Click.
"Dmitri Stephanopoulos, gentlemen. No doubt you are familiar with his face. Er, especially you, Mr. Solo." The rough, clipped voice was amused as Waverly pointed the stem of his pipe at Napoleon. The senior agent smiled perfunctorily before returning his attention back to the projected face of Stephanopoulos. No other emotion crossed his clean-cut features as he continued to lean against the window in Waverly's office.
Across the room, seated at the round table, Illya observed the slide showing Stephanopoulos. He had never met the man but was intimately acquainted with his dossier. Oldest son of a wealthy Greek family, Stephanopoulos had been educated at Oxford before taking over the family shipping business in 1955 at the age of twenty-seven, quickly doubling its net worth by bringing in T.H.R.U.S.H. as a silent partner. Over the next few years he had turned over the day-to-day running of the legitimate business to a younger brother in favor of rising higher in the T.H.R.U.S.H. hierarchy. It was common knowledge on both sides that Dmitri was angling for a place on the Council of Three. He was already the head of T.H.R.U.S.H. operations in the Mediterranean and was beginning to consolidate more power.
Another click and the slide changed to the picture of a beautiful, dark-haired young woman. "And this," Waverly droned, "is of course Katrina, Stephanopoulos' wife, whom Mr. Solo so recently liberated along with their son, Ari. They will remain at a safe house until such time as Stephanopoulos is stopped."
Illya gazed at the face of Katrina Stephanopoulos, then glanced over at Napoleon. She had contacted U.N.C.L.E. upon learning the true source of her husband's wealth and power, claiming she had invaluable information regarding T.H.R.U.S.H. operations. Which was, of course, something U.N.C.L.E. could not resist, so Waverly had sent Napoleon and himself to lead the team to help mother and son escape.
Illya let loose a tiny sigh. As usual, during her liberation the dratted female had become enamored of his partner and it had seemed for a short while that Napoleon returned her affection. With his usual gallantry Napoleon had comforted the distraught woman who had tearfully confessed it was all a ruse to get her son away from Dmitri. Far from being angry, Napoleon had been understanding and had arranged for the mother and son to be accompanied by Illya back to the States while he pursued Stephanopoulos to Calcutta. That had ended in a nasty confrontation from which Dmitri had escaped, something Napoleon considered a personal failure. Since then, Stephanopoulos had made torturing the senior agent his second highest priority.
The first, as Stephanopoulos had told Napoleon while he'd had the agent chained to a wall in Athens, was reclaiming his son.
After the killing of Viktor Shenkov, Stephanopoulos had not made another move. Napoleon and Illya had returned separately back to New York. Napoleon had arrived first and had visited Katrina in her well-guarded hideaway in Connecticut, taking elaborate measures to make sure he wasn't followed and maintaining communications silence. Napoleon had remained there overnight before returning to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters for this meeting.
Illya returned his attention to the screen. He and Napoleon had not spoken since London and once again the separation had been hard. When Napoleon had joined them in Waverly's office he had seemed distant, coolly professional. He had greeted Illya with a smile and a nod before leaning against the window while Waverly began the presentation.
This would always be the way, Illya reflected with a tinge of bitterness as Waverly moved on to the next frame. It showed a large estate set on a high cliff overlooking the sea.
"Stephanopoulos' compound on Crete, taken by aerial reconnaissance. It is ridiculously well shielded as we know, practically impenetrable." Waverly reached for a file on his desk and opened it. "Our latest intelligence says he has gone to ground there. Most Mediterranean T.H.R.U.S.H. operations seem to have been suspended, leading us to believe Stephanopoulos is gathering his resources for his largest offensive yet." The craggy face lifted from his perusal of the file and Waverly's eyes came to rest on Napoleon, who was looking out the window.
"Mr. Solo, can you tell us if Mrs. Stephanopoulos had any more information to impart? Her insistence on speaking with you led us to believe she had."
Napoleon turned away from the view and shook his head, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets as he sauntered over to the round table. "No, sir. I'm certain she's told us everything she knows about her husband. Her knowledge of the estate will be our most potent weapon if we end up cornering Dmitri there." The words were said with a hint of regret.
Waverly let out a grunt of dissatisfaction. "Not very helpful, I'm afraid. How are she and the boy taking their current situation?"
Napoleon shrugged. "As well as can be expected. She said anything is preferable to Stephanopoulos. Ari is your typical seven-year-old. Getting him a tutor was a nice touch, sir. Thank you."
Waverly waved his hand as he sat down. "Not at all, Mr. Solo, not at all. Seven-year-old boys need to be kept out of trouble."
Napoleon raised an eyebrow and shared an amused look with Illya. "As do we all, I should think."
One side of Illya's mouth crooked up. "Some more than others, Napoleon."
Napoleon glanced at Waverly. Seeing the older man had his head bent over something on his desk, Napoleon turned his gaze back to his partner and inclined his head.
And winked.
With that small gesture, Illya felt the tightness between his shoulders ease a bit. Upon arriving home he had felt the stirrings of uncertainty again, especially after hearing that Napoleon had been sent to the safe house. Sleeping alone in his small apartment the night before had been difficult. He had lain awake for hours, trying not to imagine what was happening in Connecticut.
It wasn't that he didn't trust Napoleon. On the contrary, their second night together had laid to rest many of his doubts about Napoleon's feelings for him. Illya realized he may never hear Napoleon say the actual words; as much as Illya ached to hear them he didn't discount the depth of feeling between the two of them.
But on the long, lonely flight back to New York, Illya had been shocked to find that he needed to tell Napoleon he loved him, to actually say it somehow, but he had yet to find the words.
No, it was the rest of the world Illya distrusted. A world filled with beautiful, vulnerable women who saw Napoleon as a white knight and the maker of their happily ever after ending.
That, Illya thought morosely, was something he would never get used to. To distract himself, he spoke up.
