As the door to the penthouse closed, Napoleon laid his head upon the cool wood, fear and dread filling his body as it ached from the day’s exertions, “Too old.” He thought. Yet all the workings of THRUSH all the condemnations and recriminations of Mr. Waverley passed over him like cool water.  No it was the impending sense of doom as Illya refused his offer to dinner, had in fact refused his offer of everything for the past 6 weeks.  And as much as he hated to admit it, it unnerved him, he felt as if a part of him was dying and he didn’t know how to stop it.

The Russian’s blue eyes had grown colder, more distant, as a team they functioned, thrived and survived the harsh turmoil of an angry world. Yet it was gone, the contact the touch, the smile that lit his partners eyes, the touches that caused endless fire to burn in his body and the desire so deeply suppressed that’s its loss was more heart felt than the loss of breath, turning into the darkened room he felt his way to the glass door to the balcony and shuddered as the icy wind cut through his suit.

He watched the last vestiges of sunlight fade and die, the city lights wink on and the clouds scud across the sky, he felt the impending storm and the icy flakes drift across his cheeks and realized that his heart was breaking.  He looked down, the ground very far off, the people tiny dots and the compulsion to fly away from it all nagged at the edge of thought again, his hands gripped the rails tightly and with a final fling of his head he headed back into the room slamming the glass till it all but shattered on impact and sat down.

A bottle of vodka in his hand he didn’t remember collecting was brought to his lips, chilling him further as the faint scent reminded him of blue eyes and gentle lips, he licked his own and drifted into a reverie.  What would it be like to touch, to taste, to hold, to know the secrets Illya kept so hidden, the desire fanned by fantasy he tilted his head back against the couch and drained the bottle.

The next morning, freshly showered and shaved, in casual clothing and red-rimmed eyes he surveyed his reflection in the mirror.

Somewhere in the darkness of the previous night, sometime before dawn he had made a plan, one last chance to effect the change.  He smiled nervously in the mirror and realized that he really didn’t know what he would do should he fail, other than have a new partner – if he stayed in UNCLE at all or took that retirement offer and spent his days with a bevy of beautiful women somewhere in the Caribbean and laughed again when he realized that they would not satisfy the hunger he felt.
 

With that in mind – he headed out the door to an uncertain future and never in his whole life had anything meant so much….
 

Part 2.

Illya shifted uncomfortably in his seat, Mr Waverley had ordered 3 days rest and he was effectively off the duty roster. The science journal he had eagerly waited on for the last month had arrived and yet now with time to relax and read he found himself leafing distractedly  through the pages.

The fire which warmed his apartment had died to a dull amber glow, and the dark clouds scudding past the window reminded him of how lucky he had been to escape the Russian winters and yet how much he missed his home, longed for his language and the sights of Moscow.  Even winter could not stop the thunder in his heart when he looked upon her spires and there at least he felt he belonged.

He knew the rumors which circulated the gossip mill of UNCLE, Illya the Ice Prince, Illya the White Russian, Illya the untouchable,  The Commy, he knew them all and each and every one fit, for he had gone to great lengths to keep people at arms length, never truly trusting and afraid of being hurt when he did.

Too many people had passed through his life and fleeting he felt his families hands upon him and then fade, all alone and again his heart thundered, murderous in his breast as the hot tears seared his face.  A knot threatened to choke him as the sob at last came unhindered.

He looked about his comfortable home, he knew he was lucky and he knew that Mr Waverley was not surprised at his request of a permanent reassignment to the Russian office. What his controller was surprised with was the request to go alone and not to discuss his decision with his partner.

He had no fears that Napoleon would survive, nothing touched him, nothing burned him, hell he didn’t even know the meaning of the word commitment except to his work, people were tools to be used by him and when finished discarded with the minimum of contempt.

