not surprising, really, since it was Napoleon Solo.

Of course Illya recognized him immediately, Solo had made no attempts to disguise himself except for the clothes and jewelry, but in a way Illya didn't recognize him either. It was as if Napoleon were playing an undercover role and, in doing so, had become a completely different person. In this Napoleon there was none of the suave, sophisticated super-spy of Illya's acquaintance; he was, instead, an openly predatory man-for-hire.

The stranger who was his partner smiled, as if enjoying Illya's stunned reaction. Then, still smiling, he sat down on the stool next to him and said to the bartender, "Martini, dry," as he carelessly laid a dollar bill on the counter. "Keep the change."

He looked at Illya again, his eyes speculative, and the Russian felt himself swallow. Several times. Apparently Solo, remembering that Illya had said he was going cruising that weekend, had followed him here...using a few tricks that Illya didn't know, too, since the Russian hadn't noticed any tail. But why? He wanted to ask - say something like Napoleon, what the hell are you up to? - but couldn't get the words out; his vocal cords felt paralyzed.

"Napoleon," Napoleon said. Introducing himself as if they'd never met. "What's your name?" The question was openly flirtatious.

It was then that Illya realized, with a shock, what was happening. Knowing Illya couldn't accept him for sexual intimacy because they were partners, Napoleon had come to this bar as a stranger. The clothes, the jewelry and the smile were nothing more than a blatant signal that tonight he was not Napoleon Solo but was instead playing the part of a gay hustler. A hustler who had obviously targeted Illya as his next client.

Ludicrous of course. No matter what part Napoleon played, he would still be Illya's partner. He would still be the man Illya needed to watch his back and save his butt on their next mission. What difference did it make whether they played some game of not knowing each other?

Tell him to stop this silly Halloween masquerade and walk out.

But Illya couldn't move. Perhaps it was Solo's catlike smile. Perhaps it was the speculative look in his gold-tinted eyes as his gaze wandered over Illya, taking in his black turtleneck, black pants, black leather jacket, and then lingering on his pale hair.

"Illya," the Russian finally blurted, even as he realized that in introducing himself he was, in effect, accepting Napoleon's game. And, by the glint in Solo's eyes, he could see that Napoleon realized that too, and was pleased.

"Interesting name," he said conversationally. "Wasn't that the name of the girl in 'Never on Sunday'?"

"Yes. But she was Greek. I am Russian."

"Really." Napoleon smiled. "Dobriy vecher." Good evening, although Napoleon's accent, as always, was deplorable. He sipped his martini. "I've heard," he said, not wasting further time in small talk, "that you're into discipline."

Discipline. That was a hooker's word. But how did Napoleon know it? Clearly, the American had done some research.

Illya felt himself nod.

"Paddle or hand?"

"Hand."

Napoleon nodded. "Hand. Good." He spoke quietly. "Twenty dollars, cash in advance, and I'll give you exactly what you want. All night, if you want." Eyes still glinting as they held Illya's in their mesmerizing grip, his hand moved to Illya's thigh - not caressing, just squeezing. But very lightly. Lightly enough for Illya to pull away if he wished, without being rude.

Illya didn't. Even though he still knew this was idiocy, Napoleon's hand felt so good. And although the hand was nowhere near his crotch, he felt his penis stir in his pants at the touch, too. Throb and tingle in an eager, willing erection.

"Any problem?" Napoleon asked, when Illya said nothing. "You don't think twenty dollars a fair price?"

He was caught, Illya realized. Caught in the gaze of the basilisk. Except that the gaze from the fabled basilisk was lethal and Illya was still alive. He knew he was, because he could hear his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. Could feel his blood simmer in his veins. Could feel his skin break out in perspiration as if he had a fever.

And while it was one thing to resist Napoleon in a living room or a restaurant, it was quite another to resist this unbelievably sexy man in a bar, his hand resting on Illya's thigh, his eyes smoldering, his body exuding the promise of pleasures heretofore only experienced in dreams.

Then Illya thought of the disgust he would see in his partner's eyes afterwards, and hesitated again.

