It was mid-afternoon on a sunny day in autumn when Napoleon Solo drove into the University of Vermont complex and pulled into the visitors' lot. Looking into the rearview mirror, he smoothed his hair as he surreptitiously checked out his surroundings. He got out of the car and stretched, then straightened his suit before he began studying a map of the campus. He soon located the dormitory in which his partner, Illya Kuryakin, had been living for the last six weeks, posing as a graduate student.

Solo quickly oriented himself and began walking towards Kuryakin's dormitory, adopting an outwardly casual air. He strolled along the tree-lined brick walkways of the campus, alert and attentive as always. A number of long-haired students of both genders were in evidence on the college green, some frolicking with Frisbees while others sat idly on the grass. Napoleon noted with some distaste that the students were dressed in the ragged blue jeans and faded flannel shirts that were the standard uniform for young people these days.

Napoleon snorted to himself. Students had never dressed like this when he had been in college. Even if there hadn't been a dress code, no one would have dressed in such a slovenly manner for fear of looking like the offspring of dirt-poor farmers. Things had certainly changed in the intervening years. Well, this is 1968, not 1950, Solo reminded himself as he watched the carefree students.

Solo knew he wouldn't be the only well-dressed adult on campus this weekend. The University of Vermont football team was scheduled to play an important home game tomorrow and alumni would be coming into town in droves. The coincidence was no accident; it was of the utmost importance that Napoleon make contact with his partner without attracting undue attention to himself.

Illya had gone undercover as a student at the beginning of the fall semester in order to spy on Dr. Karl Vandersommen, a chemistry professor affiliated with Thrush. Two months ago, U.N.C.L.E. intelligence sources had uncovered evidence that Vandersommen's latest research was generating attention in the upper echelons of Thrush. Kuryakin's job was to find out exactly what the professor was working on.

Due to Vandersommen's connection with Thrush, the most stringent precautions had been taken with Illya's cover role. There was abundant indication that Thrush's tentacles were deeply embedded in the University of Vermont. Therefore, Kuryakin had gone into deep undercover mode. He had not taken his communicator with him because the device was so well-known to Thrush, and he had been instructed not to risk sending the information he gathered back to U.N.C.L.E. through the campus mail system. Illya had made just one report by telephone to a pre-established answering service four weeks ago, leaving a brief, encoded message that everything appeared to be going well with his mission.

In the interim, however, Section III had discovered some disturbing information. Thrush was now making definite plans for the implementation of Vandersommen's research. It was imperative that the U.N.C.L.E. laboratories begin work at once if they were to have time to counter Thrush's actions. Worse, from Solo's point of view at least, there were indications Thrush had discovered that U.N.C.L.E. was aware of their interest in Vandersommen's work. Thrush was certain to be actively searching for undercover U.N.C.L.E. agents at the university.

Waverly had ordered Solo to go to Vermont to make direct contact with his partner, both to warn him and to bring back whatever information Kuryakin had collected so far, trusting in his Chief Enforcement Agent to accomplish these objectives as unobtrusively as possible.

Solo was quite worried about the potential threat to his friend's life and had made a private addition of his own to the agenda for his mission: he was determined to bring Illya back with him if it were at all possible.

Napoleon found the brick dormitory that Illya lived in and entered it, walking through a long corridor and up the stairs. Amidst the blare of rock music, Solo detected the strong, sweet stench of marijuana in numerous places as he made his way through the dormitory. And that's another thing that's changed,  Napoleon reflected derisively. When he had been in college, alcohol was the drug of choice, although few students indulged, at least on weekdays, since drinking was not permitted on campus. Students had actually been expected to study in those days.

Solo found room 232 and paused, perplexed. The acrid odor of marijuana was very strong in this area of the hallway. Wondering if he had the correct room number, Napoleon knocked tentatively on the door.

After a long moment, the door opened and Illya stood before him. To his astonishment, Solo saw that the whites of the Russian's startled eyes were noticeably red. The overpowering stench of marijuana had intensified when the door opened; unmistakably, Kuryakin's room was the source of the smell.

"Tony!" Illya exclaimed after a moment's pause, visibly struggling to collect himself and respond to the unanticipated visit. "What a surprise! Come on in and meet my friends." He stepped back and ushered Solo into the room. A young man and woman were sitting on oversized pillows in the middle of the floor, sharing what Napoleon presumed was a marijuana cigarette. They looked up at Napoleon dazedly.

Kuryakin performed the introductions. "Karen, John, meet my stepfather, Tony."

"Hey, man," John offered, surveying Solo laconically through heavy-lidded eyes that were barely visible through a curtain of long brown hair.

Karen giggled. "Hi, Mr. Tony." She tossed her long blonde hair away from her face and giggled some more.

Napoleon raked Illya with a sidelong glance, silently demanding an explanation.

Illya ignored him. "My mother prefers younger men," he confided coyly to his friends.

Karen giggled some more and elbowed John, who broke out of his reverie long enough to mutter, "That's cool, man," before staring off into space once more.

Kuryakin smiled down at his friends. "Hey, why don't you two split and let me talk to my old man?" He turned to Napoleon. "Have a seat, Tony."

Karen and John slowly roused themselves and meandered towards the door as Napoleon settled himself uneasily in a beanbag chair and looked around. He was sitting next to a table of sorts, crudely constructed from a wooden board laid across two plastic milk crates. A plate of brownies on the edge of the cluttered table caught Solo's eye. In his haste to get to the university, he had not bothered to stop for lunch. He helped himself to the brownies, eating two while Kuryakin chatted with his friends at the door.

"I left you the joint, man," John announced magnanimously.

"Thanks," Illya said. "Remember, there will be an important quiz on Monday, so don't get too wasted this weekend."

"We're cool," John replied confidently.

"Thanks for helping us with our lab reports, Billy," Karen said. "Hope you enjoy the brownies."

"Thank you for making them for me, Karen. See you on Monday."

After Kuryakin closed the door behind his guests, he turned to face Napoleon.

Solo stared back, examining his partner critically. Illya was clad in a black turtleneck sweater and tight, ragged blue jeans. His blond hair was longer than Napoleon had ever seen it, sweeping below one eyebrow and blanketing his ears. Illya really did look like a college student, Solo noted with grudging approval.

"Your stepfather," he said in disgust. "I'm not that old."

Kuryakin smirked. "You could certainly pass for someone's father in that suit, Tony. I swear it adds at least a decade to your age. Besides, you are on the wrong side of thirty," he observed smugly.

Solo, who knew that Illya's cover role called for him to pretend to be a few years younger than his real age of twenty-nine years and eleven months, had to force himself to temper his response to his partner's annoying comments. "You won't be young forever yourself and neither will your pot-smoking friends."

"I had to tell them something, Tony. They don't know that I don't have any family and I haven't really come out here yet, although it is becoming increasingly fashionable to be gay. I thought it would be better to tell them that you are my stepfather than for them to wonder who you are...and what our relationship is. Or used to be, I should say."

Napoleon gaped at Kuryakin, wondering what on earth he was talking about. Illya looked at him solemnly and gestured at the walls.

Solo was horrified. Illya's room was bugged! Thrush must be on to him. But if they were, why was he still at liberty? And if he knew he was under surveillance, why hadn't he gotten out? The Russian was evidently playing a very dangerous game, akin to walking the high wire without a net, by remaining in his cover role. And he was getting stoned, to boot.

Illya was surveying him with an air of patient inquiry. Solo nodded belatedly to acknowledge that he understood the room was bugged. But now what? He had to find a way to get Illya and the information he had collected on Vandersommen's research out of here without arousing Thrush's suspicions. For the moment, that meant going along with the "Tony" cover role Illya had cooked up for him.

Napoleon searched his mind for something appropriate to say. Drugs apparently were on the list of innocuous topics, so he decided to begin there. "What's with the marijuana smoking? That's not like you."

"You mean it isn't like you, Tony," Kuryakin countered. "Marijuana is part of the college lifestyle and I am having a great time here with my new friends. As the graduate assistant for the chemistry lab, I have been helping Karen and John a lot."

"They looked as if they needed it," Solo commented sourly. "So, how are you doing with your coursework? How do you manage to study if you're high on dope?"

"Actually, you get a bit used to it. I only party on weekends anyway. My grades are fine. I am working with this fantastic professor and learning everything I've always dreamed of knowing." He paused. "Why are you here, Tony? I thought we agreed it was over between us."

Solo strove to read the unvoiced message in Illya's piercing blue eyes. Better keep it simple and play along. Someone is listening. Kuryakin wanted him to pretend to be an ex-boyfriend. It was Illya's call as far as Napoleon was concerned; the Russian was the one who was undercover in a perilous situation. Solo would do his best to follow whatever cues his partner provided.

Falling in line with his role, Napoleon said, "I had a sales call a couple of hours away and I drove over on a whim. I just wanted to see you. I've missed you a lot, Billy. I guess I was hoping that you had missed me, too."

Illya sighed audibly. "I am sorry, Tony, but I have gotten involved with someone. It's the professor I have been working with. We really have a lot in common."

Napoleon didn't want to believe what Kuryakin was apparently trying to tell him. "Is my showing up here going to cause a problem?" he managed to inquire after a moment of stunned silence.