Oh yes, Napoleon Solo would survive his defection home. Another hurt to be healed, another face to forget like so many before, the past and time was creeping up and he needed to take the chance of a life, perhaps amongst his own reticent and cool people he would find a match, a partner and a home to call his own.
 

The searing ache subsided as he slid into a restless sleep, cramped and crooked in the armchair as he was it took him several minutes to realize his intercom was buzzing, someone demanded entrance into his home, his fortress and he dismissed it for long minutes.

The buzzing was insistent and then just as suddenly ceased, easing the crick in his neck he set the journal down and wiped his face with a shaking hand.  The fire neglected barely kept the cold at bay ,and a slight November snow crept to etch the windows in icy white.

He felt the chill, the change and desire to be that which he was not. Free of the past, free to take a lover, someone to watch over him, moreover, he reflected, he needed someone to push past the wall of ice that was his heart and soul and take him for what he was, and drag him kicking and screaming into the real world of adventure and love.
 

He rubbed at the crest of his shoulder, the scar from childhood still burning deeply into his consciousness even in dreams and with it the memory of abandonment and pain creased the heart of the child and made the man proud, strong and lonely.  Napoleon had once called him vulnerable and it wasn’t until this moment he understood.
 

A sharp rap at the door startled him, he tried to ignore it and leaning against the frame looked down the tiny spy hole to see his erstwhile partner.  Uttering a filthy Russian curse under his breath he let the knock continue for several more moments.

Like an itch destined to be scratched or an argument foretold by the seers to be had his hand moved mechanically to the door, undoing the locks and barring the way of the intruder with his slender frame looked tired and pale as he faced his partner.

Napoleon, devoid of the intricate and innate courtesy he was known for, pushed past Illya into the room and slammed the door.

“Yes, do please come in Napoleon.” The sarky tone of his voice, underlaced with cool menace and a distance in his implacable blue eyes brought the American up short.

“3 days off the duty roster and no assignments Illya, when did you intend to tell me?” the voice wavered and the brown eyes looked murderous.
 

“I see that Mr. Waverley has talked to you about my request for a transfer,” His arms folded akimbo he pushed away from the door and into the room towards the kitchen. His eyes did not register the silent stunned look in Napoleons eyes, nor the aborted movement as this news came as a shock to him. He railed, his voice dipping into the cool controlled range.  “It is my decision Napoleon, it is my life, and I intend to do something with it.”

“Transfer?” Napoleon found the nearest seat and flopped down into it, all the wind, all the bluster gone, his voice soft.

“Don’t try that with me, I know you too well.  I am taking the transfer, or I will leave UNCLE!”

“Alone?” Napoleon was still trying to come to terms with the event and situation.

Illya sagged, the tears flowing hotly against his cheek again as his body slid down the wall to rest on the floor.

“Aren’t I always Napoleon.”
 

Part 3.

Napoleon’s legs refused to support his weight and with his entire body shaking he sat dumbfounded as he watched Illya helpless on the floor.  His heart constricted and his hands clenched looking for and needing a focal point for his anger and betrayal.

The sobs ceased and when Illya made no move from the floor it was Napoleons strong hand that handed him the glass of vodka.  The Russian could not, dare not look up into those eyes, could not deliver himself into those hands, yet he took the vodka and downed it in one shot.  His head hung low as Napoleon crouched in front of him, long fingers lifted the chin, so delicately, so gently that the tears barely stemmed threatened to flow again.  With impatience the blonde moved his head away.

“I am going Napoleon.” The voice soft and choked with emotions as he looked up into a face suddenly darkened with despair and shock.
 

“When did you and our illustrious leader discuss this defection of yours Illya?”

“Yesterday.” The voice flat and monotone battled for control against the warm hand still resting on his cheek.

“And he has agreed?” Napoleons thumb began the tender caress again, this time pushing a stray lock of golden hair from the tear streaked face.

“No.” damn he thought if I could only control this shaking, Illya shook his head again “Not yet, but he will Napoleon.”