But was that not the point of Napoleon's acting the part of a gay hustler, not being himself? A hustler would never show disgust - would never even feel disgust, probably; he'd seen and done it all. And the next day they could pretend it had never happened. Napoleon would shed his undercover role as a good spy always does, like a snake shedding its skin, and would again be Napoleon Solo, Illya's partner and friend but nothing more.

It was absurd, patently absurd. But...it just might work.

Or was Illya just rationalizing? Was sexual desire taking over his logical thought processes, as he had seen happen so often to other men?

Napoleon watched him, still waiting for an answer to his question: if Illya thought his rate was too high.

And, finally, Illya managed to stammer a response.

"N-no," he murmured, "twenty dollars is quite fair." It was, in actuality, twice the going rate, but he wasn't going to quibble. He opened his wallet - a new one to replace the one the hooker had stolen, bought at the Five and Dime earlier that week - and took out a ten and two fives. Napoleon smoothly took the bills, tucked them away in the back pocket of his levis. Illya noticed, for the first time, that Napoleon was wearing boots. Flamenco dancer's boots, tooled leather, with heels. They must have cost at least thirty dollars.

Then Napoleon looked at him again, his eyes showing his excitement.

"I have a room," he said, gracefully rising from the bar stool. "Follow me."

Illya did.

art by Nicole D'Annais ‡ 72KB

*****

Illya wondered where Napoleon had gotten the apartment. It was small - one room with bath and kitchenette - but clean and cozy, braided rugs on the floor, a few pictures on the wall, a glass-topped coffee table, a few easy chairs, a bed with colorful throw pillows and a dark blue quilted bedspread. Illya wondered if one of Napoleon's many girlfriends had loaned it to him for the evening. But no; Napoleon was a heartless Casanova, but he wouldn't be so gauche as to borrow a room from a woman for the purpose of having sex with someone else. Most likely it was borrowed from some man friend.

Napoleon pulled off his jacket. "Would you like a drink first?" he asked, his voice low and husky.

Illya shook his head. "N-no," he said, hating himself for the way his voice quavered. He was starting to have second thoughts. Did they really think they could get away with this ridiculous charade? Napoleon might appropriate the clothes and outward manner of a midnight cowboy, but he was still Napoleon underneath. He would still remember this the next day, remember how his partner begged and cried and ejaculated messily all over him when his bottom was slapped...

As if reading his misgivings, Napoleon walked up and pulled him against him.

"I don't kiss," Illya said.

"You do now," Napoleon said, and kissed him.

A full, deep, warm and intimate kiss.

Illya felt his breath stop. He moved his arms around Napoleon without even knowing what he was doing.

Long moments later, breaking the kiss but still holding Illya close, Solo murmured, "You ready to get comfortable?"

Illya murmured in assent, even as he chided himself once more, in some still-sane portion of his brain, for being a fool. He knew he was going to regret this...but he was still totally helpless to resist.

Napoleon reached up and pulled off Illya's jacket. Tossed it over a chair. Then pulled off his turtleneck and tossed it on top of the jacket. Illya moved a hand to pat his hair down, and Napoleon murmured, "No."

Illya gave him a quizzical look, but his hand dropped obediently. Napoleon reached up and smoothed Illya's hair himself.

"Your hair is so beautiful," he said. "Like sunshine. Isn't that what 'Illya' means? Sunshine?"

Illya stared at his partner; this was something Napoleon had never asked him before. "It's a Rumanian form of Elias," he murmured. "Meaning 'The Lord is my God.'"

"Rumanian? You're a gypsy?" Napoleon teased. He stroked Illya's face with the back of his hand in an unbearably romantic gesture. Illya wished Solo wouldn't be so nice. He had to keep reminding himself that this was just a role Napoleon was playing.

"Actually I am only one-quarter gypsy. My babushka, my maternal grandmother, was Rumanian." Illya stopped, wondering if he were babbling.

"Then I guess that makes you my little gypsy sweetheart," Napoleon said with a grin. He stroked Illya's face again. "Would you like me to disrobe?" he asked softly.

Illya nodded before he thought, and Napoleon, with another smile, walked off to the bathroom. "Make yourself comfortable," he said. "I'll be right back."