"Oh, I don't think so," Illya replied airily. "We never get together on weekends anyway - just in the lab when no one else is around. Besides, he is married. It's not like he owns me. We don't have a commitment or anything."

Fighting the sick feeling in his stomach, Napoleon stared at the Russian. Kuryakin met his gaze blandly, his face a flawlessly implacable mask.

Obviously aware of his partner's inability to respond, Illya continued. "Professor Vandersommen is brilliant and completely dedicated to his work. We talk about chemistry and science in general by the hour. You always complained that I was too cold. Well, now I have found someone who is just like me. You were right. I am not very romantic. Sex is just a release for us, then we get back to work."

Napoleon was stunned. Illya was sleeping with Vandersommen to get information? Jesus Christ!

While Solo sat motionless in a state of shock, Kuryakin turned to an overflowing bookshelf behind him, extracting a notebook which he silently handed to Napoleon.

"So, fill me in on the latest gossip. Are Mark and Evan still together?" Illya asked as Napoleon thumbed through the notebook. Solo glanced up at him. Kuryakin made a talking gesture with his hand.

"Yes, they are, believe it or not," Napoleon improvised as he scanned the notebook. Illya's neat, crabbed writing filled page after page. Solo didn't have the scientific background to understand much of what Kuryakin had written, but it was evident that his partner had collected quite a bit of information which the scientists in the U.N.C.L.E. laboratory would be very eager to see.

"I would give them another six weeks, tops. You should have seen the way they were fighting the last time I was at their place."

Solo grimly persevered with the role of ex-boyfriend. "Well, they lasted longer than we did." He wrote, 'I need to talk to you,' on the last page of the notebook and held it up so that Illya could see it. The Russian nodded solemnly.

"You probably need to stretch your legs. Why don't we go for a walk? I will show you the campus. It is so beautiful here. I just love it."

Napoleon struggled to rise from the unfamiliar beanbag chair. "Why is your furniture so horribly uncomfortable?" he complained, tucking the notebook securely into the inside pocket of his jacket.

"I don't think it was designed with the over-thirty population in mind," Illya replied.

Solo clambered unsteadily out of the chair and glared at the insolent Russian. Illya gave him a wicked little smile as he ushered him out of the room and down the corridor.

They walked out of the dorm and across the campus in silence, Solo abstractedly noting that there were now several people who looked like alumni in evidence on the green. He was glad; Illya and he didn't make such an odd pair under the circumstances. Napoleon might well be an older brother, a youngish stepfather, or even an ex-lover come to beg for a second chance. After walking for several minutes, the two agents finally found a place to sit away from everyone else on a bench near a grove of resplendent red maple trees.

Solo looked at his partner searchingly. "Dear God, Illya, tell me you're not really sleeping with this Thrush scientist."

Kuryakin shrugged. "He made it quite obvious that he wanted me the first time we met. I decided to pretend to be gay and go along with it as a way of getting close to him. It has really paid off. I have gotten reams of information out of him."

Napoleon shook his head in disbelief. "Illya, that is way beyond the call of duty."

Kuryakin looked at him coolly. "Don't worry about it, Napoleon. Believe me, after working for the KGB for two years I have no virtue left to lose."

"They had you...do things like this?" Solo asked, appalled.

"Of course. And I had no choice but to do it. In this instance I was the one who made the choice. It is just part of the job as far as I am concerned."

"It's too high a price to pay," Napoleon protested vehemently.

"No, it does not matter, not when the mission is so important. Besides, you have slept with Thrush agents yourself," Kuryakin pointed out.

"They were women and good-looking," Solo said defensively. A thought struck him. "Illya, you're not...I never thought you were interested in men...?"

Illya shook his head in denial. "I certainly do not enjoy the physical aspect of my relationship with Vandersommen, if that is what you are asking. I am simply prepared to be whoever I need to be and to do whatever is required for the job at hand."

Solo stared down at the grass, not knowing what to say in the wake of his partner's stunning revelation.

Kuryakin changed the subject. "Why are you here, Napoleon? I thought we agreed to keep our contacts to a minimum in case Thrush had ordered Vandersommen to monitor the people around him. And he is keeping close tabs on me. I know that he has my room bugged from a couple of comments he has let slip about my friends."

"The timetable for your mission has changed. Waverly needs a detailed progress report containing all the information you have gathered so far. Section III just found out that Thrush is making definite plans for the implementation of Vandersommen's research. They also learned that Thrush knows we're investigating Vandersommen. They will be actively searching for undercover U.N.C.L.E. agents on campus." Napoleon looked at his partner in concern. "If Vandersommen's got your room bugged, he must be suspicious of you. You've got to get out of here, Illya. Let's take the information you've gathered and go."

Illya shook his head again, the autumn sunlight glinting off his hair. Solo found himself strangely entranced by Kuryakin's shimmering hair and forced his mind back to business. It was no time to be wool-gathering. This was a very dangerous situation.

"I believe that he has bugged my room only as a matter of routine, not because he is actually suspicious of me," Illya assured him. "I cannot leave yet, Napoleon. Sometime before the end of the semester I should be able to get the final bit of information that we need from Vandersommen. What I have discovered so far, as is detailed in my notebook, is that he is very close to developing a new type of nerve gas that is indistinguishable from a pesticide commonly used to control mosquitoes in malaria-endemic countries. Soon he will succeed in perfecting the formula. I must be here to transcribe his final formula and convey it back to the U.N.C.L.E. lab so that they can complete their preparations to counteract it. If I fail, Thrush will soon have a deadly tool in their hands. They will have the capacity to kill millions of people within hours with this nerve gas. No Third World government will be able to stand before them."

Solo bit his lip in frustration. There was no way he could persuade Kuryakin to leave, not with millions of lives at stake. Laying their own lives on the line unfortunately came with the job. But that didn't mean he had to like it or that he couldn't try to talk some sense into the stubborn Russian about the risks he was taking.

"Look, Illya, you're in a lot of danger here. Having sex with that creep is bad enough, but I don't like the fact that you're smoking pot, either. You know it's not a good idea for agents to lose their reflexes and the ability to defend themselves." He eyed his partner questioningly. "Why on earth did you decide to risk using drugs in the first place?"

Kuryakin appeared unruffled by Solo's chastisement. He defended his actions with what seemed like surprising lucidity for one who was under the influence of marijuana. "I see it as a bit of a trade-off, Napoleon. Using drugs impairs one, yes, but actually I have found that marijuana is easier to function on than alcohol, not that I think it wise to drink on the job either. However, Thrush would never expect an U.N.C.L.E. agent to lower his defenses by using recreational drugs. That is why I have been smoking marijuana with the other students, to avert suspicion by blending in with the crowd.

"Vandersommen, of course, knows that I have been smoking pot with my friends. In fact, it has been a key part of my strategy. I wanted to make him perceive me as a bright, helpful graduate student, who, regrettably, is also a bit of a hedonist, as so many young people are today. I am certain that the fact that I use drugs makes him look upon me as being rather immature, not at all likely to be any threat to his work with Thrush, and also quite easy to take advantage of sexually. In that regard, my having an affair with Vandersommen has been very helpful in disarming his suspicions also. It is not something anyone would expect an U.N.C.L.E. agent to do with another man, is it? But I am an U.N.C.L.E. agent with the unique advantage of having a KGB background, where such assignments were all too often given to the younger operatives."

Napoleon digested his partner's explanations in silence. It all sounded perfectly logical. Kuryakin never made a move without thinking it out first. But Solo could not help but be appalled at the lengths Illya had gone to on this mission. He had known the Russian was singularly cold-blooded and calculating, but Kuryakin had really outdone himself this time. And Solo's instincts were telling him that something was very dangerous about the situation.

Solo stared distractedly at the nearest maple tree as he thought. The red leaves glowed like the heart of fire in the sunlight. The crystalline blue sky, vast and serene, stretched infinitely behind the crimson-bedecked branches, a perfect backdrop for the dramatic beauty of the foliage. Napoleon felt a strange languor seep through him, a feeling of seductive euphoria that was totally inappropriate to the situation at hand. He frowned at the realization, trying to analyze the peculiar sensation.

A squirrel darted across the ground, drawing his attention. It ran partway up the tree and stopped, then began jerking its tail. The squirrel's tail flickered sideways, then up and down. Sometimes the sequence seemed to change slightly before it was repeated. Napoleon watched the squirrel's tail intently, wondering just how it could be that its movement reminded him of the international semaphore code.

"Napoleon, are you all right?" Kuryakin's concerned voice summoned him back to reality.

"Uh, I'm fine, I guess," Napoleon said, but he wasn't so sure.

Illya took him by the shoulder and peered worriedly into his eyes. "You are acting like you have been drugged."

"You're the one on drugs," Solo retorted defensively.

"Who have you been in contact with today? Did you stop anywhere, eat or drink anything? Maybe Thrush found out you were coming here somehow."

Napoleon thought a moment. "No," he said decidedly. "I haven't had a thing since breakfast and I drove straight from New York. I was in a hurry to get here and warn you." Then he remembered. "I did eat a couple of those brownies in your room."

Illya turned sheet white. "Those brownies are loaded with hashish," he whispered harshly.

Solo was aghast. "Hashish? That's like marijuana, isn't it?"

"Yes, but it is much stronger." Kuryakin's tone was anxious.