"I find it a shame that Lawrence was the T.H.R.U.S.H. operative that betrayed us in London." He picked through a pile of photographs until he found Lawrence's picture, then tossed it across the table.
Napoleon reached over and tapped it with the knuckle of his index finger. Raising his eyebrows and sighing, he said, "Yes, it's a pity. A concierge that can find a tailor to press your suit at three a.m. is hard to replace."
Illya raised his eyebrows, not smiling but his blue eyes filled with amusement. "Please explain why and when you needed a suit pressed at three a.m., Napoleon. I'm sure Mr. Waverly would love to hear your reason."
Napoleon gazed blandly back at him, a hint of playful retribution surfacing in his gaze. "I'll explain that if you explain the use of those so-called flammable liquids when you rescued me in Athens last month."
Illya crossed him arms. "Gladly, if you will tell us why you needed your tuxedo replaced yet again after your trip to Mexico City—"
Waverly cleared his throat. "All right, gentlemen, that will do for now. Until such time as Stephanopoulos makes a move or we catch him unawares we will proceed with extreme caution. I am taking both of you off the duty roster and from this point Stephanopoulos will be your highest priority." His impressive eyebrows came together in a thundering frown as he swept his two top agents with a stern look. "I presume you both will take appropriate security measures since Stephanopoulos is targeting you specifically. I'm sure I need not remind either of you of the rather large amount of taxpayer money invested in your training. Hate to see that go to waste, you know." And with that he rather pugnaciously stuffed the stem of his pipe between his teeth. "That will be all. Oh, and do ask Records to send up the last three months of your travel expenses, please."
They both murmured "yes, sir" and Illya rose, following his partner out of the office. Silently, they walked shoulder to shoulder down the hallway towards the elevator that would take them to the level where their offices were located. They entered the empty car and Napoleon pressed the proper floor, both of them facing the doors as they shut.
The car began to descend. Illya spared a sidelong glance at Napoleon and wasn't surprised to see his partner gazing at him. Thinking to tease Napoleon, Illya leaned in and sniffed delicately.
"Really, Napoleon, Chanel No. Five? Not a suitable scent for you at all." Illya leaned back and raised his eyes nonchalantly, watching the floor numbers flash. Napoleon raised a forearm to his nose, breathed in and winced.
"Sorry. Katrina was a little, uh, enthusiastic when she said good bye this morning."
Illya nodded wisely. "Yes, I've noticed that you seem to have that effect on women." The words were said lightly as Illya shot a look at Napoleon through lowered lashes.
Napoleon adjusted his tie in the reflection of the door, then smiled. "Yes, well, it's an underrated talent, you know. Getting women to think you're interested when in reality, you're quite happily...uninterested." The last word was said in a low tone, the inference unmistakable.
Illya's throat tightened with emotion as he clasped his hands behind his back. He coughed and changed the subject. "How was the drive?" he asked quietly.
"Lonely," came the terse reply. "But," Napoleon added, his voice warming, "I'll tell you all about it at dinner. Why don't you come over tonight and we'll take a look at the report from Athens."
Illya shifted from one foot to the other, his gaze falling to the floor. "I...would like to, but I doubt that it's very wise."
Napoleon shook his head, not pretending to misunderstand. "Think about it. You're my partner. We're both currently targeted by a madman. I have the ingredients for fettuccine la Napoleon. There's three reasons right there for us to be together."
Illya bit his bottom lip, wanting to be convinced but not sure it was that easy. "True, but—"
"And," Napoleon emphasized as the elevator stopped, "it isn't like we've never had dinner and discussed a mission. Waverly has made this our top priority and that means we need to come up with a plan."
"Ah, yes, a plan. Instead of our usual brilliant improvisation? How common."
They stepped out of the elevator. Before they moved down the corridor Napoleon laid a restraining hand on Illya's arm.
"Illya?" The word was said quietly, intensely.
Looking into the dark eyes Illya felt his objections melt away.
"Yes."
"Just a minute!"
Illya stepped back from the door at the sound of Napoleon's muffled voice, one hand clutching the neck of a brown paper bag while the other went to his throat, attempting to fiddle with the tie he had discarded at home. He wasn't nervous, precisely. In fact, he was quite looking forward to the evening ahead. There was a comfort in knowing Napoleon's building—and his for that matter—were secure and they could consider themselves almost as safe as if they were in U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. But this felt different. This wasn't an anonymous hotel room halfway across the world. This was Napoleon's home.
To be honest, Illya was glad to be spending time with his partner. His enjoyment of Napoleon's company had always been a bit of a guilty pleasure. Their easy camaraderie over the years had been a revelation; he'd never made a friend so easily. A loner all his life, their partnering had been hard for him at first. Anticipating another man's actions, learning to work as a team—these things had always been uncomfortable for him, despite his military background. Somehow he had managed to keep a large part himself separate, his inner life sustaining him through many solitary days and nights.
Then one day Waverly had called him into his office. Napoleon was already there. They had met before, had even worked a mission together. They shook hands and renewed their acquaintance before Waverly cleared his throat. Waverly had been characteristically blunt, waving his pipe between the two of them.
"Gentlemen, meet your new partner. Now, I'm sending the two of you to Majorca..."
The turning of the handle brought Illya back to the present. The door swung open to reveal Napoleon, pasta fork in hand.
"Perfect timing, as always. C'mon in." Napoleon pulled the door wider and bowed Illya in with a wave of the fork. Illya stepped in and the door was closed behind him. Before he could turn Napoleon enveloped him from behind, sliding his arms around his waist and placing a gentle kiss on the side of his neck before releasing him.
Napoleon came around and pointed his fork Illya's nose. "I thought I said I had the wine covered." Then, pointing the fork at the bag in Illya's hand, he continued, "Unless that's the oddest shaped apple pie I've ever seen."
Illya shook his head and reached into the bag, pulling out a bottle of slivovitz. "Not apple pie, but definitely for after dinner." He could still feel Napoleon's lips, warm on his neck.