Illya sat on the bed, methodically pulling off his loafers and black socks. Put the socks in the loafers and pushed them under the bed with a heel.

And sat there, wearing only his slacks, staring at the bathroom door, his heart pounding. And his penis pressing against the taut fabric of his pants, hard and swollen.

He clenched his jaw and tried to do multiplication tables in his head, but it didn't work. Even as he recited, "Twenty-three times thirty-seven is eight hundred and fifty-one," he felt his erection push and push against his zipper, threatening to burst.

He closed his eyes, wondering, over and over, why he was such an idiot as to be risking everything, Napoleon's friendship, their partnership, just for an orgasm. He had to be insane.

Napoleon came out of the bathroom, wearing only a bathrobe - no, dressing gown, Illya's mind corrected. It was not the blue one with the monogram, but a white one, one that set off his tanned skin to perfection. As Solo moved closer, Illya could catch a whiff of a tantalizing, musky cologne.

He could feel his pulse pound even harder and more urgently in his groin, a hard, aching tattoo.

Napoleon didn't smile at his obvious arousal. "Stand up," he said, his quiet words an order.

Trembling, Illya did so.

Napoleon reached up and unzipped Illya's slacks. Yanked them down roughly. "Step out of them," he ordered.

Illya mutely obeyed, feeling naked even though he was still wearing underpants. The front of his shorts was tenting out in an embarrassing bulge.

Napoleon's eyes gleamed as they slowly moved down Illya's body. Drinking him in with an admiring gaze. The scars, apparently, didn't bother him at all.

Illya felt himself swallow thickly.

Napoleon touched his hair. "You know why this is happening, don't you?" he murmured.

Illya, not knowing what that meant, stared at Solo stupidly. His brain was a morass of disjointed thoughts, a swamp of confused images; his ability to put words together had long since fled.

Napoleon's voice was a little firmer. "Illya. Do you know why this is happening?"

Illya still didn't get it. He shook his head and rasped out, "No. No."

Napoleon's hand caressed Illya's neck. "Because you've been bad," he said softly. "Very, very bad."

Illya blinked at him.

"You went with another man, Illya. You were going to have sex with another man, someone other than me, someone who hurt you and robbed you. You have to be punished for that. Do you understand?"

Oh.  Illya swallowed again. He thought he would die if Napoleon didn't touch his butt soon. "I...I'm sorry," he stammered.

"Of course you're sorry," Napoleon crooned. "Now that you've been caught, you're sorry. But you still have to be punished. Do you understand now?"

"I...yes. I understand." Illya shifted uncomfortably. His excitement was making it difficult to even stand, his balls were killing him. "You...you have to punish me so I...I won't do it again."

"Exactly, baby." The "baby" was spoken in a fond, affectionate tone. Then, casually, Napoleon sat down on the bed. "Come here," he commanded. He patted the appropriate spot. "Here on my lap."

Illya, heart pounding, lay down across Napoleon's lap, his hard penis, rigid in his underpants, pressing against Napoleon's thigh. And then, oh, the delicious bliss of it, Napoleon's hand was on his butt - not slapping, just caressing one cheek through the flimsy material of his shorts. "I love you, Illya," he whispered. "You realize I'm doing this because I love you, don't you?"

Illya nodded, eyes closing. "I...I know," he whispered.

"Good. Now I'm going to spank you, and I'm going to spank you hard. And each time you feel my hand slapping your ass, you're going to think about that man you were with instead of me, and think how sorry you are and how you're never, ever going to do that again. Do you understand?"

Illya shivered. He knew Solo didn't mean any of this, that it was just part of the game, but still, the words were arousing him unbearably. "Yes, yes," he gasped. "Please, please..."

"Please what?"

"Please...don't hurt me," Illya gasped out at the last moment, instead of saying what he'd really wanted to say: Please hurry. "Please don't hurt me!"

"It's too late for that, my Illyushka. But don't worry," Napoleon cooed. "It'll be over soon." His hand pulled off Illya's underpants, and Illya gasped as the cool air hit his bare bottom.

"I'm going to count to ten," Solo whispered, "and you are going to count too. And after ten, it will all be over. Do you understand that?"