"What's going to happen to me?" Napoleon asked apprehensively.

Illya sighed. "You will be fine in the morning, but tonight is going to be a problem. I ate only one brownie just before you came and I can really feel it. You have ingested a large dose of hashish and you are completely unused to its effects. You definitely should not attempt to drive under the influence."

"I need to take the notebook back to the lab."

"I know," Kuryakin said patiently. "But you will have to wait until tomorrow. It will not help the situation if you pass out on the highway and wreck your car." He fell silent for a moment, his brow furrowed. "I don't think you should attempt to go to a hotel. There aren't any within walking distance. They do have a bus system set up for visiting alumni, but you will be too stoned to use it inconspicuously. From what you have told me, we must expect Thrush to be out in force on the campus from now on. You and the information you are carrying will be much safer if you stay with me for the night."

Solo readily agreed. "Yes, we should stick together for protection and you can help me get through this hashish intoxication."

"You will be all right," the Russian assured him. "What worries me is my cover role, and yours." Kuryakin's face was paler than ever. "If only I had come up with a different way to explain your presence," he said despondently. "I greeted you as my stepfather for my friends' benefit, but Vandersommen knows that Billy has no family. Pretending you were a former lover was the most logical choice that I could come up with on the spur of the moment. But now we must be very careful, since we know Thrush is on the alert. Vandersommen is utterly ruthless and completely dedicated to furthering Thrush's ambitions. If he even suspects that I am not who I have pretended to be, he will not hesitate to have me killed before I can complete my mission."

Napoleon studied his partner's stricken expression and suddenly he knew exactly why Illya was so upset. The intuitive bond that had carried them through many a mission together was working at full force, burning through the drug-induced haze that was clouding his mind.

Illya met his eyes and realization flowed silently between them. Kuryakin looked at him in supplication. "I am so sorry, Napoleon."

Napoleon couldn't bear to see the uncharacteristic look of desperation in his partner's eyes. "Don't apologize. It's my own damn fault for eating the brownies," he said grimly. "I've endangered the mission, not to mention your life." He gathered his courage, then softly said, "Illya, you know that I'll do whatever it takes to keep you and your cover safe."

Kuryakin shook his head, his golden hair flashing in the sunlight. "It did not matter when it was just me," he said in a low tone. "I am used to such things, as I told you. But you are another matter altogether, my friend." The Russian's long-lashed eyes were downcast, his expression desolate. Napoleon felt a lump form in his throat at the sight.

Solo took a deep breath and cut straight to the heart of the matter. "Illya, we've got to protect your cover role. If Tony is so besotted with Billy that he has come to Vermont to try to resurrect their relationship and Billy allows him to spend the night, well, it would be suspicious if they didn't do something besides just talk about the weather. I've entered into liaisons before in order to salvage missions, although never with another man. But I'm not going to let that stop me, certainly not when an important mission and your life are at stake. Just tell me how far we have to go to be convincing for Vandersommen's surveillance."

Kuryakin spread his hands helplessly. "Napoleon...I cannot ask you to do such a thing."

"You're not. I'm offering. In fact, I'm insisting, since abandoning the mission is not an option." Solo was surprised at how easy it was becoming to talk about it. Perhaps the hashish was helping by demolishing his usual inhibitions.

Kuryakin ran his hand distractedly through his hair. Solo watched in fascination. Illya's long blond hair was so beautiful in the sunlight, shimmering like molten silk. Napoleon wondered what it would be like to touch it, and with a little thrill realized that he might soon know. The thought was strangely appealing.

"We could try to fake it," Illya said, "but that might be difficult to pull off convincingly with both of us stoned and I really don't think we should risk it. Anything that triggers Vandersommen's suspicions will prove fatal. He is doubtlessly monitoring me more closely than usual since Thrush is on the alert for U.N.C.L.E. agents, and now I suddenly have an out-of-town visitor to explain." He swallowed hard. "Napoleon, I am sorry, but I think it is necessary that we do conduct a liaison of sorts. If having sex with Vandersommen was a good ploy to preserve my cover role, having sex with you would be doubly so. This would be the very last thing Thrush would expect two male U.N.C.L.E. agents to do together." Illya met his partner's eyes earnestly. "I do have a lot of experience in these matters and I promise that I will make it easy for you. I will arrange it so that your involvement need only be minimal."

Napoleon nodded slowly. Although he was having trouble thinking clearly, there was no doubt at all in his mind that his friend's life was his primary concern. His personal inhibitions no longer seemed important. He wondered about that. The hashish gave him a strange perspective, as though he were a somewhat disinterested onlooker simply observing this embarrassing conversation and not a concerned participant. If this distancing outlook was a property of hashish, it was certainly going to come in handy. He took a deep breath. "Okay, let's do it," he said, hoping his words sounded braver than he felt.

Kuryakin gave him a sympathetic look. "Don't worry. I can get you through it quite easily, I assure you."

Napoleon smiled at him. "I trust you, Illya. All I'm really worried about is how I'm going to word my report for Waverly."

Illya snorted in amusement, as Solo had intended, hoping to lighten the mood. But then the Russian turned serious once more. "We certainly don't need to mention this particular detail in our reports. I promise you that I will never tell anyone what transpired between us." He met Solo's eyes searchingly. "And you know that I value you too much as a partner and a friend to let this liaison harm our relationship. I think we should just put this behind us and pretend it never happened. The hashish will be helpful in that respect. It makes the things that happen while you are stoned seem like a dream later on."

"Fair enough," Solo said. "I'll leave it up to you whether you want to tell Waverly just exactly how you obtained your information from Vandersommen."

Illya shrugged. "I don't think it would surprise him very much. After all, he knows more about my background than you do."

"No doubt," Solo agreed wryly. "You're just full of little surprises, my dear friend."

Kuryakin rose from the bench and stretched. "We should go back to the room now, I think. How are you feeling?"

Solo stood up slowly. "I feel weird," he admitted. "Everything looks different, sort of magical or something. It's hard to explain."

Illya nodded. "I have found that getting stoned does enhance the senses quite a bit. I love to come out and look at the autumn foliage when I am high."

Napoleon looked at the trees around him. "The leaves do look brighter than usual. They almost seem to glow." He stared at a nearby maple for a long moment, mesmerized by the brilliance of the sunlit red leaves before he caught himself. "I seem to have a hard time keeping my mind from wandering," he muttered ruefully.

"Don't worry about it. Just follow my lead," Illya said reassuringly. "The one thing I want you to concentrate on is to remember to call me Billy."

"Okay, Billy."

They started back to the dorm. Solo found himself staring down at the walkway. The bricks seemed to flow into ever-changing patterns beneath his feet. The walkway appeared to be too near and then too far by turns. Feeling dizzy, Napoleon looked up. It seemed to be easier to look at things that were farther away. That little grove of trees to the left, for instance. A row of maples whose leaves varied in hue from gold to red to almost purple was flanked by soaring blue spruces. Solo gazed at the beauty of the colors and the shapes of the trees, entranced, unaware that he had stopped walking.

"They are lovely, aren't they?" Illya's soft voice interrupted his reverie.

"It's incredible," Napoleon said in awe.

"Just wait until you get the munchies," Illya said mysteriously.

"Munchies? What's that?"

"Never mind for now. We have more important business to attend to. Rest assured, when the munchies strike, we will deal with them in the appropriate manner."

All too soon they reached Kuryakin's dorm and were climbing the stairs. Napoleon felt nervous. It was worse than the jitters he had gotten on the night before he was married at the age of nineteen. He swallowed. I'll just have to trust my partner on this one. And I do trust Illya. Thank God he is the one this is happening with. I really don't think I could handle this situation if it were anyone else.

Kuryakin unlocked the door to his room and ushered Napoleon inside. Solo steeled himself and walked over to the bed. Illya followed him, standing at his side. Napoleon looked beseechingly to him for guidance.

Illya tossed his head and laughed softly. "That was silly of you to eat those hashish brownies, Tony. Now you will have to stay the night to sleep it off. What am I going to do with you?" His tone was light, playful, in marked contrast to the serious expression on his face. Napoleon heard the cue.

"I know what I'd like to do with you, Billy," he said, breathing heavily.

Illya chuckled low in his throat. "It is probably the hashish, Tony."

"I don't care what it is, Billy," Solo said passionately. "All I know is that I've missed you so much and I've never wanted you more. Please, Billy, can't we make love just for old times' sake? I need you so badly."

"You know I never could resist you. Come here," Illya said huskily, pulling Napoleon down onto the bed with him. Solo let himself go limp. It was almost as if it were happening to someone else.

"Now that you are stoned, has it occurred to you how ridiculous suits and ties are?" Kuryakin murmured seductively as he deftly unknotted Solo's tie and slid his suitcoat off his shoulders.

"I don't think my customers would like it if I showed up in ragged-ass jeans, Billy." Napoleon watched numbly as Illya unbuttoned his dress shirt and then unfastened his belt and pulled it out of its loops. Kuryakin tossed the clothing he had removed from his partner onto the nearest chair and reached for the snap of Napoleon's trousers. Solo could feel his heart hammering in his chest. God, I can't believe this is happening. He tried to see his partner's face, half-hidden beneath the fall of his luxuriant blond hair. Illya responded to the pressure of his gaze and looked up at him solemnly. Lie down, he mouthed silently.