Napoleon beamed at him. "Man after my own heart. Set it down on the bar and pour yourself a drink. I just pulled the Stoli out of the freezer and my glass is around here somewhere—oh, over on the coffee table. You can lose the jacket and the hardware in the coat closet." Napoleon returned to the open kitchen and for a moment Illya stood, an amused expression on his face. Then he sighed and set about pouring vodka for himself and refreshing Napoleon's Chivas. Then he shed his suit jacket, hanging it and the shoulder holster in the closet.
That done, he began to feel awkward. Illya walked to the kitchen doorway and set Napoleon's drink on the counter, then observed Napoleon as he puttered over the stove. His partner was completely absorbed in his cooking, whistling under his breath. His suitcoat and tie were also gone, the top three buttons of the white shirt undone. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing tanned forearms, tensing now as he lifted the steaming pot of pasta to the back burner and replaced it with the pot holding the sauce. Grabbing a spoon, Napoleon gave the sauce a taste and frowned, then moved to the spice rack and pulled the jar holding the basil.
Seeing Napoleon was fully occupied, Illya turned and moved over to the living room's full-length windows that offered an impressive view of the Hudson River through the one-way glass. He crossed his arms, cradling the glass of vodka close to his chest. It was just past twilight, the lights of the city beginning to come up. He stood there, lost in thought, sipping occasionally, until his attention was caught when the lights in the room behind him were extinguished.
Illya waited silently. He heard a match strike and saw the flame reflected in the window. He watched the one flame become several as Napoleon lit the candles scattered throughout the room, working his way over to Illya. Finally, the match was shaken and tossed aside before Napoleon joined him at the window, taking the highball glass from his fingers and setting it on the mantle.
Even as Napoleon was turning back towards him, Illya was stepping into his arms, their lips meeting in a kiss that spoke of longing and sweet reunion. Napoleon brought his hands up to frame Illya's face, tilting it as he claimed the Russian's warm, yielding mouth. Illya's hands slid down Napoleon's sides to just above his belt, resting on the slim hips.
The single kiss grew into a series of warm caresses, lips and tongues meeting tenderly, until Napoleon pulled back and smiled. He slid his arms around Illya's waist and drew him closer, stealing another small kiss before gently tugging the fair head to his shoulder.
They stood that way for a while, content to hold each other in the candlelight. Illya shifted a little, his nose brushing the white linen of Napoleon's shirt. He sniffed, then reached a hand up to pull Napoleon's collar away from his throat. He nuzzled the patch of skin revealed there, smiling against the warmth.
Napoleon was caressing the slender, muscled back underneath his hands. He must have felt the smile because he stopped, bringing a hand up to thread his fingers through hair at the base of Illya's neck.
"What amuses you, my friend?" he asked softly, an answering smile evident in his tone.
Illya shifted closer and pressed a kiss to the underside of Napoleon's jaw, just beneath the mole there. "You no longer smell of her, Polya," he murmured contentedly.
Napoleon closed his eyes and rested his cheek against Illya's. "I know. I showered as soon as I got home. Couldn't stand the thought of anyone's scent on me but yours."
Illya stilled, then let out a deep sigh before leaning back and caressing Napoleon's face with his fingertips. Their eyes locked, a passionate message passing between them, before Napoleon's mouth descended on his again, this time the desire less controlled. Hands were beginning to roam and shirts were becoming untucked when the timer in the kitchen went off.
It startled them mid-kiss and they both stepped back. Chuckling, Napoleon caressed Illya's cheek with the back of his hand. "Duty calls, and a damn good thing, too."
"Why?" Illya asked with deceptive innocence as he followed Napoleon into the kitchen, shoving his shirttails back into his trousers.
Napoleon gave the sauce a stir before fixing a stern eye on his partner. "As if you didn't know. Remember? Dinner first, then we come up with that masterful plan to thwart Stephanopoulos."
Illya took a sip of Napoleon's scotch, grimaced and set the glass back down. "Thwart, Napoleon? Did you actually say 'thwart'"?
"I did. It's a perfectly good word. People use it everyday. Here's another: scoot." He made shooing gestures with his hand and Illya backed out of the kitchen, smiling.
Hours later, the candles long extinguished in favor of the overhead lights, papers and photographs had replaced the dishes and wineglasses as the two agents went over all the data U.N.C.L.E. had concerning Stephanopoulos.
"Nothing." Illya finally said with disgust, tossing his glasses onto the table. He stood and stretched before resting his hands on his hips and scowling at Napoleon.
Napoleon leaned back in his chair and sighed. "I know. Dmitri's influence here in the States may not be strong but he runs T.H.R.U.S.H. Med ops like he's the head of IBM. Maybe even better. His only real weakness would seem to be his family, especially Ari."
Illya nodded and began to gather up the files. "A fact I'm sure he knows we are aware of. I imagine he will look for something to bargain with in order to regain his son."
A hand shot out and clasped Illya's wrist as he reached for a photo. Illya paused and met Napoleon's eyes, not surprised to see the concern there. "You know exactly what he wants for a bargaining chip."
Illya nodded and gently extracted his wrist. "Of course. Luckily, U.N.C.L.E. doesn't negotiate with the lives of their agents." He paused as an idea struck him." If Stephanopoulos is not aware of this policy we could use it to our advantage."
Napoleon's eyes narrowed. "How?" he asked bluntly, although Illya suspected his partner already knew.
Illya shrugged. "Quite simple, really. I allow myself to be captured. When Stephanopoulos tries to use me as leverage he will be vulnerable. He will have to communicate with us, make arrangements for the switch, use his operatives to bring it all off. In essence, he will have to come out from hiding. As long as he thinks he has a chance to trade me for his son you'll have time to hunt him down."
Napoleon stood abruptly and walked over to the window. It was past midnight and the half moon was reflecting dully off the river below. "There's got to be another way." His voice was low, almost a growl. "That policy may be a well-kept secret but he's shown himself to be pretty knowledgeable about U.N.C.L.E. operations."