"Y...yes," Illya murmured, his voice almost gone now. His penis was throbbing so hard he squirmed, pushing hard against Solo's thigh, trying to get friction. Napoleon's hand, squeezing a buttock painfully, stopped him.

"Don't wriggle," he said, his tone commanding again. "I don't want you thrashing around, trying to get away from me. Stay still, do you hear me?"

"I c-can't," Illya moaned. "Please..."

"Yes, you can and you will, or I warn you, I'll just punish you harder." The hand squeezed his butt cheek again, hard enough to hurt. "Is that understood?"

"Yes..." It was almost a sob. Illya was so excited he could hardly breathe. He was past breathing. Past being aware of anything except the throbbing few centimeters at the tip of his cock.

"All right." The hand released him. "Now I'm going to start counting."

Illya held his breath, eyes squeezed shut, waiting for it.

"One."

A strong hand came down, hard, spanking his bare butt cheek with a stinging clap. Illya cried out.

"Two."

Again, a hard slap that Illya felt down to his toes. Against Solo's orders, he squirmed again, his erection straining against Solo's thigh, painful, swollen, almost bursting.

"Three."

Another slap.

"Four."

Illya heard a soft, unearthly whimper and realized belatedly that it was his own. Again against Solo's orders he pushed against Napoleon's leg, felt the thigh under him grow slick with his own juices. He pushed again, panting.

"Five."

Illya let out a harsh gasp. He was close...really close. In a daze of panic, he wondered what would happen if he couldn't come before Solo finished. What would Napoleon do? Would he stop, get angry, push him away, refuse to touch him anymore?

"Six."  Napoleon's voice was getting hoarse. But his slaps were getting harder, coming down even more forcefully. Illya's butt was growing numb. He imagined it was beet-red by now.

"Seven."

Illya moaned. He could feel it...

"Eight."

Closer...

"Nine..."

Pleasepleaseplease...

"Ten!"

And Illya gripped Napoleon's thigh hard as the strong hand came down one last time on his tortured butt...and he felt his body explode. He cried out, gasping, as semen spurted all over Napoleon's legs and his body thrashed uncontrollably in the helpless spasm of orgasm.

Then he collapsed, gasping for breath. His eyes were still squeezed shut, but he couldn't seem to control the sobs that escaped.

The next moment Napoleon was pulling him up against him, holding him in his lap, kissing his hair, stroking him, cradling him.

"There, there," he crooned, his voice almost inaudible. "There, there, it's all right. You're safe. You're safe for now. My baby is safe. No more, no more, it's all over, you're safe now, my baby."

Illya buried his face against Napoleon's shoulder, clinging to him as if he were a lifeline even as tears still splashed down his face.

Napoleon was still kissing him. "It's all right now, baby. I love you. I love my baby," he kept saying, still whispering.

Slowly Illya's sobs quieted, but he stayed where he was, drinking in the feel of Napoleon's body as he trembled against him. His butt was stinging and he could feel sticky semen crusting on his belly.

But he felt none of the shame he had in his nightmare-fantasy. Only a kind of calm, soothing...peace.

Napoleon was no longer crooning. No longer kissing. Just holding his partner quietly in strong arms.

Illya let out a breath, pulled in another. Coming back to himself...back to the man he usually was. The brilliant, efficient, cold-blooded and fearless U.N.C.L.E. agent that the outside world saw.

He pulled back to gaze at his partner, and Napoleon looked back at him, eyes solemn. Not revolted. Just solemn.

Illya moved to get off his lap, but Napoleon held him in a hard grip. "Stay," he said.

Illya - a little surprised at himself - obeyed Solo's command without thinking, even as he protested, "I can't sit here forever, Napoleon."

"Sure you can." Napoleon kissed his hair and, as he did, he shifted a little under him so that Illya could feel, for the first time, a hard penis, pressing against his butt. He felt his eyes widen. It had never occurred to him that spanking him would turn Solo on.

"Do you...want me to take care of that for you?" he whispered.

Napoleon snorted softly against Illya's hair. "Hey, I outrank you, remember? You don't take care of me, I take care of you."