Napoleon complied. Kuryakin stretched out on top of him, still fully clothed. Solo dared to meet his partner's eyes. Illya looked serious, focused, the expression on his face one Solo had seen a thousand times before. He knew it meant that Kuryakin was concentrating on the mission at hand. Always before, the sight of that expression on his partner's face had reassured Napoleon. Kuryakin was utterly dependable in the field; he was the perfect man to have at one's back. But now Illya was going to make love to him with that same watchful, intent look on his face. It was more than disconcerting. Napoleon closed his eyes, wondering what his own face had revealed when their eyes had met.

He couldn't help feeling shocked when Illya kissed him. The Russian's kiss was tender, almost sweet. Napoleon couldn't make himself respond, but it didn't seem to matter. Illya went on kissing him, gently at first, then more demandingly, slipping his tongue inside Solo's mouth. Napoleon began to feel a tingle of arousal and realized that perhaps he was going to be able to finesse the situation after all. Kuryakin wasn't a bad kisser. However, he really wasn't in Solo's league.

Napoleon decided that perhaps it wasn't fair to make his partner do all the work, even if he was the only one with prior experience with other men. After all, Solo had always considered kissing to be one of his own areas of expertise. He wrapped his arms tightly around his partner's sweater-clad back and took charge of the kiss, aggressively claiming Illya's lips. He could feel Kuryakin's startled response and smiled to himself. Bet they didn't teach you that in the KGB.

Illya broke Solo's hold and began to kiss his neck, slowly working his way down his body. He reached Solo's waist and paused, then started to remove Napoleon's pants and shorts. Solo raised his hips to help him. He was about to reach for Illya to begin undressing him in return, but the Russian surprised him by taking his cock into his mouth. Solo fell back panting. God, Illya isn't half bad. I wonder if the KGB taught courses in how to give head. He giggled at the thought, unable to stop himself.

Kuryakin raised his head and peered up at him through his shaggy blond bangs. "Having fun, Tony? I hope I'm not tickling you." His face was as calm and expressionless as if he had asked Solo to pass the salt at dinner.

Napoleon closed his eyes and tried to regain control of himself. The incongruity of the cool, detached look on his partner's face in this incredibly intimate situation had disturbed Solo enough to quell his fit of the giggles. On the other hand, he had a throbbing erection and the hash was beginning to make him feel as if he were melting into an unlimited ocean of sensual bliss. This stuff must be an aphrodisiac if I can feel this turned on doing it with another guy. Especially one who acts like he's reading an encyclopedia.

Another fit of laughter threatened to overwhelm Solo. Then he remembered that Illya's life could be endangered by his behavior and made an all-out effort to maintain his cover role. "Oh, Billy, I've missed you so much. Why did you have to leave me?" Napoleon declared fervently.

"Let's not argue about it now, Tony." Kuryakin took him back into his mouth. Solo writhed, feeling like he was going to explode. Was Illya stringing him out on purpose, tormenting him, or was it just an effect of the drug? Napoleon felt like he was floating above the bed. Every nerve ending in his engorged cock was telegraphing a fiery message to his dazed brain. An eternity seemed to pass but he finally came, crying out in ecstasy as he ejaculated into his partner's mouth. Kuryakin didn't pull away like some women did; he stayed with Solo, continuing to suck him until he was spent and limp.

Napoleon opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. I guess this is what they mean by having your mind blown, he thought. Not to mention your cock. He turned his head to look for Illya. The Russian was leaning back against the wall next to the bed, watching him. He had made no effort to remove his clothing and apparently did not intend to do anything to satisfy himself sexually. Napoleon blinked. He promised he would make it easy for me, he remembered, but fair is fair. Besides, I don't think I care for the idea of having someone make love to me as if it were only an act performed in the line of duty.

"Come here, Billy," Napoleon whispered. "I'm not done with you yet."

Kuryakin glanced at him in surprise, then shook his head. "You don't have to do anything,"  he mouthed.

Solo unleashed one of his deadliest seductive smiles and sat up, reaching for his partner. Looking startled, Illya drew away as if by instinct, but moved a bit too slowly to evade Napoleon's grasp. Solo succeeded in pulling Kuryakin down on the bed beside him after a brief, halfhearted struggle. God, our reflexes are screwed up, both of us. Good thing we're tussling with each other instead of with Thrush agents. But why is Illya fighting me at all?  Feeling bewildered and a trifle aggravated by his partner's behavior, Napoleon rolled on top of Kuryakin and proceeded to kiss him senseless. It only took a moment before Illya lay still beneath him, no longer putting up any resistance.

Napoleon continued to kiss Illya thoroughly until the Russian moaned against his lips. Solo looked down at his partner's flushed face in triumph. Kuryakin no longer looked like the imperturbable field agent Napoleon was so accustomed to working with. He looked like a very handsome young man lost in the throes of sexual arousal. Solo felt quite satisfied with his work. All right, Illya. I wiped that robot look off your face. You can save that game for Vandersommen or the goddam KGB. This isn't going to be like those other times when you let some creep use your body because you had to. I'm your partner, Illya, and your best friend. I'm not going to let you play the whore with me. You mean too much to me.

Surprised by the intensity of his desire, Solo wrestled his partner out of his clothes. Kuryakin cooperated dazedly. Napoleon kissed him all over. His skin is so white, so smooth. He feels a lot different than a woman though. Like satin-encased steel. Solo explored Illya's body with his tongue, acquainting himself with every sleek muscle in Kuryakin's torso before daring to move lower. If he can do it, so can I. And I'd like to see what kind of expression he has on his face after he's had an orgasm. With that thought, Napoleon steeled himself and gave the head of his partner's uncircumcised penis a tentative lick, running his fingers through Illya's reddish-gold pubic hair.

Kuryakin moaned again. Napoleon smiled at his partner's response and took his cock all the way into his mouth, trying to replicate what he liked to have done to himself. His efforts were more than satisfactory, if Illya's reactions were anything to judge by. The Russian's compact body convulsed and bucked beneath him. Solo intensified his efforts, grasping Illya by the hips to hold him still. Kuryakin moaned and writhed uncontrollably. He gave a loud groan and came in Napoleon's mouth, his back arching upwards. Solo tried not to choke and swallowed as quickly as he could.

Napoleon released his grip on his partner's hips and slid up in the narrow bed to lie alongside him. The expression on Illya's face was everything Solo had imagined and more. Napoleon was gratified to see the look of rapture in the Russian's blue eyes as Illya met his gaze dreamily, his mouth curved in a blissfully satiated smile.

Solo gave Illya one last heartfelt kiss and then snuggled down next to him, drained. He dozed off in a hazy cloud of sex and drug-induced contentment. The next thing he knew Illya was brushing against him on his way out of bed.

"Sorry," Kuryakin said, fumbling into his clothes. "I need to use the john."

Solo lay back idly, not wanting to get up yet. He analyzed how he felt, trying to compare the effects of hashish to alcohol. He was still not comfortable with the idea of being high, although on the whole he was probably not really much more impaired than he would have been after about four drinks. I'm used to alcohol, though. This stuff is just a bit too weird for me, even if it does enhance sexual pleasure. I don't like losing control. Illya doesn't either. I've never seen him out of control like that before. I wonder if that's going to bother him. He did say that he'd never had sex before when he was high.

Kuryakin returned and sat in his beanbag chair. "How are you feeling, Tony? The bathroom's down the hall to the left, if you need it."

So Illya wanted to play it cool, calm, and collected. Fine. Two could play that game. Napoleon sat up and reached for his clothes. "Actually, I'm really hungry. Do you have anything to eat around here besides those damnable brownies?"

Kuryakin seemed to find his remark quite amusing. "You have the munchies," he announced after he stopped laughing.

"The munchies," Solo said slowly. "Is that a side effect of the drug or something?"

"Yes," Illya explained. "The blood sugar level drops and one develops quite an appetite as a result."

"Okay, so what do we do about it?"

"We order a giant pizza with lots of ingredients," Kuryakin replied promptly.

"Sounds good to me. What are you waiting for?"

Illya rose to his feet and headed for the door. "I still remember your favorite ingredients, so that is what I will order, especially since you are going to pay for it."

Napoleon shot him a scathing look. Illya smirked in response.

"You are the successful businessman and I am the starving student. It seems fair to me."

"Just call it in before I die of starvation."

Illya gave him a wicked grin. "I think you are about to discover how the subjective passage of time can slow incredibly when you are under the influence of psychoactive drugs."

"Oh, I think I found that out not long ago in your bed." Napoleon smiled seductively at his partner and was rewarded by the flush that appeared on his face. Kuryakin turned without comment and left the room to use the telephone in the hall.

Solo put his clothes back on and tried to get the rumples out of his suit. I'll bet I'm the only guy wearing a suit within miles who is stoned out of his mind on hash. The thought made him giggle and he really didn't know why. It wasn't that funny. The more he tried to stop laughing, the stronger the urge to continue persisted. God, I haven't acted this stupid since I was in junior high school. I bet some Thrush agent could walk in right now and I'd just sit here giggling. This drug stuff is really bad news.

Illya returned and looked at him. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," Solo replied and went off into fresh gales of laughter. Kuryakin snickered, then began laughing along with him.

"Stop it, my sides hurt," Napoleon panted.