Illya moved up behind Napoleon and laid a comforting hand between the tense shoulders. "I know. It would be a gamble. But one we have played before, yes?" He waited for a response that was not forthcoming, finally moving back to the table and gathering the remaining papers into a pile.
Napoleon hadn't moved from the window. Illya sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I should be going, anyway, it's late."
Napoleon whirled from the window, his expression confused. "Going? Why?"
Illya's eyebrows rose. "I...I thought I should," he stammered. He didn't have the guts to explain that he hadn't been asked to stay—and didn't want to make the assumption no matter how much he wished to.
Napoleon walked over to him and gently grabbed his upper arms. "You can't go. We haven't opened the slivovitz yet. Besides," he leaned in to whisper into Illya's ear, "I bought you a toothbrush." He pulled back, smiling, and Illya was not surprised to feel his cheeks flushing.
Illya cleared his throat. "Well, since you went to all that trouble, it does seem a shame not to at least sample the wine, doesn't it?"
Napoleon tightened his hold slightly, the amusement fading away. "Stay with me?" he asked quietly.
Illya shook his head slowly as he gazed into Napoleon's dark eyes, even as he answered, "Of course."
There was no mistaking the relief in Napoleon's eyes. "Good," he replied, releasing his hold. "I'll see about opening that bottle. Why don't you relight some of those candles."
Somewhat bemusedly, Illya did as he was told. Gathering up a few of the scattered candles, he placed them on the coffee table and found the matchbook. Napoleon moved over to the bar, grabbed the corkscrew and quickly opened the bottle. Gathering two glasses in one hand and the bottle in the other, Napoleon circled the room, turning off the dining room light with his elbow.
Illya lit the last candle and blew out the match. He sat on the couch and watched as Napoleon joined him, handing him a glass. He took it and held it steady while Napoleon poured a small amount in it, then did the same in his own.
Setting the bottle on the table, Napoleon pushed back into the corner of the couch and swung one leg onto the cushions behind Illya. When Illya didn't move, he crooked his finger.
Illya's lips twitched and he nodded. Turning his back to Napoleon, he scooted until his back rested on Napoleon's chest, sighing happily when one arm came around to hold him close.
"That's better," Napoleon murmured, then clinked his glass against Illya's. They both sipped at the plum wine, watching the candles flicker. Illya felt incredibly content, lying in Napoleon's arms. He brought his free hand up to Napoleon's and threaded their fingers together. He laughed softly a few minutes later when Napoleon disengaged their hands to dip a finger into his wineglass and rubbed the moisture across Illya's slim wrist.
"I should never have told you of that particular Gypsy custom, I think," Illya said with amusement.
"Oh, I don't know," Napoleon replied, bringing the wrist to his lips and giving it a tender lick. "I think it's rather charming."
Illya sighed contentedly as the warm tongue moved to lap against the ball of his thumb. "This wasn't part of the ceremony but as always I'm impressed by your improvisational skills."
"That's good to know. Guess I'll just have to keep on impressing you." With a final kiss to Illya's palm he released the hand to draw Illya closer.
Gesturing with his glass, Illya indicated the candlelit room. "I always suspected you of possessing a romantic soul, Polya."
"Mmm, only when properly motivated," Napoleon whispered as he burrowed his nose in the blond hair above Illya's ear before placing a gentle kiss on Illya's temple.
They stayed that way for a while until Napoleon drained his glass and set it on the console table behind the couch. Then he reached around and gently guided Illya's glass to the Russian's lips, silently urging him to take the last drop.
When the glass was empty, Napoleon took it and placed it next to the other one on the table. Illya made a move as if to rise but was quickly restrained by strong arms.
"Where are you going, Illya Nickovetch?" he murmured, gently rubbing his hands across Illya's chest.
Illya shifted until his forehead rested against Napoleon's neck, closing his eyes. He didn't reply, bringing one hand to Napoleon's cheek and caressing it. Napoleon took the hand and pressed a kiss into the palm before releasing it to smooth back the blond hair from the cut healing on Illya's forehead.
"How's this doing?" he asked before giving the wound a feather-light kiss.
Eyes still closed, Illya replied softly, "Fine, as long as I avoid it when I shave."
Napoleon laughed, a warm sound in the dark. Illya straightened and rested the back of his head against Napoleon's shoulder as the older agent's arms enfolded him again. Illya's eyes remained closed as he allowed himself to momentarily give in to the incomparable feeling of being held by Napoleon Solo.
Illya gave a little grunt of dismay when one of those arms was removed, but his displeasure was short lived when Napoleon' warm hand settled at his throat, right on the first button of his oxford shirt. A little tremor passed through him when the button was slipped the through the buttonhole, revealing a small patch of white undershirt.
Illya smiled as he heard the small moan behind him. "You're going to make me work for this tonight, aren't you?" Napoleon whispered as he nuzzled Illya's ear. One finger traced down Illya's chest until it was stopped by the next button. It and all the rest of the buttons received the same treatment until Napoleon was stopped by Illya's belt buckle.
By the time Napoleon was gently tugging Illya's shirt out of his pants the younger man was breathing a little more rapidly. His left hand was still held tightly in Napoleon's, his right stroking Napoleon's thigh. The sensation of his shirt sliding up over his hips and waist as Napoleon pulled it free had him squirming where he lay in the juncture of Napoleon's legs.
Illya realized that his wriggling was having an interesting effect on Napoleon. After pulling the shirt completely loose Napoleon captured first one wrist and then the other, neither of them surprised to see his fingers tremble slightly as he unbuttoned Illya's cuffs. Napoleon's breathing was becoming more labored and when the button on Illya's right cuff resisted, Napoleon simply gave it a yank and sent the button flying before pushing Illya upright, grabbing the opened shirt and peeling it off in a swift series of movements.