“Then I have time?”

Illya shook his head again, trying to clear the cobwebs and uncertainty, he was sure there was a point to the conversation and to Napoleons visit yet for the moment he couldn’t get past the touch on his face and the warm weight which pressed his knees apart.  Nor the arms that lifted and drew him forward, and most of all he couldn’t ignore the shoulder his face was pressed to or his own urgently seeking arms needing the fullness and comfort of the warm body before him.  And with a last thought to his appearance and the circumstance crawled into the inviting warmth and laid there.  And when at last the tears had gone and the body was again heavy with sleep and exhaustion, Napoleon lifted the gently sleeping form from the floor and carried him to the bedroom.

Through all the years of their partnership, Napoleon had never once seen the inside of Illya’s bedroom and with a soft smile realized he had never had the need to before now.  Laying the body of his dearest friend on the soft featherdown duvet he took his first good look around.
 

So distant and controlled in his dealings with others, so severe in his dress Napoleon was gratified and surprised with the decor.  Soft warm colors muted into gentle landscapes, some of which he recognized some a surreal fantasy  exploration with brilliantly depicted wizards and mythological beasts.  His finger sought out the only photo on the dresser, one taken of the two of them together on a mission, both caked in mud and grime, arms about each other and smiling so wide that the pain they both felt at the time was nothing but a dull memory.

Further still to the night stand, beeswax candles sat in intricately carved glass lent the room a sweet honeyed air, almost intoxicating as it blended with the natural sandalwood scents that he had come to know represented Illya.

All of this delighted him and as he turned towards the bed again, another surprise met his gaze. A large Cheval mirror, standing alone, framed in simple bronze and partially obscured by a long robe, which hung loosely from the corner.  He caught the faint stir of movement in the mirror from the bed and sat down to take off Illya’s shoes.  The duvet he gently released and pulled it up over the still body and brushed again at the stray strand of hair which fell against the high brow.  The eyes flickered and Napoleon smiled.

“Time for what?” came the cautious question.

“Illya I understand your desire to go home.  I don’t understand why you want to leave here, without telling me.”  Again the hands worked gently this time against the shoulder which with infrequent confessions of pain still bothered him.

“Does it matter?” came the terse reply, the tone so distant that it could not have come from the relaxed form on the bed, squirming now as the caress continued across to the neck of the polo shirt.

“It does to me Illya.”

Blue eyes flared indignantly when he realized the attention and his own shameful responses to the need that was growing in him.

“No Napoleon, it does not it is my life. I have a right to it.”

“Yes of course you do, but what can you find in Russia that you cannot find here.”

“Home.” The single word lost and lonely spilt forward. “someone to love me.” The latter offered softly almost a lament to the darkness.

Napoleon offered a soft chuckle into the room, “I have it on good authority my friend that ½ the female population and at least a quarter of UNCLE’s top serving male agents already are.”

The thought occurred mildly humorous to Illya and in no time he was almost hysterical with laughter, not a pleasant sound Napoleon thought as his hands shot out to grasp the quaking shoulders.

“Get off.” Illya’s accent became pronounced in moments of distress.  Napoleon lent back from the struggling agent on the bed. “this is not a game Napoleon, you of all people should understand that.  I don’t want to be someone’s conquest!  A feather in the cap to be flaunted for a moments indiscretion.  I cant do what you do.” The voice dropped again, regaining calm, the breathing easier.

“What?” Napoleon normally able to follow even the slightest detour in Illya’s conversation, did a double take, uncertain himself of what he was being accused of.

“Love em and leave em I think is what you call it. For me it has to be more Napoleon, I need more than just a moment.” Ah now it seemed to fit and for a moment pure comprehension spread across his handsome features.

“Illya, oh my poor tovarisch.” The laughter that erupted from Napoleon was infectious and rolling back on the bed to the stunned blue eyes he looked up again.