"You were the one who started it," Illya gasped out. "And I don't even know what we are laughing about."

"Nothing." Solo laughed so hard that tears rolled down his face.

After he had regained sufficient self-control to be capable of coherent speech, Napoleon asked, "Is this another side effect of hashish?"

The Russian grinned. "Only in those who are predisposed towards silliness."

Napoleon sighed. "How long before they bring the pizza?"

"One point seven geological epochs," Kuryakin replied straight-faced.

"You've got a smart-aleck answer for everything, don't you?"

Illya smiled at him patronizingly. "You will be in a much better mood once you've had something to eat, Tony."

Finally the pizza arrived. "Pay the man," Kuryakin commanded over his shoulder as he stood at the door. Solo wordlessly complied, almost overcome by the mouth-watering smell of the pizza.

Illya took the box and carried it over to his bed, then opened the lid. An extra-large pepperoni pizza with onions, green peppers, mushrooms and black olives lay within. The two agents sat on either end of the bed and proceeded to devour the pizza.

Napoleon thought he had never tasted anything so good in his life. His appetite seemingly insatiable, he was, for once, effortlessly keeping up with his partner. Between them, they managed to eat the entire pizza.

Solo leaned back against the wall, feeling bloated. "I guess we didn't leave any for breakfast. Well, now what?"

"We pass out," Kuryakin replied promptly.

"It's kind of early, isn't it?"

"Believe me, you will be very sleepy very soon. The only thing you can do after ingesting a meal like that is to coil up like a python that has just devoured a pig and go to sleep," Illya announced with an air of absolute certainty.

Solo did note a certain disinclination for further activity upon his part. "You may have a point," he conceded. "Are you sure it's okay for me to stay, Billy?"

"Of course, Tony," Illya said impatiently. "You wouldn't make it a hundred yards out of the dormitory in your current condition, trust me."

Napoleon stood up unsteadily and began to remove his rumpled suit while Illya disposed of the pizza box.

"I would offer to loan you some pajamas, but I didn't bring any with me to college. Only squares sleep in pajamas, anyway," Kuryakin taunted Napoleon as he stripped off his jeans and turtleneck.

"I'll keep that in mind," Solo replied dryly as he got into bed. Illya lay down next to him, turning on his side so they could both fit comfortably in the twin-sized bed. Tentatively, wondering if Illya would mind, Napoleon put his arm around him. Apparently unperturbed by the gesture, Illya calmly relaxed against him. True to Kuryakin's promise, they were both asleep in minutes.

*****

Napoleon awoke when it was just becoming light out. Incredibly, he still felt the floating sensation that he had learned to associate with being high. Just how long does this stuff last? Illya was still asleep, his compact body curled in Solo's embrace. Napoleon lay still in a languorous haze for a long while, enjoying the coziness of simply holding Illya and feeling grateful for the comfort of his partner's nearness. I may have fallen down the rabbit hole like Alice in Wonderland, but my faithful White Knight is still at my side.

Napoleon sighed as he recalled the circumstances that had led him to his partner's bed. I only wish my White Knight hadn't chosen such a degrading method of carrying out his assignment. But I know it will do no good to argue with the stubborn Russian about it.

Solo lay quietly for a while longer, listening to the rise and fall of Illya's breathing and feeling the warmth of his body so close to his own. Last night was really incredible. I hope it was for him, too. I'd hate it if he felt that making love to me was anything remotely like what he's felt compelled to do with Vandersommen and the others before him.

Napoleon gazed at his partner's long hair as it glimmered in the morning light only inches in front of his face. His hair is so lovely, like sunlight fashioned into silk.  Solo succumbed to the irresistible urge to bury his face in Illya's soft, sweet-smelling hair. Kuryakin stirred slightly against him.

"Are you awake yet, Billy?" Solo whispered.

"Mmmh." Illya sounded more than half-asleep.

Giving way to a sudden temptation, Napoleon ran his hand gently across his partner's flat stomach, stroking him with practiced sensuality. He ran his hand lower, brushing across Kuryakin's briefs and feeling the growing bulge of his arousal, then moved on until his hand was caressing Illya's hard-muscled thighs. He teased him, running his hand lightly between his thighs, luxuriating in the feel of his partner's smooth, taut flesh. Illya drew a sharp breath.

Solo sought the Russian's neck with his lips, nuzzling through Illya's long hair until his mouth fastened on the soft skin hidden underneath. He slid his hand down the back of Kuryakin's underwear and squeezed his rounded, well-muscled ass. He's solid as a rock, nothing at all like a woman, but he still feels good.

Solo grasped the waistband of his partner's underwear and slipped it down to his thighs slowly, leisurely, deliberately tantalizing him. He quickly pulled his own underwear down and pressed his freed erection between Illya's legs, then waited, holding his breath, for his partner to object. But Illya only arched backwards against him wantonly, flinging his long silky hair across Napoleon's face and pressing his firm butt against Solo's abdomen. God, I wonder if he's ever...

Solo decided that he didn't want to complete the thought. He certainly didn't intend to actually have intercourse with Illya anyway, whether his friend had ever experienced that form of lovemaking or not. A bit of friction between Kuryakin's legs was going to be more than sufficient, as randy as Napoleon felt this morning. He reached over Illya's hip and began jerking him off with smooth, deft strokes as he nibbled on his neck and thrust vigorously between his thighs.

It didn't take long for either of them. They came almost simultaneously and then lay spent. Napoleon wrapped his arms lightly around Illya and fell back asleep, knowing from the lassitude in his partner's body that he had lapsed back into slumber also.

*****

Solo awoke again when Illya pulled out of his arms. He felt the bed settle as the weight of the Russian's body left it and dozed off, vaguely aware that Kuryakin had gone out of the room. He reawakened moments later when he heard the door open, and stretched sleepily.

"Tony? If you would like to take a shower, I have a bathrobe and a clean towel for you."

"Okay, thanks. Gee, this stuff kind of leaves you hung over, but without the headache, doesn't it?"

"You will find that you will feel a bit fuzzy for a while, but it will pass. Coffee helps, too."

Napoleon sat up groggily and took the proffered robe, watching Illya put on his clothes. He pulled on clean underwear and then donned the same battered jeans he had worn the day before. Oblivious to his partner's scrutiny, Kuryakin turned and rummaged through his closet. Solo found himself studying the way Illya's tight jeans encased his lower body. He's really well put together. It's strange. I'm not high anymore, but I still find him unbelievably attractive.

Kuryakin put on a light blue flannel shirt and began brushing the tangles out of his long golden hair. Napoleon caught his breath at the sight. Maybe I am still high. He is so beautiful. He reminds me of a Renaissance painting of an angel.

Solo shook his head at the thought. It was time to snap out of it, that much was certain. He went down the hall to the large communal bathroom and took a shower. Napoleon stood in the warm spray for a long time, then deliberately turned the water temperature to cold to clear his mind. He made his way back down the hall to Illya's room, feeling grateful that none of the students he encountered paid him any particular attention.

Kuryakin handed him a note as soon as he reentered the room: 'Let's stage an argument so you can leave and get the notebook back to HQ.' Solo nodded to indicate his approval of the plan and began to put on his rumpled clothing while Illya sat on the bed and read one of his textbooks.

"What are you reading, Billy?" Napoleon asked as he knotted his tie.

"Chemistry," Kuryakin replied abstractedly.

Fully dressed now, Solo made an effort to clear the remaining fog from his brain, mentally preparing himself for his final performance in Illya's bugged room.

"Billy?"

"Hmmm?" Kuryakin pretended to be absorbed in his textbook.

"Last night was really special. I think we should give our relationship another chance." Napoleon allowed a note of pleading to creep into his voice.

"Why?" Illya's voice was remote, aloof.

"Because I care about you."

Kuryakin heaved a loud, exasperated sigh. "You know it would never work, Tony. Be practical for once."

"Practical, is that what you call it?" Solo demanded heatedly.

"Yes." Illya's voice was like ice, but then he softened his tone a little. "Think about it, Tony. We'd be back to the same arguments in less than a week. You would want to go out nightclubbing after you got off work and I would want to stay home and study scientific journals. Can't you just accept that I have found what I need here and go on with your life? We're just not compatible."

"And you and your professor are, is that it?"

"Yes," Kuryakin replied firmly.

"Okay, Billy. Have it your way. I can't make you care about me," Napoleon said in a defeated tone.

"But I do care, Tony. I would like us to part as friends," Kuryakin said earnestly.

"Fine, Billy. See you around sometime." Solo checked to make sure the notebook was still inside his suitcoat and headed for the door. He looked back at his partner with concern. "Be careful," he mouthed. Illya nodded in response, his blue eyes calm and steady as he watched Solo leave.

"Goodbye, Tony," Kuryakin said as he shut the door.

Napoleon just stood there in the hallway for a moment. There was so much he wanted to say to Illya, but he couldn't. Not with the room bugged and an important job to do. He drew a deep breath, fighting an almost overwhelming urge to knock on the door, collect his partner and drag him away from this place, away from the vile task he had undertaken, living as Vandersommen's catamite. Solo clenched his fists helplessly and then turned away, defeated.