That done, Napoleon didn't hesitate. The white undershirt was grasped low and pulled up and over the blond head with an alacrity that made Illya blink. Napoleon's warm hands quickly replaced the cool air striking his naked chest, the blunt fingers splayed over his ribcage. Napoleon straightened, bringing his legs around to cradle Illya between them, before bending forward to place his lips at the base of Illya's neck and kissing him there.
Illya eyes drifted closed as the warm hands moved up and over his bare shoulders to slide down his back in one long caress. The blond head fell forward as Illya shuddered under Napoleon's touch.
Then the hands stilled, resting lightly on his shoulder blades. Illya tried to straighten but stopped when Napoleon cupped one hand around the base of Illya's neck, keeping his head bowed.
"My God," he heard Napoleon murmured roughly, "I'd forgotten." Illya felt a fingertip tracing a line across his back.
Suddenly, Illya understood. He turned in his lover's arms until they were face to face, reaching up to brush a lock of dark hair away from the stricken brown eyes.
"Don't, Napoleon. It was a long time ago." He let his hand flow down Napoleon's cheek until his fingertips rested lightly on the cleft in Napoleon's chin.
Napoleon caught his hand and held it tightly, his expression still troubled. "Another time I was too late." He closed his eyes. "I remember, when I found you, you were in such pain, I—"
"Stop it." Illya spoke firmly. "Do not bring the outside world between us, not when we're together. It will paralyze you." He drifted the fingertips of his free hand across Napoleon's cheek, then withdrew and waited.
The dark lashes lifted, revealing the depths of Napoleon's heart. Illya felt the breath catch in his throat at the sight. Napoleon was truly vulnerable before him; it was all there for him to see in the loving brown eyes.
Determined not to let the opportunity pass, Illya pressed on.
"Are we agreed?" he asked quietly but insistently.
Napoleon swallowed and nodded. "Agreed." Then his expression changed as his eyes began to gleam with amusement—and something else. He lifted an eyebrow and shifted closer. "Always knew you had a streak of bossiness in you—"
His words were stopped as Illya leaned forward and covered his lips with his own. At first Napoleon resisted, trying to gain control of the kiss, but Illya persevered, his tongue stroking inside Napoleon's mouth then retreating, leading Napoleon's tongue back into his own warm mouth.
With a groan, Napoleon released Illya's hand to clutch his bare arms, wrenching his mouth away and tracing a path of hot, wet kisses along Illya's neck and shoulder. Illya's lashes fluttered then closed over passion-dark eyes as Napoleon bit gently at the soft spot where neck and shoulder meet, then sucked hard.
"Napoleon," Illya strained back against the hands that held him tightly. "Napoleon!"
Napoleon raised his head but not before licking the passion mark he just created. "What, love?" he breathed, delicately mouthing the pale skin at Illya's cheek.
Illya closed his eyes, uncertainty flooding through him. "Do you remember London, Polya?" He paused, then said in a rush, "I want you to make love to me. I want—no, I need us together that way."
Napoleon's lips stilled, then lay a gentle kiss on the smooth cheek. He leaned back and Illya suddenly felt shy as Napoleon gazed at him with unmistakable yearning.
"Oh, Illya," he whispered. "You've no idea how much I want to." He paused, biting his lip.
Illya felt a small chill race through his veins. The doubts he felt at Napoleon's hesitancy must have shown in his eyes because he was quickly wrapped Napoleon's arms.
"Listen to me and stop jumping to conclusions," Napoleon crooned in his ear. "Making love to you...my God, there's nothing I want more. But, Illya—" he leaned back and their eyes met again, Napoleon's warm and inviting, Illya's guarded.
Napoleon's lips twitched in a slight smile. "I'm not sure how to ask this, but I think it's necessary." He laid a hand alongside Illya's cheek. "Have you had male lovers before?"
Illya blinked and looked away. Napoleon waited, his fingertips gently brushing Illya's temple. The younger man inhaled deeply and cast his eyes downward.
"Interesting timing,
Napoleon, considering the fact we've already slept together twice—"
But Napoleon was shaking his head. "Nice try, my friend, but you know what I'm talking about. This is far beyond what we've already shared and as much as the idea has been the star of many a dream of mine, we're not going to rush into anything. And whatever you tell me isn't going to change how I feel about you, either." He smiled, fingers still moving against Illya's skin in a comforting rhythm. "I realize we probably should have had this discussion in Athens but I, uh, got a little sidetracked. So, tell me, love, have you?"
Illya searched Napoleon's eyes, finding nothing but openness and affection, then let his eyes fall to a point on Napoleon's shoulder.
"Yes...and no," he replied, so low Napoleon had to lean forward to hear. "I have been with another man. He was not a lover."
Illya felt Napoleon flinch and he drew back, reluctant to meet Napoleon's eyes. But Napoleon wouldn't allow Illya to distance himself; he gently lifted Illya's chin with two fingers until their eyes met. Illya was shocked to see the brown eyes filled with pain.
"I'm so sorry, love, I didn't know—"
Illya suddenly realized how his words had sounded. He shook his head and leaned his forehead against Napoleon's. "No, no, not like that. No, please, listen." He sighed. "I'm going about this rather clumsily, aren't I?" He swallowed and closed his eyes, gathering his thoughts. Napoleon's hands were stroking his back soothingly, making him feel cherished and safe.
He took a steadying breath. "While I was attending school in Kiev, I became...intimate with another student. We were both lonely and somewhat curious; it was more of an experiment than an affair, certainly." Illya smiled at the memory. "One that didn't work out very well, I'm afraid, although we did try our very best." He straightened to see Napoleon's eyes, warmed by the understanding he found there. "I never regarded him as a lover, Napoleon."
Illya continued to meet Napoleon's gaze, inwardly wishing he had the courage to tell this man how he really felt. Instead, he asked, "And you? Until Hong Kong I had never seen you look at another man." The words were slightly challenging but as he spoke Illya caressed Napoleon's cheek with the back of his hand.
Napoleon smiled at him then shifted them until they were both leaning against the back of the couch, Illya's head drawn to his shoulder.