“Napoleon this is not helping nor do I find my distress in this matter reason for your mirth.” The voice that issued was tired and resigned.

The American reached forward and took hold of an armful of an unresponsive Russian and held him tightly. “Has it ever occurred to you Illya Kuraykin that I love you?” the breath stirred the blonde hairs on his neck and a shudder coursed through his body.  The as suddenly as it had ended it began again, the body against his chest snuggled closer and Napoleon knew this time as he held the sleeping form, he was at last truly asleep and moving slowly and with great care brought them both down onto the bed.
 

Part 4.

Illya awoke through a haze of sleep, a soft muzzy feeling against his nose and warm solid arms wrapped about his slender body held him as gently as a sleeping babe.  For long moments he continued to keep his eyes firmly shut to the sensation, afraid that if he recognized it too fully it would be nothing more than a pleasant dream.  Yet another to fill the nightmare fraught landscape of desolation that was his heart.

The phantom next to him stirred and a hand draped delicately across his shoulder’s lifted itself to fondle the silken hair, pressing solidly yet gently down to the small of his back.  Still he could not look, still he would somehow hold onto this feeling, before it too slipped away from his mind, his senses and beyond to the tiny core of humanity he still held dear.  He felt the ripple of pleasure in  his body and moaned softly into the night.

A voice called to him, one he would follow  beyond the grave and yet still so distant he feared its truth.

“Illya.” The voice more insistent as he felt his face moved upwards, his eyes bound tight with fear and dread to awaken alone.

Had he of opened his eyes, he would always remember the exquisite look of love intermingled with a growing concern on Napoleon’s face. Again the insistent voice cut into his pleasant dream and he was loathed to answer it.

“Illya? I know your awake, open your eyes.”

For his part the Russian rolled onto his back and moaned softly – “No.”

“Illya.” The tone edged with steel, “open your eyes.”

Again the softly murmured – “No.”

Frustration and concern played over the handsome American’s features as he moved back and away.  Removing the solid arms from the slender body he had cradled for hours now.  Another moan, of a lost child abandoned to the snows of a bitter winter issued from tightly drawn lips.  A blue eye flickered open and an elbow used to prop himself up onto the bed.  He watched Napoleon leave the room, saw the light to the kitchen come on and the unmistakable sounds of the kettle being readied for a pot of Russian Tea.

Bare feet whispered against the deep carpet as he stood in the doorway of the kitchen.

“Nice try Napoleon, but futile.” The American’s shoulders dropped at the tone as he turned to look at Illya.

“Nice try?” His patience in this affair driving him to distraction and faced with loosing the only person who mattered, either through h is own hand or the lack of it, moved with a speed THRUSH agents still found unnerving.  His hands caught at Illya’s wrists and he dragged the stunned Russian back into the bedroom.  A terse hand took hold of the robe which hung from the mirror and positioning Illya in front of it, with himself behind began to move.

Strong hands moved upwards over the cotton covered chest, a leisurely detour as Napoleon found the hard nub of nipples excited and aroused.  Illya’s breath became heavier at the touch and with a flash of understanding attempted to push his partner away.

“Come now Illya – we’ll have none of that.” Using his foot, he forced Illya’s legs wide and kept him off balance.

“No Napoleon – you cant.”

“Cant what my love?”

“Cant do this.” Illya’s breathing quickened as the hot breath shot against his neck and along the collar bone – Napoleon continued to bestow maddening nibbles until he found an earlobe and gently sucked.  Illya swooned into the arms, yet still he fought his traitorous body for control.

“Why?” the word punctuated with hands that sought the skin beneath the cloth, hands that stroked lightly down his sides towards his thighs and across to the evidence of his arousal.  Illya jerked his head away, the heat rising in the room threatening to overwhelm him.

“I will not be one of you conquests Napoleon.” He tried to move but found he couldn’t.  At some point in time he’d stopped struggling and looked at the dark face in the mirror, not his own, open and betraying his excitement and the need, but that of Solo’s.