*****

Napoleon stopped for coffee to clear his head at a roadside café before he got back on the main highway. He had taken a meandering route away from the university, watching for anyone who might be tailing him, and was fairly certain he had not been followed. Inside the dingy café, Solo sat and sipped his coffee morosely as he thought about his partner and his assignment. He could feel the bulge of Kuryakin's notebook, safe and secure in the large inner pocket in the lining of his suit. A surge of anger burned through him. Damn it all! Illya shouldn't be selling his body. I don't care how important the information is that he gets for it.

Solo forced himself back into control. There was nothing he could do to change the situation. It was time to get back on the road and take the damned notebook back to U.N.C.L.E. so at least Illya wouldn't have made his appalling sacrifice in vain. Gritting his teeth, Napoleon got back into his car and drove to New York, all the while remaining alert for any sign that he was being followed.

It was very late in the afternoon when he arrived back at HQ, but Waverly was still there, just as Napoleon had known he would be.

"Mr. Solo, I had expected you earlier."

"Illya's cover role required that I remain a bit longer than I expected. Vandersommen has apparently bugged his room so I had to pretend to be an old friend who had come for a visit."

Waverly regarded him with concern. "He is under surveillance? Does Vandersommen suspect anything?"

"Illya thinks it's just routine, but we had to be especially careful about my visit."

Waverly nodded in acceptance of Solo's explanation as he scanned through the notebook. "Kuryakin has collected quite a bit of information, I see. He is a most resourceful young man," Waverly commented in a pleased tone. "I will have the lab get started on this information immediately. Thank you, Mr. Solo."

Napoleon took his leave, keeping his face expressionless. I wonder what you would think if you knew just how resourceful Illya had to be to get that information. Or if you would even care if you did know.  The thought engendered a sudden suspicion. Solo froze in his tracks for a moment, then strode purposefully to the Records branch of Section IV, where he obtained access to Karl Vandersommen's file.

Solo read the material in the folder carefully, but it contained no information about Vandersommen's sexual proclivities other than the fact that he was married and had two sons, the eldest only five years younger than Illya. Napoleon studied Vandersommen's file photo intently. The chemist was forty-eight, tall, and had wavy golden hair that had partly faded to grey. Napoleon felt his stomach churn with rage as he imagined the loathsome bastard touching his partner. He fought to quell his anger and carefully put the file back in place.

On a sudden impulse, he went to Section VI and pulled Illya's file from Personnel. He gazed at Kuryakin's photo, taken when the Russian had first come to New York. Illya looked so young and so innocent, his blue eyes meeting the camera guilelessly and his mouth curving slightly in the faintest of smiles. No one would guess the secrets you were hiding, my enigmatic young friend. Except Waverly, perhaps. But I suppose I really can't blame him if he did know about Vandersommen's inclinations and the nature of some of the work you did for the KGB when he chose you for this job. Espionage has always been a dirty game and I'd be a fool if I continued to allow this situation to upset me so.

Napoleon put his partner's file away, resolutely vowing to banish the matter from his mind and to get back to work. But deep in his heart, the pain still rankled. It was going to seem like a very long two months until the semester ended and Illya returned from the University of Vermont.

*****

Solo stood at the lone window in Waverly's office, staring unseeingly at the swirling snowflakes outside. Illya had not yet returned from Vermont. The day before had been a harrowing one for Solo until he learned the reason for his partner's failure to appear on schedule. Kuryakin had spent the night in jail, having been arrested on drug charges along with the numerous other young occupants of the Volkswagen bus he was a passenger in.

It had taken a bit of time and effort for Kuryakin to make his true identity known without blowing his cover. However, the police chief had called Waverly a quarter of an hour ago to report Illya was due to arrive at HQ any moment, escorted by none other than the NYPD.

Waverly had summoned Dr. Simpson, the U.N.C.L.E. lab chief and Section VIII head, to his office to be on hand for Illya's arrival, and had invited Solo, as Chief Enforcement Agent and Kuryakin's partner, to attend the meeting also. Simpson and Dr. Marks, one of the head chemists from Section VIII, sat at the round table in the inner office, reviewing their notes as they eagerly awaited the Russian's arrival. Waverly leaned back in his chair and puffed on his pipe while Solo remained quietly at the window, lost in thought.

Despite all his efforts over the last two months, Napoleon had never been able to put Illya out of his mind for long. In all the years they had worked together, Solo had always taken his partner for granted, appreciating his talents, but never really wondering what might lie beneath the Russian's cool demeanor. However, the night they had spent together had left Solo in a state of emotional turmoil, his usual confidence in shambles. He told himself over and over that it had just been the hashish that had distorted his reaction to Illya in the intimate situation they had been forced into. And it was only human for him to feel distressed, knowing what his partner was doing to ensure the success of his mission. Napoleon had repeatedly assured himself during the last several weeks that things would quickly return to normal once Kuryakin came back safely.

He just wished he could believe it.

Finally the door to the office opened and Illya strolled in. He nodded casually to his partner as he walked by him. Reaching under his faded denim jacket, he produced a notebook and handed it to Waverly, who scanned it briefly before passing it on to Simpson.

"Excellent, Mr. Kuryakin. Please do have a seat. Mr. Solo, will you be joining us?"

Napoleon walked slowly over to the table and sat down, trying not to stare at Illya, but his eyes were drawn to his partner as if by a magnet. The Russian's hair had reached an unprecedented length, a shimmering white-gold river that hung almost to his collarbones. He was dressed in the scruffy manner of the modern college student from head to toe, a denim jacket over a black turtleneck sweater, blue jeans and dirty black sneakers. Kuryakin looked entirely out of place amongst the soberly clad agents in Waverly's office. The barely perceptible half-smile playing about his lips told Solo that Illya was well aware of that fact and was enjoying it immensely.

"I trust your mission went well, Mr. Kuryakin? At least until yesterday?" Waverly arched his brows inquiringly.

Illya tossed his golden bangs out of his eyes. "I assume you're referring to my arrest, sir. Yes, the mission went well, although my arrest was an unfortunate complication. I was concerned about being tailed by Vandersommen's agents on my way out of the university, so I hitched a ride south from one of the students I knew. He, in turn, found a ride for me from one of his friends who was driving to New York, albeit with a couple of pounds of marijuana for sale aboard. We were pulled over by the police on the way into the city. I believe you know the rest of the story."

"Quite, Mr. Kuryakin. And as for the information you obtained?"

"I believe it will prove very useful," the Russian stated calmly.

Simpson looked up from the notebook he was studying. "It looks like we now have all the information we need, sir."

"Splendid," Waverly replied. "Mr. Kuryakin, you will, of course, make yourself available to Dr. Simpson's team as they go over your notes."

"Certainly, sir."

Waverly tapped his pipe into the ashtray. "I believe that the police chief and I have found a way to make the unfortunate circumstances of your arrest work to U.N.C.L.E.'s advantage, Mr. Kuryakin. Vandersommen will naturally become suspicious when his prize pupil fails to return next semester. Should he make an inquiry, the police records will state that your alter ego has been detained in a penitentiary on charges of conspiracy to sell marijuana. That should serve to buy us more time to work with the information which you obtained before Vandersommen and the rest of Thrush realize that we have discovered their secrets."

A faint, almost smug smile passed fleetingly across Kuryakin's face as he nodded to his superior.

"Thank you, gentlemen," Waverly intoned. "You are dismissed."

Solo walked out of the room and went back to his office, leaving Illya to be gathered up by the laboratory team. Apparently, he wasn't going to have a chance to talk to his partner in private for some time, and he wasn't at all sure how he felt about that fact. Just be glad he's safely back, he told himself. The situation will only be as awkward as you allow it to be.

Still, Napoleon found it difficult to concentrate on his work as he sat as his desk. Seeing Illya again after two months had definitely had a profound and unwanted effect on him. He's so gorgeous, so charismatic, even in those ragged clothes. Dear God, I can't hide from the truth any longer. I am more than attracted to him.

Solo stared at the wall in front of him. This is completely insane. It was only one night and we were both out of our minds on drugs. I just can't be in love with a man. I can't be in love with my partner, who incidentally has just spent the last three and a half months blithely allowing a Thrush agent to do God knows what to him sexually.

Napoleon got up out of his chair and paced in the narrow confines of his office. How does he feel about the night he spent with me? Does he feel differently about me now, too? Or did he just write our encounter off, the way he has so casually dismissed all the other times he's had sex with men in the line of duty?

Solo bit his lip in frustration. He didn't know how he could bring himself to ask Illya these questions, let alone when he would have an opportunity to do so. The situation was crazy. For years he had taken pride in his ability to seduce beautiful women at every opportunity without becoming emotionally involved. Now, incredibly, he apparently had fallen in love with his partner, a man who embodied the very definition of coolness and detachment.

*****

The next three days were agonizing ones for Solo. He didn't see Illya at all, except for the third afternoon following his return to New York, when Napoleon went down to Section VIII on a pretext and caught a glimpse of his partner through the glass window in the door of Dr. Simpson's office. The Russian was sitting at Simpson's table, his golden head bent over a notebook as he wrote. Simpson and the other chemists were clustered around him like planets orbiting the sun. The very sight of Illya struck Napoleon like a blow. He turned away from the door and walked quickly away.

