Both agents escaped unscathed and, after several hours of dodging bullets and other assorted dangers, have found shelter in a deserted barn several miles away.

Now they await rescue, delayed by the breakdown of the U.N.C.L.E. helicopter.  And as the night approaches:

He had a powerful urge to reach out and touch, but he suppressed it.  He had no intention of arousing fear in this delicate creature... and intended victim for the night.

A part of him was appalled that it had come to this.  It was crazy, uncivilized, depraved...

But he no longer cared.  The temptation of warm living flesh, mere inches from his, was too much.  And his hunger could not be denied any longer.

"Come here," he murmured, keeping his voice low and soothing.  "You must be cold.  Come over and I'll warm you."

No answer, except for a slight shiver as his target settled into a more comfortable position.

Napoleon leaned over to get a better look, taking care not to make any sudden movement or noise.  He smiled at what he saw: tightly shut eyelids just visible beneath masses of gold fluff.  If he reached a little further with his hand, he would be able to feel the fur against his fingers, tickling his palm... and satisfy the craving.

He extended his fingers, closing the distance between them.  They were trembling with anticipation, fear... desire.

And he grabbed.

"SQUAWK!"

The chick fluttered its puny wings as Napoleon struggled to get a firm hold over its body.  It began pecking wildly at his fingers, desperately seeking escape.  Napoleon nearly released it in surprise, but quickly brought his other hand to lift the creature in the air.

"Told you this would work.  Beats chasing it around the barn like a couple of idiots."

Illya, sitting across from him, clothes rumpled and partially covered with hay, snorted.  "It worked the first time."

"That was an old rooster.  I nearly wore my teeth down eating that." Napoleon thrust the bundle into his partner's face.  "Now this in comparison is soft, tender and juicy."

"Cheep! Cheep!" the chick cried, as it squirmed in terror.

Illya sighed, dusting the hay off his clothes.  "I'll go see if there are any other useful ingredients out in the vegetable patch.  You prepare the meat."

"Right." Napoleon stared doubtfully at the chick, now resting frozen in his hands.  Its heart hammered against its chest, but it had stopped struggling. The black beady eyes stared at him.

Napoleon puzzled on how Illya managed to prepare the bird the first time. He remembered that the other bird had died the instance Illya had laid his hands on it.  Quick, clean... and surprisingly free of mess.

Maybe the poor animal had suffered a massive heart attack.

"Cheep!"  A forlorn sound.

Damn.  He held the chick to eye level.  Still alive.

Illya returned with a carrot and a few sprigs of parsley.  "Is it ready?" He saw them both and frowned.  "What are you doing?"

"How... how did you do it?"

"Do what?"

Napoleon nodded at the chick, now cheeping continuously.

"A twist of the neck to sever the spinal cord."  Illya demonstrated with the parsley, breaking it in half with a violent flick of his wrist, and then pulling it apart.

"Right."  Napoleon looked at the chick again.  Its little head was currently low on its chest, as if it was trying to make itself into a tiny ball of down.  "But I don't think it has a neck."

"Of course it does."  Illya moved closer and pointed at it.  "About there."

"Cheep!"

Napoleon watched as it began squirming again, legs flailing about.  It was so tiny, so fragile.  Its size was practically dwarfed by his hands.

"It shouldn't require much force," Illya added.  "And if you do it quickly enough, it will not suffer."

Napoleon held it out.  "You do it."

Illya jerked away.  "Since you caught it, you should do the honours."

"No, no.  I think the person with the most experience-"

"Are you squeamish?"

"Not at all.  I just... I don't want to ruin this suit.  Waverly would never forgive me."

Illya snorted.  "It's already ruined.  He won't notice a few feathers and blood stains."

Napoleon made a face as his stomach growled.  He was hungry.  He needed to eat.  But he didn't really want to kill such an innocent.

He looked up at his partner, to find Illya looking at him in sympathy.  It was not what he had expected.  Illya was able to play the part of  cold-blooded assassin extremely well when the need arose.  Napoleon had expected his partner to be mocking him for his hesitation.

"Maybe we should let it go," Illya offered gently.

"Yes."  He never knew his partner was capable of such understanding.

"Then you can try shooting at it."

"No!"  Napoleon was appalled.  "Are you mad?"