"I've been with a few other men, Illya. I won't lie to you about that. And make no mistake, I did love being with women. But sometimes," he paused, then sighed. "Sometimes there was just an attraction, a chemistry, with a man. For me, it was when I was in the army. But once I got out, it stopped."
Illya snorted softly and Napoleon chuckled. "Well, okay, I found the girls pretty accommodating from that point on." There was a small silence, then Napoleon added softly, "But then the last few years have been sheer hell because of this devastatingly beautiful co-worker. Well, I fell like a ton of bricks."
"Oh? What was her name, Napoleon?" Illya joked, but inside his heart was beating wildly. Napoleon thought him beautiful?
Napoleon tightened his arms then drew away to force Illya to sit up and look him in the eyes
"His name, my unusually dense Russian, is Illya—" he leaned forward and brushed his lips along Illya's left cheek, "Nickovetch—" another whisper-soft kiss on the right side, "Kuryakin." Napoleon captured Illya's lips with his own, then attempted to draw Illya closer. When Illya resisted, Napoleon rested his hands lightly on Illya's bare shoulders and frowned.
"What's wrong?" he whispered, rubbing soothing circles on the pale flesh beneath his fingers. When Illya shivered, Napoleon moved his hands down and massaged the Russian's upper arms. "You're cold, of course, I'm sorry. Let's move—" Napoleon's attempt to rise was stopped by the delicate touch of Illya's thumb on the older man's lips. Napoleon kissed it, then waited.
For a few heartbeats, Illya paused as he contemplated his next words. Serious blue eyes searched welcoming brown before coming to a decision. He replaced his thumb with his lips just brushing Napoleon's, closed his eyes, and took the plunge.
"I love you, Napoleon," he whispered. "So very much." Then he kissed Napoleon lightly and withdrew, eyes still shuttered. He was surprised to find his heart steadying at the declaration, all nervousness fled in the face of something he now knew was inevitable.
"Open your eyes, love," ordered Napoleon quietly. When Illya hesitated, Napoleon leaned forward and brushed his lips over each closed lid as he brought his two hands up to frame Illya's face. "Can't hide in there forever. Look at me, Illya."
Illya sighed and opened his eyes. "I'm not hiding, Napoleon. I just didn't know how it would feel to say that," raising his hands to cover Napoleon's.
"And it felt...?" Napoleon asked softly.
"Right," Illya whispered.
Napoleon chuckled softly, drawing Illya's hands to his mouth and brushing his lips over the knuckles. "Well, then, let me give it a try." He leaned forward and rested his forehead against Illya's, their hands entwined between their bodies. There was a moment of comfortable silence as Napoleon paused. Illya waited patiently, his eyes half-closed, lost in the sensation of Napoleon's fingers caressing the back of his hands.
"Well, at the risk of repeating myself, I think I probably fell in love with you before we ever met. I watched you, year after year, working in the labs, moving up through the ranks, hoping against hope you'd want a career in Enforcement and yet dreading it at the same time. Then when Waverly finally convinced you to leave Research I watched as you turned into a top agent, one of the best. Even then, I think I knew we'd be together, at least as partners. So it's safe to say that having you here, in my arms, saying you love me—" Napoleon's voice faltered, his fingers tightening. "I must have done something right at least once in my life," he ended with a soft, self-deprecating laugh.
Illya raised his head and laid a gentle kiss on Napoleon's forehead. "Da, Napoleon, at least once," he murmured, smiling slightly. "But I doubt paraphrasing Rodgers and Hammerstein counts in your favor." The smile widened as Napoleon laughed before sliding his arms around Illya's bare waist and pulling him snug against his chest.
"So, Illya Nickovetch, " he said, a note of teasing returning to his voice.
"Yes, Napoleon?" Illya answered conversationally, blue eyes alight with affection as he toyed with Napoleon's collar.
Napoleon ran his hand down the soft curve of Illya's lower back, fingering the prominent spine before sliding his fingertips just under the waist of Illya's slacks. "You, uh, done with your wine?" His fingers slipped deeper, caressing the warm skin.
Illya turned and looked consideringly at the glass sitting on the table. "I had wanted some more—"
"Too bad," Napoleon breathed, and captured Illya's lips with his own. There was a different quality in the kiss, an almost wistful connection that had Illya somehow trying to convey comfort with his response. Napoleon pulled Illya closer, his right hand cradling the blond head, turning it to deepen the kiss. Illya ran his hands down Napoleon's back, grasping the white shirt and pulling it free of Napoleon's trousers. Once the shirt was loose he ran his hands beneath the fabric, palming the muscles that lay underneath the cotton undershirt.
Napoleon broke off the kiss with a soft groan, then laid his cheek against Illya's. "This will be tough, you know," he whispered as he slid his fingertips around Illya's waist and began to unbuckle the Russian's belt. "Being together. But we'll be okay." Belt undone, he nipped at Illya's earlobe as he pulled the leather free, tossing it away before reclaiming Illya's mouth.
"Yes," Illya muttered in reply against Napoleon's lips. His hands had come to rest on Napoleon's waist, his entire body reacting to Napoleon's fingers on the fly of his pants as the button was slipped loose. "I'm not—oh, yes..." Napoleon stroked the back of his knuckles over his heated groin still covered by his trousers and Illya's eyes closed at the firm touch. "—I'm not naïve, Napoleon," he managed before biting his lip as sensation after exquisite sensation rolled through him.
"No, I know you're not," Napoleon replied raggedly, then withdrew and removed his hand from between Illya's legs. The Russian sighed at the loss of contact and opened his eyes to see Napoleon swiftly unbuttoning his own shirt before stripping it off and tossing it away. He regathered Illya into his arms, pulling Illya's head close with both hands and kissing his ear.
"Listen to me, Illya," he murmured, his voice deep and rough. "You asked me to make love to you. That's what's going to happen now. When this night is done, I'll have been so deeply inside you you'll never get me out. I'll be part of you forever, do you understand? Forever. No matter what happens on the other side of that door. Tell me that's what you want, Illya. Tell me."