That night after work, Solo morosely sipped a martini in his apartment and thought about Illya. After drinking only half of his martini, he suddenly stood up and put his suit jacket back on. It had occurred to him that it just wasn't his style to sit around moping; he was a man of action and he was going to go to Illya and talk to him about the situation. He quickly got in his car and drove to his partner's apartment before he could change his mind.

Napoleon knocked at Kuryakin's door using the special code they had devised. The door swung open and Illya stood before him.

"Hello, Napoleon." The words seemed to fall lightly and easily from Kuryakin's lips. He ushered the older agent inside. "What brings you here?" The Russian surveyed him blandly, his face revealing nothing other than mild curiosity.

Solo studied his partner for a long moment before replying. Illya apparently hadn't found the time to get a haircut since his return. His cascade of blond hair shimmered distractingly. The young agent's expression was calm and noncommittal as he patiently endured Solo's scrutiny.

"I need to talk to you."

Illya gestured toward the couch. "Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?"

"No. I think I'd like to keep my head clear for this discussion," Solo replied.

Kuryakin took a seat opposite his partner, maintaining the same infuriatingly bland expression on his face as he looked at Solo with an air of polite inquiry. Napoleon suspected that Illya wasn't going to make this easy for him.

"I thought we should talk about what happened between us. The night we slept together," he added when Illya's implacable expression did not alter.

"What about it?"

The indifferent aloofness in his tone stung Solo like a whip. Anger flared within him. Striving to keep his voice low and controlled he asked, "I was wondering if making love with me possibly meant anything to you, or have you just filed that experience away along with all of those you've had with the other men you've played whore to?"

Illya didn't move a muscle, but Napoleon saw his face go pale. Good, he thought, satisfied by the sight of a reaction on Kuryakin's part. That got through. Solo was more than a little fed up with his partner's insouciant attitude.

Illya stood up abruptly. "You are the only person on this earth from whom I will tolerate that sort of remark," he said icily, "and once only."

Napoleon rose in turn and walked across the room to where Illya stood. "And then what?" he inquired in a mild tone that was calculated to infuriate his partner. He saw Kuryakin's fists clench.

"Leave, Napoleon, before I do something that we will both regret."

Solo tilted his head and studied Illya carefully. "So, you are capable of emotion, after all. I was really beginning to wonder."

Kuryakin glared at him with eyes like frozen steel.

"Do you want to hit me, Illya?" Napoleon asked silkily. "That's not what I want to do to you. Quite the contrary."

Kuryakin blinked in surprise, but before he could respond Napoleon seized him by the shoulders and kissed him fiercely, pressing him back against the wall. Kuryakin's body was rigid, every muscle taut and battle-ready.

Napoleon ignored the danger and went on kissing Illya hungrily, demandingly, until at last he felt the Russian melt against him, his lips yielding to him. Solo was gentle with him then, his kiss becoming tender, yet infused with the passion he had suppressed for so long.

Illya broke away, a dazed expression in his blue eyes. "Napoleon, what are you doing?"

"Isn't it obvious? I want you, Illya."

"Why?" Kuryakin seemed genuinely confused.

Napoleon caressed his partner's cheek and then allowed his fingers to glide gently through Kuryakin's silky hair. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you," he murmured. "I've been half out of my mind these last two months, knowing that you were with that sonovabitch Vandersommen."

"I told you it meant nothing to me, so why should you care? I was trained to be a whore, after all, as you just so kindly pointed out," Illya replied in exasperation, attempting to edge away from Solo, his back against the wall.

Napoleon held him firmly by the shoulders, not letting him go. "What about when you were with me? Did you feel anything for me?"

Kuryakin stood very still, looking at him guardedly. "We were both extremely stoned, Napoleon."

"But we're not stoned now, are we?" Solo captured his partner's lips in a long, sensuous kiss that left them both breathless. Then he leaned back and looked down into the Russian's astonished eyes. "Now, tell me you feel nothing for me, Illya," he demanded.

Kuryakin pulled sharply away. "Why are you doing this, Napoleon?" His voice was unsteady, but he quickly got it under control. "You call me a whore, when you know I was only doing my job, but look at the swathe you've cut with every woman you could seduce. Am I supposed to believe that you've developed an interest in men now, too? You feel the need to add me to your list of conquests, is that it?"

Napoleon swallowed. "Is that how you see me? I suppose you have every right. But it's not like that, Illya. I love you."

Illya stared at Napoleon incredulously.

Solo repeated it. "I love you, Illya. Somehow, some way, I've fallen in love with you, may God help me." He took a deep breath. "I have to know how you feel about me. I know it's hard for you to talk about your feelings; you've been burying your emotions for years. I know you've had to just to survive. But, please, Illya, tell me if you felt anything for me when we made love. Please tell me if you felt anything for me when I kissed you just now."

Kuryakin looked into his eyes with the same expression Napoleon had witnessed when a loaded revolver had been held to the Russian's head. "You know I did," he replied with quiet intensity. The two stared at each other wordlessly for a long moment before Illya broke the stark silence. "Always before, when the KGB forced me to be with men, I learned to shut off my mind and just let it happen," he whispered hoarsely, looking at the floor. "It was the same with Vandersommen. Then I slept with you and everything changed. After I was with you, when Vandersommen...when I let him use my body, I would pretend it was you." Illya took a labored breath and met Napoleon's gaze once more. For once the Russian's blue eyes were unguarded, but Solo could not fathom the look of despair those sorrowful eyes revealed.

Looking away, Kuryakin choked out a mirthless laugh. "Vandersommen thought I was responding to him. He thinks I am madly in love with him. He is going to be rather surprised when I don't return next semester." He met Solo's gaze. "Does that tell you what you wanted to know, Napoleon?" His voice was full of pain.

Napoleon closed his eyes for a moment, trying desperately to understand his partner. For months he had thought only of his own feelings for Illya. It was a shock to learn what really lay beneath Kuryakin's cool façade. Illya had finally let down his guard, allowing his partner access to the secrets of his heart and admitted that he, too, felt the same passion.

However, Napoleon could take little joy in that revelation now that he was aware of the torment his partner had been living in. Illya had always been so adept at concealing his feelings that Solo had never realized how powerful the Russian's emotions really were. But he knew now. And the object of his affections was standing rigidly, the wall at his back, his eyes glittering like rapiers as he faced Napoleon as he would an enemy.

Studying his partner as if he had never seen him before, Solo slowly replied, "You don't trust me, do you?"

There was no mistaking the bitterness in Kuryakin's reply. "Why should I? Why should I allow you to hurt me? I know that you will soon grow tired of me and move on to your next flirtation. My feelings for you are deeper than you would believe possible, Napoleon, and that is why I have taken care to keep them hidden. I will not be another of your weekend flings, no matter how much contempt you may have for my morals." He paused for a moment, breathing raggedly as his eyes blazed in silent accusation. "Just how many women have you told you loved them in your fabled career as a seducer?"

"Only one, Illya. My wife."

Kuryakin blinked. His jaw dropped a little as he stared at Napoleon.

"In all the years that have passed since Kate died, I have been careful not to get emotionally involved with anyone," Napoleon said. "But I've never lied to anybody about my feelings and I'm not lying to you now, Illya. I've fallen in love with you. I don't know why, but I have. Maybe it was those damn hashish brownies," he added, trying to lighten the tense atmosphere.

Illya's lips curved in the barest hint of a smile. "I don't believe that is considered to be one of the side effects of hashish."

"Perhaps it should be." Napoleon gave his partner a slow, sensual smile.

But Illya only looked at him, the wariness in his eyes still attesting to his deep-rooted doubt.

"Oh, Illya," Napoleon whispered. "What can I say or do to convince you? If only you could see what is in my heart."

Kuryakin sighed. "I would like to believe you, Napoleon, but I cannot trust my own judgment, let alone yours." He bit his lip. "Since I was with you in October, I have had reason to reflect upon the lack of love in my life and I have come to realize that I simply do not know what love is. My life has been always devoted to necessity and survival. Love is a luxury that has never been mine to experience."

"Try to believe in me, then. I know what I feel for you. I thought I could never love anyone again after Kate. It seemed as though the very emotion had been ground entirely out of me. But somehow you've reawakened all those feelings that I thought had died with her."

Illya was utterly still, only his smoldering eyes bearing testament to the debate that raged within him.

"Please, Illya, can you trust me not to hurt you?" Solo whispered. "Will you be my lover?"

Gravely, intently, Kuryakin searched his eyes. All Napoleon could hear was his own heartbeat, pounding in his ears. He wanted to reach out, to caress Illya, but he knew that he had to let his partner make his own choice. After an eternity, Illya let out a resigned sigh.

"Very well, Napoleon, I will try."

It was all too evident that Illya was giving himself over blindly on trust. What else could he do, Napoleon realized with a pang. The Russian obviously had nothing to fall back upon that could lend him any real faith. Napoleon knew it was entirely up to him now not to fail his partner's trust. He pulled Illya into his arms and kissed him until they were both dizzy.

"Let's go to bed," he said huskily. "And this time you won't have to pretend that you're with me."

Illya flushed. He took Solo tentatively by the hand and led him down the hall to his bedroom. He paused next to the bed and began to tug at the bottom of his black turtleneck sweater.

"Let me," Solo whispered. He pulled Illya's sweater over his head and then smoothed his rumpled golden locks, smiling down into his solemn blue eyes. He kissed him gently, first on the lips and then on the soft skin below his ear. Kuryakin relaxed into Solo's hands, tilting his head back slowly and closing his eyes.