“I love you.” The words spoken into the night and seared into the beleaguered soul as he looked again in the mirror. “Look at yourself Illya – tell me you don’t want me.” Napoleons heart beat fast against his  back and it was then the Russian realized how afraid his partner truly was.

“Napoleon I….” The American stilled him with a kiss,  the blonde head resting against his shoulder stared in wonder at the dark brown eyes that met his.
 

Napoleons hands moved with practiced ease as he slid them down Illya’s surprisingly strong back and wide shoulder, moving with care, a little pressure here, less there till they hovered over the firm mounds of his buttocks.   He insinuated his hands under the cloth and found the cool skin flushed and damp where his hands pressed.  Moving now against the ribs and towards the hard nubs of nipple – his fingers pinched and danced lightly, Illya moaned and leant back his breathing deep and his eyes hooded with the flush of arousal.

Napoleons tongue found the small of his neck again, licking gently, pulling the confining cloth away and free, Illya’s body burned with  fire as he tried to reach up to guide his lovers hands.  The American took hold and held them firm.

“Tell me Illya.” The voice blowing the debris of desire from his mind, searing into a sudden panic, not that it should continue but for the fear that it would not.  The cotton of Napoleon’s shirt causing a raw silk enticement against his back , Illya pushed back straining to gain more access to Napoleons body, to feel the hard muscle behind him, to be held.  He fought his own reflection and the body holding his stilled into the night – demanding to know what he wanted.

“Tell you what?” the last control he fought so valiantly to maintain fled into the rafters, bereft now and his voice very small.

“Tell me you don’t want me.”

“Napoleon…” a small kiss.

“Hmmm, so you keep saying.  Tell me Illya.” A shudder ran the length of Napoleons frame as Illya turned his face to him again, his head still resting on his shoulder as he looked up into those bottomless brown eyes.

“You know I cant.” A response easier than he realized was launched from behind barely dammed lips as he reached forward to taste the honey sweet mouth of the American.  Napoleon moved back a hiss from his lips.

“Tell me.”  Strong hands took the elastic waist of the sweat pants down in one movement, Illya’s arousal throbbing into the still cool air as those same hands traced their way up the calves, towards the buttocks and to the deep cleft, hiding the secret pleasure.  Replacing fingers and hands with hot moist kisses and his tongue he feasted on Illya’s body, his tongue driving deeply, the compact body shuddered and again his hand moved towards his own erection.  Napoleon still his hands again and nipped him on the rump.  Teasing across his body, exploring and watching the new found freedom he saw on the blondes face he stopped again, his hand mere centimeters from Illya’s now pulsing cock, the head glistening with precum and the scent of desire heavy in the air.

“Please Napoleon.”

“Please Napoleon,” he mocked, “please what Illya – tell me what you want, tell me what you need, tell me now.”  Illya looked down embarrassed and ashamed of himself, the hot tears again flowed as Napoleon forced his head up to meet his own eyes in the mirror.

Stunned by his own appearance – he was more overcome by the fact that he stood totally naked, flushed with heat, and begging to be taken whilst Napoleon stood behind him, still fully clothed and staring him down.

“Please, take me now.” His voice a horse whisper, thickened with emotion.

Napoleon brushed his hands down Illya’s flanks towards his cock, and stopped just before he touched, “not enough Illya.  Tell me.”

With a sob as the hand finally made contact Illya’s eyes deepened to sapphire blue and misted at once – his head lolled back and the kiss that stole his breath ignited the fires across his body.  Another hand moved between his legs cupping the balls and rolling gently, pressing against his back and stroking with knowing fingers as his lips worked at the soft velvet inside of Illya’s mouth.  Holding him tightly Illya’s body spasmed, his essence flowing freely into Napoleons’  hand.  He swooned and slipped to the floor.