"You..." did already, Illya started to protest, but promptly forgot what he had been going to say as Napoleon pulled off his bathrobe, revealing his hard, swollen erection. Illya stared, transfixed. It was true, he had heard whispers about Solo's dimensions in the steno pool...Illya had exceptionally good hearing...but he had always thought them exaggerated. Apparently not.

"You like?" Solo purred, obviously reading Illya's face.

"Ah...yes," Illya managed to stammer. "Quite impressive."

Napoleon stroked his hair. "Do you want it inside you?" he whispered.

Illya felt himself nodding. "Yes," he murmured again. It struck him from somewhere that he really shouldn't acquiesce so quickly - he hadn't had intercourse in years and he was woefully out of practice - but he still couldn't say no. They were completely themselves now, no longer playing their role-playing game, and Illya could no more refuse a chance to make love with Napoleon Solo - the real Napoleon Solo - than he could've stopped his heartbeat.

Napoleon kissed him lightly, then reached inside the pocket of his discarded robe and brought out a tube of K-Y jelly. Flicked open the top with a finger, squirted it into his hand.

"You came prepared," Illya said, throat dry at the thought of what was to come. "Rather sure of yourself, weren't you?"

Napoleon smiled. "Yep." He dropped the lube on the bedspread and moved a hand down to lubricate himself.

Illya felt his heart pound harder at the erotic sight. Unable to stop himself, he reached up and stroked Napoleon's hard pecs - the first aggressive move he'd made since they'd walked into the apartment; the first aggressive move he'd made with a sex partner in years, in fact. It felt strange, but not too strange. Napoleon looked up, eyes gleaming.

"My Illya," he whispered. He touched his face with his free hand. "You are so beautiful."

"You are too." Illya stroked down his chest, to the flat, muscular abs. After the starved-to-thinness physiques of hookers, touching the hard, sculpted body of an athlete like Napoleon was very pleasant.

"Sweetheart," Napoleon murmured, as he pulled his partner down on the bed. Then he picked up the tube of lubricant again and, parting Illya's thighs, squirted it against Illya's butt. Applied the cool lube with a strong, skilled hand, not rough but purposeful.

"You have done this before, haven't you?" Napoleon asked.

Illya nodded. "Yes, although...not for a while."

"I'll go slow."

Illya moved his arms around Napoleon's shoulders. "Go as fast as you wish," he said hoarsely. "I want you." It struck him that that was the first time he had spoken those words to anyone in a long, long time.

"I want you too," Napoleon whispered. "So much. So many times I've dreamed of this..." Moving his hands under his butt, pulling Illya's legs up to Napoleon's shoulders, he kissed Illya on the lips...softly.

Then he was positioning himself and...

Pushing in.

Ramming in.

"Ah!" Illya cried, even as he gripped Napoleon's neck with both hands, clung to him with his heels digging into Solo's back.

Napoleon stopped, eyes showing his anxiety. Illya gripped him tighter. "Don't stop," he begged.

Napoleon relaxed and, apparently reassured by the words, pushed again. Illya closed his eyes, then opened them...staring into hot hazel orbs.

"You feel so good," Solo muttered as he pushed - slowly, rhythmically. "God, Illya, you're so tight." Again his eyes showed a trace of anxiety. "Does this feel good?"

"Y-yes," Illya whispered. To his surprise he realized it was true - he was getting an erection again. The feel of that hard cock taking possession of his still-tingling ass was...exquisite. "It feels...very good."

"I'm not hurting you?"

Illya shook his head. "It doesn't hurt at all. You...you feel wonderful."

"You feel wonderful too," Napoleon said huskily. He reached up, grasped Illya's penis, tugging on him. Even at the height of his own pleasure, making sure that Illya would enjoy this too. He loves me, Illya thought, awed. He really loves me...

"I'm yours," Solo whispered. "And you're mine. Now and forever."

Then he was ramming hard, relentlessly riding him, impossibly big, impossibly, wonderfully big. And Illya rode with him, shocked to discover that he was feeling urgency as well, that his swollen penis was, in fact, pushing frantically against Napoleon's hand.

He held on tight, lost in the feeling.

"Illya," Napoleon whispered. "Illyusha..."