"Yes," Illya replied between gritted teeth, pulling back to meet the dark, passion-filled eyes. "I want all of it. Everything you have to give—it will be mine. And when we are done, Napoleon," the soft voice lowered dangerously, "when we are done, I will return the favor, yes?"
Napoleon's head reared back and his nostrils flared as a dark smile came to his lips. "Oh, yes, my love," he answered, his voice just as low and thrilling as Illya's, "you better believe it." He leaned past the Russian's bare shoulder and blew out the candles, then stood up, pulling Illya with him.
Darkness enveloped them as their lips met hungrily, the vows between them serving to heighten their passion. Napoleon's hands slid possessively over the smooth skin of Illya's back before he backed away and snagged both of the Russian's hands. Walking backwards, Napoleon's eyes were full of laughter as he led Illya towards the bedroom.
Before they reached the threshold the phone rang, roughly breaking the intimate silence. Napoleon hesitated before releasing Illya's hands and walking over to the phone on his desk.
"Solo here." There was a pause, then Illya felt the mood in the room change abruptly, even before Napoleon spoke again.
"On my way. No, sir, I'll get him. We'll be right there." Napoleon hung up the phone and moved quickly to the couch, snagging Illya's clothes and tossing them to him before reaching for his own shirt. "That was Waverly. They've received a recorded transmission from Stephanopoulos."
Illya already had his undershirt on and was pulling on the outer shirt even as he was reaching into the coat closet for his holster and jacket.
"What did it say?" he asked, as he shrugged his jacket on.
Napoleon was checking his gun, dropping the cartridge and giving it a quick look before ramming it home.
"I don't know. He's waiting for us." He grabbed the files and took a quick glance around the apartment before joining Illya at the door. Illya reached for the doorknob but found his wrist gently grasped by Napoleon.
"I'm sorry," Napoleon said softly, his eyes filled with regret.
Illya nodded, raising his free hand to briefly cup Napoleon's cheek. "As am I. But we will endure, Napoleon. Of that, I am sure."
The videotape had been laid at the doorstep of the closed Del Floria shop, followed by an anonymous, untraceable phone call directing U.N.C.L.E. where to find it and who it was from. That, in turn, had immediately resulted in phone calls to Waverly and Napoleon; the tape had been examined but not watched by security before being delivered to Waverly's office.
The tape had started out with the image of Dmitri Stephanopoulos, smiling, at ease, sitting at a desk. Behind him, billowy, sheer drapes framed an open window, giving the viewers a glimpse of the deep blue Mediterranean sky.
"Napoleon Solo," the Greek began, his darkly handsome face looking falsely benign, "you have something valuable that belongs to me, something I am sure you have no intention of ever returning. To that end, I require compensation. In fact, I require that you willingly hand over your dear friend and partner, Mr. Kuryakin, at a time and place of my choosing. Oh, and you may reasonably expect never to see him again." Stephanopoulos leaned back and steepled his fingers, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair.
"Since you currently have no reason to accommodate me, let me give you one. Two days ago, I declared open season on all U.N.C.L.E. operatives around the world. Not that this is an unusual state of affairs between our two organizations, but I offer you this distinction. I am paying a rather sizable reward for every U.N.C.L.E. agent assassinated by a T.H.R.U.S.H. operative." Stephanopoulos smiled, his teeth impossibly white against his dark skin. "I am happy to say that so far my little incentive plan has worked out rather well, as you will soon find out. We T.H.R.U.S.H. are a greedy lot, you know, and I am a generous employer."
Stephanopoulos shifted, dropping his hands to the desk in from of him. "I give you twenty-four hours to make your decision. Of course, during that time, many of your comrades may die, but upon the receipt of Kuryakin I will cancel the bounty." The smile grew wider. "You have my word on that, of course. Now, should you at any point choose to return Ari to me you may have your precious Mr. Kuryakin back. Or what's left of him, I should say. I have no intention of granting him a quick death, you understand." He paused as another man entered the frame to hand him a piece of paper. Stephanopoulos read it, then nodded and the man pulled back out of range.
"To assure you of my intent, I regret to inform you that three of your agents from the Johannesburg office recently met with a tragic accident, apparently involving some failed brakes and a mountain road." He crumpled the paper and assumed an expression of sorrow. "My sincere condolences." Then his expression shifted again, becoming cunning and harsh. "So you see, Mr. Solo, by taking my son away you have condemned your comrades—and your lover—to death. I do wonder how you will live with yourself." Stephanopoulos stood, the façade of congeniality gone.
"You will be contacted with further instructions."
The tape went dark.
There was a stunned silence in Waverly's office. Napoleon stood abruptly, shoving his hands in his pockets and taking an angry turn around the table. Waverly, looking as distraught as Illya had ever seen him, rolled his cold pipe in his hands but made no effort to light it.
For his part, Illya was deeply distressed. They had seriously underestimated Stephanopoulos and had paid a horrible price. The fact that Stephanopoulos had revealed their secret to Waverly paled in comparison to the lives that may have already been lost. He swallowed hard, his eyes cast down on the hard surface of the table.
Finally Waverly cleared his throat. "All right, gentlemen. Let us put aside any personal considerations for now." He coughed and Illya glanced up, noticing the deep lines of fatigue that seemed to have appeared on the well-worn face in the last few minutes.
Napoleon remained tautly silent, his back turned to the table. Illya took a deep breath. "We must go to full alert. Every agent must be informed of the bounty immediately. And I, of course, must turn myself over to T.H.R.U.S.H.."
At his words Napoleon turned around sharply. Their eyes met across the table, Illya's calm, Napoleon's angry.
"Yes," rumbled Waverly, leaning back in his chair. "I suppose that will be the best way."
Napoleon spoke but his eyes never left his partner's. "Best way for what, sir?" he asked, his voice tightly controlled.