Napoleon traced the line of Illya's collarbone with his lips, savoring the contrasting textures of satin-soft skin undergirt by steely bone, curved like a bird's wing in flight. He let his hands glide ever so lightly down Illya's chest, paying homage to the sleek muscles that encompassed the finely drawn ribs beneath his fingertips until he encountered the rough denim at his partner's waist.

He unfastened the snap on Illya's jeans and unzipped them. The brief metallic whir was the only sound in the room. Napoleon's lips found Illya's again and he kissed him slowly, thoroughly, as he tugged his jeans and underwear down over his slender hips. Kuryakin broke away and stepped out of his jeans.

His face very pale, the Russian whispered, "Excuse me for a moment, Napoleon. I will be right back." A gold and ivory shadow, he glided soundlessly out of the room before Solo had a chance to reply. Perplexed, praying that Illya hadn't succumbed to a last minute change of heart, Napoleon removed his own clothing and sat down on the bed to wait for his partner.

Illya reappeared a moment later with a cup in his hand.

"What's that?"

"Olive oil. It is all that I could find," Kuryakin replied quietly. Dipping his hand in the oil, he sat on the bed and began to anoint Napoleon's cock. Solo's heart raced as understanding came to him. He reached for Illya's hand, stopping its motion.

"Are you sure you want to?"

Illya met his gaze unhesitatingly. "Yes." The Russian's eyes glowed like sapphires in his pale face. He bent his head once again and continued his ministrations. All Napoleon could see was the tumble of Illya's thick blond hair. Mesmerized, Solo put a hand up and stroked it. His hair is so unbelievably soft and such a beautiful color, like that of a child or even an angel.

Solo caught his breath. Illya might look otherworldly and innocent, but his touch was practiced and sure. Aroused though he was, Napoleon could not help but feel bitter. How often has he done this before? And for how many other men?

The golden head lifted and Kuryakin tossed his flowing locks aside as he met Solo's eyes. "I have already prepared myself." Before Napoleon could respond, Illya slid gracefully past him and lay full length on the bed upon his stomach with his legs spread wide.

Napoleon forgot to breathe. Does he really think I'm going to take him just like that? A cold chill swept through him. Dear God, that's all he has ever known. He stared down at Illya in mingled pity and anger. Solo silently cursed every man who had ever laid a lascivious hand upon his beautiful young friend.

He carefully stretched out next to Illya and gathered him into his arms. "Not like this, Illya," he whispered, burying his lips into the silken gold hair that covered the Russian's ear. Kuryakin turned his head and looked at him questioningly. He allowed Napoleon to pull him over onto his side and they lay holding each other, face to face.

"Let me show you what real lovemaking is," Solo murmured as he caressed Illya's cheek. For the first time in years, Napoleon's sexual desires were overshadowed by his emotions. He kissed Illya gently, intending to take his time about demonstrating the sincerity of his love.

However, Kuryakin apparently had other ideas. He kissed Solo hard and pressed tightly against him. "Please, Napoleon, I want you."

"Patience, love, we'll get there," Napoleon whispered. "I don't want to hurt you."

Kuryakin shook his head in denial. The motion of his head flung his shimmering hair across his face. "You need not worry about hurting me. I can't even tell you how many times I have-"

"Shhh," Napoleon commanded, not wanting to hear another word about what Illya had done in the past with other men. He stroked the golden hair tenderly out of his partner's eyes.

"Napoleon, please," Illya whispered hoarsely. "I have never known what it is to want a man before." His eyes were hungry blue stars, burning with desire. He started to roll over onto his stomach again, but Solo held him fast.

"Wait. Isn't there some other way we can do this? I'd like to be able to see your face when I make love to you." At Illya's uncertain look, Napoleon kissed him and then smiled into his eyes. "Here." He reached for the pillows at the head of the bed. Solo was no stranger to bedroom acrobatics, even though he had never had intercourse with a male before. "Let's put this one under your hips," he said, suiting action to word, "and this one under your head." He knelt between Illya's legs and carefully positioned him, trying to make sure that his partner was comfortable. The Russian's supple young body seemed to be more than equal to the challenge.

Solo took a deep breath and stretched his body on top of Illya's with the utmost care. Kuryakin wrapped his strong arms about him and drew him close, looking up at him yearningly. Suddenly, Napoleon found himself remembering his wedding night so long ago, when his concern about the possibility of hurting Kate had overwhelmed him, outweighing even the intensity of his youthful desire. Napoleon was puzzled. He knew that Illya was no virgin, but the comparison still lingered insistently in his mind, forcing him to work out the connection. Of course. It's because I love him, as I loved Kate, and I want to make this first time with him as special as it was with her. I want him to forget about all those degrading times he allowed himself to be used by other men. And from an emotional standpoint, at least, Illya might as well be a virgin.

Napoleon relaxed into Illya's embrace, letting his partner's firm body support more of his weight. Solo found it strangely exciting to be held by a lover whose strength and ardor equaled his own. Their mouths flowed together in a lingering, sensual kiss.

At last Kuryakin tore his lips from Napoleon's. "Make love to me now," he pleaded.

There was no denying the urgency of his lover's request. Napoleon entered Illya tentatively, inching slowly inward with the utmost care, so afraid of causing him pain. But his partner's body was relaxed and open to him. Solo fought to retain his self-control in the midst of the overwhelming pleasure that engulfed him. He began to move slowly, rocking Illya gently beneath him, reaching down to stroke his lover's cock.

Illya moved his lithe body in unison with Solo's and wrapped his powerful thighs tightly around Napoleon's waist, pulling him deeper inside. Solo groaned at the heady sensation as his control slipped away. Never before had he felt so at one with a lover; Illya's hard-muscled body might as well have been an extension of his own. They breathed and moved as one, echoing each other's impassioned moans.

All too soon Illya cried out as his back arched upwards at an impossible angle, grinding his sweat-slicked body against Napoleon. The powerful convulsions deep within his partner's body sent Solo over the edge as well.

When at last he came back to himself, Napoleon pulled gently out of Illya and maneuvered him into a more comfortable position. Solo drew a long, ragged breath and reverently planted a kiss on the ivory-toned skin over his lover's wildly beating heart, overwhelmed by the intensity of the love he felt for him.

Raising his head, Napoleon smiled down at Illya only to see the turmoil in his partner's blue eyes. Solo's feelings of ecstasy transmuted into dismay with sickening abruptness.

"Illya? What's wrong? Did I hurt you?"

Kuryakin shook his head, allowing his hair to obscure his face. Heartsick, Napoleon brushed the golden locks away quickly and tried to look into his lover's averted eyes. "Illya, please. Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing, Napoleon." The Russian's voice was brittle.

Not knowing what else to do, Solo kissed him tenderly, trying to atone for whatever he had done. "Illya? Please tell me what I did to hurt you. I never meant to."

"No, but you will, sooner or later, now that you have had me. It is inevitable and I must resign myself to my fate," Kuryakin said bitterly. "Such is the way of the world."

"Is that what this is about? You still don't trust me, even after what just passed between us?"

"It is not only that. I cannot give my heart to anyone, Napoleon. I am incapable of it."

"That's not true. You gave your heart to me just as I gave mine to you. I felt the power of it, Illya, and I know you did too. What you can't do is cast your lifelong habits of pessimism and abnegation away and admit that you love me."

Illya bowed his head, hiding his face. "Will you leave me with no dignity at all, Napoleon?"

Solo threw his arms around his partner and pulled him into a crushing embrace. "Dignity? I think you've mistaken it for your damned stubbornness, not to mention foolishness. Can't you hear what I've been telling you all night? Can't you sense how I feel about you in the way that I touch you? I love you, Illya, and I'm not going to leave you. Don't try to drive me away and make your worst fears come true."

"I think that you will leave me, Napoleon, the next time you desire a beautiful woman. I simply cannot believe that you will choose to remain with me instead." Kuryakin's ribs heaved against Napoleon's restraining arms, but Solo did not loosen his grasp.

"Listen to me, Illya. Years ago I loved Kate and then I lost her. I spent years being afraid to love anyone, much as you have, I suspect, but for different reasons. But I do love you. I've never been more sure of anything in my life, and making love to you just now made me even more certain. What passed between us physically was not simply a matter of my having had you. This isn't some kind of a game where I win and you lose. I have never felt so close to anyone in my life. When I made love to you, I swear I felt it as a sacred bond between us." He drew back and searched his lover's pain-filled eyes. "Illya, we both live in danger every day. Can't we take the risk of loving each other for whatever time is given to us?"

Illya looked at him uncertainly. Losing all patience, Solo tumbled the Russian down on the bed and kissed him passionately. "I want to love you tonight and tomorrow night and the night after. I know we can't get married or even live together, Illya, but I intend to spend every moment I can with you. I know you can't quite believe me yet, but you will in time, if only you will give me the chance."

Illya swallowed, his piercing blue eyes seeming to burn into Napoleon's very soul. "Very well, Napoleon, you may have your chance," he said quietly.

Napoleon sighed in relief, knowing a major battle had been won. And he would win many more, he vowed. He held his lover close. "Tonight is only the beginning, Illya," he whispered. "I promise."