And then Illya was thinking, I don't believe this even as his eyes closed against a wave of pure, raw pleasure and he was crying out in the throes of an uncontrollable, completely unexpected climax.

The next second Napoleon moaned in the grip of his own orgasm, his body spasming against Illya's.

Illya whimpered, his penis still throbbing numbly in Napoleon's hand.

Then, an infinite eternity later, Napoleon was pulling out, kissing him, murmuring endearments, holding Illya against him as the Russian trembled, still panting weakly...completely stunned.

He'd had an orgasm. The regular way.

Unbelievable. He had been fucked, sucked, fondled and catered to by some of the most skilled hookers on the planet. Why should one American amateur be any different? But even as he thought that, he knew the answer.

It was Napoleon's love. Napoleon's love for him had made the difference.

He trembled again, tears stinging behind his eyes.

"I'll be right back," Napoleon said.

He clasped Napoleon's shoulder with a hand. "Don't leave me," he said, half-command, half-plea.

"Only for a minute," Napoleon said softly. "I just want to clean up."

He left for the bathroom, returning, as promised, a few seconds later, carrying a wet washcloth. Turning Illya over and parting his cheeks, he tenderly bathed the crevice between with the cloth. It stung a little.

"You okay?" Napoleon asked.

Illya nodded.

Napoleon dropped the washcloth on the floor and, climbing back into bed, pulled Illya into his arms once more.

Illya sighed against him.

"That was...amazing," he whispered. "I have never had sex like that."

Napoleon stroked his hair. "You really have never had an orgasm without being spanked?"

"Well - a few times. In my youth. But not...not since I left Russia. This is the first time in fourteen years."

Napoleon chuckled.

"You needn't sound so smug, either."

"I wasn't sounding smug," Napoleon protested. "That wasn't a smug chuckle. It was a happy chuckle."

"It sounded pretty damned self-satisfied to me."

"Well, okay, yeah, it was self-satisfied," Napoleon admitted. "But only a little. Mostly it was just happy." He kissed Illya's hair. "You're pretty amazing yourself, you know that?"

Illya snorted. "Yeah, right."

"You are. Very amazing."

"Napoleon, I'm amazingly adolescent. Wanting to be spanked...that's not even adolescent. Childlike. Childish."

"You have a right to be childish, after your childhood ended when you were seven years old."

Illya stared at him. "You...you understand," he said.

Napoleon touched his face, stroking his lower lip with a thumb. "Yeah," he murmured. "I understand." After a few seconds he said, "Want to go back to my place?"

"I would like that very much." Then, unable to control his curiosity: "Where did you get this apartment, by the way? Did you borrow it from someone?"

Napoleon grinned. "Yeah. It's April's."

Illya blinked. "April lives here? I thought it was a man's apartment."

"Well, it's not. It's April's. By the way, remind me I promised her to change the sheets."

"You told April you wanted her apartment for a sordid assignation and she agreed?" Somehow Illya couldn't picture prudish little April - who had blushed when, during her one assignment with Napoleon, she'd had to take her sweater off - doing that.

Solo shrugged. "April has a lot of sympathy for other people's sordid assignations." He moved off the bed. "Come on. Speaking of sordid assignations is making me want a repeat performance - and I would like it to be in my own bed where we can go to sleep in each other's arms afterwards. Get dressed."

Illya, still feeling a little weak, obeyed.

Illya looked out one of Napoleon's living room windows, thinking he had never seen a morning more beautiful. The sunrise shimmering blindingly on the silver skyscrapers, the blue-gold-orange sky beyond, the sparkling white snow dappling the trees of Central Park...even the glut of Sunday morning traffic and the brown slush in the gutters looked beautiful.

Not just because the night before had been wonderful, although that was part of it. But because Napoleon had cared enough to give him such a night. How many men - even if they were bi - would have done that, even for a friend, even for a partner?

As if on cue, two arms wrapped around him from behind, and Illya leaned against them, eyes closing.

"Morning, partner."

"Good morning," Illya returned, his voice a husky murmur.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Like a baby," Illya said dryly.

Napoleon's hand moved under Illya's turtleneck, stroking bare skin. Illya bit his lip, trying not to shiver at the exquisite feelings Napoleon's touch evoked. "You are a baby," Solo said softly. "You're my baby."