"Why, to infiltrate Stephanopoulos' operation, of course." Waverly spoke mildly, his eyes fixed on his Chief Enforcement Officer.
Napoleon crossed his arms over his chest and finally looked at his superior. "We've already lost three agents to this madman, sir, possibly more. Handing Illya over is signing his death warrant. And there's no guarantee Stephanopoulos will call off the bounty."
"Not necessarily, Napoleon." Illya leaned forward and clasped his hands on the table. "His hatred for you and the desire to be reunited with his son will make him more likely to keep me alive, as that bargaining chip we spoke of. If he does call off the bounty it may save the lives of many agents. If he does not, we are no further behind. Furthermore, we have only his word that those agents in Johannesburg are dead. If that tape were made even as late as yesterday evening, surely we would have heard of these so-called assassinations by now. It will have to be verified by U.N.C.L.E.."
"Quite so," Waverly agreed, nodding. He turned to the communications console behind him and began the laborious task of contacting U.N.C.L.E. agencies around the world.
Illya felt a surge of uneasiness as he regarded his partner. Napoleon was as lethal as he had ever seen him, Illya realized with a sense of shock. Although the dark eyes betrayed nothing, Illya could see the fine jaw clenching and unclenching.
Sighing, Illya stood and moved over to Napoleon's side, tapping him lightly on the forearm with his knuckle and forcing the older man to meet his gaze.
"Napoleon," he said quietly. "This is our chance to remove Stephanopoulos. We must take it."
Napoleon stared at him for a few seconds. "So Stephanopoulos doesn't kill you outright," he said abruptly. "He's proved himself to be well versed in U.N.C.L.E. operations. He'll be wise to any tracking devices, you realize that." His tone was challenging.
"I realize nothing of the kind. He is not omniscient. We do have a few tricks of our own, you know." The words held a slight edge of reproof.
Napoleon's gaze softened. "I know."
"And," Illya pressed on, "I am not exactly a lamb being led to the slaughter. You are expected to show up in time, is that clear?"
Napoleon gave him a small, humorless smile. "There's that bossy streak again." The smile vanished. "He's going to make it difficult, Illya."
Illya raised an eyebrow. "A strange euphemism for torture, but the point is that he will keep me alive, is it not?"
"No," Napoleon whispered, "that's not good enough."
"It will have to be, Napoleon," Illya replied just as softly, their eyes locked on each other.
"Gentleman," Waverly turned away from the communications console. "U.N.C.L.E. Johannesburg cannot verify the deaths of any agents at this point. All offices are currently going to full alert and are beginning to pull as many agents off the field as possible without compromising ongoing operations."
"Very good, " Napoleon stated, his face becoming impassive once again.
"Now," Waverly continued, "we have precious few hours to prepare ourselves. Mr. Kuryakin, no doubt you have several ideas as to how we may track you. I suggest you begin working on that immediately. Mr. Solo, you and I will review all intelligence concerning Stephanopoulos and his T.H.R.U.S.H. operations. Any questions?" His dour gaze swept between the two agents, who glanced at each other.
"Sir," Napoleon said quietly, "what Stephanopoulos said, about us being lovers..." His voice trailed away.
Waverly reached for his humidor, pulled off the lid and began stuffing tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, giving it his full attention. "Yes? Do you deny it?"
Another glance passed between the two younger men, a quick question asked and answered.
"No, sir," they said simultaneously.
Waverly made an attempt to light his pipe, failed, and tried again. When it was drawing to his satisfaction, he pinned his agents with a fierce look.
"Very wise of you not to lie, gentlemen. I've rather been expecting this to happen for some time. However, now is not the precise circumstances under which to discuss it. We will leave it until Stephanopoulos is stopped and Mr. Kuryakin is returned to us. Mr. Kuryakin, to your work, if you please. Mr. Solo, let us take a look at those files."
"Illya."
The soft, affectionate voice and warm hand on his shoulder brought Illya gently through the remaining layers of sleep.
"Polya?" he answered sleepily as he lifted his head from the laboratory counter, running a hand through his hair. His eyes focused greedily on the cup of coffee Napoleon was waving under his nose. He took it and nodded his thanks to his partner, noting the deep circles under the brown eyes, the loosened tie and rolled shirtsleeves. "What time is it?"
"Just after six." The usually smooth voice was hoarse with fatigue.
Illya took a sip and closed his eyes appreciatively before fixing his partner with a glare. "You look awful. Did you get any sleep at all?"
Napoleon shrugged and seated himself on the stool next to Illya's. "Stretched out on the couch in my office for a bit." He gestured at the pile of equipment on the counter. "Any luck with this stuff?"
Illya nodded. "Yes, I believe we have a rather clever innovation that should be beyond Stephanopoulos' knowledge. Here, let me show—" He started to reach across the counter, only to find his wrist once again captured by Napoleon. He turned and was caught by the fierce expression in the dark eyes.
"You know I'll find you, Illya Nickovetch." The words were said like a vow as Napoleon released him
Illya nodded. "Of course. I have no doubts."
Napoleon shook his head, a small laugh escaping from his lips. "Your faith in me is astounding, you know that?"
Illya snorted softly. "Hardly. I have faith because I believe it is in your contract, you know, to play the dashing hero arriving in the nick of time. It's me who has trouble playing the damsel in distress because it's always the hero that has all the fun."
Napoleon didn't reply to the teasing words. Silence filled the room as their gazes met and locked, wordless communication flowing between them. Illya felt at once warmed by the love he found in Napoleon's eyes and chilled by the thought it all may soon be lost to him forever.
Finally clearing his throat, Illya nodded and broke eye contact. "This," he said, picking up a small device from the counter, "is the item that will ultimately bring Stephanopoulos to his ruin."
Napoleon opened his palm and Illya dropped the device in it. "Doesn't look like much, certainly not enough to stake your life on."
Illya paused, waiting until Napoleon raised his eyes to meet his own.
"Of course not, Napoleon. I'm staking my life on you."
To be continued...
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