"Maybe your marksmanship skills aren't up to the challenge."  Illya's face was deadpan, but the voice was taunting.

"Go to the corner and place the carrot between your teeth, then we'll just see how good I am."

Illya shrugged.  "I suppose it would be difficult finding all the pieces again.  They'd probably splatter everywhere."

Napoleon nodded.  "Exactly.  Not to mention the waste of ammunition and the attention it might draw."

"But it would save on preparation.  Instant chicken pieces."

"Cheep!"  A plaintive sound.

"There isn't much meat on it." Napoleon squeezed it gently.  "All I can feel are feathers and bones."

"Oh."

Napoleon put down the chick and let it go.  It stood for a few seconds, blinking in surprise.

"I could use my knife," Illya mused.

"I appreciate it, but I'm not hungry anymore."

They both watched as the chick scuttled away.

Illya moved closer to the dim candlelight.  "What are we going to do with the food I've gathered?  And we've still got some cooking oil left from the supplies I stole earlier."

"While other robbers steal money, trust you to steal food."

"But you can't eat money."

Napoleon sighed.  "Okay, point taken."  He could see Illya regarding his meagre supplies unhappily.  "Give them to me."

He took the carrot.  Illya must have washed it outside, as it was free of dirt.  He studied it for a moment.  It was long and wide.

He smiled to himself.  "What does this remind you of?"

"Dinner," Illya told him morosely.

"Give me your knife."

He peeled the carrot, making long shallow strokes along its length.  Next, he sliced off the tapered end, then rounded the circular edge with the knife.  Finally he made a small slit over the centre of the sliced surface.

Illya watched, fascinated.  "Your use of the knife is improving."

"Thank you."  He held it out again, rounded end pointing upwards.  "Now what does it remind you of?"

"It's a carrot."

"I know that, but what does it remind you of?"

Illya stared at him.  Blue eyes gazed at him, wide in innocence.

Napoleon frowned.  Well, maybe his little sculpture lacked the precise anatomical details, but surely the imagery was obvious.

Or maybe it was just him and his filthy imagination.

"Hold it."  He gave it to Illya, then opened the jar of cooking oil.

"What are you doing?"

Napoleon held the jar over the rounded end of the carrot.  "Keep it upright," he commanded.

Illya obeyed, still puzzled.

Slowly Napoleon tipped the jar, allowing the oil to trickle into the slit. Once it pooled there, it spilled over the rounded head.  A few drops began to make the slow tortuous path down the shaft.

Illya watched, transfixed.

"Tell me what it reminds you of."  A husky whisper of sound.

Illya swallowed, but lifted his head.  Napoleon could see his eyes, full of silent longing.  Such beautiful expressive eyes...

"You want this, don't you?"

Illya nodded, wordless with need.  Napoleon realised that it was up to him to verbalise the hunger for them both.

"I... I want it too."

It was the signal Illya had been waiting for.  Abruptly he pulled the carrot away from the stream of oil and held it over the candle flame.  The oil began to sizzle a little.

Napoleon blinked in surprise.  Dazedly, he managed to right the jar in time to prevent all the oil from spilling onto the barn floor.  He watched as Illya rotated the shaft over the flame.  The poor carrot was starting to droop a little in the heat.

"It's not the same as casserole chicken, but it's better than nothing," Illya told him.  "Tear up the parsley and we can use it as garnish."

Hunger.  Hunger for food.  That's all he's ever after: food.

Napoleon felt a sense of rising futility overwhelm him.  It was hopeless. This had been his most overt attempt yet.  Never mind that he himself had been occupied with the same hunger a few minutes ago.

He sighed as he began to tear up the parsley.  Illya might have a doctorate in quantum mechanics and speak several languages fluently, but there was something missing in that well-educated brain.

His partner was, to put it bluntly, thick.

What to do?

Napoleon refused to proposition his partner openly.  No, that would leave him in a vulnerable position.  But all else had failed.  Illya had refused to respond to flirtation, both subtle and overt.  Attempts to arouse his jealousy only resulted in amused tolerance.  Short of tying him down and interrogating him until he made some admission of lust, there was little
else...

Wait!  Napoleon grinned.  Now that was an idea.

He continued tearing the parsley.  He was hungry, and he was determined to be satisfied.

One day.  One day soon.

*****

The end.
Thank you for reading.