Illya didn't deny it. Why should he? It was true.

"Last night was fantastic," Napoleon whispered, still stroking his chest sensually.

"All of it?" Illya asked, and he hoped Napoleon could hear the unspoken question: Even the discipline?

"All of it," Solo assured him. "Did you...like it?"

"Yes. I did."

"All of it?" Solo asked, and Illya heard Napoleon's unspoken question too: Even the fucking?

"Yes," Illya said. "All of it." He hesitated, not wanting to ask - but he had to know. "Can we...can you discipline me again sometime?"

"As a hooker? Or as me?"

"You. Well...either way, I suppose."

"Either one of us would be happy to." A kiss brushed Illya's hair. "Just name the time and place."

"It really doesn't bother you? Spanking me?"

"No. It doesn't. And I don't know why you were so worried about it. How could you think a little thing like a sexual quirk would make me think less of you?"

Illya let out a sigh. "I suppose I should explain," he said reluctantly. "The fact is, when I am spanked I usually...cry." He felt himself flush. "As I did last night. And I didn't want you to see me cry."

"That was it?" Napoleon said, genuinely astonished. "You said no to me because you were afraid you might cry?"

Illya nodded shamefacedly.

"Sweetheart, that's nothing to be ashamed of. Not between partners. This is just us - just you and me. Partners - always on each other's side, no matter what. Ah, that reminds me," Solo added, a smile in his voice now. "I have a present for you."

"A present?" Illya wondered, briefly, if it was the twenty dollars he had given Napoleon the night before. He wouldn't mind having that back.

"Just a small token of my esteem." Not breaking their embrace, Napoleon reached inside the pocket of his robe and put something in Illya's hands.

Illya stared down at the object, not quite believing what he was seeing. "My old wallet..."

"Yep. Sorry I didn't give it to you last night, but I thought it might kill the mood."

"How did you..." Illya heard his voice trail off. Solo gave Illya a squeeze.

"Don't worry, my Illyusha, I never put myself in any danger. I just dug up that Gerald character - wasn't that difficult, I just talked to some employees of a few clubs near where I picked you up, and one of them recognized him by my description, knew where he hung out. And yesterday afternoon I finally found him and persuaded him that it would be in his best interests to return what he'd stolen. The money was gone - he claimed the wallet was empty when he lifted it - but your driver's license and credit cards are there."

With hands not entirely steady Illya opened the wallet, almost afraid to look even as he found what he was searching for: the picture of his parents, right where it always was, tucked behind his driver's license. Intact.

He felt his eyes fill with tears, but he blinked them back before - hopefully - Napoleon could see. Still, he didn't trust himself to speak for several moments until, finally, he just mumbled, "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"I trust you didn't beat him up too badly?"

"Nah. He'll be back turning tricks in a week or two," Napoleon said easily.

Illya turned around, breaking the embrace to look up into those beautiful hazel-gold eyes. He didn't want to say it, didn't even want to think it, but the words seemed to say themselves. "I love you."

"I know," Napoleon said softly. "And I love you too."

"You do? Really? I mean, I know you said it last night but..."

"I meant it last night. And I mean it now." Very quiet. "That was why I broke my date with Marguerite last week, by the way - you were the only one I wanted. So," he added lightly, "do you think you can give up the bars for me? Not that I'm jealous - well, all right, I'm a little jealous but I can handle it - but I really don't want to worry about your getting beaten up again, or arrested."

"I can give up anything as long as I have you."

Napoleon touched his hair. "Well, good," he said with a faint smile. "I'm glad that's settled. Now how about some breakfast? I can make eggs for us again."

Illya shook his head. "Not now. Now I want to go back to bed."

Napoleon looked startled - but, Illya noted, rather pleased too. "You prefer fucking to eating?" he remarked. "I'll have to write this in my diary."

Illya shrugged. "If you don't want to-"

"Ah, no, I want to," Napoleon said hastily. "Hey, your wish is my command. What else are partners for?"

"Perhaps we can think of a few more things," Illya said, and grinned as Napoleon, clasping his partner's hand, led him back into the bedroom.