His lips kiss red, his hair disheveled and at the feet of a fully clothed man, a naked and erotic nymph.  Napoleons hand caressed the top of his head as he looked down.

“I love you Illya.  I always have, and if you need to go home, then I wont hold you back, all I ask is you let me come too.”  The voice so soft so tender, so innocent it tore at Illya’s heart forcing his eyes downwards again.  He rested his cheek against Napoleons groin and realized that the American was still hard and his need was obvious.  He looked up and licked his lips.

“I love you too Napoleon.” A hand joined the restive cheek against the cloth and began to massage in earnest.  Spreading his legs to allow the Russian greater access he leaned his head back and stole a glance in the mirror – watching as the skilled and deft hands removed his clothing and exposed him to the air, he watched as the kiss swollen lips licked at the head of his cock and without hesitation drove home, sucking and stroking against the underside of the glans.  Napoleon too far gone to care held his lovers head in place and rocked with the rhythm, riding the crest of the wave Illya did not slow his pace and drank him deeply into himself.
 

Long minutes passed as the soft tongue lathed at the softening member and pulling the Russian to his feet held him against his body fully for the first time in his life and wept into the shoulder offered.  Illya  rocked gently and moving back towards the bed, pushed Napoleon down into the soft mattress, pulling him into the circle of his arms.

“Napoleon, I never knew.”

“Knew what?” a sleepy murmur.

“Of how much you love me.”

“And now?”

“I will die for you.”  Napoleon looked up.

“no my love, live for me.”

The kiss met somewhere in the darkness, the hearts entwined and the future was set together as the winds of change heralded the end of one season to the next, so too did their hearts rise on the storm to look down and understand what they had lost, for in its tirade it forget to leave and they had regained what all desire, and a few touch.  Love.
 

Epilogue.

The cup sat neglected in his hands as the pale light bathed the mountain in winter blue.  Illya sighed, and pulled the robe about his frame shivering lightly as he watched the early dawn from the kitchen window.  So peaceful, so at peace, he ducked his head and smiled to himself.

“Do you always get up so early beautiful?”  The sleepy tone of the American’s voice cut through the dawn silence and silhouetted against the rising sun, Illya turned, his back to the window.  Napoleon drew a quick breath as the new born rays lit the golden hair and halloed the slender frame, the flowing silk robe hanging loosely,  turned the Russian into a vision from some long half forgotten dream.

“Yes, usually.” His voice soft, the accent softened into melody and without seeing the lines of his lips Napoleon knew he was smiling.

5 steps took him close enough for contact and with a long inquisitive finger traced the curve of Illya’s face and down to take the cup from his hands.  Sipping at the tea he winced.

“It’s cold.” He muttered – “don’t you have coffee in this house?” Napoleon began to rummage through the kitchen cupboards looking for the much desired object when he was stopped by a soft laugh from across the room.

“You’ll have to get used to the tea Napasha if your coming to Russia with me.”

Napoleon continued his search and slowly turned around.

“Napasha?” he cocked his eyebrow and looked at the still glowing form of Kuryakin.

“Sorry.” There was an edge to Illya’s tone, an uncertainty that did not exist before and Napoleon thought guiltily perhaps there was a fear there as well.  Given Illya’s past he was not surprised but it did not still the ache in him.

“No need beautiful, I’ll just have to take my own.”

“You would too wouldn’t you Napasha?”

“Would you deny me?”

A soft sigh – “Could I?”

“So how long are we going for?” Napoleon filled the drip filter with the recovered coffee grounds and poured the water in.  His tone still conversational hid the trembling joy of his heart.

“Not long, a couple of weeks I guess.  Should be long enough.”

“Thought you wanted to go home.”

Illya smiled his hand against the rough cheek of the American – reaching forward his lips took those before  him and his arms encircled the body – “Oh Napasha”, he moaned softly stirring the hair at Napoleons neck – “I am home.”

The End